Relevant notes will be at the end of the chapter

-000-

Mobile Suit/Mass Effect

Episode 5:

The Vote to Attack

-000-

It was a closed, off the record Council meeting, which Sparatus had to admit happened more often than he'd like. Closed meetings like this meant no prying eyes, no audience, nobody to watch the decision making process. Basically, there was no accountability.

Sparatus hated that.

Lack of accountability lead to corruption, lead to poor decision making, and as a born and bred Turian veteran of the Special Naval Landing Force, there was nothing he hated more than a lack of accountability. It was like physics - all actions imparts a reaction, a result. If that result ended in disaster, the ones involved had to face consequences lest they be allowed to repeat their mistakes. If a commander failed in planning and executing an operation, they'd be disciplined... perhaps demoted in the meritocracy... but ultimately they would be made an example of so that others wouldn't follow them down the wrong path.

That being said, this was one of the few moments that warranted secrecy and discretion... loathe as the ambassador was to admit it. It was the third secret session on the subject in a little over the same number of days. The first session less than four days ago was reserved entirely for a full brief for all participants. The second was a discussion on all potential responses the Council could enact... the third was a continuation of the second, after nobody could come to an agreement.

Sparatus was worried. If the masses were to find out about what they were discussing now, the outrage and potential panic would be devastating. The scars from the Krogan Wars were barely healed, and the Rachni were still in living memory among the older Asari generations. The prospect of yet another disastrous first contact scenario would collapse the public's confidence in the Citadel system for decades, maybe even centuries to come.

Now six of the most powerful people in the galaxy sat in the private conference room, with military representatives from each Council race joining in via secured comms. Unfortunately for everyone involved, the sessions and off session backroom discussions had pushed the Council no further to making a decision.

"My position on this matter is clear, Councilors." Primarch Lacinius' mechanically filtered voice spoke through his holographic projection. "These new contacts are too dangerous to be left on their own. Their advantage in weapons technology, very much gives them the potential to be a Rachni or Krogan level threat. They must be pacified before they can actualize that threat. The loss of Patrol Squadron 303 stands as a fraction of what they're capable of!"

Sparatus looked around the room, at the other occupants, and at the other participants joining on call. He could see Matriarch Dilinaga was in agreement with the Primarch's assessment. As a veteran commander of the Krogan Wars, as well as having served in the tail end of the Rachni War, she better than anyone knew what a bad first contact scenario could lead to.

But where the veteran Matriarch was in tune with Lacinius, Councilor Tevos was in stern disagreement.

"While the loss of your sailors is regrettable, we cannot hastily march to war... not when we know so little about these contacts." Tevos stated. Her poise regal, her voice firm but gentle at the same time, like a mother kindly warning her child of the dangers they could get into if they went through with their actions. It was a fitting image, given the age discrepancy.

So far, it had been those two that lead the back and forth. Councilor Toraph of the Salarian Union had predictably stayed silent for most of the second, and now third session, chiming in only whenever he wanted clarification on some information or proposal he didn't fully understand. Matriarch Dilinaga had supported the Primarch on a few points, but she too had mostly remained on the side. That left Councilor Cassandor and the STG director -who's name had somehow eluded Sparatus' memory even after multiple sessions- as the remaining participants who's opinion on the matter are still unknown. Of course, ambassadors like him, like Irissa, and like Callo didn't really have much to contribute. They were there for formality's sake, to support their respective Councilors when necessary.

"They ignored our hails, jammed our communications, and launched their strike craft as our ships approached." Lacinius reiterated. "They may not have intended it to end up that way, but they were the aggressors. Such willingness to launch a preemptive strike during first contact opens the possibility that they'll be willing to make further aggressive overtures in the future."

Sparatus suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. They'd been like this for almost half an hour now. The ambassador thought he had escaped the incessant bickering of the Turian Military Council when he agreed to Cassandor's request for him to be Ambassador. In his mind he had himself convinced that at least the other races would be more amiable and less tauren-headed like most in the TMC. Little did he know that he had traded one villain for another.

"Your ships moved into attack formation, Primarch." The STG director suddenly interjected. It was the first time he had spoken this entire session.

"It was a standard intercept formation."

Sparatus started tapping his taloned fingers on the desk he sat behind. On it were two portable terminals, both currently off. One was for work and had his professional account on it, while the other was for his family and close friends. Even despite his busy schedule, Sparatus always made sure his family could easily reach him.

Since sitting idly by didn't sit well with the proactive nature that had been drilled into the Ambassador's mind, Sparatus decided he'd venture into the extranet for a moment. He activated the personal terminal, browsing around the extranet and visiting various Turian military forums. Sparatus was logged in using an anonymous account, of course. Entire websites would clam up if people found out that the Turian ambassador lurked in their corner of the net, and that would deprive him of his entertainment during long, dead end sessions like this. Most threads on these forums were of enlisted or conscript Turians engaging in inane discussions. More recently, Sparatus had noticed low ranking officers talking smack about their superiors had increased in frequency. He'd have to take note of this and bring it up with a colleague in the TMC that he trusted. Other threads were the occasional discussion pitting the Turian forces against hypothetical enemies, all too common debates about equipment quality and preferences, and the rare unhinged conspiratorial ramblings or two being peddled by users who obviously needed to check in with a therapist. The important part of these forums was that everyone was anonymous and spoke as equals. In the tiered meritocracy that Turian society was ordered around, it was a nice change of pace for Sparatus to be able to converse with his juniors without any formalities getting in the way.

As of the past few weeks since contact, he had his VI monitor for any mention of Relay 314. The entire star system had been in lockdown ever since, with only recovery vessels and medical ships coming in and out. Information about the whole situation was being kept under wraps until the Council made their decision regarding the whole debacle. That being said, people have noticed that 314 had gone dark. Family members weren't able to contact their loved ones, and that's where the speculation started.

So far, only three major threads were worth paying attention to. The discussion on the threads had accurately concluded that some sort of pressing incident had occurred in 314. One was assuming it was a particularly terrible friendly fire accident that would embarrass the Turian military very badly if it came to light. The second had accurately deduced hostile contacts were involved, but was leaning towards Krogan remnant groups somehow ambushing a patrol squadron. The third had also made some accurate deductions, particularly around a potential first contact scenario gone bad.

Reading all the theories and speculation was entertaining, and Sparatus sometimes found himself rooting for the forum users whenever they made a step closer to the truth. As he continued scrolling down threads on his personal terminal, he suddenly received a message from his son. His interest was piqued, but he had to check if he would be needed anytime soon.

Looking up from his terminal, he tuned back in to the back and forth.

"Even if they are less advanced than us in terms of mass effect based technologies, their mastery of directed energy weapons and early successes against us means they'll be bolder than new contacts normally should be. It's not guaranteed that negotiations could successfully pacify them as a threat. A show of force must be made!" Lacinius rationalized, stubborn as he always was. It didn't seem like he was close to conceding his desire for a punitive expedition.

"A sufficient show of force can be made without the need for an invasion of unknown space." Tevos then responded, her voice hiding the irritation that Sparatus no doubt knew was slowly building up. Whether that was a part of the Primarch's plan to discredit the Councilor's position, the ambassador couldn't tell. "Once the contacts realize that continued hostilities means facing the full might of the Citadel Coalition, then they'll be forced to come to the table."

It didn't seem like the two were going anywhere. Sparatus spared a glance at Irissa, who was seated a ways beside the Councilor she answered to. She too seemed to be frustrated by the whole ordeal. When the Asari ambassador made eye contact with him, the Turian could see the pure despair hidden behind her eyes. He raised a browplate in amusement and she responded with her signature icy glare.

Sparatus stifled his laughter, reducing it to a quick puff of air from his nostrils. He quietly thanked the spirits that Irissa was always entertaining to mess with. Knowing that he only had to suffer through Tevos' lengthy pontificating sessions on occasion, while the Asari ambassador had to deal with it near daily was the golden ornament on top of this amazing gift.

Turning his attention from one side of the closed conference room to the other, Sparatus saw Ambassador Callo was in one of his blank-out sessions. Apparently it was a quirk in Salarian evolution that most couldn't access anymore, but a Salarian trained in the art could shut out the rest of the world and enter a sort of 'low power mode', where they'd only be accompanied by their own thoughts. If Irissa at least provided some minor entertainment during these long, drawn out sessions, Ambassador Callo provided none of it. To be quite honest, Sparatus was rather envious of his colleague's ability to shut down like that. It certainly would make a lot of pointless meetings more bearable.

Seeing that he wasn't needed any time soon, the Turian ambassador clicked open the message his son had sent him on his personal terminal. As Sparatus read the message, his browplates came together.

Dad, I don't know if this is relevant to your work at all, but I figured you need to see this.

That's what Sulla wrote in the message. Attached below the message was a link to a thread on one of the extranet Turian forums that Sparatus frequented when he had nothing better to do. Clicking the link, he found that it had started as one of those schizophrenic conspiracy threads. This thread in particular was a discussion on wild theories about some esoteric secret weapon the Turian Navy was supposedly developing in secret. He was about to dismiss it entirely, but Sulla wouldn't have wasted his time like this, especially when his son made sure to mention it was related to Sparatus' job.

Scrolling further nearly caused Sparatus to jump out of his seat. His eyes widened in shock, and the ambassador had to do a triple take before leaning closer to his screen to carefully study the images that had been posted on the thread.

There was no doubt about it. These were images of the Darius Aggripinax, after it had been damaged beyond any hopes of recovery and then scuttled following the Relay 314 incident. The image showed the blasted hulk of the frigate, with deformed breaches of melted metal lining the armored hull where the alien energy weapons had struck. The caption said that a destroyed frigate was being used as target practice for the esoteric weapon the user believed was being developed in secret.

Of course, it couldn't be further from the truth.

Sparatus made sure to send a quick thank you message to his son before forwarding the link to his work terminal.

It was extremely fortunate that Sulla had somehow spotted the thread and the leaked images. The ambassador's VI had missed it since the thread wasn't one specifically theorizing about what happened in 314. He'd have to add new parameters to the VI filters later, but for now he had more pressing matters.

Sparatus closed his personal terminal, then opened the one for work. He clicked open Sulla's message that he forwarded to his work account, then clicked open the link. Sure enough, the images were still there. The ambassador scooted his seat closer to Councilor Cassandor's side of the Turian delegation table, then whispered.

"Sir, we have a problem."

Cassandor looked skeptically at his subordinate for a moment, but when he saw what Sparatus wanted to show him, he understood.

This wasn't just a problem. This was a catastrophe unfolding in front of the Councilor's eyes in real time.

The Turian Councilor cleared his throat to gain the room's attention, before taking Sparatus's work terminal and linked it's screen to the room's projector.

"Kindred, we have a problem."

The conspiracy thread showed up in the meeting projector and in the screen of the participants who were joining by call. The leaked images were no in full view for everyone present, leading to surprise in some and frustration in others.

Regardless, everyone understood that the pressure this meeting caused had been multiplied by several orders of magnitude.

"The story is starting to leak." Cassandor stated, taking control of the session. "It won't take long before we can't contain it anymore. We need to decide on a course of action, and we need to decide on it soon."

-000-

"I can't believe Congress is giving the green light on this." Verns grumbled as he smoothed his CSF dress uniform in preparation of what was to come.

As per our speculation several days ago, Regional Command did end up pinning most of the blame on Malcolm. It sank my heart knowing someone I served with would be held responsible for this whole debacle, but knowing I couldn't really do anything about, I simply soldiered on. The President and Congress had been briefed in a closed session two days ago, and yesterday they quietly approved of taking emergency measures to secure the people of the Solar Sphere. How they were going to publicly announce that a hostile alien race was out there, potentially coming to pounce on us, was a whole other problem. Thankfully, the politicians would have the honors of dealing with that.

I turned to Verns as he continued to make sure his dress uniform was in a presentable state. I looked up and down, making sure he was perfectly neat and clean. I saw his tie hadn't been fitted properly and frowned.

"How the hell did you become a Lieutenant without learning how to wear a tie properly?" I chastised him.

Using the lack of gravity in the Risima's bridge, I floated myself up so that I was eye level with my friend. Before he could protest, I undid his neckpiece and began tying it up properly. The man sighed and resigned himself to my assistance.

"I always had it tied up and ready to go." He sheepishly answered. "But then we got this assignment and Bullow insisted the crew look their best, and that meant laundering everything."

"For good reason, Lieutenant Hedder." Bullow suddenly interjected as she floated past us towards the command seat.

The acting captain might have had her doubts regarding her competency and capability, but to be quite honest, I think she's been doing a bang up job so far. The only downside I've seen so far is that she has a tendency to be stricter than Captain Koda... meaning she's just about the average ship squadron commander, considering the captain was willing to tolerate a lot more so long as it was within regulations.

"We can't embarrass the Space Force while we're meeting with mortal enemies." Bullow continued, letting a small smirk form in her face which disappeared as quickly as it had formed. "If Golden Beacon felt like we're not respecting them enough, this whole effort could go sideways."

I finished working on Verns' tie and tightened it around his neck before setting myself down on the floor. Upon contact, the magnetic shoe soles in all CSF issue boots quickly clamped me back down to a stable, solid footing.

"Still..." Verns continued his complaints, adjusting the tightness of his tie as he did. "Treating with ungrateful dogs doesn't sit well with me."

Verns' apprehension was understandable. It should be obvious to anyone who has a surface level understanding of the Secession Crisis that raged on for near half a century, starting in the early UC 300s and only ending around the late UC 350s. Sparked by an economic crisis, unrest among colonies all over the Solar Sphere climbed to never before seen heights, before exploding into rebellion and warfare. Whether it be the New Cyrene Front, Beacon, the Free Terra Nova Movement, or even Eden Zeon, every organization that had aspirations to separate itself from the SSC tried their luck during the ensuing chaos. Some were brought to heel with military force, like the New Cyrene Front at the Battle of Sola Dan. More were whittled down by Congress Loyalists -be it militarily or politically- until they could see no other way than to agree to terms. Beacon was one of these groups. After their public support fell through and their military might had been reduced significantly, the leader of Beacon agreed to negotiate. The end result was that the organization would disarm and be recognized as a political party in the Shanxi Congress. Former members not charged with war crimes were given full amnesty, and to top off the deal the Greater Shanxi Region would receive greater autonomy from the SSC. Unfortunately, the more radical elements refused these terms and absconded with what arms they could. These radicals would name themselves Golden Beacon and continue a low level guerilla war to this day.

Despite being a Shanxi native, Verns had a rather... intense dislike of Golden Beacon. I couldn't wrap my head around this at first, but after he explained it to me, I saw his point of view. His grandfather was an influential member of Beacon during the Crisis, while his father joined up with the Beacon Party as a colonial representative in the Shanxi Congress. Verns saw Golden Beacon as a perversion of what his family had struggled for. They were ungrateful dogs who didn't know to when it was time to stop fighting.

I myself had been born and raised in Arcturus, the mobile colony that served as the SSC's capital. My family had always stayed loyal with the Solar Sphere. When I was first stationed in Shanxi and met with Verns, I assumed with his background that he harbored sympathies with Golden Beacon's agenda... fortunately, I was very quickly proven wrong. It was one of the few moments I was glad I was wrong.

"If it makes you feel any better, Verns," I started, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder and giving him a small smile. "I'd much rather be meeting them behind the sights of a beam rifle as well."

"Captain Bullow," A voice cut in. It was Malcolm's replacement, one Warrant Officer Kessler. "Green Team reports incoming contacts bearing 352 degrees relative to bow! Waiting confirmation on contact ident."

Even without the confirmation, it's not hard to guess who was coming. This was a secret meeting, taking place in deep space, far from the star systems in the Greater Shanxi Region. The number of parties who knew what was about to unfold here could be counted on one hand. That being said, it wouldn't hurt to have confirmation from the patroling mobile suit teams.

Green and Gold Team had been deployed beforehand for perimeter patrol. While it was true that I'd much rather be out there with them, the Golden Beacon delegation were coming to Risima, not the Monty, nor the Gleiswick. That meant Verns and I had the unfortunate burden of escorting Bullow. Plus, Blue and Red Team did all the heavy lifting during the skirmish with the aliens, so it was only fair.

Sure enough five contacts appeared on the Risima's sensors. Three Torrent Class Destroyers, accompanying one Stellar Class Cruiser, and Golden Beacon's flagship, an Immortal Class Battleship going by the name Sorcerer.

"Green team confirms contact ident." Kessler reported from his station. "It's Golden Beacon."

The Secessionists began decelerating from the FTL cruising speeds a few thousand clicks away from us, just outside of weapons range.

"Formation composition and ship idents are exactly as agreed upon." Kessler continued his reports.

"Honor from the dogs?" Verns scoffed, his scowl still present, but it had softened from before. "How magnanimous."

Our formation stayed put as Golden Beacon approached. It was no mistake that they had arrived with overwhelming firepower. Three destroyers and two capital ships, compared to our two Currans and one Chariot. CSF ships were on average, much better than its Secessionist counterparts. Our guns had better output and better FTL. The only categories they had any real leg up is in non-FTL cruising speeds, and in mobile suit carrying capacity. I hesitate to call their cheaper operation costs to be a true advantage, since from what Fleet Intelligence had been able to learn this was mostly due to their inability to reliably source military spec parts, forcing them to use substandard parts. Granted, they had gotten very good at efficiently using those parts, but they were still substandard nonetheless.

Eventually, Sorcerer and its formation pulled up to within a few dozen clicks away from us, where they came to a stop.

"Three mobile suit contacts launching from Sorcerer." Kessler continued to relay Green Team's reports. "Confirmed, they're sending out one Hroeger, and two Skodas... looks like the Type-35 variant."

The Type-35s weren't going to be a problem, but that Hroeger sure was. Golden Beacon sure weren't taking any chances if they were willing to send out a mobile suit that was as rare as it was powerful. Not one sane CSF pilot would be willing to fight a Hroeger head on. In my cockier days, I was downright ecstatic to add it to my kill tally. However, the sheer gap in performance between the Hroeger and the Gunstrike, and the fact that I barely survived fighting, convinced me it was generally not worth the risk. In the ten years since the Hroeger had been seen with various Secessionist groups, the CSF had only ever destroyed a dozen... two of that involved swarming the machine with three ace mobile suit teams... and a third was killed by a stray shot from a battleship's gun.

The Hroeger quickly built up speed, catching up with the two Type-35s that were its wingmen, then blasting right past them. It was hideously fast, and despite knowing it wouldn't attack us, I still felt my chest tighten and body tense up when it rapidly approached us. I don't quite know how, but Verns must've noticed my nervousness as it was his turn to put a reassuring hand on my shoulder.

"They won't try anything." He reassured me, a small smile forming on his lips, his brows softening as well. "Not with what we're dangling in front of them."

I felt myself relax at his words. Verns may have been skeptical about it himself, but he was right. Golden Beacon wouldn't dare attack us when we giving them so much on a silver platter.

The speeding Hroeger zoomed past the Risima, circling our cruiser, then coming back just as fast as it had flown here. As it flew, we noticed it was transmitting... something on an open frequency which grew stronger the closer the mobile suit was. When it buzzed the Risima's bridge, we heard loud and clear what it was transmitting...

Rock and roll. Not just any rock and roll, but classics dating all the way back to the tail end of Anno Domini. Choice songs I didn't think anyone would care about outside of old music enthusiasts like I was.

Amusement bubbled up inside of me despite my earlier apprehension.

"That pilot's got good taste." I mused. "CL Williams, under rated classic."

I couldn't see it through his goggles, but I simply knew my friend rolled his eyes at my comment. It was easy to tell since he'd look away whenever he did as if to hide it, despite knowing nobody could see through his eyewear.

"One Io Fleming wannabe is enough in my life." He sighed out, exasperated.

"Then consider yourself fortunate, Hedder." Bullow said as she left the command seat having clipped on the ceremonial captain's cloak she'd left wrapped around the chair earlier. "You're blessed to have more than you'll ever need."

That ghost of a sly smirk reappeared in her face as she floated herself towards the exit door, beckoning us to follow. That wasn't something I had expected from her... and given the expression on Verns' face, he hadn't either.

"So she does have a sense of humor." Was my sardonic reaction to that.

"Yes, I suppose she does" My friend shook his head as he turned around to follow the acting Captain. "It's remarkably quite like yours."

A smug smile formed on my lips. I kicked off one of the railing that Verns and I were leaning on, following behind him as I badgered him further.

"And what kind of humor would that be, my dearest friend?" I asked, my inflection exaggerated to egg him on further.

"One with incredibly poor taste." He answered drily.

My brain stuttered at his barbed response, and I blinked twice. He did not just say what I think he said.

"Poor taste? What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Despite my best efforts to pry an answer from Verns, he did not budge. I gave up halfway through our trip to the hangars when it became clear all of my questions were either going to be met with deflection, half hearted answers, or worse yet... silence.

When we reached the ship's hangar bay, the Hroeger and its two escorts had already been brought in. The chamber was then sealed, the launch decks folded into the hull, then pressurized. This way, we didn't need a normal suit to greet our... guests.

I looked at the Secessionist mobile suits which were now secured on their allotted scaffolds. They were huge compared to our Gunstrikes. At 20 meters for the Skodas, and 21 meters for the Hroeger, they stood noticeably taller than the CSF's workhorse machine which stood at a standard 18 meters. This was, of course, because the Skoda -and to a lesser extent the Hroeger- were less advanced machines compared to the Gunstrike, the Gunstrider that came before it, even the Gunfighters used by the Congressional Terrestrial Forces. On the other hand, the Gunstrike was built with top of the line technologies developed since the end of the Secessionist Crisis ended.

The Skoda itself was an ancient machine compared to the Gunstrike. The most common Skoda, the Type-27, debuted in the latter half of the Secession Crisis as an answer to the then undefeated Gunstrider. Over time, upgrades and modifications would be made, spawning newer types as Secessionist groups and Congressional Forces attempted to outdo the other. When the Crisis ended, the remaining Secessionist groups and their industrial sponsors could no longer afford to develop a whole new model of mobile suit, instead opting to continously upgrade the Skoda, birthing the current Type-35 model. They were bulky, with harsher edges and thicker armor due to the Secessionists' inability to downscale their tech the same way the Congressional Forces can. Most telling is the decision to use a tracked monoeye as a main camera, as opposed to the visor style that the Gunstrike used, which provided higher fidelity vision.

The Hroeger, was a different beast entirely. With its ominous red and black paint scheme, it screamed absolute menace. Fleet Intelligence has yet to pinpoint a specific manufacturer or developer, as the facilities meant for its production has so far evaded the CSF's best operatives. What is known, however, is that whatever facility is producing the Hroeger is at minimum on par with the mobile suit factories that pump out Gunstrikes and Gunfighters on a daily basis. Fortunately, while they appear to have the ability to produce such powerful and advanced machines, they do not appear to be able to produce it en masse.

Due to the Hroeger's advanced nature, it wasn't surprising at all that the leader of Golden Beacon arrived in it. He was the first person to leave the machine's cockpit. The man wore no normal suit, instead opting to don a surprisingly simple dark blue suit jacket and slacks, decorated with the trimmings typically seen in Golden Beacon's uniforms. While his movements appeared spry, the grey slicked backed hair on his head betrayed that he was an aging man. The round, old style glasses he wore didn't help either.

What was surprising, was the second person to leave the Hroeger's cockpit. A much smaller, slimmer, shorter person. The curves to the pilot's normal suit suggests to me the person was a she, though at this distance it's hard to tell. What I could tell was that she was short. Almost at a teen's height? I grew concerned, and a grimace graced my face at the thought.

Was Golden Beacon using child soldiers?

The thought left a very sour taste in my mouth and made me nauseous. The idea I may have been responsible for the deaths of multiple children over the course of my time fighting against Golden Beacon was appalling.

Looking to my colleagues, Bullow and Verns seemed to find the notion of fighting child soldiers equally appalling. An expression of barely hidden disgust was seen on the Acting Captain's face, while Verns made no attempt to hide the scowl returning to his features.

The pilots of the Skodas at least put some comfort in my mind, seeing as they were fully grown adults. While it perturbed me that I may have shot down a child soldier in my previous sorties... at least not all of them were so young... I hope.

Golden Beacon's leader and his retinue of armed pilots floated their way towards us. The two escort pilots had submachineguns slung on their back, while the younger one had a pistol holstered. They approached us until they were maybe six or seven meters away. Our groups stared each other down, neither making the first move.

I got a good look at that smaller pilot, who was indeed a she. She had removed her helmet, revealing short, jet black hair with red streaks. Her face confirmed to me that she was young... very young. By my guess, she was in her mid teens, maybe sixteen. Not an adult by any measurement. This revelation did not help smooth things over.

Eventually, it was the acting captain that decided to move things along.

"Father Oswin." Bullow greeted. As usual, her voice was even and controlled. Any trace of misgivings due to the Hroeger pilot's age was expertly hidden behind her façade of professionalism. "Welcome aboard the Risima. I am Acting Captain Bullow, and these are Lieutenants Kreusgluck and Hedder."

"Lieutenant Bullow." Oswin, the leader, greeted in return. He emphasized Bullow's rank, as if to stress that she was merely a cog in the machine, while he was the one calling the shots.

He too spoke in a professional and even tempered voice... but there were traces of disdain as well. There was an air of equal parts mystery and gravitas to the aging man. His mere presence signaled that he was not one to be messed with.

Oswin looked me over, causing a wave of discomfort to run through my spine. The man's gaze was unnerving, to say the least. What conclusion he got from his inspection of me, I'm uncertain of. What I'm certain of, is that he very much didn't like Verns.

"It's a shame what happened to you Hedders." Golden Beacon's leader said, looking to my pilot colleague. His voice was still controlled, but I sensed a twinge of contempt behind it. "From revolutionary leaders, to mere guard dogs working for the Space Force. What a tragic fall from grace."

Before either myself for Bullow could speak, Verns had already shot back.

"Spare me the lecture, Father Oswin." He replied, voice dripping with venom and hate. "The only animal in this room is the one sending kids out to die in battle"

"Hey!" The young pilot protested. "I'm not a kid!"

Oswin turned to her, giving a stern look which pacified her immediately. His eyes then returned to Verns, now narrowed... angry... dare I say filled with rage?

"Why I-"

Before our rendezvous could be derailed any further, Bullow intervened. She cleared her throat loudly, catching all our attention.

"Gentlemen, we're not here to tear each other's throats out." She sternly warned. "Father Oswin, please follow me to the conference room."

Crisis averted. Thank God.

-000-

Sparatus looked around at the room he was currently in. It wasn't the private meeting chamber anymore, thank the Spirits. The Council had managed to sort out what they wantes to announce to the press, to get ahead of the leaks. That press conference had finished an hour ago. Now the Turian ambassador had found himself in an equally secure room. Hidden in plain sight -but not to the trained eye- were hatches, flip out panels where defense turrets could pop out in case of emergencies. Guards with concealed weapons blended into the surroundings and crowds, held vantage points, monitored the area. It was like a fortress in here, with security measures that wouldn't look out of place in an actual military base. What made all of this strange to the former ground pounder, was that he was in a museum.

No, not a museum, but the museum. The Presidium History Museum.

It was perhaps the most complete history museum in the entire galaxy, featuring exhibits covering everything from ancient Asari pre-history, to modern Turian media. Anything worth being recorded into the pages of history probably was on display here somewhere... and if it weren't, that just meant it was currently out of rotation and in deep storage.

All this history, all the exhibits they could show off, were thanks to the gracious donations of the scholars and students of history from all across the galaxy. Tens of millions of credits are poured into the Presidium Museum's coffers from the pockets of Asari Matriarchs, Turian Generals, and even a Krogan Clan Lord or two. Where credits didn't do, donations of artefacts were also made, like the centuries old Turian made bipedal tank that Sparatus was currently looking at.

These donations alone would not have warranted such strict security measures in a museum. Places of learning like this should not have had to invest in such overkill to keep their guests safe... but that changed because of a single Turian.

Almost twenty years ago, Primarch Lacinius' predecessor -Primarch Marius- appointed now Councilor Cassandor to be the Turian Nation's ambassador in galactic affairs. Having served as the headmaster in the Cipritine Army Officer's School beforehand, it was no surprise that the academically oriented Turian would lavish much of his pay for the museum's use. While other patrons may have donated more credits, the Councilor donated a much larger percentage of his wealth to the Presidium Museum. This only escalated further when Ambassador Cassandor became Councilor Cassandor, and the Turian found he had more money to donate to the museum.

This is what lead to all the increased security. Obviously, Councilor Cassandor wouldn't be content with merely donating to the museum. He made many, many visits there... many times unplanned, without first notifying curators. This caused a great deal of stress and concern among museum staffers, who couldn't afford to clear out the museum of guests just to keep things safe for the Councilor. The solution eventually came when for the first time, a Turian took over as museum director. She simply concluded that if the Councilor wanted to visit any time he wanted, then the museum must be able to keep him safe at all times.

Councilor Cassandor was also why Sparatus was in the museum right now. His superior loved being around history. He reveled in it, found it quite therapeutic. Whenever he was stressing over decisions to be made, the Turian Councilor would always come to the museum to clear his mind. That was why the two of them were here right now.

"To think someone out there didn't give up on this kind of weapons system." Cassandor mused. His voice was quiet and contemplative, just over whispering volume. Sparatus had come to know that this was a sign of the Councilor's 'deep in thoughts' mode.

"It's a big galaxy." The ambassador replied, entertaining the Councilor's thoughts. "We probably would've too, if we didn't abandon it so soon in favor of Mass Effect technology."

"That's true." Cassandor nodded. "They were the dominant weapon for most of the Trebian Wars, up until the hover tank concept matured and became common. It's easy to imagine if we had discovered that Prothean Beacon just a little later, it would be these bipedal machines that unified the home system."

Now it was Sparatus' turn to nod along. Bipedal tanks were the norm during the early age of Turian space exploration. They remained the dominant weapons platform for almost an entire century... at least until the discovery of a Prothean Beacon in Menae. That ancient artefact accelerated their technological growth so much that it simply became more cost effective to ditch the legs and rely on grav sleds to move armored vehicles around.

Silence fell upon the two once more as they contemplated the choices they'd have to make, come the next closed session. The Council still hasn't come to an agreement on whether or not Primarch Lacinius' expedition would be given the go ahead. The public announcement that hostilities had indeed opened up during first contact did not make the decision making process easier. Lacinius was no doubt trying to rally supporters this very moment, to apply pressure to Tevos to get her to concede... or maybe he's currently talking to Councilor Toraph and the STG director, trying to hash out some kind of agreement behind the scenes. Sparatus didn't think that was likely, though. It would be improper to have discuss kind of back room deal with another race's Councilor without your own present... or at least, that's what the Ambassador thought.

So far, while Councilor Cassandor had voiced some thoughts and opinions on the whole discussion, he has yet to make his stance on the matter clear. Everyone has assumed... Sparatus included... that the Councilor would simply back up the Primarch when it comes down to the vote, but that's not guaranteed. It wouldn't be the first time a Councilor and a Primarch butted heads over policy.

"A decision will have to be made by the next session." The Ambassador stated, breaking the silence. "Have you made up your mind on what we'll be voting for?"

Cassandor stayed quiet for a bit, probably thinking his answer before he would say anything. Sparatus certainly hoped the Turian had come to a decision by now.

"Tell me, Sparatus... not as my subordinate, but as a friend..." The Councilor then began. "If you were in my place right now, as the Turian Councilor... how would you vote?"

The Ambassador certainly hadn't been expecting to have the question returned to him. Assessing the Councilor for a moment, Sparatus noted that the shadow of hesitation that hung around Cassandor during the sessions had all but disappeared. It seemed that he already made his decision on the matter. Why this was being asked, Sparatus didn't know. Perhaps it was some sort of test? Regardless of the reason, the Ambassador answered.

"To be honest? I'm not quite sure either." Sparatus shook his head. "Both sides make compelling arguments and I can understand the rationalization behind them. We can't just sit around and let them gain the initiative, but at the same time we can't just launch an invasion of unknown territory without knowing more."

"So you would support it if we knew more? If we knew we could win?"

"Maybe." The Ambassador shrugged. "I certainly wouldn't dismiss the option entirely. Sometimes military force is the right solution... but we'll only ever know if military force is the right solution if we know what kind of resistance we'd be facing. We know they have powerful weapons, but their mastery of Mass Effect technologies leaves a lot to be desired. We don't know how large their nation is, how populous it is, how much soldiers we'd need to get an invasion up and running. Given the option... I'd probably send a recon mission first, try and gauge out these new contacts... and maybe actually try to make contact and deescalate the situation from there if possible."

"That would be a reasonable option." Cassandor nodded again. "But can we afford to wait that long?"

"That's the million credit question that everyone wants to know the answer to, sir."

Cassandor sighed deeply. The Councilor was tired, Sparatus couldn't blame him. He was an aging Turian, and it wouldn't be long until Sparatus had to step up and take the Councilor seat himself. Having the fate of hundreds of billions of lives weighing on one's shoulders is not a burden easily carried... not when there seems to be no correct answer easily available.

"Given the current situation." Sparatus began the conclusion to his lengthy answer. "If I were the one to make the decision, I'd side with Councilor Tevos... at least until we're absolutely certain a military response is the best course of action to resolve the problem."

"Going that way would defy the Primarch's agenda. Defying someone as powerful and influential as Lacinius won't come without repercussions." Cassandor warned. "And this isn't just about any potential retribution he may launch against you. Defying him makes Lacinius appear weak. It'll embolden the Reformers, which would escalate political polarization and the dysfunctions that come with it. Are you sure that's the path you want to follow?"

That was all true. Sparatus hadn't thought that far ahead, but now that he thought about it, the Councilor was right. However, that didn't change the facts at hand. There were simply too many unknown variables at play, too many that going all in on an invasion very well turn into a major disaster.

"Councilor, I say this with all due respect... but in my honest opinion, Primarch Lacinius has let his emotions blind him." Sparatus answered, being careful not to let his SNLF vernacular bleed through. "While I fully respect his experience leading campaigns against Krogan remnants... as well as his masterful conduct during the Splinter Rachni incident... that experience is clouding his judgement. He sees things through a purely military perspective, and has rendered himself blind to alternative solutions."

Councilor Cassansor listened carefully to his subordinate's words, absorbing everything said... then smiled. He seemed quite satisfied with Sparatus' answer.

"You would make a great Councilor one day, Sparatus." Cassandor said warmly.

It had been a test after all... and it would seem that the Ambassador passed with flying colors.

"I learned from the best." Was Sparatus' equally warm answer.

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A/N:

Apologies for the late update. Starfield and Armored Core happened.

So we finally meet the Zaku and Gelgoog equivalent of this fic, the Skoda and the Hroeger respectively. Maybe it's more accurate to compare them to the Gearq Zulu and the Sinanju? Either way works, really. Of course, this makes the Gunstrike the GM, while the Gunfighter mentioned in passing is essentially the GM Ground Type. I might ask a friend to draw these mobile suits at some point... either that or take a gamble with my very rough art skills and do it myself. Regardless, I'll link it somewhere in this fic if I do end up doing it.

About the Turian's Bipedal tank, given how little we actually see of Combined Arms Warfare in the Mass Effect universe, I felt it necessary to expand on that end. As for how they look like... Imagine a smaller version of Metal Gear Rex, or a much bulkier and more armored version of the Gekko. That's how I pictured it in my head.

-000-

THIS WORK IS CROSSPOSTED IN FFNET AND AO3