Chapter 28: Common Cause
As the doors of the airlock opened and Din stepped out, he found a dozen humans waiting for him. All of them were armed, and wearing heavy armored suits that made them look like walking tanks. They formed a line, blocking his way and eyed him through the red-tinted eye lenses of their helmets.
All this, just for me, thought Din. It seemed that the rumors about their devotion to security were well-founded. He was almost flattered, but the fact that they were carrying some very big guns, which might at any moment be aimed at him, ruined the appeal.
At the forefront of this mass of armed humans was a tall, burly man in a uniform, who stared at him with hard eyes and a neutral expression. He didn't look unfriendly, but neither was he giving off a warm, inviting air.
"Ambassador Korlack?" he said.
"Yes, sir," Din nodded. "May I ask who you are?"
"Captain Lukas Haugen, commanding officer of the Charlemagne," the human introduced himself.
"I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, Captain," said Din. "I was told that Grand Admiral Slade was expecting me."
"He is," the captain nodded. "Follow me."
Without waiting for an acknowledgement, Haugen turned around and walked off. Din followed after him and the human soldiers closed ranks around him, forming a wall of flesh and metal between him and the rest of the ship. There was no sign of hostility from them that Din could tell, but the sheer number of weapons and heavy armor was enough to put him on edge.
Din had to resist the urge to gawk as they walked down the corridors of the Charlemagne. The ship was absolutely immense, its interior larger and more expansive than anything he'd seen before; the Charlemagne felt more like a small city than a ship. It was almost overwhelming, and Din had to keep himself from slowing down and craning his head to stare at his surroundings.
Eventually, the procession reached an elevator, whose doors slid open noiselessly. Captain Haugen stepped inside and beckoned Din to follow him. He joined him, along with half of their escort, the others remaining outside. As the elevator ascended, Din's nerves began to build up, his anxiety increasing by the second. The humans remained silent, giving him no clue as to what was going through their minds.
The elevator stopped and the doors opened again. Haugen led Din and the soldiers out, and after a few more twists and turns, they arrived at a single door, which stood out from the rest by the fact that it was several times thicker than any other Din had glimpsed at.
Haugen turned to Din, his face still an unreadable mask. "This is the war room," he informed him. "The Grand Admiral is waiting for you inside."
Din swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. This was it: the moment he'd been waiting for and dreading. The name of Grand Admiral Silas Slade had crossed his desk more than a few times in the past couple years. He had been made commander of all Federation naval forces when war had been officially declared against the Hierarchy, and he'd spent the time since his promotion making life miserable for his Turian counterparts. By all accounts, he was a brilliant tactician, and the most fearsome opponent the Hierarchy had faced since the Krogan Rebellions.
And now he was about to meet the man in person.
"All right," he nodded. "I'm ready."
Haugen gestured to the soldiers. "Wait here. The ambassador and I will enter alone."
They snapped off salutes and took up position around the door. Haugen touched a keypad on the wall and the door opened with a soft hiss, allowing them to enter.
The interior of the war room was as grand and imposing as the rest of the Charlemagne. It was a large, circular room, and the far wall was dominated by a massive holographic screen. A large, round table sat in the center of the room, surrounded by several seats. The only one that was currently occupied was the one right in the center, facing the door.
"Grand Admiral," Haugen announced, offering him a salute of his own. "I present the Volus Ambassador, Din Korlack."
The Admiral rose from his chair and laced his hands behind his back. He was a tall human, his face completely bare of the fur that some of them grew. There were no obvious physical indications of his age, but he certainly wasn't young. Din was no judge on human attractiveness, but he supposed that, objectively speaking, the man was not unpleasant to look at among his kind.
His eyes, however, were another matter entirely. Din had met more than a few Turians who possessed some cold and dispassionate stares, but this human was in a whole other league; pale gray irises stared back at Din like granite flints, seeming to bore into him with the intensity of their gaze.
On either side of him were two other male humans and right away, Din could tell that there was something off about them. They wore no uniforms, just a one-piece body glove that highlighted their prodigious musculature. Neither of them carried any weapons, though their arms were crossed over their chests in a stance that clearly broadcast their readiness for action. But it was the way they looked at him that sent chills through Din's body; they stared with such an unnervingly predatory intensity that, for a moment, he wondered if he was going to be ripped apart where he stood.
"Ambassador Korlack," said Slade, his voice clipped and precise. He inclined his head in a fractional nod of acknowledgement.
"Grand Admiral," Din replied. Unsure what was the proper way to greet someone of his rank and standing, he opted for a simple, respectful nod of his own. "Thank you for meeting with me on such short notice."
"Of course," the human said, his tone perfectly polite, and yet there was a clear ring of authority in it. A subtle reminder that, regardless of any diplomatic niceties that were being observed, he was the one in charge. "Captain Haugen, thank you. You may leave us now."
"Sir." The captain saluted again, then left the room.
Slade waited for the door to close, then took his seat again. "Please, sit down," he told Din, gesturing to one of the vacant chairs.
Unfortunately, there was a slight problem on Din's end. All the chairs in the room were made for taller races, which meant that he couldn't reach the seats properly without having to climb onto them and make a spectacle of himself in the process. The cynic in him wondered if the Grand Admiral had arranged it this way on purpose.
Before Din could voice the issue, Slade seemed to realize what was going on. "Ah, I'm sorry," he said, the faintest note of embarrassment tinging his apology. "One moment, please."
The Admiral spoke into an unseen communicator, and a moment later, the door opened back up. Two more soldiers marched in, each carrying a pair of crates and placing them in front of one of the chairs as an improvised staircase. Once they had done so, they saluted and marched back out without a word.
"That should make things easier for you," said Slade. "Sorry for the inconvenience."
"No trouble at all," Din assured him. Indeed, he was heartened by the gesture. It showed that the humans were capable of being civil, and that the Grand Admiral was operating on a level of mutual respect. It helped put him at ease, if only a little.
Din clambered up the makeshift staircase and seated himself. The chair was just barely wide enough to accommodate him, but he didn't complain; this was likely the best the humans could do and grousing about it wouldn't do him any favors. He now stared across the table at Slade, trying to look as dignified and self-possessed as he could, though he knew it was a losing battle; the rotund Volus form hardly made for an impressive sight to other races.
"First of all, I want to thank you again for seeing me so quickly," Din began, putting on his most affable and polite manner. Regardless of whatever the situation might be, it was always best to show courtesy to your opposite number; it was an effective method for breaking the ice, and you never wanted to appear rude and antagonistic, particularly when you were about to ask a serious favor from them. "Especially when considering our... current state of affairs."
"You mean the fact that your people are technically at war with us alongside the Turians?" Slade remarked, raising an eyebrow.
"Precisely," Din agreed. "And due to the severity of the issue I bring, I hope you will forgive me if I skip the usual pleasantries and get straight to the heart of the matter."
This had been the tactic that he'd settled on: a quick, blunt and direct approach. From what little he'd gleaned from his research, the humans preferred things to be as straightforward as possible. And given the seriousness of the matter in question, it would be best not to mince words.
"Very well, then," Slade said, nodding. "Proceed."
Din silently congratulated himself; it seemed like his intuitions had been right on the money. The Grand Admiral's tone hadn't changed, but he could tell that the man was paying close attention to him.
"The reason I'm here, Admiral," he began, "is because the Turian Hierarchy, and by extension the Vol Protectorate, is facing a dire situation. And your people are the only ones who might have the means to help us."
Though his expression didn't change, Din could tell that he had Slade's full and undivided attention. The Grand Admiral leaned forward almost imperceptibly across his side of the table, his gray eyes boring into the Volus.
"Go on," the human told him.
"A little while ago, one of your vessels was discovered by some Turian Merchant Marines, apparently derelict and adrift. They alerted the Navy, who brought it back to their home system for study," said Din. "As I understand it, the intent was to try and unlock the secrets of your technology."
"I see," Slade said quietly. "But that's not the problem, is it? You said the ship was 'apparently' derelict, didn't you?"
"I did," Din nodded. "The truth is, the vessel wasn't empty. There was...something inside it."
For the first time since he'd entered the room, Din saw the Grand Admiral show emotion. The flint-gray eyes widened into a look of alarm, and his fingers, which had been resting calmly on the table in front of him, clenched into fists.
"Something?" he echoed. "What something, exactly?"
"I don't know," Din admitted. "All I do know is that this thing managed to wipe out the crew and when the Turians starting poking around inside the ship, it escaped."
"Escaped?" Slade's voice, previously the very model of politeness and decorum, was now as hard and sharp as a knife's edge. "Where?"
"The ship was taken to a black site on Menae, Palaven's largest moon," Din explained. "As far as I know, whatever was on the ship is still there." At least, he hoped so.
"When did this happen?" Slade demanded.
"Not too long ago, a few days, perhaps," Din replied.
From the way Slade's face creased into a deep glower, his answer wasn't satisfactory. "How many days? Give me a specific time frame, Ambassador."
Din swallowed the sudden lump that had formed in his throat, his anxiety spiking up. "Uh...I'm afraid I can't give an exact date," he admitted. "I was only just made aware of the full extent of this a couple of hours ago."
Slade's glower deepened, his eyebrows knitting together in a dark frown. His bodyguards mimicked the expression, but with much greater intensity; the look in their eyes was downright murderous and Din had to fight back the urge to recoil in fear.
"But it couldn't have been more than three or four days!" he hastily added. "I can promise you that much!"
Slade was silent for a long, terrible moment. His glower was still there, but his eyes seemed distant, and it was obvious that his mind was somewhere else. It was an expression that said that he was weighing something, and the results weren't looking good.
Finally, the Admiral broke the silence. "Ambassador Korlack," he said, his voice low and quiet. "In what capacity do you represent the Hierarchy? By which I mean, do you have the authority to negotiate on their behalf?"
"I do, sir," Din answered. "The Primarch of Palaven himself has sanctioned this meeting, and he will recognize whatever agreements are made here."
With that, Din sat back in his chair and braced himself for the list of demands. If the human's attitude was anything to go by, the price for their assistance was going to be steep indeed. He dearly hoped that Palaemon had been genuine when he said that nothing was off the table to get the Federation's help, because that was exactly what he'd just offered them.
"Very well," Slade nodded. "We will help you."
That was not what Din expected to hear. He stared at the human, uncomprehending. "You will?"
"We will," the Grand Admiral repeated, the finality in his tone making it clear that the matter was closed.
"But..." Din blinked behind his mask, still not quite believing what he was hearing. "But we haven't even discussed terms!"
The career diplomat in him gave his mind a sharp mental kick. He shouldn't be questioning his good fortune, not when he was this close to achieving his goal!
"That can wait," Slade said with a dismissive wave. "The situation with the Turians cannot. We will do our utmost to aid you and that's all you need to concern yourself with."
Din opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He could only stare at the Grand Admiral, stunned beyond belief. Of all the scenarios he'd envisioned, not once had Din even considered this as a possibility; he'd expected a drawn-out, tedious affair of haggling and negotiating for hours until a compromise could be reached. Slade should have been demanding concessions upon concessions, gouging the Turians for everything they were worth. And yet, the Grand Admiral was agreeing to help without even asking for a single credit or material consideration and without the slightest bit of hesitation.
What had he missed? There had to be something, some ulterior motive that was being played out behind the scenes. Nobody did anything for free in the world of politics and diplomacy, not when they could be exploited to advance their own interests. That was how the universe worked; it was a lesson that Din had learned long ago.
"Sir, if you don't mind my asking," he ventured, "why are you doing this?"
"Why?" the Grand Admiral repeated, cocking his head at the ambassador. He sounded genuinely confused. "What do you mean?"
"Well..." Din tapped the metallic fingers of his pressure suit on the table in a nervous staccato. "It's just that...please forgive me if this sounds presumptuous, but I'm afraid I don't see your angle. What exactly are you hoping to gain?"
The Grand Admiral appeared rather offended by the question. He frowned, his posture stiffening, and there was a brief, tense moment where Din wondered if he had made a serious blunder.
"The 'angle,' as you put it, is survival," Slade informed him, a hard edge creeping into his voice. "There's an entity of unknown capabilities out there, doubtless ready to unleash its personal brand of chaos and destruction across the galaxy if given the chance. The longer we delay dealing with it, the stronger it will become, and the harder it will be to stop.
"That's why I'm agreeing to help you, Ambassador," the Grand Admiral continued. "Because the Hierarchy's problem will likely become everyone's problem if we don't deal with it now. When it comes to metaterrestrial incursions of any sort, even the smallest delays in response are unacceptable; the risk of letting the situation escalate beyond control is simply too great."
"Metaterrestrial incursion?" Din echoed. That was something he'd never heard before.
"Something from outside the normal bounds of space and time," Slade explained in clipped tones. "An entity or phenomena whose origin and capabilities are beyond the understanding of the average mortal."
Din supposed that he shouldn't have been surprised that the humans had an actual term for what was happening. Given their wildly divergent technology, it was a safe bet that there were plenty of other things they had knowledge of that other species didn't.
"Now, unless there's anything else, we have preparations to make," Slade said. He turned away and began speaking into his communicator again. "Captain Haugen, inform the rest of the fleet that we are to head for the Turian homeworld. I want us out of here within the hour. And send the following message to Federation Command: There has been an incursion by an as of yet unknown metaterrestrial entity within Hierarchy space. We are heading there to assess the scope of the threat and I request that all available personnel of Task Force Gemini be deployed for this venture. I will report more on this matter upon further investigations."
"Right away, sir," came the reply.
"And Ambassador Korlack," Slade said, pausing to look back at Din. "I'm afraid that I will have to insist that you accompany us. We will need someone to liaison with the Hierarchy on this and avoid any misunderstandings."
"Oh..." Din felt his heart sink. The last thing he wanted was to be caught up in the middle of all this madness, especially when words like "incursion" and "otherworldly entities" were being tossed around. But it was clear that he didn't have a choice in the matter. "Of course. I'll do all that I can to facilitate the process."
"Thank you, Ambassador" Slade said. "Rest assured, you will be accorded all the proper security measures. You'll be perfectly safe aboard the Charlemagne."
Din certainly hoped so. He wasn't looking forward to getting any closer to this situation, but since there was no getting out of it, he intended to find the safest, most secure corner on the ship and hole himself up in it.
"Now, if you will excuse me, Ambassador," Slade said, rising from his chair, "I have a fleet to mobilize."
And with that, the meeting was over. Din had done it. He'd secured the help of the humans. But now, he was about to be at the forefront of a fight against some terrible, unknown monster. Wonderful.
I should have listened to my mother and stayed out of politics, thought Din morosely.
#
Quentius slumped into the couch in the main room of his quarters, trying to think of a time when he'd been more stressed out than he was now, and failed miserably. The simple fact was, he hadn't had to deal with a crisis of this magnitude in his entire life; he was pretty sure nobody had, in fact. Not since the Krogan Rebellions had the Hierarchy faced such a monumental threat, and if Quentius was perfectly honest, he'd much rather be dealing with a horde of those war-hungry brutes than the situation he was currently facing.
At least the Krogan were a straightforward enemy. They came right at you, bellowing their battle cries and firing their guns with wild abandon. All you had to do was shoot them first.
But the thing on Menae? That was a different beast entirely. Literally and figuratively.
After the spectacle back at the Hall, Quentius had retired to his quarters in the hopes of catching up on some much-needed sleep. That had quickly proven to be a lost cause; the knowledge that some otherworldly creature was loose on the moon, doing Spirits-knew what, made him too distressed for rest.
By now, the dawn of morning was just starting to peek over the horizon and Quentius resigned himself to the fact that sleep wasn't an option. So, he popped a few stim-caps, chased them down with a large mug of extra-strong koza, and contemplated the recent developments.
Menae was effectively lost to the Hierarchy. There had been no contact with any of the staff from other sites, and so the assumption was that they had been overrun as well, along with all personnel stationed in them. Even if there were survivors, the Hierarchy could do nothing for them; sending in troops would only result in more deaths. Worse, it might give the abomination down there a chance to escape.
No, there would be no daring rescue. If there was anyone left alive on the moon, the best they could hope for was a quick death.
So far, the only good thing that had come out of the night was the fact that Draxon and the other Primarchs were taking this situation seriously. Menae was now under a total blockade, with every available warship being deployed to enforce it. No one was allowed down there and nothing came up, no exceptions.
They had done all they could do on their end. Now, they had to wait for the Federation to show up.
Quentius felt his stomach tie itself in knots as his nerves began acting up again. He wasn't worried that the humans would refuse to help them; his conversation with Cormac had convinced him that there was no way the Federation would allow this situation to go unchecked. What did make him feel sick to his core was the fear that they might not actually be able to help.
As powerful as the humans were, they weren't gods; Cormac had made that abundantly clear. If the entity down there was beyond their ability to stop, then the Hierarchy was doomed. There would be no hiding or running from it, no clever strategies or counter-moves. All of Turian civilization might be wiped out, and the monstrosity on Menae would be free to wreak havoc on the rest of the galaxy.
Quentius quickly banished those thoughts from his mind. The Federation had a lot of resources at their disposal and their technology was unlike anything else in the galaxy. Surely, they could deal with this thing.
They had to.
Quentius was snapped out of his dark brooding by a soft chime from his door, indicating that someone was outside. He gave his head a quick shake and then called out to the visitor.
"Come in."
The door slid open and Palaemon entered. He looked as worn and haggard as Quentius felt, and judging by the dark patches under his eyes, the Primarch had also gone without a proper rest. Palaemon strode over to him, a sardonic grin on his face as he looked Quentius over.
"You look like shit," he remarked, depositing himself into a nearby chair.
"Like you have any room to talk," Quentius snorted. He filled a spare mug from the full pot sitting on the small table in front of him and offered it to Palaemon.
"Thanks." Palaemon accepted the mug and took a generous gulp. "Spirits, that's good."
"Help yourself," Quentius told him, gesturing to the pot. "I'm on my third cup already. If I drink any more, I'm going to be running around like a maniac."
"Don't mind if I do," said Palaemon, and took another swig. He now looked almost cheerful, no doubt from the effects of the koza kicking in.
"Any news about Menae?" Quentius asked.
"Nothing so far," Palaemon said. "No sign of activity on the moon's surface. Or of that...thing." A frown creased the plates on his face. "Of course, Menae's tunnels are real deep underground and shielded against scanners and other spyware; there's no telling what it's doing down there."
"What about the ships in orbit?"
"In good order," Palaemon replied. "The Navy's keeping a close watch, ready to blow anything that tries to break the blockade to pieces. So far, everything's been quiet." He took another swig from his mug. "Almost too quiet, in fact. I don't like it. It's as if we're waiting for the hammer to drop, and any minute now, we're all going to be flattened."
"A real fount of optimism, aren't you?" Quentius remarked sardonically.
Palaemon's mandibles flared in an apologetic grin. "Sorry," he said. "But I don't think anyone's nerves are steady right now. At least, not anyone that actually understands the sheer scope of this clusterfuck."
"And the Federation?"
"No word yet," Palaemon replied, a hint of frustration in his tone. "But we should hear something from them soon."
The "I hope" was left unspoken; it was clear enough in his voice. He idly swirled the contents of his mug, eyes assuming the vacant stare of one deep in thought.
"What happened to us?" Palaemon wondered aloud. "Just a few years ago, we were at our zenith; the greatest military power in all of civilized space, the second-strongest economy, and a seat on the Citadel Council. We were respected by our peers and feared by our enemies.
"Now look at us," he went on bitterly. "We're a broken shell of our former selves. Our fleets are devastated, our economy is in shambles, we've lost I don't know how many Turian lives, and now the very future of our civilization is in jeopardy. How did it all go so wrong?"
Quentius wasn't sure if Palaemon was actually asking him, or just putting forth a rhetorical question. Regardless, he felt an overpowering urge to answer; the stress and fatigue were making him looser with his tongue, and he'd been wanting to vent for a very long time.
"Because we were idiots," Quentius said bluntly. "Arrogant, short-sighted idiots. We were so convinced of our power and moral standing that we thought we could go around shooting anything that was in our way and not suffer any consequences. Then, we ended up getting smacked down by the humans when we decided to pick a fight with them at Relay 314. That should have been a wake-up call, but we didn't learn our lesson, did we?" He shook his head.
"Of course not. After all, we were the mighty Turian Hierarchy! The strong, right arm of the Citadel Council, with more than a thousand years of unquestioned martial supremacy! Who were these humans, these puny little upstarts, to dare challenge us?"
Quentius was well aware that he was ranting now, but he couldn't stop himself. The words flowed from his mouth like water from a broken faucet, his exhaustion and stress combining into a torrent of vitriol that he'd been holding in for so many long years.
"So, instead of trying to make peace and repair the damage we'd done, we threw a fit and tried to bully them into accepting terms that were completely outrageous. When the humans told us to fuck off and take our demands with us, which anyone with a brainstem would have seen coming, we wasted no time in declaring war on them."
He let out a harsh, scornful bark of laughter. "And weren't we just so Spirits-damned pleased with ourselves! Here it was: a chance to show these uppity humans the might of the Hierarchy, to avenge our humiliation and put them in their place! It would be a quick, decisive victory, and we'd emerge stronger than ever, with a brand-new client race under our dominion!"
Quentius threw up his arms in mock celebration. "Oh, what a glorious conquest we were going to have! What spoils we would seize! The human worlds would become ours to rule over, with the Hierarchy's banner flying on every one of them!"
He paused to take a quick swig from his mug; all this raving was thirsty work.
"But that didn't happen, did it?" Quentius went on. "Instead, the humans kicked the crap out of us. For over two years, they ran circles around our fleets, striking wherever they pleased. They torched our fuel refineries, wrecked our dockyards, mauled our navy, and not only invaded our most important colony world, but successfully conquered it! And what was our brilliant strategy to try and counter them during that time? Exactly as we've always done: go on throwing soldiers and ships at the problem. We kept trying the same thing, over and over again, even when we saw that it was failing, and it just cost us more and more of our people.
"Oh, but that wasn't the end of our merry journey down the road of self-destruction!" Quentius declared. "When a human ship popped up in our territory demanding that we destroy them because something was loose on board, what did we do? Did we listen to their warnings and blow the ship to hell and back, making sure whatever was inside couldn't escape? No! In our infinite wisdom, we towed the damn thing right into the heart of our capital system and poked around inside it like morons!"
Quentius stabbed a talon into the table. "Now, we have a demonic entity running around on Menae that intends to turn the Hierarchy into its personal all-you-can-eat buffet!" he finished. "All because we just couldn't set our pride aside and admit that maybe, just maybe, we shouldn't have been such colossal assholes! We were given a chance to make things right, and we fucked it up beyond belief!"
Quentius finally stopped ranting, his sub-harmonics buzzing with emotion. He was breathing heavily, his pulse pounding in his ears. It had been a long time since he'd let his anger out like this, and now he felt as physically drained as if he'd just gotten through a vigorous workout session.
Palaemon had been listening quietly throughout his tirade. Now, he gave Quentius wry nod. "Well, that was quite the speech," he remarked. "Sounds like you've been wanting to say that for a while."
"You have no idea," Quentius admitted. "Ever since I became a Primarch, I've tried to steer our people away from our obsession with warfare. I wanted us to be more than a race of military fetishists whose idea of diplomacy comes at the end of a gun's barrel.
"But it was no use. All that my efforts earned me was scorn and ridicule. I was called a coward, a weakling, and every other name you can think of. All because I was trying to get us to understand that the old ways were outdated and no longer suitable for the modern age, that if we kept going the way we were, we would inevitably bring disaster down on our heads."
"And you were right," Palaemon sighed. "We screwed up big time, myself included. I could have been more supportive of you when you were trying to push for peace talks with the Federation. Instead, I went along with the rest of the war hawks. And now we're paying the price for that."
"We'll be paying it long after this is all over, if we survive," said Quentius. "Our reputation has been flushed straight down the latrine. For centuries, we were renowned for our discipline and integrity, looked upon as noble protectors of Citadel space. But now, thanks to our little temper tantrum, people see us as nothing but a bunch of arrogant bullies who were too dumb to realize that they were biting off more than they could chew. Right now, we're just barely above the Krogan in the civilized galaxy's eyes."
He gave a long, mournful sigh and stood up from his desk, striding slowly over to the window to stare out across the vast city below. Cipritine was as lively as ever, filled with the activity and noise of the people within going about their business, and all of them blissfully unaware of the danger that loomed quite literally overhead.
Quentius turned his gaze upwards to look at Palaven's sky. He quickly sighted Menae, the moon shining bright and cold in the early-morning sunlight. It looked the same as it always had, a placid white orb of barren rock hanging in the heavens. There was no outward sign that a malevolent force was lurking there, a monster that threatened the destruction of all Turian civilization.
Palaven would be its first target. There were over six billion Turians on the planet; a veritable feast for the abomination to gorge itself on. Quentius felt his bowels clench as his mind was filled with images of his homeworld being subjected to the same hellish fate as those who had been on Menae. Whole cities laid to waste, their populaces consumed by the thing as it spread across the planet like a cancer, leaving nothing but death and ruin in its wake.
And after that…
Quentius was so lost in his dark imaginings that he didn't hear Palaemon walk up beside him. It was only when the other Primarch cleared his throat that he snapped out of his horrible musings.
Palaemon's face was the very picture of relieved joy. "They're coming," he said, his voice almost giddy.
Quentius' heart jumped in his chest and his mandibles twitched in surprise. "What?"
"The humans," Palaemon told him, a smile cracking his tired features. "They're coming."
"They are?" Quentius echoed. "Already?"
Palaemon nodded, his eyes sparkling. "I just received word from my contact. They've agreed to help and a whole fleet has set course for Palaven."
Quentius felt a sudden surge of hope well up in him. The humans were coming. Now, there was a chance, a tiny spark of light in the dark cloud of despair that hung over his head.
But there was no time to celebrate. This was only the beginning; the real fight was still ahead.
"How long until they get here?" he asked.
"About a day," Palaemon answered. "Give or take."
Quentius nodded, and then retreated into himself to think. A day. That wasn't a particularly long time, all things considered. In truth, he hadn't dared to hope the humans would arrive so soon. He'd expected it to take at least a week, if not more for them to get here.
But a lot could happen, even in that short amount of time. A lot could go wrong. There was every chance that the situation would become far worse before the Federation forces got here.
Quentius looked out the window again. Up in the sky, Menae's cold, white light was shining down upon Palaven, casting a pale glow on the buildings below that was rapidly diminishing in the face of the rising sun. The moon seemed to stare back at him, like a great, lidless eye watching him from afar. An involuntary shiver coursed through his body.
There was only one thing he knew for certain: this nightmare wasn't anywhere close to being over. And he could only pray that they survived it.
#
The next day found Quentius aboard the Adamantine, one of the few remaining dreadnoughts in the Hierarchy's navy. It was currently serving as the command vessel for the blockade around Menae, and its bridge was the center of communications and coordination for the entire operation.
Everything was quiet on the ship. There was a low, almost imperceptible hum of machinery at work, and the dim glow of consoles and holo-screens, but otherwise, the bridge was utterly silent. It was as if everyone there was afraid to make a sound, lest they somehow alert the monster below and tempt it to strike.
Quentius himself wasn't any less tense, his nerves wound tighter than a coil. His talons kept twitching on their own, and he had to constantly fight the urge to pace about the deck. He was at least well rested this time around, thanks in no small part to the hefty dose of extra-strength sleep medications he'd taken the night before.
But while the sleep had restored some measure of energy and clarity to his mind, Quentius was still a bundle of raw nerves. He didn't have much to occupy his mind except to think about the threat they were facing and the fact that he had no idea when the humans would arrive. Every minute that ticked by felt like an eternity, and Quentius found himself glancing at his omni-tool's clock every few seconds to see how much time had passed, followed immediately by a glance to the various terminals that read back all the observation data about Menae.
Each time he looked at them, they said the same thing: no sign of any activity, supernatural or otherwise. But he knew that could change at any moment, and if it did, he'd be right in the midst of the ensuing chaos.
Quentius sucked in a breath and let it out through his nose in a soft hiss, his mandibles fluttering. The waiting was unbearable, but there was no getting around it. As long as the thing below didn't make a move, there was nothing else to be done except to wait and keep watch.
And pray. There was a lot of that going on around him.
At least he wasn't alone in his gloom. At the command bridge stood Jorus, the dreadnought's captain and de facto commander of the blockading fleet. His presence here was no coincidence; Draxon wanted every friendly face possible to be present when the Federation arrived, and when he'd heard about how Jorus had been as opposed to the war as Quentius had been, along with the fact that he was a close friend of his, the Primarch of Palaven had wasted no time in ordering the captain transferred from his previous post and placing him in charge.
Jorus had accepted the assignment with all the enthusiasm of someone being led to the firing block. He looked even more miserable than Quentius if that were possible; his expression was positively morose and he radiated a tangible aura of gloom. Still, he held his head up high, the very picture of the stalwart Turian naval officer, trying to put up a brave front that he very clearly didn't feel.
Quentius strode over to him, hoping that a friendly conversation would ease both their tensions, even if just a little.
"Captain," he said in greeting.
"My Primarch," Jorus replied, dipping his head respectfully. Friends though they were, the situation demanded a certain degree of decorum, and protocol had to be observed.
"How are you holding up?" he inquired.
"As well as can be expected," Jorus said. "I'm in charge of a fleet tasked with preventing some otherworldly horror from escaping Menae to wreak havoc on the rest of the Hierarchy." He made a small gesture. "So... I suppose it could be worse, but damned if I can think anything that would be."
"Just imagine if you hadn't sent that Merchant Marine captain my way," Quentius offered. "Without his warning, we wouldn't have known about the entity until it was too late, and Palaven would be facing a far worse situation than it is now."
"I wish I could feel more satisfaction about that," Jorus said with a shake of his head. "But right now, all I can do is sit here and try not to imagine what it's doing down there, or what it will do if it escapes." He turned his gaze back to the holo-display.
"The worst part is, I'm pretty sure it's watching us. I can feel it, looking up from whatever dark pit it's in and gazing at the ships, sizing up each one and deciding which one it wants to eat. I feel like I'm being stared at by a hungry varren, but I have no idea where it is."
"The feeling is decidedly mutual," Quentius agreed. He shuddered involuntarily, remembering that terrible voice speaking through Palaemon's omni-tool. Ever since that night, he'd felt as though he'd been marked by the abomination. By all rights, that shouldn't be possible; it had not seen him, and he'd only spoken a single sentence. He hadn't even given his name. There was no conceivable way the thing would even know about him, much less single him out amongst so many other Turians.
But no matter how hard he tried to convince himself of that, the sensation of being watched followed him. It was a constant, creeping presence, a shadow hanging over his shoulder that refused to leave.
"When do you expect the Federation to arrive?" Jorus asked, breaking him out of his dark ruminations.
"Hard to say," Quentius admitted, a touch of exasperation leaking into his sub-harmonics. "They're supposed to be here sometime today, but there's been no word yet on when exactly they're due to arrive. So, all we can do is wait."
"Then I hope that they won't leave us hanging too long," said Jorus. "The longer we hover around here doing nothing, the greater the chance that..."
He gestured vaguely at the holo-map in front of him. Menae was displayed there, along with all the ships and orbital platforms stationed around the moon, and the blockade perimeter that stretched between them. It was a massive web of vessels, all working together to create a wall that not even the smallest ship could slip through. It was a truly impressive display of force, but it did little to comfort Quentius, because it was a wall that might prove totally useless if the monster below decided to attack.
"That something goes wrong," Jorus finished.
Quentius gave a mute nod of agreement. He didn't like sitting here with his thumb up his ass, just waiting for the proverbial hammer to fall. It was almost enough to make him wish that the creature would emerge from the moon and try its luck at breaking the blockade.
But the memory of that horrifying call quickly shelved any thoughts along those lines; right now, no news was good news.
He was about to try and start up a new conversation with Jorus, hopefully one with less foreboding undertones, when one of the sensor technicians spoke up.
"Primarch, Captain, sirs!" the technician called out. "I'm picking up multiple spatial distortions at the edge of our sensor range!"
Jorus was quick to act. He was on the move in an instant, striding across the deck to where the sensor tech sat.
"Can you identify the source?"
"Yes, sir," the technician answered. "The readings are consistent with the energy signatures that the Federation's FTL drives create when transiting into realspace." A look of relief washed over his face. "The humans are here."
Quentius was willing to bet that this was the first time anyone had said those words with genuine elation in their voice. He could feel his own spirits lift, a wave of optimism flooding him and making him forget his worries, at least for a moment.
Jorus, ever the consummate professional naval officer, didn't let himself get carried away with the relief. Instead, he went right to business.
"Open up a direct channel to all ships," he ordered.
"Aye, Captain," came the reply. There was a flurry of movement from the personnel, and a few seconds later, the console in front of Jorus lit up with a series of green lights, signaling that the comm-net was ready to transmit.
"All vessels, this is Captain Jorus Irion," he intoned into the mic. "Federation ships are about to transit into our space. They are friendlies, and have been granted access by the Primarch of Palaven. I repeat, Federation ships are friendlies. Do not, under any circumstances, engage or attempt to stop them; if any ship so much as takes a pot-shot at the humans, I'll have the entire crew hung by their spurs."
With his orders now given, Jorus set about making sure that the rest of the fleet followed them. The comm-techs were working frantically, coordinating with the rest of the blockade to ensure that everyone knew to keep all itchy trigger fingers firmly stowed away. Quentius, having nothing better to do, turned his attention to one of the bridge's viewports and peered through it.
Almost immediately, numerous points of bright light blinked into existence only a few hundred meters away. They shimmered and flickered, almost as if they were dancing in place. As he watched, the lights began to grow brighter and bigger, widening until they seemed to fill the window. Their color, previously a simple pale, silvery hue, became a swirling medley of pigments that Quentius had never seen before and could not describe; a dizzying, intoxicating display of colors and lights that seemed to reach out and wrap themselves around his consciousness. It was simultaneously enthralling and terrifying, as though he were witnessing some forbidden act.
From these luminous portals, starships slowly emerged. Dozens upon dozens of them, large and small. Cruisers, destroyers, frigates, gunboats, and even the tiny little corvettes and shuttles that seemed to populate the human fleet like a swarm of insects. Each ship was at least twice the size of its Turian counterpart, a beast of armor and guns that put their own to shame.
But the sight that really left Quentius floored was the flagship. It was huge, even by dreadnought standards. At least three kilometers long, it was covered in heavy, blocky armor and bristled with an array of turrets, missile tubes, and cannons that would have made any self-respecting Turian commander drool. The ship was clearly designed for pure, raw firepower, and there was no doubting that the sheer amount of ordnance it was packing was meant to inflict maximum damage on its foes.
Quentius had known about the sheer size of Federation vessels, but it was one thing to read about them in a codex and another thing entirely to see them in person. This was what they had been fighting against the past few years, and a sobering realization came over him: had the humans wanted, they could have done far greater damage to the Hierarchy than they already had. They had long since proven that they could strike wherever they pleased and leave before any real resistance could be mustered against them. It would have been no trouble at all for the Federation to lay waste to world after world, leaving any Hierarchy response forces to arrive and find nothing but ash and cinders.
"We're playing nice," Cormac had said. Now, Quentius understood exactly what he'd meant by that.
The wet rattle of a clearing throat caught his attention. Turning his gaze away from the window, he saw Jorus was now standing just behind him a respectful distance away.
"The humans have responded to our hails," he informed him. "Their commander is waiting to speak with us."
"Then we'd best not keep them waiting," said Quentius.
Jorus nodded and turned back to address the bridge. "I will be joining Primarch Quentius on this diplomatic mission. Commander Salvius has the bridge until I return."
Salvius, the second-in-command and acting-captain in Jorus's absence, stepped forward. He was a stocky, broad-shouldered fellow, with forehead plates that looked like they could have belonged on a Krogan. He had a strong, heavy jaw and a pair of dark, piercing eyes that seemed to take in every detail around him, and his mandibles were set in a neutral expression.
"Aye, Captain," he rumbled, saluting Jorus, who nodded in response. Then, he and Quentius moved to the elevator and rode it down to the shuttle bay.
"I trust you're leaving the ship in good hands?" Quentius asked when the elevator came to a halt. "I don't mean to question your judgement, but the last thing we need is someone starting trouble with the humans."
"I would never have given him the position if I didn't trust him," Jorus replied. "Salvius knows the score and he'll make sure everyone else does too. He's no fool; he's smart enough to know when to fight and when not to. I'd take him over a dozen of the morons I had to work with during the war."
Quentius said nothing, but simply nodded his acceptance. If Jorus said his XO was capable, then that was good enough for him.
He followed the captain into the hangar bay and over to the craft that awaited them. A small, nimble-looking shuttle with the Hierarchy's symbol emblazoned on its hull was parked there, its boarding ramp already lowered. The pilot, a tall and well-proportioned female stood beside it. She put up a front of resolute discipline, but Quentius could tell by the way she methodically clenched and unclenched one hand that she was suffering an attack of nerves. He didn't blame her; after all, she was about to ferry him and Jorus over to the people who only a little while ago were sending pilots like her to an early grave—often with no remains to be put in it.
"Everything ready to go, Ensign?" Jorus asked her.
"Yes, sir," she replied. Her voice held none of the apprehension she clearly felt. "The shuttle's prepped, fueled and all systems are green. Just give me the word and I'll have you over there before you can blink."
"Excellent," Jorus said. Then, turning his head, he addressed the small complement of marines stationed at the shuttle's rear boarding ramp.
"Sergeant Scato, get your men squared away."
"Sir." The leader of the squad, a tall, well-muscled Turian male with deep crimson colony markings on his face, snapped a sharp salute and marched briskly up the ramp. The other four members of the detail fell into line behind him, and then boarded the shuttle.
Quentius watched them disappear inside the shuttle, musing that the marines' presence seemed like a superfluous gesture. Yes, it was both standard procedure and common sense to have a security detail for high-ranking officials like him and Jorus, but five marines, no matter how skilled or disciplined, wouldn't make much difference if the humans decided to try anything.
Of course, there was no point in saying that out loud, and so he kept his thoughts to himself. Instead, he followed Jorus up the ramp and settled into the nearest seat.
"Take us out," Jorus ordered the pilot.
"Aye, Captain." The ensign's hands flew across the holographic controls, and the shuttle's engines hummed to life. It shuddered for a moment, and then, with a slight bump, it left the deck and slid smoothly through the force field and out into the vacuum. That task complete, she called up a communication window on the control panel and began to broadcast.
"Attention, all Federation ships. This is shuttle Viridian. I am speaking on behalf of Primarch Quentius of the Turian Hierarchy and Captain Jorus Irion, the commander of this fleet. Per your request, we have departed from our flagship and are on course towards your flotilla. Please direct us to where you want our vessel to dock."
The response came almost immediately. "Shuttle Viridian, this is the NSV Charlemagne. We have you on our sensors. Proceed on your present course and dock in the hangar bay. Sending coordinates now."
A series of numbers and symbols flashed across the screen, which the ensign dutifully entered into the shuttle's nav computer. "Coordinates received and inputted. Headed your way now."
She gunned the throttle and they were off. Quentius leaned forward to look out the main viewport. He could see the Federation fleet spread out in a ring, keeping a respectful distance away from their Turian counterparts. The sight of the vessels inspired a feeling of awe and apprehension in Quentius. Here was a veritable armada of what only days earlier had been enemy ships, all assembled in a single location, and he was going right to its heart.
As he watched, the shuttle drew closer and closer to the Charlemagne. He soon found himself staring up at the gigantic vessel, which towered over the shuttle like a great mountain of metal. From here, he could make out the individual lines and curves of the vessel's armor plating, each plate overlapping with the ones next to it to form a near-impenetrable wall.
"You know, this is my first time seeing a human ship up close," Jorus remarked, observing the armored hull with an impressed eye. "Damn, just look at that armor. No wonder our guns never seemed to do much damage; those plates must be meters thick." He sat back in his seat, an almost wistful expression on his face. "I'd give my fringe to command a ship like that."
"It's impressive, to be certain," Quentius agreed. He glanced over at the marines and noted that, while none of them said a word, they were all watching the approaching dreadnought with open astonishment.
"Still, I can't help but think that it looks a little... ugly," he added.
Jorus gave a dry, humorless chuckle. "It might not be pretty, but it's definitely functional. Take it from someone who has been fighting them for the past few years. I've seen them come in, soak up our best shots, then give as good as they got and more. The Federation doesn't mess around when it comes to war."
"How did you manage to survive against monsters like that?" Quentius asked, jerking a thumb at the massive hull.
"Luck, basically," answered Jorus. "And some good old-fashioned naval bureaucratic varren-shit. Apparently, the two Master Admirals had taken the bloody nose the Federation gave us at Relay-314 very personally and didn't much care for my attempt to help you convince Draxon to not go to war with them. They couldn't drum me out since I hadn't gone against any rules, so they settled for forbidding me from commanding any ship of importance and told me quite plainly that I could forget getting any further promotions.
"I was banished to a frigate that, to put it politely, had seen better days. We were the lowest on the pecking order, the crew was the bottom of the barrel, and the ship was in such a state that even the Quarians wouldn't have used it for spare parts." Jorus offered a sardonic grin to Quentius. "I have a sneaking suspicion that those two assholes were hoping I'd get killed in an engagement with the humans."
Quentius felt a hot rush of anger, and had to make a conscious effort to keep it under control. Those bastards. To treat someone as loyal and honorable as Jorus so badly was beyond contemptible. He was an experienced officer, more than worthy of his rank! And to have his career tossed aside because of something so petty almost beggared belief!
"I suppose they must have been very happy that their little war wasn't averted," Quentius remarked, trying to keep the disgust from his voice.
"If they were, then I'm pretty sure that joy didn't last very long," said Jorus. "And from the scuttlebutt I've been hearing, they're right in Draxon's crosshairs." A nasty, vindictive smile crossed his face, the kind that came about when one received news about an adversary's misfortune. He then shrugged and resumed his tale.
"But, as it turned out, being on that old rust-bucket kept me alive. Whenever we encountered Federation ships, the humans always went for the larger vessels first; the dreadnoughts were their primary targets, then the cruisers. The only time they would take shots at us was when we were between them and the more valuable ships."
"So, you survived because they considered you too insignificant to bother with?" Quentius asked.
"In essence, though we at least made a token effort to return fire, for all the good it did." Jorus shuddered. "Let me tell you, nothing is more terrifying than watching a Federation dreadnought let loose; those things are packed with so much explosive power that it makes a nuclear detonation look like a wet fart."
Further conversation was halted as the shuttle banked hard to the left, and Quentius grabbed hold of a nearby handle to steady himself. Outside the window, he saw that the ensign had veered into the dreadnought's hangar bay. She brought the shuttle around and lined it up with one of the empty spaces between the numerous smaller vessels that filled the cavernous room, and then brought it in for a landing.
There was a dull clang as the landing gear made contact with the deck. The ensign engaged the shutdown procedures and the engines wound down to a soft hum. She turned around to face her passengers.
"We have arrived, sirs," she declared.
"You don't say," Quentius muttered under his breath.
He unbuckled himself from his seat and rose to his feet. He was careful not to bang his head on the shuttle's ceiling; the cockpit was cramped, and his head came a good few inches shy of the top. The boarding ramp lowered and the marines filed out, followed closely by Jorus and Quentius.
As Quentius descended the ramp, he found himself faced with the Federation's welcoming party. A full platoon of soldiers was arrayed before him, standing at parade rest in two lines, their weapons held at the low ready. They were all dressed in the same gray-and-black armor, their faces hidden behind the impassive visors of their helmets.
At the front was a human male who was very obviously the commanding officer of the ship. He was flanked by two other humans, also male, but far more heavily muscled. Beside him, Jorus stiffened and stopped dead in his tracks, eyes wide with surprise and sudden wariness.
Quentius gave him a quick, curious glance. What had gotten into him? He was acting as though he were looking at a Thresher Maw.
"Captain Jorus," the human commander said in greeting, his tone cool, though not hostile. "It's a pleasure to see you again."
"Admiral Slade," Jorus responded, his voice carrying an undercurrent of nervousness. "I suppose the feeling's mutual." His eyes drifted over the two bodyguards, who stared back at him with expressions that could only be described as smugly superior. "I'm afraid I can't say the same for your two shadows there."
The larger of the two humans grinned wolfishly, and Quentius suddenly found himself feeling distinctly uneasy. "You hear that, Snitch?" he asked his partner conversationally. "The good captain isn't happy to see us again." He wiped away an imaginary tear, his lips curling into a simpering pout. "He's breaking my poor little heart."
The other bodyguard chuckled. "Like you actually have a heart to break. You were a real piece of work even before the rite."
A deep laugh rumbled out from the first human, a sound that sent a chill up Quentius's spine. "Eh, fair enough," he conceded. "Guess that's why my symbiont and I got along so well."
Symbiont. Suddenly, Jorus's dread made sense.
"You're a Tager," Quentius realized, his sense of unease now morphing into outright fear.
"That's right," the human said, turning his gaze onto him. "Both of us are, actually. You can call me Carnage. Pleased to meet you."
He flashed Quentius another smile, and the Primarch felt his blood grow cold. He was facing a Tager, one of the most notorious, terrifying beings in the Federation's arsenal of horrors. They were the monsters that had become the stuff of nightmares to the Hierarchy's military, creatures who were able to shrug off bullets like they were mere annoyances and slaughter entire squads with their bare hands.
And now, here he was, standing face-to-face with two of them.
"That's enough, both of you." Slade's voice cracked like a whip. "These are our guests and for the time being, they are not enemies. You will give them the respect and courtesy they deserve. Is that understood?"
"Yes, sir," the Tagers said in unison, their own voices the picture of dutiful obedience.
Slade nodded. "Good. Now, if we could all stop wasting time, I think we have more important things to do." He stepped forward, his hand outstretched towards Quentius. "You must be Primarch Quentius. I'm honored to make your acquaintance."
"Likewise," Quentius managed. He swallowed the lump in his throat and shook Slade's hand.
"Now, regrettably, I must forego the usual niceties," the admiral said. "I have been briefed on the situation you're facing." His expression turned grave. "And I'm afraid that what I've heard does not instill me with confidence. While I cannot be sure without more concrete information, it is my belief that we will be forced to take drastic measures."
Well, we're off to a wonderful start, aren't we? Quentius snarked to himself. Aloud, he asked, "What do you mean by, 'drastic measures,' Admiral?"
Slade's expression somehow became even more grave. "It is my opinion that this is at least a Code Skyfall scenario, possibly even a Code Ragnarök. The former is utilized when an entity is of sufficient power as to be beyond the option of containment and elimination by standard means; it necessitates a sustained orbital bombardment of no less than a hundred-mile radius around the area where the entity is present."
That struck Quentius as a perfectly reasonable course of action. It was something that would be right at home in the Hierarchy's own book. However, that was clearly the less-destructive of the two options Slade had mentioned. A large part of Quentius didn't want to know what would a Code Ragnarök scenario would entail, but his duty as a leader of his people required him to press on and demand answers.
"And the other scenario?" Quentius asked.
Slade didn't answer immediately. His expression darkened, and Quentius was struck by the sheer weight of the burden the admiral seemed to be carrying. Finally, he answered, his voice somber, but unyielding.
"Code Ragnarök is the final, absolute last resort. If the entity or entities have become so great a threat that their continued existence poses a danger to the entire Federation, then Code Ragnarök necessitates the complete and utter destruction of the celestial body where they are located."
Quentius stared at him, feeling a horrible, sickening sense of dread building up inside him. "You...you mean...?"
"Yes, Primarch," Slade agreed, his voice grim but unwavering. "If the creature is beyond our ability to stop, we will destroy Menae and everything on it."
#
Nator had been in plenty of sticky situations throughout his life. That was the unfortunate reality of his line of work. Usually, they came in the form of a patron who was rather angry about the merchandise he'd sold them. Now admittedly, he might have embellished or omitted certain features to make the products more appealing and thereby make the sell more profitable, but only minor details; certainly nothing that would warrant attempts of grievous bodily harm on him.
Then there were the clients who had it in mind to save their money with the time-honored tradition of cutting out the middleman. One particularly memorable incident had come about when Nator had dabbled in arms-dealing, and which had fueled his subsequent decision to abandon that business entirely. He'd gone to Omega to sell off some military surplus he'd acquired to one of the many local gangs there; almost the moment the goods had exchanged hands, Nator suddenly found himself facing down the barrel of a Batarian-made shotgun.
Two things had kept Nator from an untimely death in all those circumstances: quick thinking and his way with words. As a certain cantankerous acquaintance of his would say, he could charm a Thresher Maw into dancing for him.
But this latest predicament was by far the most dangerous he'd ever faced. And he wasn't going to be able to talk his way out of it this time.
A short while ago, Nator had been informed by a human naval officer that their fleet was preparing to set course for the Turian homeworld. Since rapid fleet deployments rarely portended anything good, he opted to beat a hasty exit, only to be told that his presence was required; apparently, Slade wanted a direct line to the rest of the Quarians and Nator was presently the only one on hand who could serve that purpose.
Sometime later, he was enlightened as to the reason why the humans had departed with such haste: it seemed that the Turians had managed to stir up something they couldn't deal with and were hoping the Federation would bail them out. Something that involved, as Nator understood it, an otherworldly abomination and the risk of potential galactic annihilation.
Nator knew better than to assume that the humans were joking. Strange and preternatural events were a staple of their society, and they were quite serious whenever they spoke about what they termed as "arcane" or "eldritch." Indeed, it seemed that the Federation was the very embodiment of the concept; to them, things like magic, psychic powers, and the paranormal were not only possible, but were the norm.
They even had laws regulating them, all of which were enforced with draconian severity. You would literally be better off committing mass murder than breaking a single arcane law in the Federation; once you crossed that line, any and all rights you may have enjoyed under their legal system would be forfeit. If you were lucky, you'd have them reinstated and go on to suffer harsh criminal penalties. If not, you would be dealt with in a manner that, as Nator had heard put, "would give the Devil nightmares."
Nator didn't understand any of it and, quite frankly, he didn't want to. Just the little he'd managed to glean had left him with a profound sense of disquiet, an unsettling feeling that he was trespassing into places and things he had no right to, and which were best left alone. As far as he was concerned, the Federation could have the monopoly on the strange and unnatural. There were more than enough problems in the galaxy already.
But, like it or not, it appeared that he was going to be in the thick of this particular mess. And so, he did what he always did when faced with a crisis: he put on his most charming persona and pretended that he was totally unfazed by everything while inside he was gibbering like a panicked Salarian and frantically working to come up with a plan to keep himself from becoming a short blurb in an obituary. All things considered, Nator felt that he was doing rather well.
Alas, the same couldn't be said for his companion. Nator had been mildly surprised to find out that the passenger he'd ferried to the Federation was none other than the Volus ambassador Din Korlack. Apparently, all that talk about how the Protectorate was starting to seriously reconsider their client status under the Turians wasn't idle chatter.
By the look of him, Din was probably wishing he'd chosen a different career path. He was fidgeting nervously, his metallic-gloved hands clenching and unclenching. The heavy, heaving gasps that normally only came before and after his people spoke were a constant sound now, filling the air within the cabin with their steady rhythm.
"Ambassador, are you alright?" Nator asked. "You don't look well."
"I... I'm fine," Din wheezed, sounding exactly like the opposite of fine. "Just... nervous." He turned to look at Nator. "How are you so calm right now?" Din asked, his voice tinged with envy. "Here we are, flying into the jaws of some kind of nightmare and you're just sitting there, taking it all in stride."
"Oh, trust me, I'm not nearly as calm as I look," Nator replied. "But running around in circles, screaming like a madman isn't going to help, is it?"
"No, I suppose not," Din agreed. "Not that I could run all that well, anyway. Even without a pressure suit, my people aren't exactly built for that kind of exertion. I could certainly do the screaming part just fine, though," he added with dry humor.
Nator chuckled and was about to continue the conversation when they were interrupted by the arrival of a Federation naval officer. This one was not a human, but a Nazzadi; if Nator remembered correctly, they were the genetic creations of an alien race called the Migou, who had intended to use them as a proxy to subjugate the humans. By outward appearance, the Nazzadi were almost identical to them, but they got very testy whenever someone mistook them for a human.
This particular Nazzadi was a male, his black skin contrasting with the stark white of his uniform, which was emblazoned with a multitude of colorful bars, badges, and patches. Crimson eyes stared at both Quarian and Volus like a pair of glowing embers, and Nator had the distinct impression that this officer was not someone you wanted to get on the wrong side of.
"You are both requested on the bridge," the Nazzadi told them in precise, clipped tones.
"Of course," Din said, seeming to regain a measure of control of himself.
The Nazzadi nodded. Then, without another word, he spun on his heel and walked out the door, with Din and Nator following close behind. They made their way through the halls of the Charlemagne, weaving through the crowds of busy sailors, all the while under the watchful gaze of the ship's security detail, who followed the trio at a respectful distance.
And I thought the Salarians were sticklers for security, thought Nator.
Moments later, they had arrived on the bridge. Admiral Slade was already there, flanked by his ever-present and very intimidating bodyguards; Nator made sure to give them a wide berth. He was also accompanied by some new faces. Turian faces, to be exact. One was clearly a naval officer, though what rank Nator couldn't tell.
The other was perhaps the most famous—or infamous depending on who you were asking—Turian of the current times: Primarch Quentius, the only member of his people who wasn't a gun-toting militarist. Surrounding them was a squad of Turian marines, all of whom looked distinctly uneasy being in the midst of what was essentially an enemy ship.
Slade glanced at their small group as they approached. "Good, you're all here." He turned back to the Turians. "Captain Jorus, Primarch Quentius, this is Din Korlack, Ambassador of the Vol Protectorate and Nator'Xaeras vas Hupal of the Quarians. They were the ones who alerted us to this crisis and have agreed to assist in whatever way they can."
Nator was of the mind that he and Din had less agreed and more been roped into helping the humans out, but there wasn't any point in mentioning that. Best to just nod along and let things proceed as they would.
Quentius glanced down at Din, a quizzical expression on his face. "Ambassador Korlack? How did you know about—" He suddenly went silent and his eyes widened in realization. "You're Palaemon's contact?" he asked in pure disbelief.
"That would be correct, Primarch Quentius," Din answered with a slight nod. "Small galaxy, isn't it?"
"I'll say," Quentius muttered. He shook his head. "I never would have guessed."
"Well, that was the whole point," Din replied. "Nobody was supposed to guess."
Slade cleared his throat, bringing any further conversation to an abrupt halt. "My apologies, gentlemen, but we don't have time to waste on pleasantries. This situation needs to be dealt with. Now." He spun around to face a human standing near one of the consoles. "Mister Siegler, open up a comm channel to the fleet. It's time I explained our purpose here."
"Aye, sir," Siegler said. His fingers blurred across his console and a holographic microphone popped up on the control panel.
"Ready for broadcast, sir," Siegler informed him.
Slade nodded and took a deep breath. Then, in a steady voice, he began to speak.
"To all fleet personnel, this is Grand Admiral Silas Slade. It is my honor and privilege to speak with you today." He paused for a brief moment, as though to collect his thoughts and then resumed. "I regret to inform you that what I have to say is not pleasant. There is no time to waste, so I will simply tell you why we have come to the Turians' home system: we are here because the largest moon of their homeworld has suffered a metaterrestrial incursion. They have no way of dealing with the problem themselves and have sought our assistance.
"Make no mistake, ladies and gentlemen. This is not some training exercise, and it is not a drill. The Turian government is requesting our aid, and we must respond. To allow this entity, this horror, to escape would be an unforgivable transgression and an utter dereliction of our duties. I know you will all rise to the occasion and meet the challenge, as we have done in the past.
"The Federation Navy is proud of each and every one of you. I am proud to lead such brave, dedicated, and courageous individuals. Good luck, everyone. That is all."
It was a fine speech, Nator had to admit. All around, humans and Nazzadi were standing a little straighter, and their eyes shone with pride and determination. Even the Turians seemed heartened by his words.
No sooner had the broadcast ended when Slade began snapping orders. "Set the fleet's course for Menae's outer orbit. I want the dreadnoughts in the lead, the cruisers in the center, and the frigates and destroyers covering the rear. Let's move, people!"
The crew jumped into action, and soon, the Charlemagne was on the move, her mighty bulk rumbling towards the Turian homeworld. On the viewscreen, the fleet's ships were forming up and falling into position around the dreadnought, each ship finding its proper place in the formation.
Within moments, the entire fleet had reached Menae's orbit, where they held station, awaiting further instructions. The entire bridge was deathly silent, the only sounds coming from the low hum of the computers and the quiet conversations of the crew. Slade peered at the display of the moon with his piercing gray eyes, as though trying to see past its surface.
"Launch scout drones. I want a full survey of the surface," he ordered.
"Aye, sir," the tactical officer acknowledged. "Drone pods prepped and ready. Launching now."
A few moments later, the display showed numerous, tiny blips launching out from the Charlemagne. They shot off towards the moon's surface and, after a brief delay, the image on the viewscreen changed to show the planet below them from three separate video feeds.
There was nothing much to see; Menae was a barren rock, with only an artificial atmosphere giving it any degree of habitability. The drones set off, their cameras sending back nothing but the bright silvers of the moon's rocky surface.
After several long minutes, one of the drones came upon something. The camera focused in on the entrance to an underground complex. The massive blast doors were slightly ajar, revealing only darkness beyond. The right portion was unmoving, while the left slid back and forth like with a loud mechanical whine, never quite closing.
"Primarch Quentius, where does that door lead to?" Slade asked, pointing at one of the images.
Quentius shifted uncomfortably. "I'm afraid I don't know, Admiral. Only the Primarch of Palaven and a handful of high-ranking officers know the exact layout of Menae's bases."
"I see." Slade sounded disappointed, but forged on ahead. "Then I suppose this way is as good as any. Send the drones in."
"Yes, sir." The tactical officer did as he was told.
Darkness briefly filled the screens, and then bright, sterile lights emanated from the drones, illuminating their immediate surroundings. The inside of the base was a labyrinth of steel corridors, all empty and devoid of life. They made their way forward, their cameras swiveling around, searching for anything noteworthy.
The atmosphere on the bridge grew ever more tense as the drones continued their descent into the subterranean site. Nator found himself growing more and more nervous, despite being well away from the moon. It was like watching a horror vid, but this was no fancy set with a special effects budget; this was all real, and some unknown horror lurked deep within.
As if in response to his thoughts, the drones' cameras suddenly caught sight of something and zoomed in. A tendril of wet, glistening flesh was stretched out on the floor, writhing and twitching like a dying snake. The cameras panned upwards and revealed more tendrils. They were draped across the walls, ceiling, and even the floors, the thick, slimy ropes pulsing and throbbing in time with a malevolent heartbeat. And, while he could be mistaken, Nator would swear that they were growing.
"Spirits..." Jorus breathed, staring at the display.
"If those are Spirits, I'd seriously consider adopting a new faith," Nator remarked. Damn, he really must be scared; his sense of humor always made an appearance whenever he was feeling stressed.
Jorus didn't even acknowledge him. He was too focused on the sight before him, and Nator didn't blame him. This was a scene that could fuel a person's nightmares for the rest of their life.
"Well, it appears we've found the abomination," Slade declared, sounding remarkably calm. "Keep the drones going; I want to know just what we're dealing with."
The drones pushed deeper into the base, the tendrils growing larger and more numerous as they progressed. The drones' audio feeds sent back a truly disgusting array of noises; slurping, squelching, gurgling, and even what sounded like faint, muffled screams. Nator heard a number of frightened murmurs going around the bridge.
And then the drones showed a fresh horror. What he saw almost caused Nator to faint.
Mouths. Scores of them. Of all sizes and shapes. Mouths with blunt, grinding teeth. Mouths with row upon row of jagged fangs. Mouths filled with thorn-like protrusions. And each one was moving; chewing and gulping, slavering and drooling, gnashing and snarling, smiling and giggling in a mad, hungry chorus.
They covered every surface of the corridor, a vast, heaving, seething carpet of malignant, toothy orifices. They were all connected to a central mass of tendrils, all of which were attached to a single, enormous mass. The drones pressed on until they reached the epicenter of this grotesque scene.
A great pool of dark blood and slime was spread out over the floor. Every tendril seemed to originate from it, like an abominable parody of desert plants sprouting from an oasis. And, floating in the middle of it was...something.
It was vaguely humanoid, its upper body resting atop the thick tendrils that served as its legs. Its torso was a mass of twisted, knotted flesh, its arms thin, spindly and ending in hands with three claw-like fingers. A large, bulbous head, swollen and disproportionate to its body, was perched atop its neck, completely featureless.
The thing suddenly jerked and twisted around to face the drones. Though it had no eyes to see, it clearly had no trouble perceiving them. It cocked its misshapen head, almost as if curious about the tiny, flying robots. Then, every mouth in the pit of flesh split into wide, demented grins, and each let out a loud, shrieking laugh.
This time, Nator did faint.