47 – Ithaca

Deep inside the Hoover Building, past layers of security and layers of secrecy, through the throngs of hurried agents and beyond a soundproof door, a television played.

News channel after news channel flickered by on the widescreen. Unlike most tragedies on the news so soon after an event, each station had its own sourced footage. Helicopters in the dozens carrying emergency humanitarian aid were soaring over the heads of one reporter at a makeshift military checkpoint. Satellite imagery showcasing adjacent wildfires and an outrageously immense cloud of smoke over Dublin's former location – that is, until the satellite went dark minutes after capturing the scene – was center-stage on another network. In the corner of each channel's coverage was an ongoing press conference by the Irish Taoiseach. Before that, a variety of panels of experts were unanimous in wild speculation as to the terrible explosion in Dublin and the subsequent flashes of light visible from low earth orbit. There were even unconfirmed reports flooding in of an unusually high number of 'meteor showers' across the globe. The city of Dublin itself could not be reached for contact by any means…and even the most optimistic panelists were fearing the worst. Most were still in shock.

One tap on a remote control and the screen to the side of the desk flickered off. James Norman Whyte, Deputy Director of the FBI, leaned back in his reclining chair, took a long hard drag from his cigar, and gave a long hard look at the man sitting opposite him.

"What in God's name happened out there, Gorman?"

"Jim, I can explain -"

"Don't you 'Jim, I can explain' me, Gorman!" the Director jumped to his feet, pounding his fist on the desk. It wobbled as if on unstable ground. The Commander seated opposite him was startled. "You forget the keys to the agency car and that warrants an explanation. You waste all the money we've got the taxpayers of several nations throwing at you, and that warrants a damn good explanation. But this…" He paused for another drag. "Dublin is gone, Gorman. Gone. The whole city. Five hundred thousand people."

"Director, let me say-"

"And then you just show up out of nowhere…claiming goddamn responsibility?"

"Jacob was defeated. We destroyed his ship."

"Ah yes, 'Jacob'…" Whyte raised a pair of air quotes, "…The space terrorist with advanced technology allegedly hellbent on blowing up our cities…for some reason. I've taken the liberty of dismissing that claim, Gorman."

"What?" the Commander blurted. Panic began to set in. "You've got to believe me! I'm telling you the truth, as crazy as it sounds. My team and I, we -"

"They're all dead…you're not," the Director pointed an accusatory finger right across the desk, "You're also carrying alien bacteria, gene-altering stimulants, and subdermal implants far beyond anything our scientists have ever seen before. Don't even get me started on the weapons you brought back. You're not the same man I sent on that Shuttle, are you?"

"No, no, no!" Gorman was starting to feel violently ill, "It's still me, Jim, it's just…it's just…"

"Someone has to answer for Dublin," Whyte's staredown intensified and his cigar spilled ash into a tray, "The decision has already been made. Whoever – or whatever – you are, it's going to be you."

The phone on the Director's desk rang. Whyte picked it up, put it to his ear, listened in silence, then outstretched the receiver to the Commander. Gorman knew all too well who it was. He took the phone.

The woman on the other end was crying.

The world started to close in around him, the smoke in the room became choking. He tried desperately to ground himself, to look out the window and see the sky, the trees and the Earth. All he saw was a blur, and not even memories could fill in the gaps.

The Commander jolted awake.

The low hum of the Shackleton's crew quarters felt especially quiet without a full complement of crew. One would be forgiven for thinking that its Commander would easily get a full night's rest under these conditions…but his mind had other plans. The others didn't help – Bodewell and Petronis must have been arguing on the bridge for at least half an hour. It was a minor miracle that Blanc was able to pilot the ship speedily towards their destination without any hitch of his own.

Gorman stretched his limbs, wiped the cold sweat from his brow, and left the bunk. He'd been having worse nightmares recently, of course, but tonight's one was a little too close to home.

A quiet morning routine took place. Usually there'd be at least one interruption from a crewmate along the way; whoever was the most bored indulging the Commander in a conversation about anything or nothing. No such luck this time. He finished his tasks on time and concluded the routine with an EasyBrew coffee.

What Gorman did not realize, however, was that he had overslept. The destination was not just in sight – it was underfoot. When he arrived at the bridge, there was not an orb in the distance – there was arid grass and solid grey rock stretching as far as the foggy horizon. A star hovered directly overhead in the silvery sky. Not a single shadow in sight.

Bodewell was pulling on his boots, Petronis was adjusting her armor, and Blanc was whirling around to greet the last arrival. His own inflight entertainment was resting in his lap, strangely enough a paperback with a title Gorman was sure he'd seen before.

"Bonjour, Commander," the pilot tipped his cap, "Good timing, we've just landed."

"Where exactly are we?" Gorman asked around. Only Bodewell had the proper answer.

"Welcome to Ithaca," the vidcaster donned a cheery smile under his thick beard, "I've already made contact with my manager, he's sent out transport to bring us down."

"Down?" was Gorman's next question.

"The base is underground," Bodewell replied, as if this was common knowledge, "The surface is alright now, but give it another…four, maybe five hours? Real cold, real fast."

There was no time for any more last-minute preparations; Gorman barely had enough to print out a magazine or two for his old weapons during the trip from the Citadel. The Commander was, however, glad to be back in his turtleneck when they eventually disembarked. Ithaca was chilly and breezy; a wide, flat, karst landscape with no discernible features other than a landing strip for a single ship and a waiting, hovering van. He squinted his eyes and made out something resembling a structure poking out not too far away, camouflaged by being the same color as both the ground and the thick fog. The mist itself was probably the most interesting thing about this planet, the way it obscured everything up to a certain altitude, until it just…stopped.

The van driver was stern and didn't talk much through his gaiter. Gorman, Bodewell, Blanc and Petronis boarded and off the van went, skimming over the clints and grikes. Out the rear window, the Shackleton faded into the foggy dew.

As the base got closer, the eyes of all passengers were eventually drawn to the lefthand side. Adjacent to the base was the start of a crack in the stone wide enough to fit a fair few Shackletons. Fog, of course, obscured much of the crevice. Then they noticed something – it wasn't just covered by fog, but it was the source.

The van slowed to a halt. Without a single word, the driver opened the side door and let the crew out.

Gorman hit the pavement just outside the base's unassuming entrance – a frosty grey metal bunker. There was someone waiting for him, standing tall with his hands entrenched in his coat pockets and his hair aggressively slicked back. Two burly guards flanked him in jet black armor.

"Szymanski…" the Commander recognized, stepping ahead of his group. "…Should have known you'd be involved somehow. What are you doing here?"

"That's my manager," Bodewell introduced, "Wait, you two know each other?"

"We meet again, Gorman!" the most dangerous biotic of Eden Prime replied with a smug smile on his face…which was soon replaced by disdain. Not towards Gorman, nor his employee, but to his employee's employee. "Donny, what did I tell you about bringing friends?"

"I told you about 'Casta, right?" Bodewell nodded. The turian remained silent. "She's good, I promise," the vidcaster pleaded.

Szymanski stared Petronis down, refusing to take his hands out of his pockets.

"Keep to yourself and we'll get along fine," he snarled. The turian blinked. "If you trust her, Donny, so do I. Humanity knows better than to keep old grudges." From the tone of his voice, his plea for interspecies cooperation was halfhearted at best.

"Cut the small talk," Gorman took charge, "You wanted me here, here I am. So, is there something you can show me, or will I save myself the trouble and leave right now?"

Szymanski's smile returned.

"Commander Gorman…" he purred, "…the hero of the Human Embassy, the liberator of Calypso, the savior of the Siren of Lusia…" Some of the crewmates rolled their eyes. "…We both know you're not going to pass this up. Our way of repayment, for all the good you've done us." The door behind him shuttered open. "Follow me."

Inside, there was something of a stylistic shift. The harsh metal exterior was matched by gleaming marble, frosted glass and a warm glow. Fancy front desks and wall-mounted art pieces reminded Gorman of the Boss' other office. A wide elevator stood ready at the far end, but between it and the crew were almost a dozen armed guards. They parted to let the Commander and Szymanski through…but reformed their line ahead of the others.

"Search them thoroughly," Szymanski ordered, hitting a button to open the elevator. The guards approached the crew, and Petronis was dangerously close to drawing her weapon when Gorman stopped the Boss in his tracks.

"You can trust my crew," he firmly stated.

"Fine," Szymanski sighed, "Non-invasive it is, then," he nodded to the guards and beckoned the Commander into the elevator.

As omni-tools were produced, Gorman made eye contact with Blanc, Bodewell and Petronis one more time. Between all of them, he found their mutual feeling: uncertainty. The elevator closed, and started to slowly descend.

"Commander, you may recall that Frontier Theory espouses -"

"I don't give a shit about your theories. Never have." Gorman's interruption was enough to actually startle the composed biotic. Given the Boss' reputation, Gorman showed serious boldness to be so confrontational while the two of them were alone in a confined space. The truth was that the Commander was running out of reasons to care. He took down a geth Colossus – he could handle a single Pole. "You have some explaining to do," Gorman towered over the blond man, staring him down with the Glare and pointing a finger into his chest, "What your organization is, how you know so much, and how exactly you're planning to get me home."

"You're owed as much," was Szymanski's much more timid reply. "My organization, as you may have figured out, is decentralized in nature yet united in purpose. Advancing humanity's interests, defending our species from any threats the galaxy poses. The hound at the Alliance's gates. A modern Cerberus."

The elevator came to a stop and the doors opened again. The duo stepped out into a long living space. Rec rooms, rows of bunks, tables, chairs and plants; the comforts of twenty-second century living sprawled out in an open-plan area, and decked out in the same black-and-gold materialism as the lobby. Narrow, pitch black windows adorned the lefthand side. For the amount of people that the space could comfortably support, however, there was a distinct lack of the living. It was dead quiet, save for calming synths played from a speaker and the bootsteps from the two arrivals. A similar elevator loomed at the far end.

"What most of our recruits fail to realize," Szymanski explained as they walked, "Is that the need for such an organization predates our current problems by quite some time. Just as Frontier Theory has been known by many names, so too has my organization. In fact…"

Gorman's boots shuffled to a halt.

"Wait, you're not saying…my agency?" he realized. The words 'Frontier Theory' still made his brain want to switch itself off, but things were starting to make an amount of sense he couldn't ignore.

"Think of Cerberus as its spiritual successor," Szymanski proudly nodded, "It's not quite identical to the agency you left, we've been through more rebrands than I can remember, but the mission has always remained the same."

"You're also backed by national governments?"

"National governments?" Szymanski gave a calculated chuckle, "Hate to break it to you, Commander, but the era of nation-states is over. We let them keep their flags, and their anthems, and their figureheads…but true power rests with the Systems Alliance and the invisible hand of the private sector." He neglected to say if his organization is backed by one, both or neither…but Gorman was content to take an educated guess.

Their walk resumed, past the furniture and into the next elevator. Down they went through another shaft. Gorman could feel the pressure of the increasing depth start to mount. Bad memories of Calypso were repressed as soon as they resurfaced.

"So, is that how you knew so much about me?" he asked the biotic, "The agency's records?"

"Not quite. The truth is more interesting," Szymanski smirked, and started at the beginning, "I won't bore you with the details, but getting imprisoned on Eden Prime was not my finest hour. When I eventually got out, it was right back to assignment. Something simple, my superiors claimed, to get me back on track. One of our operatives was compromised, I had to find out who was responsible. The operative's name was Raymond Toner."

"Ray worked for you?" Gorman hadn't heard that name in a long time. The bald engineer's smuggling ring was case closed, as far as he was concerned.

"He worked for another cell," Szymanski clarified, "But the overnight collapse of his operation was deemed worthy of immediate investigation. Following the trail was surprisingly straightforward. There's only one person in the galaxy who would willingly carry an M16 these days."

"It's been a lifesaver," Gorman defended the rifle on his back, tugging the sling with his name on it for emphasis.

The elevator opened to let them enter another wide habitable level. This one was a maze of cubicles and workstations – some actually manned by men and women in orange jumpsuits. They were hard at work on their computer consoles, the glow from each display negating the need for any other lights nearby. Decoratively, this floor was more austere than above, marble and hardwood replaced by polished metal and locally sourced stone. The windows, now on the righthand side of their walk, were wider yet revealed little…except for small hints of a metal shine. Dim red lights could be made out, stranded in darkness and fog thick enough to let no surface sunbeams through. There was definitely something out there, but Szymanski hadn't reached it yet in his grand unveiling of a speech.

"My orders were to bring you in, believe it or not," he divulged, nodding to any operative that glanced up from their desk, "But I thought against it, I had a feeling there was more to you than a concerned citizen or Alliance lackey. I caught a lucky break when you decided to meet the press on Polaris, and I set up a meeting between you and whoever we had nearby, one of our mutual…acquaintances. Donny Bodewell."

"Bodewell's not really an 'operative' though, is he?" Gorman presumed.

"He is, and let me say this in the nicest possible way, a useful idiot. But he's our useful idiot. We fund his little show, he gives our talking points to a wide audience. Win-win."

"How kind of you," Gorman rolled his eyes at the cynicism, but he couldn't say he was too surprised that Bodewell's anti-turian reputation was a result of his income. "Do you treat all your operatives like disposable tools?"

"See that man over there?" Szymanski stopped their procession and pointed at one orange jumpsuit behind a cubicle. A young man with two extraordinarily bushy eyebrows stood straight, gave a toothy smile and waved back. "That's Ömer Barzani. He's the reason that you went to Mavigon."

"Wait, what?" Gorman wasn't sure he heard correctly, but Szymanski made no mistake.

"You think Admiral Mikhailovich gave the order?" Peter laughed again, "With Toner's ring in disarray, the black market was suddenly favoring the batarians. We needed that criminal syndicate gone, and we weren't going to wait. Barzani made it happen…although we didn't expect Captain Chen to outsource the job to someone like you. Either way, the 'Specialist' is one of our best. It's men like him that our organization takes good care of."

The walk continued, and so did Szymanski's original train of thought now that Cerberus' policies were justified. Gorman suddenly got the feeling that there was a lot more to some of the other coincidences that got him here.

"Back to Bodewell," the Boss reminded as they boarded the next elevator down, "With him aboard your ship, I was getting mostly regular reports back about you, your crew, your mission…" Just like that, any veil of secrecy Gorman could have had left was blown away. He was already concerned, but now it was getting alarming. What didn't Szymanski know? The biotic was almost teasing him. "You weren't just any old Commander, that was for sure, but here's where it gets interesting…" Gorman held his breath. "…You were now leading us to a top-secret asari research vessel."

"The Siren of Lusia," the Commander recalled, and his mind made a chilling connection. "Don't tell me…those pirates…were they Cerberus?"

"No, no, no," Szymanski snorted, shaking his head. Gorman let out a relieved sigh that lasted barely a second until Peter's mouth reopened. "I just paid them off. Once they retrieved the data from the artefact, they were expendable."

"You son of a bitch!" Gorman raised his voice, stepping closer to the Boss. "Ten innocent asari died on that ship!"

"Hey, hey, easy!" Szymanski held up his hands to push the high-strung Commander away from his personal space, "We had no idea the pirates would start indiscriminately killing the scientists!" He spoke fast, rolling his words into one long plea. "If the irony of cosmosocialists taking a paycheck wasn't enough to tell you that the UCLA had no morals whatsoever, then it shouldn't surprise you to learn that they ignored our orders not to harm anyone! We certainly had no problems with you and your team mopping them up afterwards!"

The more Gorman learned about this new-wave version of his agency, the less he cared for it. Something about how effortlessly Szymanski switched from 'I' to 'We' made his stomach churn. He backed off…but his fists remained clenched.

"You got what you wanted, no matter the cost," he sighed again, heavier this time. He tried to remember what Tara believed was lost when the Siren exploded. "Was it worth it? What did the artefact tell you?"

"It gave us coordinates," Szymanski regained his confidence, "Very, very vague coordinates. You can blame fifty millennia of decay for that. In any other circumstance, it'd be impossible to narrow it down, but once we cross-referenced the data with traces of a certain substance discovered at one of our recent outposts…"

"Calypsite?" Gorman predicted.

Szymanski smiled and nodded.

"…It led us here," he confirmed.

The last elevator opened.

This level was wider, and branched out further to the windowed side. The balance between industrial and sleek finally tipped over, the décor complimented by unpainted concrete slabs as opposed to stylish marble tiles, rivets and thick fastenings as opposed to wood and gold trimmings. Wide columns dominated the interior, holding up every level above. Somewhat visible yet definitely audible between the columns were spinning fans, appropriately large for an area at this depth. The real noteworthy points of architecture were the windows, however; they were now floor to ceiling, showcasing more looming gloom and faint lights. The glass at the far end was split into two halves with two handles. A doorway into the darkness.

With not much to look at outside, all attention was given not to the room but to those standing in it. A handful of armed guards covered the elevator and potential exit, but they were little more than furniture. In the middle of the room, waiting by a central upright computer console, were three startlingly familiar individuals.

On the left was a freakishly tall, thin man with a tired face, auburn sideburns and a nose long enough to hang a jacket on. The living coatrack, contrary to the last time Gorman saw him – or his twin – was clad in organization orange.

On the right was a woman wearing much more scientific garb, a tight, shiny lab-coat not unlike those of the Alliance medical staff he'd met. This woman was no medic; her gloves were too rugged, her pads on the elbows and knees too industrial, her fancy future hardhat a size too big. Undoubtably an engineer, and from the iridescent stains on her boots, a fuel engineer at that.

Standing in the middle with his arms folded and chin upraised was the mastermind behind it all…but more likely someone desperately trying to project themselves as such. His snowy white hair, beady eyes, black suit and white tie were practically unchanged since his last public appearance. His presence was still surprising, but it made the most immediate sense out of the trio. He gave a smile upon seeing the two from the elevator approach, with teeth that were still too bright to be real.

"Commander, allow me to reintroduce you to some of our associates," Szymanski began as they joined the group, "Didier Degand, for instance, is the reason you got onto Polaris without a hitch." The tall man bowed his long head.

"And what about his twin brother?" Gorman asked.

"C'mon, Gorman, don't tell me you fell for it!" Peter laughed…alone. He cleared his throat and forged on. "Professor Saari's our chief theorist. Where Mr. Bodewell reaches the masses, Saari reaches the intelligentsia. If I had to guess, half the operatives at this base cite the Professor's teachings as inspiration for why they work for us."

"Commander Gorman," Saari started to speak with his raspy, cigarette-flavored accent, "I hope you're ready to forgive me for our little…tussle on Polaris. You understand by now, of course, that ensuring Frontier Theory is spread to -"

"Jenny?" Gorman completely ignored the Professor and moved on to the fuel technician he hadn't seen since Tara IV, "You were with these guys? All this time?"

"No, I just got hired," she replied. For the first time all day, it felt like she was being honest without any ulterior motives. "They needed an engineer, I needed a job, Macaulay McFinley of all people is one of their chief financiers…plus, their workers' comp is pretty good too. Finally putting that PhD in Xenotechnology and Dark Energy Integration to good use, eh?"

"PhD in…what?"

"I suppose now's a good a time as any," Szymanski retook control of the room, "Commander, it's time we told you why we wanted you here." He gestured to the computer console. Dr. Boxer went over to it, flipped a holographic switch, and the sound of gears turning filled the room. Slowly, all eyes veered out the window. Gorman cautiously joined in.

A series of lights sparked on, cutting through the fog, somewhere very far away and impossibly deeper in the cave. They formed a horizontal band around something in the middle. Something massive.

Another layer of lights turned on, then another, moving upwards in sequence. More and more of a monumental ship was gradually revealed. Harsh edges, jet black metal and eerie red lights were combined with smooth arcs, flecks of vibrant lime-tinted energy and strangely elegant spires. Overall it formed something like an arrowhead, a steel paper plane pointed towards the obscured surface. At its inner core was a round cutout, filled by several rings just begging to rotate at different inclinations like the gimbals of a gyroscope. Coiled along the spine of the craft, stretching from core to tip, was a barrel not unlike a big, big gun.

A shiver ran down the Commander's own spine. His brain was screaming at him that there was something inherently…wrong about what he was looking at. Not wrong like he shouldn't be seeing it, but wrong like what he was seeing was beyond his ability to comprehend it. A notion popped into his mind whether he wanted it or not.

"It's…mostly prothean, right?" Gorman was the first to speak. Even the Cerberus crew had to take a silent moment to appreciate the sheer scope of the vessel and the size of the ravine needed to store it. Even bathed in light, a certain darkness remained.

"Mostly?" Szymanski was very briefly caught off guard, before returning to his usual calculating tone, "According to the hardhats, this ship's been buried in Ithaca for fifty thousand years and counting." He waved his hand at the window as if any and all justification could be handled by sight alone, "Just look at it – the design, the shape…it's like a mobile mass relay. Only one species we know of makes anything quite like it."

"You wouldn't believe what we found inside," Degand piped up, his droning tone hiding any actual excitement, "Prothean grenades, prothean demolition charges, prothean particle weapons, contraventions to the Citadel Conventions…" If Degand was actually the astonishingly dull customs officer Gorman once believed him to be, he would have had a heart attack on the spot.

"In all my years out in the field, I've never seen anything this well-preserved," Saari remarked, speaking quicker to avoid being embarrassingly interrupted again. "It's astounding." He then laid out his theory – or, for once, the lack thereof. "We're not sure why they built it. Why would the protheans want to develop a vessel capable of travelling back in time?"

Finally, the Professor said something worth listening to. Gorman wasted no time in pressing for more.

"So it can be done?" he blurted, glancing back and forth at the knowing looks of the Cerberus team and the ship, "This ship can take me back? How?"

"If I recall, Peter told you about Calypsite, right?" Boxer enquired, "About how, through the LODMO effect, it can adjust density in a given area?" Gorman nodded. "When we discovered this ship, we discovered enough Calypsite in there to fill a reservoir."

"Refined Calypsite, too," Szymanski added, "With our current methods, it would take another fifty thousand years to extract the same amount that's coating that core. I'm not even sure Calypso itself has the surface area we'd need."

"With enough of the stuff, and one hell of a prothean power source aboard…" Boxer continued. She was enjoying the explanation – probably appreciating how the last time she and Gorman spoke, she was explaining mass relays to him. They started with the basics, and now her student had graduated to the cutting edge. She gestured right to the midpoint of the vessel; the intersection of every arc and the bullseye of every ring. "…the area around the core will increase in density…and increase…and increase…until eventually, it will collapse in on itself."

Gorman's eyes widened. He was keeping up, following along, and knew that there was only one striking possibility.

"A black hole?"

"Exactly," Boxer smiled, "And not just any black hole. A Kerr black hole. Rotating."

"This is seriously advanced technology, even for the protheans," the xenoarchaeologist in the room shook his disbelieving head. He had new questions that nobody had the answer to. "Why conceal it, though? And with this capability, how could they have gone extinct in the first place?"

"Inside the event horizon of a Kerr black hole lies the Cauchy horizon," Tara IV's most overqualified technician kept going, "A boundary beyond which determinism itself breaks down."

Gorman was mentally fighting to still keep up and still follow along, but it was getting harder and harder with each new bit of scientific jargon. He knew that this was as good an assurance on 'safety' as he was ever going to get from the organization that once mailed crates of angry killer bugs to each other.

"Theoretically," she continued, "If an object – or, in this case, a large ship – were to pass through the Cauchy horizon, it could enter a region of spacetime where past and future are no longer distinct. With enough energy, this ship could go anywhere, at any time."

"That includes your past, Commander," Szymanski made sure to mention, "The protheans left behind a lot of useful information in there, including, you'll be interested to hear, one of those beacons you were once looking for. We're fairly certain we've figured out how to set the destination to 170 years ago. Within a margin of error, of course."

Illuminated in the new light was the only route between the viewing platform and the ship, a broad metal scaffold that started at the glass door to his right. The science checked out, the ship existed, everything here was real and ready. That stretch to the ship's entrance was now all that stood between him and the return trip he'd been longing for. He could almost feel the warmth of Earth on his skin again…but it was met with a chill from within.

"Mon Dieu!" came a shout from behind. Lieutenant Blanc left the other latecomers and sprinted from the elevator shaft to the window, gawking at what millions of watts had just unveiled. "That's your ride home? All this time…I thought…I thought it was just a joke!"

"Dude…" Bodewell was equally stunned, and a little emotional. "…This is everything I ever wanted. All those years, all those episodes, all those theories…one finally came true. This is the greatest day of my life."

Gorman wasn't paying too much attention, he was focused on the intensifying chill spreading throughout his body. There was something off about the ship, something his brain was half trying to deduce and half trying to desperately avoid. Was it the way it was designed? Prothean styles varied, as he'd noticed, from the pristine Presidium to weathered Feros, but there was something different at play here, almost as if there was an assumption he needed to let go to make everything make sense. Was it the ship's purpose that bothered him? The brightest minds in the room were still scratching their heads as to why the protheans would need a time machine, and one with a massive gun at that, but Gorman already had his own theory. They were trying to escape the reapers. According to visual evidence, their plan fell short. He hoped for better luck.

With that single connection made, he thought his sudden jitters would die down. They only got worse. Szymanski and his partners started speaking again…but he didn't catch a word. His senses were tuned elsewhere. He was missing something, a mental link that was tantalizingly close to being realized. The ship, the ship, the ship…what could it be? Where had he seen it before?

He turned around, hoping the old adage 'out of sight, out of mind' still rang true. Instead, he was the only one to see a scene that didn't make sense. Everyone in the room was transfixed out the window…except for a turian with her sidearm out. She looked exactly like Petronis, and from the angle he was standing at, it appeared – for some reason – like she was pointing the weapon right to the back of Bodewell's head. Through his overworked ears, Gorman made out a flanging sentence under her breath.

"Sorry it had to come to this."

BANG!

If Gorman had ten seconds to react, he would've. If he had one second to react, he would've. If he had a millisecond to react, he would've. Instead, there was simply no time to react.

A superhot, superfast bullet carved clean through the vidcaster's awestruck head. His eyes glazed over, his limbs gave out, and he started falling gracelessly over his front.

The world around Gorman seemed to move in slow-motion. His arms moved faster than his brain, reaching for his holster. To his sides, a half dozen bodies turned around in confusion, then immediate shock. The turian gazed upon her handiwork, her smoking gun lining up its next shot faster than any human instinct could respond. The room's armed guards reached for the Lancers stapled to their backs. The only thought able to sprint into the Commander's mind was that the violence was going to be over soon – she was vastly outnumbered.

That quickly changed. Flashes of light and accompanying bangs sounded forth from the fans at the far end of the chamber, rumbling everything not nailed down. Gusts of thick smoke poured out, and within them, several tall, barrel-chested, narrow-waisted and spiky-headed silhouettes. As Gorman's hand was drawing the Walther, bullets began flashing by from new angles. The windows behind him cracked with each impact.

The first words could be heard, somewhere through the banging, whizzing, shooting and smoke.

"Holy SHIT!" Boxer screamed.

"DB!" cried out Blanc in vain. The vidcaster hit the floor.

Gorman's training kicked in faster than his own heartbeat. He reduced his profile, took a knee and returned fire. Three P99 shots rang out over the immense commotion, but very soon there were no targets to aim at. The smoke from the vents was smothering everything, and bullets were flying dangerously close. It was only a matter of time before someone got hit, and, as an indistinct yelp was let out to his side, it was already too late.

The window behind Gorman smashed. Air from the vast cave outside flooded in, clearing enough of his vision to reveal why he wasn't dead yet from the incessant gunfire. There was a shimmering blue barrier in his way, in all their ways…coming from a blond biotic with his shaking arms outstretched. The others were cowering underneath and at his back. Degand's orange jumpsuit was soaked with blood on his right arm above the elbow. Blanc was holding his cap down as if it would make a difference, Boxer was scanning herself for any injuries, and Saari was perfectly still, plainly shellshocked.

"Status report!" Szymanski was yelling, presumably to his earpiece. When a response came in, it broadcast through every earpiece nearby, including the Commander's.

"We're under attack, Boss!" crackled through amidst a heap of noise, "They're coming out of the goddamn walls! It's like First Contact all over again!"

"Kurwa!" Peter swore, adding under his breath, "I want our troops fighting back, I want base defenses working on overdrive, I want everything we have!"

"Everything?"

"Everything," Szymanski growled. The strain of his biotic barrier could be clearly heard in his voice. "We're at DEFCON 1. Act accordingly."

The transmission cut out. Alarms and loudspeakers started blaring.

Szymanski turned his attention to the bewildered Commander, who rose to two feet again.

"You need to get to the ship, Gorman," he pointed with his chin out the broken window. The Commander didn't understand – there was a battle to fight right here, and he was locked and loaded.

"But what about -"

"No time to explain!" Szymanski barked, "You reaching that ship is our top priority. Get to the scaffold, find Dr. Kobayashi. Here's your…chance!" He heaved his arms out further and wider, and the biotic protection expanded as a result. Just enough of the room was shielded to allow Gorman a straight shot at the doorway outside. Gorman hesitated for just a moment, glancing back into the smoke and trying to find a body on the ground. "What are you waiting for?" Szymanski roared, his strength sapping. "Move!"

The Commander broke into a run that didn't stop until he flung himself towards the two glass panels. They folded under his weight, and he landed on a metal catwalk.

Pushing himself onto his feet was harder than he expected, the weight of the air and intermittent swaying of the walkway certainly not helping. The metal grates he was now racing across were bordered by railings and the occasional lightbulb. Ahead of him, the walkway bent upward, then around, then upward some more. The scaffold ended at the ship's peak, where an entrance must be. Scale was deceiving from the viewing room. Now approaching the ship as fast as his legs could carry him, he was blown away by just how monstrously large the vessel truly was.

That wasn't the only thing dominating his mind, of course.

Don Bodewell – former DJ, nightclub comic, biotiball commentator and host of the best vidcast this side of the Skyllian Verge – was dead. In a cruel irony, shot in the back of the head by his own bodyguard. Gorman felt miserable. Don was a member of his crew, damn it! He wasn't the Commander's choice for a crewmate, granted, but he placed his trust in Gorman – trust betrayed in the most unthinkable way. The ideals that Gorman had, against all odds, successfully upheld…were broken. The promise he made to the past, the promise of 'Not One More' might just have died with him. How could this have happened? Why did this happen? What the hell was going on anymore? All Gorman could do now was keep running.

Just as he made out other people on the walkway, hastily going in the opposite direction, a loud boom was heard from behind, rumbling the suspended ground enough to make him lose his footing. He turned his head around.

Built into the side of the ravine, the Cerberus base was much taller than his little jaunt down it suggested. Billowing smoke came from several more levels, the flashes and tracers of battle from others. Worst of all, from his perspective, were whatflewoutside them. A handful of rotored aircraft, silvery in color with jagged edges, danced and weaved from floor to floor – all the while spraying bullets and grenades into the interiors. Another craft descended from the surface, bursting through the fog. They didn't look like human designs, which only could mean that they were turian.

Seeing the damage wrought to the base didn't explain how close the walkway's rattling felt. He glanced back the way he came to see black suits of armor lying still, draped over the railing, and smoking holes in the ground. There was no greater reminder that the Commander needed to pick up the pace.

"Gorman! Over here!" came a shout from the way forward. He rose to his feet again and ascended a ramp to meet a team of five.

Three Onyx troopers who wouldn't avert their eyes from the base were escorting two lab coats and hardhats with more overt expressions of panic. One scientist was unfamiliar, a short woman with dark skin and dyed hair. The other was Dr. Kobayashi, who Gorman recognized immediately.

"Goro!" the Commander waved down the other overqualified technician of Tara IV. Investigating a prothean time machine was certainly a step up from serving double strawberry milkshakes in Dhruva's Diner.

"You made it!" Goro replied with some relief. "Follow us, let's get you aboard! The others are waiting!"

Gorman joined the entourage for the last few paces until reaching the largely vertical portion of the scaffold. Up close to the ship's hull, the Commander's uneasiness was only growing stronger. While the turian gunships were occupied, he needed to use this time wisely – and how better than getting some answers from an old friend with a historically loose tongue?

"What do you mean by 'the others', Goro?" Gorman asked as they climbed another ramp.

"It's an awfully big ship for just one man, Commander," the other doctor curtly replied on her colleague's behalf. "You'll need some…support for your trip, I guarantee it."

This answer was not quite satisfactory – and as he predicted, Dr. Kobayashi felt the same way.

"Give the team some credit, Dr. Baëta-Odoi," he rebuked, "We're giving you some of our best, Commander. Top, top soldiers. I don't know what strings the Boss had to pull for some of these commandos, but he's obviously banking on this mission being a complete success."

"Mission?" Gorman latched onto the word that stood out, "What mission? Getting me home?"

Even with their rush, everyone in the entourage turned their heads to face the Commander. Suddenly…he felt very, very naïve.

"The Boss didn't tell you?" Goro was confused. "Once you all arrive back in 2013, the plan is to -"

"Goro, stop talking," Baëta-Odoi interjected. "Gorman doesn't need to -"

"He deserves to know, Clarity," Goro fortunately cut her off before Gorman's impatience reached fever pitch. He got the feeling he wasn't going to like what came next.

The female doctor sighed, then addressed the Commander directly.

"We didn't go through all this effort to send a technologically superior prothean ship back through time…just to let you hop off and call it a day." She allowed herself a laugh. "No, Commander, this is bigger than you. We're doing this to save humanity."

"Oh…I get it now," Gorman was starting to piece their plan together. All the rhapsodizing about humanity's greatness, all the Frontier Theory drivel, all the self-importance of being the agency's successor coupled with its conniving leadership…he was kicking himself for not realizing it sooner. "You want to try and change the past, give us all this technology centuries prior."

The doctors nodded in response as another flight of ramps was ascended.

"It's not just about the technology," Baëta-Odoi corrected, "With prothean weaponry, we could crush the turians at Shanxi, and maybe even dominate the other races too. Humanity's destiny would no longer be subservient to Council interests!" Someone evidently spent a little too much time reading Professor Saari's works.

"Imagine what we could achieve with such a head start!" Goro's excitement was enough for him to ignore the xenophobia and focus on the science. "Imagine what wonders we could accomplish! Planet-wide cities like Feros, superstructures like the Citadel, marvels of engineering like the mass relays!"

"Why include me at all, then?" Gorman's own importance was largely irrelevant in the big picture, if this masterplan was to be believed.

"You're a local," Clarity simply replied, "The governments of Earth won't trust us. They might even try to fight us. You're Plan A – your job is to make contact with your old employers."

She didn't need to say any more. Beyond an initial attempt, the Commander was expendable. He knew what Cerberus does to people they find expendable…just ask the UCLA.

Suddenly Gorman stopped in his tracks. He wasn't just starting to have hesitations – he was making a connection that could change everything. There was something coming from the ship, a pulsating feeling of dread that a long-buried vision in the back of his brain found familiar. The ship was mostly prothean…but there was technology from another source embedded in every facet. Reaper technology.

"Gorman? What's the holdup?" Now Dr. Baëta-Odoi was the impatient one.

"The ship's design, the time travel mechanism…my God, even the mass relays themselves…they all came from the reapers."

"What?"

Without warning, every inch of the scaffold started rocking uncontrollably. Gorman's boots held firm, but the scientists and some of the armed escorts fell to their feet. One Onyx trooper lost their balance entirely, and tipped right over the railing with a fatal yell. Gorman could hear little except the shouting, the rumbling, and the crumbling of loose rocks from all over the foggy cave. Then the colossal hull of the ship itself started very gradually moving…upward.

It was taking off.

The gravity of the situation hit him all at once. These pro-human militants masquerading as his species' saviors were launching a ship made by extinct aliens using technology from the eldritch genocidal machines that wiped them out, and not long ago tried to do the same to every species alive today. Szymanski said there was a beacon aboard. The protheans – even in their extinction-facing desperation – never used the ship, buried it in a forgotten planet, hid the only way to find it, and then left a final warning ready to mentally burn its message into anyone nearby. These Ithacan idiots had ignored every precaution…and up until now, he was willing to go along with them.

The ultimate mission lay before him – stop the ship.

Quickly he scrambled back onto two feet, dragging the doctors and troopers likewise. As they let out cries of confusion and shock, he was busy leading them up the final layers of the scaffold. He didn't know who started the early launch, but once he reached the scaffold's peak – a wider area with one last runway towards the ship's summit – he knew it definitely wasn't another group of lab coats running away from the craft. The only entrance to the ship he could see was slowly drifting upwards behind them…and, strangely, at a slight angle. Then Gorman noticed the scaffold itself was starting to lean. He shuddered to think how far down its foundations extended.

The Commander intended to ignore the fleeing scientists, to barrel through and make a dramatic leap of faith, but that all changed when Goro stopped to speak to them.

"What's happening?" he asked, "Why's the ship taking off?"

"Is it the turians?" one of the troopers guessed.

"It's Taylor!" an exasperated scientist exclaimed. Gorman stopped in his tracks and swerved around to listen. He couldn't help but notice the blood and burn marks on all of their lab coats. "Taylor's gone completely insane!"

The Commander's heart skipped a beat.

T'Lore? What, how, why?

All of a sudden it made a twisted sort of sense – she begged him to stay, he refused, and so she went through outrageous lengths to deprive him of his one and only way back. There's spite, and then there's commandeering a time machine to prove a point. Nothing else mattered. He had to stop her.

"…took control of the ship, rambling about finding a missing father or something," one scientist spluttered out the end of an explanation.

"It's that goddamn beacon!" lamented another one, "Taylor was the only one working on it, but we could all tell there was something wrong about it! Something unnatural! Like…like…like some kind of curse!"

A bright light shone down from somewhere above, illuminating the whole platform. Everyone stopped to try and see where it came from. When someone found out, it was too late.

Bullets rained down from a turian helicopter, slicing through two of the science team and one security guard in seconds. Dr. Kobayashi breezed past Gorman started running towards the ship. As Dr. Baëta-Odoi was unceremoniously ripped apart by the hailstorm, the Commander's fight-or-flight told him to follow Goro.

Each step was steeper than the last, the scaffold's tilt becoming more untenable by the second. Gorman's determination saw him overtake Dr. Kobayashi, driving himself forward faster than any incoming bullets. The conventional entrance to the ship was well above his head, but there were slits underneath where he could fling himself towards. In circumstances like these it was do-or-die.

The final walkway was almost vertical by the time Gorman reached its end. He could see the ship's thin windows…and glimpses of what lay within. It looked familiar. Too familiar. Was that the beacon? And who was the man in black armor standing next to it?

He prepared himself for the last leap. Beneath was an endless black, the heart of darkness. There would only be one chance.