41 - Truth

The world Gorman left was loud, dim and smelled of cheap beer. The one his slowly clearing vision rearranged to show was quiet, bright and sterile.

He didn't remember sitting down in a hard chair in a small white room. There was a table next to him, and across it were two other chairs. They looked far more comfortable. The table was glossy and clear, almost see-through, and there was nothing on it except a compact holographic computer terminal facing the wrong way. Glaring white light shone from each ceiling panel, and only the nondescript wall to the left had decorations on it. There was a digital clockface about to strike an hour, and underneath it was a wide mirror. On the right side was a thin doorway that almost blended into the background.

Gorman's attention turned to his own condition. He felt naturally groggy. There was a dull pain at the back of his head, and a sharp one all over his right hand, but overall he'd had worse mornings after a night out. He felt like he was missing something…and then he realized his vest, and the gear that came with it, weren't on him anymore.

Then he remembered the last events before he went to involuntary sleep, and the nature of the strange room made too much sense. He was lucky not to be chained to the chair. All he could do was wait for his fate and futilely try to recall his name, rank and fake Alliance serial number.

The door slid open, and a turian walked in. This one was as tall as the males he'd seen, but with reddish markings on his face and police blue colors to his armor. Faintly on the rim of his cuirass, the letters 'C-SEC' could be made out.

"Get you something to eat, drink?" he asked Gorman.

Gorman hid a sigh of relief. Potential capture by enemy forces was obviously covered in his training back in the old days, but if one's captors offer niceties it was a good sign that some degree of rights still applied in the future, and on an interspecies space station. But hadn't he been detained by the Alliance, and not the local law enforcement?

"Got any coffee?" he asked back, "The human kind?"

"I'll check," the turian replied, venturing out of the room…but the door stayed open.

Two humans, a man and a woman, entered. They were wearing the regulation navy jumpsuits of the Alliance. These weren't the two back at the pub, but they had the same coldness to them that caused Gorman to shiver. Both of them also had the same buzzcut, the same complexion, and the same sharp look in the eye. Only in his tired state did the Commander realize that he was still yet to see anyone wearing glasses in the future. The only real differences between these two, therefore, were that the man preferred to roll up his sleeves and the woman was carrying a large briefcase. The two of them sat down in the chairs opposite. The man activated the computer terminal and the woman put the case on the table. She spoke first.

"Good to see you up and at 'em," her accent had a Southern twang to it, and her hand gestured to herself and her colleague. "I'm Staff Sergeant Alex Sargent, and this is Specialist Alex Spector."

"Sergeant Sargent. Specialist Spector." Gorman gave them both a nod. "How long was I out?"

The troopers gave each other a glance.

"Too long, honestly," Spector began, scrolling down his holographic screen. His voice had a similar drawl. "We initially had a few questions to ask you. Then it became a lot of questions. Now? I've almost lost track."

The impersonation charge, evidently, took a backseat at some point. Gorman was barely awake, yet he knew all too well what that possibly meant.

It was time to actually face the music. Someone was going to leave this interrogation room with the shocking, unbelievable truth.

"Where are my crew?" Gorman shot out his question before they could ask any of theirs.

"Same place you are," Spector confirmed without glancing from his monitor, "A Citadel Security precinct, here at the Presidium. Don't worry, C-SEC doesn't have their hands on all six of them…yet. They're under our custody. We'd like to sort this whole thing out as strictly an Alliance matter. I'm sure you can understand why."

Gorman silently nodded. The Alliance did well to find them all, despite how spread-out they became…indicating that the timing of his arrest was no mere coincidence. His crew were also eight strong, including himself, meaning that one of them got away. He wondered who it could be.

"Let's start with the basics," Sargent placed her palms on the table, "State your name for the record."

"Kevin William Gorman," he recited. Spector started to type away on his keyboard.

"Where were you born?"

"Boston. Earth."

There was an unusually long silence before the next question…as if the rest of the interrogation hinged on whatever came next.

"Date of birth?"

"July seventeenth, nineteen eighty-two."

The typing stopped.

"Mr. Gorman," Sargent scratched her nails on the table. The 'Commander' winced – it looked like he'd finally been stripped of rank. "I need you to be honest -"

"You have my drivers' license, don't you?" he calmly interrupted. "And my ID card. And everything else." All eyes drifted to the briefcase.

More silence, this time broken by the Specialist.

"We're still waiting on the test results to determine if your belongings are genuine," he explained.

"You think they're forgeries?" Gorman allowed himself a laugh, "Why would I forge a license two centuries out of date?" He pointed at himself with two thumbs. "For better or worse, I'm the real deal. Left 2013, showed up in 2183."

"You obviously have no problem admitting what you believe to be the truth," Sargent called him delusional in the nicest possible way. She adjusted herself in the seat, leaning forward ever so slightly. "So, please save us some time and tell us how someone from 2013 could possibly get here."

"Shouldn't I have my lawyer present?" Gorman snarked, then sighed. "I'll tell you everything as soon as the nice turian comes back with some coffee."

Beyond the mirror, a different conversation was taking shape.

"I still don't get why you insisted I be here for this," one voice said, "He's either insane, or a conman, or both."

"That's not what his crewmates had to say," the other replied.

Mere minutes later, the now-former Commander took a scalding sip of a freshly brewed cappuccino. C-SEC was alright in his book. The faces of Sargent and Spector were mostly skeptical…but it betrayed a growing anticipation. There was a chance, no matter how small, that they were about to be part of something historic.

"Now, where do I begin…" Gorman began. There was never going to be enough time to prepare a professional retelling of his last days on Earth…and he had to tread lightly around the more personal moments of the story. As for the actual events before his voyage up and beyond, he had to rely on the need-to-know basis he was subject to by his boss at the time. "…I think it was on the 22nd, the big Arecibo telescope in Puerto Rico detected strange activity from something called a near-Earth object. Probably sounds trivial these days, but for one of those to behave the way it did…it started to raise some eyebrows."

"You were working at this telescope?" Sargent latched onto the facts before they were relevant. Spector's search engine spooled up to look for any corroborations.

"I worked for an international intelligence organization. Backed not only by governments, but government agencies around the world. Our mission was to prevent and counter threats to global security."

"Did this organization have a name?"

"It was never in my interest to know," Gorman shrugged, "We just called it the agency."

"That's convenient," Sargent's sarcasm was obvious, "Let me guess – no records exist?"

"Hard to verify," Spector scoffed, referring to both the telescope and the agency. On his computer, he'd been delving through ancient sources and came across some unfortunate news. "Arecibo was destroyed seven years later, after a series of earthquakes. Little data remains."

"Really?" Gorman was momentarily caught off guard. He shook it off and, although the interrogators were less than satisfied with his occupation, he was allowed to continue his tale. "Either way, its findings were relayed to NASA, which were relayed to Director Whyte. He ran our agency."

Sargent waited for Spector to dig up the relevant file.

"James Norman Whyte, Deputy Director of the former American Federal Bureau of -"

"That was just his day job," Gorman corrected, "Directors are always in the limelight, but Deputy Directors? He could get away with a lot more, and he always did. Typical New Yorker."

"He informed you about this 'near-Earth object'?" Sargent pressed on.

"Only once Arecibo picked up another signal from it the next day," Gorman remembered, "It was still weak, but apparently it sounded like language. Freaked the hell out of everyone, and almost went public…but Whyte took action. He sent other agents to secure the telescope and arranged an emergency meeting with the President. Within hours, the agency declared a code red escalation."

"Red, meaning?"

"Meaning I got a call that night. A contingency was in effect. Report to the Kennedy Space Center."

"That's where the old spaceflight museum is," Spector nodded, "Wasn't it still in use as a launch site back in 2013?" He set about verifying his own guess as Gorman continued.

"All ongoing NASA operations were suspended, the staff sent home and replaced with Whyte's men. By the time I arrived, there was just a skeleton crew, but they'd managed to wheel out a decommissioned Space Shuttle to -"

"A decommissioned Space Shuttle?" the absurdity was starting to toll on the interrogators, the Staff Sergeant especially. A supreme irony, given how equally absurd Gorman found the current year. "You can't be serious," she added.

"No data for any launches during that timeframe," Spector initially disproved, but his smug smirk soon faded as he read further. "But…a recently opened Shuttle exhibit at a nearby museum was closed indefinitely for 'maintenance' the following day. The craft was never seen in public again."

"Atlantis," Gorman cracked a nostalgic smile, "No offense to the Alliance, but only a couple of your ships have the same charm as that old girl."

"Hold it right there, mister," Sargent held her palms up, "This is all because of a signal from an object in space? If it sounded like language, what did this signal say?"

"Honestly? I never found out. I have no idea." Gorman's sincerity was palpable. "All I know is that it scared the Director and the President enough to send us up to intercept it. When I got to the Space Center early the next morning, Whyte told us in our briefing that Arecibo picked up the strongest, closest – and most worrying – signal yet."

"That would explain the note we found in your vest pocket," Sargent's eyes flashed with recognition. Gorman still hadn't read it, and if he failed to convince these two of the truth, he may never get the chance to. They were going along with his tall tales for now, if only to see how far he would go, but their thick layer of skepticism was starting to fall apart.

"That briefing was when I learned everything I just told you…but it got worse," Gorman informed. Even just retelling it was enough to get him to shudder. "Contact was lost with the International Space Station. My team's first priority changed to find out why. Whyte called it Operation First Contact."

"Alex, you don't think…" Spector broke first, loudly whispering to his fellow colleague with a newfound jitteriness. "…The ISS was retired early, like, the next month. You know what other major event happened that very day, though?" He turned to Gorman with a look begging him to go on.

"Let's not jump to conclusions," Sargent reprimanded, leaning further forward in the more comfortable chair, "Who went with you in the Space Shuttle?"

"My team," Gorman proudly stated, "The agency's best. Eight of us in total." He couldn't stop himself from reading the roll of honor. "Aeneas, Niamh, Stu, Croucher, Samir, Dr. Kozhevnikov, and the Pastor." He then tried to remember everything 'OFCON' brought with them. "We took a whole bunch of weapons, ammunition, an anti-tank guided missile, just stuff that was lying around NASA. The Shuttle had those Canadian robot arms, and the Director requisitioned a Special Atomic Demolition Munition, just in case."

"But none of you were astronauts?" Sargent intervened.

"We all had our specialties," he replied, "My background was in hostage rescue. As a skill…I can't say it's become any less valuable."

"Did you make it to the International Space Station?" Spector asked.

Frankly, Gorman's memory of that event was fuzzier than the rest – maybe because it was soon dwarfed by what happened afterwards. OFCON arrived at the ISS to find it under siege from strange humans in advanced armor with advanced weaponry. With the help of the onboard astronauts and the Canadarm, the ISS was successfully evacuated without loss. That should have been the defining victory of the day.

"We found out we were under attack," Gorman huffed, "We got the locals out safely, but the station was a total loss."

"Under attack by whom?" Spector practically blurted. "Turians?"

"Batarians?" Sargent also took a wild guess. If the Commander's chronicle was at all genuine the history books would have to be rewritten regardless, but the truth was stranger than fiction.

"Humans," Gorman declared, and the two interrogators looked even more confused than before. "I don't know who they were, I don't know where they came from. All I know is their leader was a man named Jacob…and he did not take kindly to our efforts to stop him. We got back on the shuttle and made for the source of the signal. The mothership."

Either the Alliance duo had too many questions or were drawing blanks. They remained silent to let the Commander's career-defining mission unfold.

"The mothership was colossal. Blended into the stars. Built around a weapon so big I couldn't believe it existed. But it did exist…and we couldn't stop it firing."

This time, Sargent took the words right out of his mouth.

"New Dublin…"

"…Correct."

With that fatal confirmation, silence lingered once again. The interrogators had long since lost sight of the original question that started the whole recap, but Gorman was going to barrel through to the story's conclusion before it gave him any more grief.

"We boarded that mothership and killed everyone between us and its captain. We threw him out an airlock, armed the nuke, and the whole damn thing went to kingdom come."

"You all escaped?" asked Spector.

"I escaped," Gorman pushed the bitterest words out, "Atlantis gave all she could, the mothership retreated far, far from Earth. Whatever excuse of an escape pod the Jacobian ship had, that's where I ended up. Fell into its sleeper capsule, next thing I know 170 years pass by." Then he braced himself for the crux of the whole story. "But, before I got in the pod, right after we defeated Jacob…"

Behind the mirror, the conversation was reaching a boiling point.

"Who picked these two knuckleheads? They haven't asked one good question."

"How he got here isn't important? I thought you of all people would want to know, especially if it turns out -"

"He could have come from the Stone Age for all I care. He still has to answer for what he did here and now. Hang on – did he just say 'prothean beacon'?"

Inside the interrogation room, the two marines were similarly stunned. They'd just heard about the scenes of unfathomable carnage that were seared into the unfortunate Commander's brain back on the Jacobite vessel. Then, to top it off, he built upon it with a rather condensed version of the chilling recent knowledge he'd earned. The new three Ss – Saren, Sovereign, Shepard.

"Sounds to me like the reapers destroyed New…I mean Old Dublin," Spector gave his grim interpretation. Gorman hadn't really given that possibility much consideration…but he couldn't rule it out. "If they can enslave a Spectre, they surely controlled this Jacob guy too. Used him to start their invasion almost two hundred years ago. One hell of a warning shot, if you ask me. No offense, but humanity in 2013 would have stood no chance if you hadn't blown up their ship."

"The vision…" Sargent leaned back in her seat, "...You're saying Commander Shepard saw it on Eden Prime? That's…well…that's…we'll have to tell someone to get Shepard down here." She was desperate for a second opinion.

The door slid open.

In stepped a tall blonde woman wearing the full Alliance dress – a deep blue outfit complimented by gold trimmings, shiny boots and three golden bars on each broad shoulder. There was a navy kepi on her head, contrasting her pale skin and eyes bright enough to pierce. She was older than the other marines, her features more weathered, her combat stare present. This officer was not someone you kept waiting, so when the two seated noticed her arrival, they whipped themselves preemptively into shape.

"At-ten-shun!" Spector exclaimed, and the two of them rose from their seats and stood straight, feet together and chin up.

"At ease," the officer regarded the subordinates. She hadn't even acknowledged Gorman's presence yet. He remained seated as she gave her orders. "Specialist, Staff Sergeant, report; what information did you learn from the suspect?"

"Ma'am…" Spector reluctantly began, his eyes darting back and forth between the real officer in front of him and the 'impersonator' in the chair. "…we've learned his version of events leading up to his arrival at Tara IV. He is…or at least, he claims to be…from the past, ma'am. He claims that humans with advanced technology attacked Earth in 2013, resulting in the destruction of the International Space Station and Old Dublin…ma'am."

The officer was unfazed by arguably the biggest secret in modern human history.

"Admiral, we also learned about his contact with a relic of prothean origin," Sargent burst, "We would like to request that Commander Shepard be contacted to verify his story."

"Request denied," the officer instantly replied, "Your report was also inaccurate. You did not learn any information from Kevin Gorman, because this interrogation never took place. Do I make myself clear?"

The two marines were dumbstruck.

"Dismissed," the officer concluded. Sargent and Spector gave one last glance to the Commander and retreated, defeated, beyond the door.

This left the Admiral and the Commander alone in the room. She finally looked in his direction, sizing him up with a long hard stare.

"You really can't stop making problems, can you?" she spoke down to him, refusing to take a step closer to the table.

"They're right, you know," Gorman nodded in response, "All it takes is Shepard to prove I'm not crazy."

"He's gone rogue," she stated. Her directness was almost refreshing – and unlike the marines' best efforts, it actually startled Gorman. "You wouldn't happen to know why, would you?"

"News to me," Gorman replied. He couldn't imagine why the great Commander would ever do such a thing, especially when everything was starting to go his way. Then he remembered that the Normandy was grounded, same as the Shackleton. Maybe the difference was that Shepard knew how to throw a right hook.

The officer let out a deep sigh, took her hat off and threw it on the table. Her slightly graying blonde hair might have been tied up in a bun at the back, but at the front it fell down over her brows and half of her eyes. Without another word she approached the briefcase, and with some effort she cracked it open. She then began carelessly extracting some of the Commander's most precious items – except for the Walther, which she took extra care in placing.

"Let's get this over with," she commenced, "Aside from some antiques, your junk doesn't interest me." More items joined the pile; his wallet, his folded note from Director Whyte, his stacks of ammunition, his sunglasses, his two phones – one more intact than the other. "Neither does the fact that you drunkenly assaulted an Alliance soldier last night. It's 'your' ship that I want to talk about. You stole it from the spaceport on Eden Prime."

"That was because -"

"I'm not finished," she made eye contact again, staring him down with an unmatched intensity. She had the patent pending 'Gorman Glare' down to a tee, heightened tenfold by her refusal to sit down. "As I understand it, the SSV Antwerp found you soon afterwards. I don't know what Jason Chen saw in you, but he made you into his little errand boy. You went down to Mavigon of all wastelands, killed some criminals on his behalf."

"How is that a problem?" Gorman got a word in.

"You learned nothing from them. It only emboldened you to steal again," she hardened her stare, "We heard from ExoGeni's representative on Feros, for starters. When we searched the so-called 'Shackleton', we found that it contained fifteen illegal firearm modifications, two empty fuel canisters from a liquidated McFinley depot, a stolen suit of Onyx armor, a helmet from a known terrorist organization…and you wouldn't believe the reaction when we discovered the missing pandas from Polaris Zoo frozen in your cargo bay. I suspect that most, if not all, of the ship was acquired illegitimately. Makes me sick."

Gorman couldn't possibly hope to defend the onslaught of allegations. A majority of them were true.

"I-I was just trying to get to Earth -" he stammered out a response, but was quickly cut off.

"Don't change the subject," the Admiral pointed an authoritative finger right in Gorman's face. "Just because you allegedly overslept a couple years, that doesn't give you an excuse to roleplay as an Alliance commando. I don't care what you read on Westerlund News, in this part of the galaxy there are rules. We all abide by them. You don't get to make your own, and you certainly don't get to impersonate a military officer during an extrasolar crisis. I can only wonder what you must have promised your cronies for them to go along with your charade for so damn long."

"My crew?" he found the only point of contention. "Every one of them volunteered."

"A deadbeat security guard, an immature biotic separatist, an adrenaline junkie pilot, and a vidcast conspiracy theorist? Volunteers? No, you don't say." The Admiral rolled her eyes. "I can excuse the non-humans, they likely never realized you were a fraud."

Her voice was deep and smooth, but with a slight Germanic tone. Its disdain for the fraudulent Commander was palpable – but he noticed that something didn't add up.

"You still believe me," Gorman deduced, "Otherwise, why dismiss the Sergeant and Specialist? Why cover it up?"

The Admiral didn't owe him any explanation at all – and yet her tone softened slightly.

"I don't have the luxury of their rank," she admitted, "I can't go back to pretending everything's normal. I've heard of what happened to Shepard, I've heard of the prothean beacon. If something frightened him enough to now go AWOL, we're in serious danger. Now, all of a sudden, you appear, saying you've been through something similar…only a long time ago. I want you to be wrong…but I can't ignore what's happening. Still doesn't excuse your reckless adventuring, of course."

"I had to do something, go anywhere where I thought I could find a lead," Gorman argued, "Commander Shepard would have done the same."

"Mr. Gorman," the Admiral leaned just that bit closer, "I served with Commander Shepard. I know Commander Shepard. Commander Shepard is a friend of mine. Mr. Gorman, you're no Commander Shepard."

"I had to make sure my old team didn't die in vain," Gorman distanced himself from the Spectre, and spoke from the heart instead, "I've seen things, people, places that absolutely broke me. There's a lot that I still don't fully understand, and I'm not sure I ever will. In a situation like mine, you take every advantage you get. I'm not here to apologize."

The Admiral hummed.

"You're a resourceful son of a bitch, I'll give you that," she resumed rummaging through the Commander's possessions, starting by emptying his wallet. "We still have no clue how you got genuine Alliance docking codes for the Citadel. Factor that in with what we've heard you've been up to more recently…"

Her voice trailed off.

There was something among the wallet's contents that caught her eye. Not any McFinley business card, not any agency ID, not any crisp dollar bills…

"We'll continue this later," she regained her composure, "Stand up, let's get you to your cell. Leave the coffee."

Gorman was not getting away that easily. He was escorted by the Admiral, then the familiar turian, down halls and corridors. No sign of his crewmates anywhere. They arrived at a holding cell that was downright cozy compared to any prison he'd ever had the misfortune to be in. Four walls, two bunks, a desk and chair, a toilet…it might as well have been the Presidium Hilton. There was even false natural light from a digital window showing alpine peaks. The door behind him, a circular frame with a letterbox hole, was shut and locked.

His new cellmate – not any member of his crew, unfortunately – was busy at the desk with the one thing C-SEC probably couldn't take, his omni-tool. He was an older man, with dark skin, thinning hair and a rolled-up Alliance jumpsuit. Battle scars were on his strong arms and there were bruises on his right hand. He glanced up to the newcomer and spoke in a clear yet commanding voice.

"What are you in for?" he asked.

"Impersonation."

"Here's a tip – don't wear khakis."

"Then I punched some marine," Gorman remembered how similar his own hand looked. "How about you?"

"Not quite impersonation…" the man began, "…but I did punch the Human Ambassador."

The two men shared a laugh and nothing more. The Commander knew better than to blab any more to a man capable of such an act. He had a feeling the news headlines would look a lot different when he got out of this comfortable jail.

As he lay on his bunk, he had time to think and put together the newest pieces of the puzzle – while his interrogators were doing the same from a few steps back. If Commander Shepard was taking matters into his own hands, he'd probably be on that 'Ilos' planet by now, trying to find the Conduit. As frustrated as Gorman was that he wasted his time getting drunk instead of following Shepard unto the breach, he was glad that the Spectre was following through. The Council's hollow promises never stopped Shepard before, as he understood.

Did Gorman feel any shame for his actions? For taking what wasn't his, for dragging his crew to the ends of the galaxy in the name of some beacon-induced hallucination? No, not one bit. He'd happily do it all again.

The one thing the holding cell did not have was a clock. Gorman checked his omni-tool to little avail – he hadn't a clue of when his stay started. Therefore, after an inordinate amount of time passed, the door to the cell shuttered open and the turian was back.

"You," he pointed a talon in Gorman's direction, "Follow me."

When he entered the interrogation room for the second time, it was vacant. His effects were still strewn on the table, but in a much more orderly fashion, as if they'd been examined and categorized. The coffee was gone. He sat back down and the turian departed. Upon closer inspection, something else was missing from the table…but he couldn't quite figure out what.

The Admiral reappeared.

Something was different about her. She seemed on edge, unable to present herself as confidently and bluntly as last time. She even took up one of the vacant chairs across from the Commander, bringing herself down to his level and sizing him up again. It was almost as if she was scanning him, trying to find something important or something she should be seeing.

"The test results just came in," she declared.

"You found out all my stuff is real?" Gorman predicted, a look of smug satisfaction starting to come over him. He didn't care how such a test worked, but he trusted through future science it would be accurate all the same. His prediction, however, was misguided. He could never have predicted what she would say next.

"I'm your great-great-great-granddaughter."

Gorman's mind froze.

"Are you sure?" his trust in future science immediately collapsed.

"The DNA doesn't lie," his great-great-great-granddaughter replied. The Alliance must have swabbed the coffee while he was gone. They could have just asked.

The method was not important. The results were.

"No, that's not possible," Gorman's instinct was to laugh it off, "We never – I mean, we were always careful, it's not like…it's not really…" He was starting to also look at her differently. There were several generations between them…but then he noticed that there was the slightest resemblance. Not only to himself, but to who he was thinking of. Realization was hitting him with unholy force. "…Oh my God."

"You had a son," she spoke the words that shot right into the Commander's weary heart. "Dug out his old memoirs. His mother was a European politician named Tamara Müller, and his biological father…went missing nine months before he was born."

Gorman's mouth opened but no words came out. There was nothing he could say. His head fell into his hands. Fate's final insult had been dealt – the ultimate punishment. If only he'd known, if only he'd been there, if only, if only, if only…

"I can't imagine what you're feeling," the Admiral said what he'd heard before, "But you should know that even as the years passed by, even as she married and remarried…Tamara never stopped looking for you. She never forgot you." The missing item was placed on the table, the photo that fit in his wallet, the photo of a smiling woman in an apartment. A tear fell from the Commander's eye, rolled through his hands and dropped onto the floor. "She gave your son your name. Kevin Gorman Junior."

It took every single ounce of concentration for Kevin senior to compose himself, wiping his eyes dry and sitting back upright in the chair. Across his recent adventures, earlier mind-shattering revelations typically caused him to feel dizzy, pass out or have a massive migraine. This time…it just completely broke him. He almost wished he'd been forgotten.

"I thought we agreed on Paul," he croaked out a chuckle to mask his other emotions. He looked to the Admiral again and her diamonds for eyes. His descendant. He felt a sudden closeness to her, that he could confide anything to her. After all, she was now family – the first and only tether he had to this time. "I don't know what to say to you," he continued, "I guess…I'm sorry. I'm very, very sorry."

"Do you blame your great-great-great-grandfather for his mistakes?" she tried to make him feel better, "In all honesty, I didn't even know about you until I found those memoirs ten, maybe fifteen years ago. I'm not holding any grudges." She went to the dormant computer console and made a quick search. When she found what she wanted, she swiped the holographic screen with her hand and it rotated to face the Commander.

There was a portrait of a tall, smiling man on the monitor. He was about the Commander's age, and he had features that Gorman recognized; his father's nose, his mother's hair, his father's jaw, his mother's eyes. He wasn't wearing a suit, or a turtleneck, but the bulky white outfit of an old-school astronaut. 'GORMAN JR.' was embroidered on his nametag. In the interrogation room, the eldest Gorman replicated that same smile, his shame pierced by pride.

"Guess we've always had a thing for space travel," the Admiral wistfully remarked. "He went on to have a son, who had a son, et cetera. Then, eventually, you get to me, my siblings, my cousins. You have a good few descendants out there these days."

There was an overwhelming sadness in the Commander, despite the joys and shocks. He'd still abandoned the family he didn't know he had, and he'd never get the chance to right those wrongs. The handsome man on the monitor was long gone, they were all long gone…but not the woman sitting across from him. He owed this woman generations of debt. He had to, by any means necessary, make it up to her.

"Admiral…" he began, desperate for a name.

"Rear Admiral Gorman, Alliance Reserve Squadron, Citadel," she instinctively introduced with military formality. Then she loosened her tense shoulders, brushed aside her fringe, and added, "But you can call me Cassandra."

"Cassandra…thank you. Thank you for telling me the truth."