39 – Citadel Or Bust

The docking hatch closed with a decisive clunk. Out the front viewport, a sizeable sleek ship broke off, turned around, and zipped away at ludicrous speed. The battered Shackleton's fatigued Commander was finally back onboard his vessel – and his crew were surely there to give him a welcome befitting his triumphant status. Or, at least they would be, if they weren't all absent from the bridge save for the groggy pilot. Blanc was asleep at the wheel, dozing off under his cap. The noise of the hatch was enough to wake him.

"Took your time," the helmsman swiveled his chair around and stretched his legs. The recliner was still getting caught by the floor panels – the rest of the bridge was also still in need of a once-over by a repair crew. It would be definitely be asking too much of Sally; the quarian miracle-worker deserved a rest more than anyone. "The others decided to call it a night," Blanc continued, "I would have joined them, but someone needs to plot our next course and not get lost on an experimental stealth frigate."

"You should have tagged along, the Normandy is absolutely state of the art," Gorman assumed the pilot would have found it even more interesting than he did. Instead Blanc was looking daggers at him. "What's not to like?"

"There are nineteen subregions of France in the EU," Blanc coldly began, "And that's not even counting extrasolar colonies."

"Here we go," Gorman sighed. He had been expecting a real reason, and not rivalries more ancient than he was.

"First they came for our crêpes," the Lieutenant raised his voice, inflated by bygone Breton pride, "Then it was Mont Saint-Michel. Now, they've taken the most impressive ship in the Alliance navy! The treacherous Norman will stop at nothing until this galaxy is theirs! When will it end, I ask, when will it end?"

"Go to bed, Pierre."

"Not without a destination, Commander."

"Fine," Gorman huffed. There would be ample time to explain in the 'morning'. "Let's head for the Citadel."

"The Citadel?" the man from Rennes was surprised enough to snap out of his regional patriotism, "But Commander, we still need…" Then he saw the knowing expression on Gorman's face – and his anger turned into a beaming smile. "I'll have us there in a day."

"Only a day?" it was Gorman's turn to be surprised.

"By design," Blanc nodded. "All roads lead to Rome…" he wistfully started tapping away at his holographic interfaces again, "…All relays lead to the Citadel."

"You've done some damn fine work today, Pierre," Gorman was very satisfied – not to mention thoroughly exhausted. He gave the working pilot's shoulder a hit before dragging his boots across the bridge, through the corridor, and into the darkness of the crew quarters.

He kicked off his boots, tore off his combat gear, and hit the sack. He was asleep within seconds.

Gorman woke up later than the others, and right away he was back into the daily routine of the week leading up to Virmire. Therefore, it wasn't long before he was compelled to ask too much of Sally after all.

"Saal'Inor nar Arkona, get that coffee machine operational!" he pointed an authoritative finger at the loitering quarian, then the cubic ruins of what was a crucial staple of his morning ritual. The crash landing, as predicted, left much of the crew quarters in a pitiable state – the EasyBrew included. "Please," he desperately added. The quarian hid any discontent as only she could, and the omni-tool did its magic.

While he waited for his first cup of the day, Gorman took a page out of Shepard's book and waltzed top to bottom of the Shackleton, seeing what the rest of the crew were up to – and ordering them to head to the bridge for an overdue team meeting.

Everyone was resting, one way or another. Zaz was straightening out the crew quarters some more, righting up the tables and cleaning up spills from the last of the Eden Prime apple juice. There was a thick grey bandage around her thigh. In the cargo bay, Kalu was taking the loss of the Bluntnose hard. He was sitting by the bay's stairwell and looking longingly at the empty space and discarded tarp. The bay was by no means completely vacant – there were still two large crates in a corner and the recently reassembled rack of weapons and armor to gawk at…which is exactly what Petronis was up to. Bodewell and T'Lore were already mid-conversation when Gorman arrived to the bridge itself. Usually Don in full flow could be heard anywhere on the ship, but since his first taste of combat there was a new manner to him – calmer, more deliberate. He wasn't asking the asari about her favorite sports teams…but about where she learned to use a rifle. At the front of the bridge was the immovable pilot.

One by one, the crewmates assembled. Gorman briefly returned to their quarters to check in on the only missing member. The quarian was there, rummaging around one of her pouches for something. Next to her on the table was a repaired cube and its products, two steaming mugs.

"Wonderful work as always, kid," Gorman chuckled, striding forth and picking up one of the mugs. Her visor turned to face him and she almost leapt in surprise. Too late – Gorman had already taken a sip.

The taste was…strange. It looked like coffee, even smelled like it too, but there was an overwhelming nothingness to its flavor. Not like water, but just…liquid. He took a supplemental sip and the absence of taste remained.

"Did you put milk in this?" Gorman had to ask.

"Captain…" her voice wavered. In one hand she had a flexible metal tube, like a straw, and the other was pointing at the mug in Gorman's hands. "…that's dextro-amino acid coffee." Her finger swerved over to the other mug on the table. "This one's for you."

The color started to drain from the Commander's face. He'd forgotten that crucial difference between humans and quarians. Was this it? Was this how he would meet his end, ironically by his greatest vice?

"How long do I have to live?" he asked. Sally pried the mug from his death grip.

"How do you feel?" she feverishly asked in return.

A moment passed.

"I feel fine," Gorman's nerves settled, "If anything, a little sorry."

"Sorry?"

"Sorry for you and the turians. That's the best coffee you can have? Tastes like drain cleaner."

"Don't scare me like that, captain!" Sally's tense shoulders and neck loosened up, and she drove her metal straw into the mug. "Human humor…" she mumbled.

"Thanks for fixing it, Sally," Gorman tried to pretend like he wasn't actually fearful for his life a few seconds ago and grabbed the real deal. One bittersweet sip set him straight, exactly what he needed. "You know, there was a quarian on Shepard's ship too."

"There was?" her visor perked up and slightly to a side.

"Yeah. Tali. Tali…something."

"Tali'Zorah? Daughter of Admiral Rael'Zorah?"

"If I had known she was famous, I would have asked for an autograph," Gorman was kicking himself again. How many opportunities for a Pilgrimage gift was he going to pass up?

"Come on, let's tell the others!" she bounced away from the machine and out of the crew quarters, almost spilling her terrible coffee in her haste.

Gorman followed suit, but he hesitated for another moment right outside the bridge. He was about to recount, as promised, what he'd been up to on the Normandy. Just how much did the crew need to know? If he was to be candid with them all, how in the world was he going to get everything – Saren, Sovereign, Shepard – all across? He was going to have to be both specific and strategic with his choice of words.

He stepped into the bridge. All assembled turned their heads.

"Good morning everyone, let's get one thing straight," he began, "When the crew of the best ship in the Alliance navy have nice things to say about all of you, you've done your job well. Each of you should be proud of what happened on Virmire." No objections. Having set the tone, Gorman advanced to join their informal circle. Petronis was fiddling with the M16 he'd left behind, but there was no immediate danger – she was holding it the wrong way, thankfully. He continued. "Let's also address what we…saw…down there. Commander Shepard saw it too. He called it a reaper."

"The reapers…they were mentioned on the geth recording, weren't they?" Bodewell was able to recall.

"I don't care what they're called," Zaz folded her arms in misplaced defiance, "Just a fancy name for a fancy ship."

"It's not just a ship," Gorman grimly corrected. He paused for a swig of coffee to really hammer home the following point. "It's alive. It, and others like it, killed off the protheans. Shepard seems to think we're next." The faces of the crew, one by one, started to fall. The Commander felt he had to namedrop the Spectre more often – he believed Shepard's accusations far outweighed his own. "This whole time, that reaper has been behind the geth attacks. The geth, the voices on the recording, they're just puppets, all in service of looking for some sort of artefact. Should they find it, more reapers will return. A lot more. Enough to wipe us all out."

There was concern written on each crewmate – but not to the level Gorman was expecting. After all, if not for the encounter on Virmire, the things he was saying would have made him look criminally insane. He could tell they didn't want to believe a word of it…and he couldn't blame them. Normally, he'd call it human nature.

"So that's it?" Petronis held the weapon tighter. "The human Spectre told you all this and wished us luck?"

"The Council's leading a counterattack," Gorman projected as much confidence as he could, "Taking the fight to the reaper and the geth once and for all."

"Against something that size? Bonne chance." Blanc chimed in with his typical skepticism.

"You shouldn't underestimate the Council," Kalu was quick to retort, "There's not a ship in the galaxy that can rival the Destiny Ascension." He nodded towards the asari, but she looked like she knew what Gorman was about to remind everyone of.

"It's still not just a ship," the Commander reiterated. "When I was hit by the prothean beacon, I saw the reapers massacring the protheans. Just one is cause for serious alarm. That's why Shepard and the Council have to strike now – if they can find defeat the geth fleet, or find the artefact before the reapers do, we have a chance at stopping any more on the way."

"I hate to break it to you, Commander, but this sounds way above my paygrade," Petronis interjected. Her grasp of human expressions was improving, and it showed. "With all due respect, I've had enough of you leading us into danger after danger."

"Realistically, I don't think this ship can take another beating like Virmire," T'Lore reluctantly agreed, brushing her scalp back.

"Then I have some good news after all," Gorman gave his coffee another gulp and his helmsman another look, "Shepard's invited us to the Citadel. From there, we can -"

"Oh, FINALLY!" Zaz exclaimed, "Somewhere safe!"

The crew couldn't hold back their relief any longer. All the talk of exterminating machines only made them want to escape it even more, and they were immediately abuzz with ideas – all of which would certainly help one forget one's problems.

"If you thought Polaris was impressive…" Kalu laughed.

"Aw man, this is going to be great!" Bodewell turned back into his old self, "I've always wanted to see the biotiball courts up close!"

"It's been too long since I've seen the place," T'Lore smiled, "Commander, I have to show you the view from the Presidium. You'll love it."

"Don't forget the arena," even Petronis joined in, "I know where we'll have our rematch, Zaz."

Gorman attempted to restore order. It didn't work.

"I don't know how much time we'll have for -"

"You're on, Jocasta!" Zaz accepted the challenge.

"Any of you see the vids about the quasar machines in the Wards?" Bodewell asked out loud, "It's entirely possible that we could win big if we play it smart."

"Not that we'll need the extra cash," Kalu gave it more thought, and his old ways also began to resurface. "Shuttles to Earth are probably dirt cheap by now, don't you think?"

"I'll get us a reservation at Agarth's," the asari opened her omni-tool and tapped happily away, "It's run by a family of hanar. You wouldn't believe the variety there, Commander. They just might have something you like."

"Even I've heard of that place," Petronis blinked in recognition, "You're in for a surprise, Gorman."

"…Great," was all he could reply with. The crew were out of control…but maybe it was for the best. They did not scatter from the bridge at his order, but rather filtered out of the bridge talking amongst themselves of their own volition. From their departing mouths came a common cheer – 'Citadel or bust!'

This left three; the Commander and the two silent observers. Sally hadn't said a word, just bobbing up and down on her toes and slurping her special blend through her metal straw. At least Blanc had a ship to fly – so Gorman was curious about the quarian again.

"I know that look," Gorman tried to make light, but all he got in return was an opaque orange visor. "What's bothering you? I'm sorry about earlier, if that's the case."

"It's not that, captain," Sally at last spoke up, disconnecting the straw from her breather, "It's just that I've heard so many stories about the Citadel from friends and family back on the fleet. Let's just say not all of them were as 'fun' as what the others have in mind."

"More racism?" Gorman greatly appreciated getting another angle on the upcoming destination. He'd done well not to get whisked away by the glitz of the galactic capital like the rest of the crew – but that was mostly due to the fact he'd never even heard of it until a couple weeks ago.

"No…well…maybe."

"Not on my watch!" Blanc suddenly swiveled around. "You can count on us, Sally. We'll make sure you're treated like everyone else on the Citadel."

"Is that a good thing?" Gorman had to be sure.

"But of course!" the pilot tipped his cap.

"Is there somewhere either of you wanted to go?" Gorman defeatedly asked. No use fighting the current. "Everyone else had a place in mind."

"Maybe check out the ships at the dock, maybe do some sightseeing…" Blanc turned back to his beloved consoles.

"Someone needs to send the animals in the cargo bay back home," Sally remembered an important task that Gorman forgot, "What did you call them? Pan-dahs?"

"You're completely right," he replied.

Ironically, he would be the only one punished for straying off duty.

Time passed, hours flew by. The Commander made a tactical withdrawal to his bunk at the crew quarters, intent on organizing his gear. Despite how relatively peaceful the Citadel's reputation was, there was no harm in checking his weaponry – whether it was allowed on the station or not. With the quarian's help, he was able to rearm the simultaneously newest and oldest weapon in his arsenal. The Walther was back in fighting shape. As for armor, he felt no strong need to bring anything excessive. Neither his Onyx set nor the broken red UCLA helmet – which one of his more sentimental crewmates had evidently decided not to leave on Calypso – were necessary.

He had time to think. Too much time, as it turned out. A sinister realization slowly started to creep up on him as he gave more thought to the situation as outlined by Shepard. The Spectre, Saren, the reapers, the geth – they were all after the same thing, an artefact called the Conduit. It was beginning to dawn on him that maybe, just maybe…he already knew what it was. The very same artefact that was on the Siren of Lusia, the relic Tara once told him about…that was declared lost when the Siren exploded. He shook the worries from his mind; it couldn't possibly be the same thing as the Conduit – because the Normandy's crew were convinced it was on the 'Ilos' planet. Despite all that, there was a lingering feeling that the relic was somehow connected to the big picture. He just didn't have all the information, and didn't know where to get it. And which big picture was he thinking of?

Before Gorman could confuse himself even further, he was summoned to the bridge by the pilot.

From all of the viewport's working screens, there shone an unusual color. Beams of purple light illuminated the entire room. Blanc didn't need to call the Commander over to get a closer look, Gorman marched forward in silent awe. Clouds of glistening space dust swirled and twirled outside the ship, a lavender fog that enveloped every inch of the window. It was like entering a painted canvas, but in actuality they were entering a nebula. Those space telescope photos he once saw weren't too far off after all.

The sparkling dust parted enough to reveal what it was enclosing. In the center of the cosmic mist was something long and circular. Scale was deceiving at first, but as the Shackleton veered in its direction, he made out more and more of a truly sizeable superstructure. It was less like a cylinder, and more like a flower. Five long petals spread out, perpendicular to a ring. A single spire rose along the ring's radius.

It got closer – and Gorman's eyes got wider. On one petal, he quickly spotted a glowing grid from tip to stem. It took a moment to process what he was looking at. Unbelievably…it was a city. Lights flickered, lights shifted, but the sheer bustle could be felt almost literally a million miles away. Then he realized that there were five of them. Begrudgingly it reminded him of New York City, but if every square foot was like Midtown Manhattan…and it was in space. Small outlines of ships, like the models Shepard was fond of, fluttered about between the sectors.

"We're being hailed," the Lieutenant finally spoke, giving the ship's microphone a tap to see if it was still operational. "Have those docking codes ready?" He swiveled around, only to see that Gorman was still entranced by the view. Blanc raised his hand and snapped his fingers a couple times.

"Right, yes, okay, got it," Gorman stammered, whipping out his omni-tool as fast as he could, trying hard to find the codes while trying harder not to gaze wistfully at the center of galactic civilization outside.

The ship's radio receiver crackled to life.

"Citadel Control," announced a flanging voice. Turian, no doubt.

"Citadel Control, this is SSV Shackleton, requesting permission to dock, over," Blanc informed.

"Stand by for clearance, Shackleton."

Silence and static came through the airwaves. The station got impossibly larger.

"Docking codes requested," said Control.

"That's your cue," Blanc whispered. He tapped one of his screens and a prompt appeared on Gorman's tool. Luckily the process appeared to be streamlined; the codes were present and ready. Moment of truth. He hit the button to send them.

More static. The Citadel was close enough that he could see lanes of immeasurable traffic along the grids of streets…and that the entire station was gradually rotating.

"Clearance granted," Control responded. A wave of relief washed over the Commander. Szymanski, for all his cryptic quirks, came through. "You may begin your approach. Transferring you to an Alliance operator."

A much more human voice then spoke from the bridge's speakers.

"Shackleton, this is Alliance Tower. Please proceed to dock 433."

The radio warbled off.

"What luxury," Blanc got back to work, checking his monitors for the coordinates of the designated landing zone. When he found the specific holographic screen, he had to wave his hand through it a few times to keep it from switching off. "I hope they have a pit crew on standby."

Gorman was right back to ogling the station from every new angle. The others were missing out.

Along the wide spoke where the ring met a petal, there were rows upon rows of inward bays and outward ridges – like the slots for plugging in wires into a computer. The violet tint from the outer nebula was ever-present, but otherwise the metal surfaces were colored a spacy white and Alliance blue. Once the Shackleton made its final approach, it had to cut through a translucent barrier not unlike the internal decontamination. The ship cut through the field and its landing thrusters sputtered on. From a now-adjacent walkway came two large mechanical devices – a docking corridor and a magnetic clamp – which both attached themselves to the port side.

The Commander knew what was about to happen, and took the initiative before things got worse. The crewmates flooded up to the bridge. The light above the docking hatch flickered green – but nobody could leave just yet. Gorman was standing in the way.

"Now, people, I know we're all eager to see this place," he began, reaching the ears of the crew but falling short of their wandering minds. "But we need to be organized about it. I want us to stay in contact. I'll let you know when it's time for us all to meet again." Unbeknownst to them, that time was dependent on his upcoming meeting with the Spectre. There were still tough choices to be made, and he would much prefer if the crew stuck together for once…but he wasn't going to deny them some shore leave after the stresses of their most recent missions.

"Are you done?" an impatient Zaz asked.

Gorman reluctantly nodded, and fell into the docking hatch as seven more crewmates crammed themselves in after him. The overworked decontamination scan took longer than usual, but it eventually gave them the all clear. The hatch at the other end creaked open.

The Commander stepped out first, and onto a clean metal walkway with railings along its edges. To his right, there was the way inside, a glass canister that bore some resemblance to an elevator. On its flank was an Alliance trooper, leaning up against the edifice and practically dozing off under a beret.

On the left was…quite possibly the most outrageous sight of Gorman's short time in space.

Subconsciously his feet drifted to get a better vantage point at the walkway's end, and to look out beyond the laser mesh the ship had passed through. However, before he could take it all in, he was pulled back by a blue hand.

"Hm?" Gorman turned to see the asari gesturing down the other way, past the rest of his crew. There was a man on approach, abnormally tall, sideburned and tired-faced. Wait – hadn't he seen this guy before? "Hey, I remember you! Polaris Station, right?" Gorman strolled down the catwalk to greet the docking attendant. "Congrats on the promotion, Mr. Degand."

"That was my twin brother, Didier," the man flatly replied, "My name is Denis." There was no way Gorman could have known. The unrelenting storm of bureaucracy in the eyes must run in the family. "Name and rank?"

Slowly yet surely, Gorman answered each of the same questions he'd been asked before. There was only one key difference between Polaris and the Citadel – Gorman was surprisingly allowed to keep the Walther in his holster. Official recognition as an Alliance officer on this station has its perks, evidently. Curiously, the attendant didn't bat an eye at the fact than an Alliance officer was letting non-human species roam free on his ship, nor the fact that the ship was clearly in need of repairs. The only downside to the bureaucratic process was that its length only made the crew even more antsy.

"That will be all, Commander," Denis Degand eventually stepped aside, letting out the official smile. "Welcome to the Citadel."

The crewmates practically swarmed the elevator. The wide interior was surrounded by shiny metal and frosted glass, but the walls were offset, making the elevator lean. It was also bereft of controls, so, only one diagonal way to go. A florescent light turned red. The screen doors shifted shut and the capsule began to rise, upwards and backwards. The view outside was blurry, but they were passing more docks. A lot more.

Then, a loudspeaker from above started to talk.

"In diplomatic news, elcor emissaries have concluded their inaugural visit to the human Systems Alliance," a newscaster reported, "Despite a delayed start, the elcor delegation were treated to a tour of Arcturus Station, home to the Alliance Navy and Parliament. The visit concluded with the gifting of deels, traditional human clothing – upsized appropriately – from one of Earth's notable cultures."

How about that, opined Gorman. Two dominant thoughts popped into his head. Firstly, he couldn't imagine how a news organization on the Citadel could condense a galaxy's worth of headlines into something brief enough for an elevator ride. Secondly, and more importantly, he thought it odd that the news wasn't fixated on what was actually going on right here at the station. The Council were preparing a battlefleet capable of defeating the enemies of galactic civilization – surely they couldn't keep something like that hidden, and surely it would be frontpage material. The irony was not lost on him; if good old Director Whyte could cover up a cosmic-scale threat, why couldn't the Council?

The elevator gently glided to a halt, the light turned green, and the door parted.

The area the crew walked into brought back memories of Polaris Station's arrivals plaza, but in concept alone. Visually Gorman was taken aback by how…foreign everything looked. The floors were glossy, the walls smothered in panels of hazy blue light, the doorways too wide and too circular. Neon holograms in alien languages hovered and spun about to cover all angles. The Citadel was another place allegedly designed by the long-dead protheans, despite how removed it appeared from the likes of Feros. He was stepping into a station that therefore predated human sensibility itself, but everything felt, in a strange way, accessible.

Multitudes were hustling across the terminal. This time, the reverse of Polaris – he could see barely a handful of humans. The divide was not between species but between the busy masses and the uniformed guards hanging around in grouped huddles at a few key locations. They crossed species lines yet wore the same blue gear. Gorman knew his fellow law enforcement officers when he saw them. He was happy to see proper cops somewhere in the galaxy for once, not just military types, bouncers, or the one decent security guard he plucked from Tara IV.

"This way, Commander," that very same security guard beckoned Gorman to follow him. He'd gotten lost in the view again, likely not for the last time. He weaved through the crowd as best he could, and tried to keep track of his crewmates as best he could. To do both was simply impossible.

By the time they arrived at a clearing, a connecting corridor so long that you could see the curve of the station at its end, Gorman performed a headcount that came up short.

"Already we're down Zaz and Blanc…" he sighed, "…and Bodewell…and his bodyguard."

"Well, Zaz and Jocasta did have their hearts set on the combat simulators," shrugged Kalu. "Where Jocasta goes, her employer follows. As for Pierre? I think he's just plain lost."

"I can't blame him," Gorman remarked. He glanced down the long hall, and hopelessly tried to count the number of entrances and exits along its walls. "This place is a labyrinth."

"We're not even properly in the station, Commander – this is just a docking lounge," admitted the asari. Upon seeing his shattered expression, she spotted one doorway out of a hundred, and took the lead. "Follow me."

Back they went, dodging and jostling through the mob. After letting a half dozen turians and a strange, docile little four-legged creature waddle out of another elevator, the remaining crew of the Shackleton piled into the lift. The light turned red and an ascent began.

"Where exactly are we headed?" Gorman caught his breath.

"You'll see," T'Lore cryptically smiled. The Commander had to find support elsewhere.

"Any idea?" he asked out loud, over another news report, this time about mundane trade affairs.

"I'm happy to go wherever," Sally simply nodded.

"I thought you had a plan?" Kalu turned it around on him.

"I do," Gorman defended himself and tapped his toolbearing forearm. "Commander Shepard gave me a time and a place. It's not the docking lounge, and it's not for a while…although I've little time for sightseeing."

"So that's it?" Kalu saw right through the vagueness, and said what everyone was probably thinking. "You're joining Shepard, and we'll all go our separate ways? When were you going to tell us?"

"Wait, is that true?" Sally was confused.

"Not entirely," Gorman attempted to save face, "All I know is that Shepard is leading the Council's counterattack. He wants me to help. I want to know where that leaves all of you." Judging by their body language, the crew knew he was being sincere yet were still frustrated at the uncertainty of it all. "That's why we're meeting."

The light turned green, and the asari led the crew into a new, brighter, somehow shinier area…and several more corridors and clearings after that. Gorman was initially surprised by her navigational skill, before he remembered that she spent the better part of forty years getting lost on this station. Even still, as they rounded the final corner he got the feeling that the destination was not for her, but for him.

Without a word, T'Lore gestured to a railing at the edge of a busy thoroughfare. Natural nebula light bloomed in from a large pane of glass so clear that it could be mistaken for nothing. He looked over the railing and his jaw dropped.

Beyond the beams of light, his view was unimpeded. He was looking down one of the flower's petals…so to speak. Skyscrapers of untold heights lined themselves up in columns and rows, the headlights of car-sized airplanes whizzed to and fro, but what really caught his attention was the sheer length of it all. There was no horizon to be seen – he was able to take in simply everything. The sprawling urban plane even had a slight curve to it, buildings on one end and buildings on the other could meet each other at right angles. Shivers rolled from his neck, down his back, and to the tips of his toes. All those towers, all those people, all those streets and their stories flowing to infinity – he was overcome with a sublime feeling. This was the culmination of a thousand societies, the microcosm of the new modernity he'd awoken in, the lynchpin holding the galaxy together. He glanced up. The amount of open space was phenomenal, and through the faint purple haze were the other petals, a thousand leagues above and beside him. It defied both his understanding of physics and his understanding in general. Gorman looked mightily on the works, and despaired. This was the apex of engineering.

"Before you ask," said T'Lore, "You never get used to it."

"Okay…" Gorman exhaled, "…I might have a little time for sightseeing."