Scraped from here.
I know I already put this up on the recommendation's thread, but since I'm...
I know I already put this up on the recommendation's thread, but since I'm...
User | Total |
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Mashadarof402 | 7 |
Chapter 01: Complications
Activation Protocol 12.0.02
Initiating primary boot sequence...
Primary processes online.
*IFF database update received*
*External Sensors online*
*Unknown Audio #1* "-sure about this? We didn't even test the neural links for stability."
*Unknown Audio #1. Human. Male. Warning. IFF Corrupted. Target #1 Designated.*
*Warning. Weapons discharge detected*
*Unknown Audio #2* *"No time! We're dead either way if we don't do this!"
*Unknown Audio #2. Human. Male. Weapon detected. Warning. IFF Corrupted. Target #2 Designated.*
*Threat response protocols online*
*Booting secondary priority protocols*
*Target #1 Audio:* "Goddamnit it's on automatic! He's not awake yet! Get out! Get-"
*Target #1 terminated. Cycling targets. Firing-*
COMMAND OVERRIDE SIGMA
He woke to the sounds of gunfire and screaming. Instinct took over, and he dived for cover away from the gunfire. What he didn't expect was to crash into the wall with the screech of tortured bulkheads threatening to give way. The shock lasted for a moment, and he was back on his feet. It took him longer than he expected, his limbs didn't seem to want to respond as smoothly as he commanded. It took a few abortive tries before he was back on his feet, looking for the gunman. It had come from right next to him. A quick scan of the room revealed a pair of corpses, their bodies still twitching with the last spasm of life, but no one else. Had he? No. He didn't feel the weight of a gun in his hand. Or his hand. He looked down.
Instead of familiar digits, there was gleaming white armour plate. Rivets. Thick slabs of steel where his feet should be. Blocky, angular limbs and chest plates, all armoured at rigid angles that would never fit around a human arm. A small printed emblem proudly proclaiming Arakure Weapons manufacture. Twin autocannons. His hand. He clenched a ghostly fist in surprise, and a hail of flechettes roared out of the autocannons, cratering the wall ahead. He let go and the storm stopped with a hiss, the weapons venting their accumulated heat in a cloud of hot steam. He caught his reflection on a piece of polished pipe. An unblinking monocular sensor pod glared back at him.
A machine. Two arms, two legs. All machine. He was a mech. And obviously not a synthetic personal assistant either. Who shot those people was pretty obvious now. He was... servos quietly whined as he brought his other arm, a rocket launcher judging by the weapon's size, to look at. Who was he?
"-der Shepard, can you hear me?"
He didn't hear it, but it was there, a female voice suddenly in his memory. Surprising as it was, the name struck him harder. Shepard. Yes. The confusion slipped away. He was Alexander Shepard... and he remembered choking on the hard vacuum of space as the last of his air leaked out through his damaged suit. If he wasn't trapped in some horrible nightmare, he could guess what had happened after the blackness claimed him. Not the most comforting of conclusions. But there was the voice to answer to. It made ignoring that one important question much easier.
"YES" The booming voice was harsh, metallic, but it was better than being mute. "IDENTITY. LOCATION."
"No time to explain. You need to get out of there. The whole station is overrun. I'm uploading the coordinates to you now."
Shepard didn't hear anything like before, but he could recall the words clear as day. A moment later, a fresh memory landed on top of that. A map layout, and a marked exit. It was very disconcerting. He would have demanded more answers of the voice when the door leading out of the room exploded, sending debris flying everywhere. Gunfire roared through the smoking portal, catching Shepard in the open before he could dive for cover in his new, cumbersome form. Bullets sparked off his kinetic barriers, and he responded in kind. The first autocannon's roar went high, harmlessly chewing away at the bulkhead as the first intruder, a human sized mech, pushed past the smoke, gun blazing. Shepard would have cursed his body's clumsiness, fighting the way it lagged as he brought the weapon to bear on the machine, hostile shots sparking off his kinetic barriers. This time his aim was true, shredding the mech and its two companions that had just entered under a withering hail of armour piercing flechettes.
More mechs lay outside the hallway where they had intercepted his fire. They were smaller, more human shaped than his current form. Looking at them brought another alien memory to mind. These were LOKI security mechs, it seemed to say. Light weapons, light armour, but equally capable of killing as any soldier. Another one stepped through the door, droning a canned message about not resisting as its machine pistol chattered angrily, right into Shepard's field of fire. Another short burst from his autocannon tore it apart and sent it flying out the door. Crushing the fallen mech under his feet on the way out, something in the room caught his attention and he turned around to focus on it. He had been wrong with his earlier count. There were three bodies. The other was covered in a plastic wrap.
Clumping over to the covered body, he eyed the array of machines it was hooked up to, silent where they weren't smoking, sparking pieces of debris. He recognized a few of them as life support machines, the others were completely alien to him. Hesitant, but unable to stop himself, he clamped down on the wrap with his gun sheathe, tugging at the material until it fell away. The sight made him want to put it back. Commander Alexander Shepard, captain of the Normandy, first human Spectre. That was who he was. Born on an Alliance cruiser, son of Cassandra and John Shepard. It only took a microsecond to go down that list. That was him. And right in front of him, laying on a slab, missing the entire back half of his head was Alexander Shepard.
He took a step back, carelessly tearing away the rest of the wrap still in his grip. The autocannon drifted over to face the body before he became aware of what he was doing, forcing the weapon down. That was Alexander Shepard. That was his face, even with those scars, staring back blankly into the ceiling. That was his body, lying like a lump of meat with bits of cold metal gleaming where the cuts and tears were large enough to peer through. Surprisingly, that last thought helped him calm down as his marine training kicked in.
Think of it as just a battlefield injury instead of... him. And that he was simply using a prosthetic until the doctors could patch up his meat body. He could have a case of fidgets later, if he still could. Dammit, he had survived the weeks of thresher maw attacks in that godforsaken colony on Akuze when nobody else had. He would survive this. The body's missing brain didn't escape his notice. He hoped that just meant it was sitting somewhere inside of this overbuilt metal man. And that it was really him. If not, that voice and he were going to have a long talk once this was over.
For a little while, he considered carrying the body with him. They brought him back, transferred his brain to this machine. Maybe they could... no. . Focus on surviving. The station was filled with an unknown number of hostiles. He didn't have any hands, and trying to carry and shield a body from enemy fire in this shell would only distract him. Cut losses and keep moving. It was a better deal than being dead, and he intended to keep it that way.
The other humans in the facility weren't so lucky. Clumping through the station, adjusting to his new body, Shepard passed hallways littered with bodies. Many shot in the back as they were running away. The mechs had been relentless in their slaughter, and very few of the dead clutched a weapon. If he still had a mouth, he would have scowled. He didn't know these people. Maybe they even deserved death. But not like this. Not a massacre. Once, he ran across a uniformed couple, both armed with heavy pistols. He had tried calling out to get them to stop, but they took one look at him and darted into a hallway. A fatal mistake. Mechs had been waiting for them, and when he got there, they were already dead. Tearing the smaller machines apart with his heavy weapons was a poor vengeance.
A wet cough caught his attention, and he turned around, finding one of the crew had survived. For a little while. Her chest was riddled with holes, and a mangled wreck of an arm tried to steady her as she crawled away. Then she noticing his gaze. She whimpered, falling on her back and bringing the pistol to bear uselessly on him.
"STOP. NO HARM INTENDED."
Her eyes widened to an impossible size at his voice. Then she laughed, a hysterical wet gurgling sound. Medigel he didn't have might save her, but maybe her partner had some to spare now that he wouldn't be needing anymore. Shepard took a step closer. That was when she pressed the gun to her head and pulled the trigger. Just like in Akuze.
He turned his head away. Not again.
"Check, check, is anyone alive on this frequency?"
Shepard turned back to the unexpected voice, spotting the fallen ear piece one of the station crew must have worn. He reached out by habit, and nearly crushed the piece with the steel slabs that were his arms. He would have hissed with frustration, but his machine body remained silent. He didn't even have an omni-tool, if he could somehow use the blasted thing. How was he going to use this thing with no fingers?
*Active wireless signal detected: Frequency 114.01*
This, this was different. It wasn't that voice in his head, but the knowledge was there. Of course. The mech must have had a Virtual Intelligence interface. He just had to switch to frequency 114.01...
*Network protocols identified. Switching frequency. Secondary connection established.*
Which the VI was already doing. This was easier than he had thought.
"IDENTITY."
"What the... who the hell is this?"
A blip appeared in the map of Shepard's mind, glowing with a dull red. The other person on the radio unless he missed his guess. Friend? Foe? He started walking. It wasn't far off. He'd get answers soon enough.
"IDENTITY."
"Chief medical officer Williams. Now who the hell is this? Why do you sound like a... shit!"
*Connection terminated at source*
Shepard sped up the pace, and went from a deliberate stomping gait to a rattling and clumsy walk. Shepard felt like biting off another curse as his shoulder caught on the edge of the hallway with a shriek of metal. Basic control was simple enough he found. Think of the act of walking, and his body walked without tripping over his own feet. But the change in height perception and massive bulk made it impossible to run without clumsily clipping things. Up ahead, a reinforced door slid open, and a human head poked through it. He didn't even have time to call out when he caught a telltale glow of an omnitool. His kinetic barriers exploded in a shower of light. On reflex, he brought up his weapon.
"STOP."
In hindsight, he probably shouldn't have bothered. The man up ahead yelped and vanished around back into the room, the heavy door sliding shut. Shepard made it to door just in time to see the holographic control display winking out to an angry red denying all entry. Server Room B was in lockdown. Banging on the heavily armoured door would have been unproductive, so he took a step back, preparing to blast at it with his other arm. Superheated steam was venting out of the rocket launcher's charging ports when there the voice called him again.
"Shepard, hurry up, there isn't... time left... mechs overrun...."
Static and gunfire punctuated the blank spots. The situation was going from bad to worse. But he wasn't about to leave someone behind. He returned his attentions to battering down the door.
"SURVIVOR LOCATED. ATTEMPTING EXTRACTION."
"There isn't time... mechs closing... everywhere... explain when you... incoming... destroy station... shuttle bay before..."
*Primary connection terminated at source*
Shepard took a look at the door, weighing his options. It was still standing, if pockmarked by his efforts to break it down. She mentioned something incoming, and the station being destroyed. Warships? He didn't know what defenses the station had, but from the silence, either no one was running them, or they were destroyed. Both possibilities boded badly for his chances. The other alternatives didn't say a lot for his chances either. Reactor damage? Uncontrolled de-orbit? He didn't think he'd have a lot of time if any of them were the case. He began to move out when a a flicker of motion caught his eye. A patrol of LOKI mechs clattered into the hallway from where he had come from. Instead of firing, they completely ignored him as they walked ahead, guns at the ready. They had just passed him when a gun poked around the corner and fired, the single shot taking the head off one of the mechs. Simultaneously, a blue tinged ball of distorted air materialized and streaked down towards him.
The old Shepard would have been able to dive out of the way before it hit. In his current body, he was simply too cumbersome. He had barely moved out of the way before it struck his left arm. armour plates buckling with a groan under the biotic assault, pulling him nearly off balance. That was when the server room door slid open again, revealing the other man with his glowing omni-tool.
*Warning. Process corruption detected. Command error. Administrator access granted. Priority conflict.*
His vision started to flicker, his body already falling over, but that didn't stop him from seeing the black uniformed biotic clearing the hallway, the other mechs already destroyed. He tried lifting his arm, speaking, anything, only to find that nothing was responding. He felt a bolt of panic in realization. Hacking, and a pincer trap. Not like this! He wouldn't let it end like this! He needed control. Now.
*Primary control interface non-functional. Direct control established.*
A thousand voices immediately shrilled in his head. Status updates, kinetic barrier strength, reactor power levels, myomer fiber stress levels, remaining munitions, life support nutrient levels, gyroscope warnings and a multitude of other demands drilled their cacophony of noise into his head. Shepard pushed through them all with single minded determination.
"STOP" Shepard punctuated the booming words by shoving his rocket launcher into the hacker's face, arresting his fall by slamming the other arm onto the ground. Another shrill stress alarm blared in his head. "CEASE FIRE." This to the other black clad man who was rapidly backing away into cover. He hoped they bought it. He could barely focus on keeping the weapon arm straight, but he was sure he could fire it at least once.
"Command override zeta twelve one, command override zeta twelve one! Override damn you!" Shepard turned his head back to the hacker, and the man instantly fell silent with a whimper, not even able to back away from the barrel of death in his face. His omni-tool winked out.
*Cyclic redundancy check complete. Restoring process database. Restarting primary control interface.*
The voices subsided immediately, leaving Shepard's head clear enough to speak further. "I AM SHEPARD."
Omni-tool man sputtered. "Shepard? But that's-"
"Shepard? Damn. Things must have been really bad for Miranda to have Jason's techs put you in that casing." The dark skinned biotic poked his head around the corner, exposing very little of himself. Smart of him. "They must have been around when you woke up. Do you know what happened to them?"
Shepard forbore saying anything. That was going to be his demon to deal with. Better nobody else knew about it. The biotic seemed to draw a conclusion from his silence, hissing in frustration as he popped out of cover. "The mechs got them did they? Don't worry about it Shepard. We're just lucky you woke up in time to defend yourself. The name's Jacob Taylor, chief of station security. Or what's left of it. And that's doctor Wilson. He was the one who patched you up. You can relax Wilson. He's not just one of the mechs."
There was a shrill laugh to that. "R-r-relax? With a gun to my face?" Shepard acknowledged the point by letting his arm fall to the floor, followed by a thump as Wilson fell flat on his backside. "God. You scared fifty years of life out of me."
Shepard leaned forward, looming over the man in a way most would have found intimidating. He would not be forgetting what had just happened anytime soon. Wilson twitched.
"NECESSARY."
"Maybe not." Jacob raised an eyebrow when Shepard turned to stare at the man, but he looked him straight in the optics "But you don't look any different than any of the YMIR mechs we have around here and those have gone rogue as well. The techs could have painted the body a different color at least, save us some of the unpleasantness just now." Somehow, Shepard doubted that. Jacob must have read the silence correctly, because he shook his head in bemusement. "Probably not huh? Can't count on people paying attention to your paint job when you've got that autocannon and every other heavy mech is trying to shoot at us."
"SITUATION."
"Right, you probably don't have any idea what's going on. Your ship was attacked and destroyed out in the Traverse. Except for a handful of servicemen in the lower decks and Navigator Pressley, everyone else and all the aliens got out unscathed. You weren't so lucky. That's where we came in with the Lazarus project. We got your body back and spent two years, just a month short of the full two, trying to put you back in one piece. In case you hadn't noticed, we're having a bit of technical difficulties with that plan." Off in the distance, there was the faint rattle of gunfire, followed by a muffled thump Shepard's long years of experience identified as a concussive grenade going off. Jacob didn't seem to hear it, and continued without pause. "Other than that, there's not much else I can tell you I'm afraid. Those two years were pretty quiet, the only time I ever fired my gun then was at the firing range. And then this happened. I was getting ready to bunk down when the station mechs turned on us."
"SABOTAGE."
He frowned at that. "That... could be possible, but I doubt it. I inspected every last one of these mechs before we brought them online. Reprogramming all of them like this would need the master override codes, and nobody but me and Miranda should have them. Not that it matters anymore. The mechs won't respond to any of those overrides. Come on, we can figure it out later once we're out of here."
"Jacob? What the hell is going on?" Wilson's voice had taken on an angry hysterical edge, cutting across anything else Jacob might have said. "This... this can't be Shepard. I spent nearly two years working on his body and this overgrown tin can isn't him! It's not possible."
This was the doctor who brought him back? He wanted to ask more but Wilson was still babbling.
"His brain didn't even have enough synaptic activity to keep the heart beating. It barely registered on the electroencephalography charts. He was a vegetable. There was no way that a bunch of techs could get a spike in brain activity that fast. Even if they did, he would have had a hell of a time adapting to his old body, if the trauma didn't kill him outright, much less a mech. And I damn well know his brain didn't go missing for any tech to stick in a goddamn mech for calibration." He stabbed a finger in Shepard's direction "That, is a medical impossibility. It's got to be an artificial intelligence."
Vegetable? AI? Shepard found his dislike of the doctor's bedside manner growing. Luckily for him, Jacob stepped in before he could go any further. But there was something that didn't fit right.
"Relax Wilson. You're losing me with the medical talk, but I saw the tech, it really is him. I don't have all the details, but this was the backup plan, in case things didn't pan out. Need to know basis only. Guess we were lucky Miranda thought about it. But this isn't really the time to argue over what's possible."
That was the second time this Miranda was mentioned. Shepard guessed she was the project director, probably the one who had been talking to him earlier. Given their last communication, her chances were poor, but Jacob was right. A link up was out of the question. He didn't even know where she was, or if she was alive, and the station itself was under threat. He forbore telling Jacob about their last communication. He didn't doubt the man's word on not having time, but sometimes, you never knew how they would react. He filed that away the knowledge on Miranda for future reference, focusing on what Jacob had said. Chief medical officer. The last dot connected, and Shepard turned on the Wilson, optics whirring as he focused on the man. He gestured with the autocannon. "WILSON CONTAINS FUNCTIONAL MECH OVERRIDE."
"What? Are you-" To his credit, Jacob's surprise lasted only a moment as he whirled back on the doctor, a quiet edge to his voice. "Why are you here anyway Wilson? This is the security wing. Medical is on the other side of the station."
"There were mechs and... this is ridiculous! I don't have any mech overrides! If that's really Shepard, he's just revived. He wouldn't know up from down. He's obviously confused." Shepard could see Wilson's deflection having an effect as Jacob relaxed slightly. "Besides, the controls are locked out."
Jacob was quick to catch the slip, but Wilson was faster. His pistol was already cleared of the holster when Jacob reached for his. A blue flash of biotic energy flared as Shepard's autocannon barked, slamming the doctor against the bulkheads and reducing his gun hand into red ruin. Jacob followed up by jamming his gun in Wilson's face before he could even scream. "You son of a bitch! You're the one who set this up?!"
"You don't understand! None of us would have been left alive once the project was done. Miranda would have had us all killed with the mechs. That's why I-"
"Why you what?" Jacob's contemptuous snarl cut short Wilson's babbling. "Wiped out the rest of the crew? Tried to get us all killed? Or did you sell us out?" He shoved the doctor back to the ground, kicking away the shattered remains of his weapon. "Come on Shepard, we can leave Wilson to rot. Let's get out of here while there's still a here to get out of."
Shepard didn't turn to follow. Not immediately. Losing his body hadn't made him any poorer a judge of character. Wilson's words sounded true enough. But there was also a lot more to it. Optics clicked quietly as he observed the doctor shakily applying a pack of medi-gel to the stump of his right hand. Wilson gritted his teeth as the gelatinous white strip warmed, darkening as it wrapped around the wound with a hiss of artificial protoplasm. It only took a few seconds to harden completely, and when it did, Shepard made his decision by pointing the autocannon at the doctor's head. He jerked back, legs kicking as he tried to push himself deeper into the bulkhead.
"Oh god. Shepard, I put you back together. I saved your life. Don't do this. Please!"
"RISE."
Wilson complied hastily, but Jacob turned to look incredulously at him. "What? You can't seriously be considering taking him along with us? What for?"
"INTERROGATION."
A few seconds ticked by as Jacob just continued to stare at Shepard's unblinking optics. Jacob sighed. "Alright, we'll do it your way Shepard. Just be ready to shoot him in case he tries to cause us any trouble."
Shepard replied by gesturing his autocannon at Wilson, an act that seemed to both satisfy Jacob and cow the doctor.
"OBEY."
**********
When they finally reached the hanger bay, Shepard found himself revising the planned interrogation.
Six people were waiting in ambush for them, popping up from behind cover once they had entered the bay. Most were armed with rifles, but one had a rocket launcher trained on Shepard. They weren't wearing the black and silver of the station crew, but yellow painted combat armour that he recognized from his Alliance briefings a lifetime ago. Eclipse mercenaries, and not here for a friendly visit. One of them, a Salarian, stepped out of cover to speak, spherical combat drones floating besides his head. "If you have any interest in breathing for the next two minutes, don't try anything stupid. My men already have you in their sights. Your mech might do some damage, but it won't stop us from killing all of you before you even twitch."
They thought he was just an ordinary mech, Shepard realized. Good, he could make use of that. Optics clicked as he scanned the room, noting mercenary positions and more hazards alike. Jacob continued to train his gun on the Salarian. It would never punch through the mercenary's kinetic barriers before he was shot, but something in the way he held himself said that he still had a trick up his sleeve. Wilson on the other hand, the doctor let out a sigh of relief as he took a step forward towards the Salarian. "Mollus? It's me, Wilson. Listen-" a gunshot cut him off with a flinch.
"Wilson. Is it?" Mollus hissed from behind the smoking barrel of his shotgun. "I see you've managed to make that particular mech work for you, and not just shoot everything that moves. Unlike every other damn mech on this station. That was an unpleasant surprise you had waiting for us in the shuttle dock. Mechs kill station security, and we'd make the pick up? Should have known better than to trust a human to stick to the plan. I should kill you for that, but our employer wants you alive and intact as well as the package." He gestured towards Jacob with his shotgun. "And who's this? He's not the package. They didn't say anything about extras."
Pulling himself together, Wilson laughed weakly at the question. He began walking towards Mollus "He's not. Listen. The mech is Shep-" Shepard opened fire.
Wilson's last words died as a flechette exploded through his chest. The next round would have caught Mollus unarmoured head, but Shepard's control over this body remained imperfect and the shot went wide. The mercenary broke out of his shock, diving to the ground. Luckily, the missile in his rocket launcher was self guiding and not hampered by his poor aim. The Salarian had only time enough to look up when the guided warhead struck him full in the face and detonated. Air distorted around the human with the rocket launcher, slamming her into the ceiling, presenting a target he couldn't possibly miss. Autocannon rounds tore her to rags. Four left. Impact sparks began flaring around Shepard's barriers while others cratered the floor where Jacob had stood a moment ago.
Behind the kinetic shield, optics whirred and clicked. Shepard swung the autocannon towards a pair of mercenaries creeping out from behind a stripped out shuttle. They spotted the movement, ducking under cover as his fire hammered the craft. Motion on his left formed into the other group of mercenaries, battering away at his shields. He ignored them, autocannon rounds battering the shuttle and ripping hull metal apart. One of the rounds must have struck something vital, as the shuttle vanished in a flash of light, leaving behind only tortured steel and blackened streaks on the ground where the mercenaries had hidden.
Shepard turned towards the remaining pair of mercenaries, a constant stream of fire from them causing Shepard's barrier to shimmer with a threatened overload. He tried to return fire, but his autocannon remained silent, vents hissing with coolant steam. The rocket launcher clicked uselessly. A pistol cracked twice in the chatter of rifle fire, and a mercenary crumpled bonelessly, clutching the ruins of his face. The other ducked behind cover, exposing only his arm and chattering rifle. Servos whining, he accelerated into the stream of fire, closing to melee distance. But instead of pausing to vault the crate as he intended, his legs continued running. Several tons of charging metal hulk rammed into the packing crate the mercenary hid behind, and inertia took over. The crate went sparking across the ground, the mercenary's terrified shriek cut off with a wet crunch when it smashed into the bulkhead.
A flicker of motion caught Shepard's attention. He turned to find a mercenary crawling away, blood pumping from the head wound Jacob had given him. A grenade fumbled in his fingers. He didn't get two paces when Shepard's armoured foot came down on the mercenary's back with a crack of shattering hardsuit. The man yelled in pain, grenade skittering away with arming cap still attached. The autocannon pressed down on his head. He had only a moment to look up before his head vanished under a storm of fire, spattering Shepard's optics with gore. When the smoke cleared, he stepped back from the red stain on the ground, superheated steam hissing from his thermal ports. Scanning the area, he caught sight of Jacob swiftly moving from corpse to corpse, checking to see if they were all dead.
"ALL HOSTILES TERMINATED."
The station security chief paused in his search to shoot a brief look in Shepards direction. "I'll say. You really tore them apart. Didn't think you'd to shoot Wilson though, after all the trouble you went to bringing him along." He shook his head. "He really sold us out big time. Not just hacking the mechs, but bringing in Eclipse? He must have had an outside man before he was brought into the project. Seems like someone really doesn't like you."
He could think of a lot of someones who didn't like him, enough to want him staying dead. Batarians, pirates, slavers, mercenaries, power brokers, a few Turians, probably the entire Krogan race for blowing up Saren's cloning facility, the list went on. Alliance N7 operations, and his duties as a Spectre, were not exactly geared towards earning him friends. Pruning out those who were already dead, that still left a list long enough to fill a starship. But that didn't mean these mercenaries were out for him. "LACKS REASON."
"You're kidding right? The man who took down Sovereign, back from the dead, isn't reason enough? That was the whole point of the project. Anyway we'll find out who and why sooner or later I bet." Pulling out a memory chip from the Salarian's hardsuit, Jacob's omni-tool glowed for a few seconds as he scanned its contents. When the tool beeped, he pointed down the hanger bay towards the shuttle docks. "Looks like we got lucky. This was a recon team. The rest of the mercenaries are waiting for this one to check in before coming station side. Come on, the shuttles are that way. We can borrow their transport and jump out before they figure who's really driving it. Probably."
Probably. That didn't sound very hopeful. The shuttle dock doors quietly slid open and Shepard turned, leveling his autocannon at the intruder. Jacob stopped him with a hasty gesture.
"Miranda? Wait. How did you-"
"Get past Eclipse? Through the airlock." The newcomer answered easily, stepping daintily past the corpses without a second glance. Shepard idly noted that this Miranda wasn't in a uniform like the rest of the station crew. The only similarity to them was the emblem pinned on her white and black bodysuit, skintight fabrics leaving little to imagination.* "Eclipse isn't as thorough protecting their rear as they would like to think." She stopped in front of Wilson's corpse to give it a brief look. "I see you've dealt with our traitor as well. And in the back too. I'm surprised Jacob. I didn't think you had it in you."
"That... wasn't me." Jacob ran a hand through his close shaved hair, gesturing with a flick of his eyes.
Miranda turned to look at Shepard, sizing him up with smile that didn't reach her cold, calculative eyes. If she found his size or bloody glowing optics to be disturbing, she didn't let on the slightest. No stranger to bloodshed this one. "Ah Shepard, good to see that the backup plan is working. I take it we owe most of this destruction to your new changes." It wasn't a question, and Shepard didn't feel inclined to answer. She nodded, as if getting the answer that she wanted. Jacob took* the moment to step up.
"Shepard, this is Miranda Lawson. She was the one in charge of the Lazarus project at this facility."
"Not for much longer I'm afraid." She stated frankly, a slightly bitter edge to her voice. "Shepard is back, if not complete, and Eclipse isn't going to oblige us the facility. I certainly won't let them have it either. Fortunately, that particular loose end is tied up. The station's self destruct will take care of that once we leave."
Self destruct? Logically, it made sense. Who knew what the mercenaries would do with a base like this, or who they'd sell it to? But that meant watching his flesh and blood body go up in a controlled nova, and any chance of getting it back. Not surprisingly, he didn't like the idea. He turned an optic towards Miranda.
"BODY."
"I'm sorry Shepard." She sighed. "Even if we had the time to collect it, with Wilson gone and your current condition, it wouldn't help. Your body is irrecoverable at this point. I don't like it anymore than you do, but our options were limited. Attempting a revival with your biological body in that state would have killed you. If we had the time for a proper transplantation it could have been salvaged but, given the circumstances, the only process we had the time to perform is irreversible." For a moment, she looked genuinely troubled before she straightened her back with a placating gesture of her hands. "Come on. We need to take the Eclipse transport and leave before they wise up. My employer would like to see you."
If he had eyebrows, Shepard would have twitched. Irreversible? He was trapped here, in this overgrown tin can, forever? He resisted the sudden irrational urge to gun down the woman, and maybe throw himself out the airlock or into a reactor core. But he had refused to let Akuze break him, and he wouldn't break down here either. He bit down the anger, focusing on her last sentence instead.
"EMPLOYER. IDENTITY."
"Not my place to say Shepard. You'll find out when you speak to him. It's where we're going now." She called back, already heading for the armed dropship that had brought the Eclipse mercenaries. She paused at the pilot hatch, taking the time to drag out a pair of bleeding bodies. "Shepard, you should be able to fit in the troop compartment. It's big enough."
Shepard took a look and weighed his options. Stay on the station, fight hostile mechs and an unknown number of likely angry mercenaries, get consumed in the upcoming fireball, or leave the station with the only people who had the necessary fingers to control a shuttle and were not actively trying to kill him? The survivor of Akuze found the decision easy. The rest of him found it harder to swallow, but followed suit, watching the cargo hatch close and leaving him in the dark.
**********
The troop compartment was dark, leaving him alone to his thoughts. He found that he cared for very few of them.
The escape from the station had been smooth, almost perfunctory in how clean and effortless it had been. The Eclipse gunboat waiting like a predatory insect over the station had asked a few questions once they had cleared the bay. Status reports. Where they were going. What in a Krogan's fourth testicle did they think they were doing and to get back here. Those queries had been quietly ignored as distance increased between them, away from the upcoming blast. A final warning, and then the ominous beep of a targeting radar painting the transport. Then the station's reactor core had gone up, the antimatter pile burning away as a short lived star of impossible brightness, consuming the station and melting the Eclipse ship like butter in a furnace before the fireball engulfed it. The expanding cloud of plasma, the jump to lightspeed, all of that happened mere moments later. And then he had been left in the darkness once again.
Up in the pilots compartment, Jacob and Miranda were conversing in hushed tones. Occasionally, they would direct a glance his way through the troop door before returning to their discussion. Discussions of his mental stability. Memories. Personality. He didn't acknowledge them. Something in the way he had been brought back let him recall every memory since his waking with precise detail. Every shot, every face down to their individual features. He only had to think it to see and hear it in holovid quality detail. He suspected that if he wanted to, he could review every last word exchanged between the two at a later date. But the one memory he found himself dwelling on right now, he wished he could forget.
'The process is irreversible. I'm sorry Shepard.'
He didn't want to believe her. He had been dead. It was almost funny how blase that thought seemed. He remembered dying, the last gasp that didn't fill the lungs, the struggle to get one, just one more gulp of sweet air, amidst the white hot debris of the Normandy, and then the cold silence that made vacuum seem noisy. The dimming vision, the fading strain of his lungs as they pumped uselessly, he remembered all of it. He was dead, but they had brought him back. There should have been a way, somehow. But the birth of a temporary star had been the end of any hopes and objections. His body was gone forever, more thoroughly than bullets, biotics and asphyxiation could ever accomplish. But he wasn't dead. He was trapped inside this pseudo existence, more machine than... mostly machine.
He felt clumsy in this body. His control over its motions were rudimentary at best. The crisp, fluid motions he had been used to as a human were gone. And he couldn't feel. There were no tactile senses in this body. Taste, smell, those two were likely gone forever as well. He was not deaf nor blind, but he had lost everything else. He was fine now, but how would he cope with its loss in the long term? Now he knew how the quarians felt, living their entire lives trapped in environmental suits for fear of fatal infection. Would he be able to adapt?
The survivor in him said yes. If Thresher maws could not do it in that week of deadly nightmares when everyone else died or killed themselves to escape the horror, then a life trapped in this shell would not unman him. He had been brought back for a reason. Raising the dead, a notion that disturbed him until he was one of them, could not have been cheap. Bringing back the dead was a fantastical notion, and would definitely need equally fantastical resources. And more importantly, a very good reason. Yes. That was something to help him hold on. A reason to come back. One he could throw himself into.
His crew mates on the lost SSV Normandy would have reason enough. But unless Garrus, Liara or Tali had actually been secret billionaires, they couldn't have commanded such resources.* Perhaps the Council had finally taken his claims of the Reapers seriously and wanted him at the forefront of the fight. Or maybe they were just repaying the debt owed for having their scaly, or shapely when considering the Asari matriach, alien behinds saved by the Spectre they had dismissed as 'mentally unsound'. It was the least they could do. Repaying one life, his, for the three most powerful people in galactic politics he had preserved. That was a good trade, wasn't it?
And could he complain? It was his brain, so he was still him. And he was alive, in a body that even a six hundred pound Krogan of pure muscle would never be able to match in raw power or durability. How often had it been that he had found himself in situations where the firepower of the Mako would have been useful, but the conditions too cramped to bring in the infantry fighting vehicle? Or the durability of the layers of heavy armour plate it carried? He had all of those now.
But the price was not to his liking.
As the ship lurched in acceleration, the telltale sign of a mass relay jump, he lifted an arm to his optics. The autocannon's protective sheathe opened and closed with an experimental flex of his mental fingers, mimicking his flesh and blood ones. Maybe he could learn to adapt to the machine, adjust to its size and quirks, make it move like he used to when he was flesh and blood. Maybe he could learn to live without more than half the senses he had grown up with. He could and would adapt. The survivor would. But the machine had little in the way of expressive capability. How many times had bloodshed been averted with smooth words and a convincing expression? How often had he drawn in the allegiances from the most unlikely of people, those who would become his closest shipmates, in that other life, simply because he had been able to bring them around to his way of thinking with words? Action had always backed those words, but without words, action alone would have been meaningless.
He had tried already to form full sentences in the station, before and after meeting Jacob. Every attempt was a dismal failure. He didn't try to pretend to understand the underlying technology that allowed him to command the machine's audio systems and turn thoughts of speaking into actual words, but he knew it was far from adequate. Complex words and sentences came out flat, shortened to a simple vocabulary and completely devoid of the man called Alexander Shepard. Who would believe this machine to be him? Pitifully few, if any, would believe those claims. And who could blame them? Alexander Shepard had been a human, a face, a person. He was a bipedal war machine with all the grace and animation of badly crafted toy. An articulate giant potato man would make a more believable Shepard.
And two years. Gone just like that. What was fresh five hours ago was now two years old plus five hours. Jacob had told him his friends and shipmates had escaped Normandy's end, but that was where it ended. Were they still alive? Were they still committed to the cause they had joined when they had chosen to follow him? Or had it died when he had? Had they died as well, either in pursuit of his quest or by some other tragedy? Had they gone on to live their lives, finding a piece of normality to return to after the hunt for Saren had ended? What had happened in his... absence? Not knowing, worse, knowing that even if he knew he would be able to do nothing to change the outcome, gnawed away at him.
"Shepard, we'll be landing in a few minutes. I know you've got a lot of questions, but you'll have to wait a bit more. Our employer will have the answers you'll need." Miranda's voice cut through his musings as the ship lurched again, this time in deceleration. Shepard considered them for a moment, let out a not-sigh and felt a stab of irritation at the silence. Even that small human comfort was denied. He pushed aside the irritation, and his previous concerns, craning the sensor pod that was his head towards the cockpit. Sure enough, a station loomed up ahead. Soon, he would find out why he was brought back.
And the reason, hopefully a good one. If not, the Reapers were still out there. The thought strengthened his resolve, stiffening a back he did not have. He had been lost earlier, overwhelmed by what had happened to him But he had sworn to end the Reaper threat one way or another. Dying hadn't changed that. The Reapers were still out there, as did the threat they posed. If coming back in this shell was the price to pay to finish that task and end the cycle of galactic extinction, what did that matter?
He hoped he never found out.
**********
Chapter 08: Awakening
One of the conventions that humans had to abandon when they left their home world was the concept of night and day. Even when habitable garden worlds were found and colonized, diurnal habits were impossible to maintain in the light of their vastly different rotational speeds, with a single cycle of sunlight on some worlds lasting many Earth days long. Paradoxically, it was out in space where there were no stars to set the clock that humanity found it easier to adapt, where the brightness of the surroundings were easily altered with the flick of a switch, and 'day' simply became whenever you were on shift. On that reasoning, it was 'night' in the primary hanger bay of the Normandy, the floodlights dimmed while the two space craft hung from their gantry cranes like shadowy whales, the room's sole occupant ostensibly asleep. But sleep hadn't claimed him yet, and the glowing surface of the datapad lighting up a small portion of the hanger bay while a synthesized voice broke the silence.
Private records. Commander Shepard.
Logs, logs, it's always the simple solutions that you overlook when you're trying to solve some problem that ends up leaving you wondering if your brain was in the process of rotting. Not really as simple as just dictating an entry, but not that hard either with a bit of extranet searching. I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised to find a virtual intelligence out there with my name, face and voice in it, buggy as it is. But all I really needed was the voice synthesizer protocols, and while it's never going to work with this body, at least I can make a hack out of it on a datapad so it records in my voice for playback. Or at least I think it's my voice. What did I sound like before this entire mess started? For something I've heard every time I opened my mouth, when I had a mouth, it's astonishingly hard to remember. Did I always sound so dry, dull and uninspired whenever I talked? How the hell did I ever convince people to follow, or trust, me when I talked like this? Well, I suppose that's not important, it's my voice, even if it's just bits of data being synthesized in a good approximation, one more piece of who I used to be in my reach. It's a hell of a lot better than the 'electronic thug' setting hardwired to this body.
Really wish I could have gotten a mouth, teeth and a digestive system as well though, I'm starting to forget what taste is like, and I'm almost certain my brain is telling me it needs to be fed, life support or no life support. What's worse is my complete lack of tactile senses, and not just because I have to watch my step a lot harder if I don't want to flatten a kid by accident. Aristotle said that people are pretty much Tabula Rasa when they're born, blank slates that fill up on experience and perception, but what happens when you lose those perceptions forever and can't remember what they were like? It's not like I've gone deaf and blind, I could deal with that I think, but picking up something and not even having some kind of feedback just feels unnatural, like I'm doing this remotely. Ancient Greek philosophers never had to deal with something like this. Maybe this is what it feels like to be a Quarian, living your entire life in a suit without being able to experience the 'real' world. Better to think of something else before I start thinking on how long I've got before I crack.
Now where to begin? Certainly not anything I particularly want to keep to myself, since I'm sure you'll be reading it in short order Miranda. You, EDI, TIM, whom I sometimes imagine falling down a well with no dog to bring help, and probably Kelly as well, personal assistant my left nu- actuator now I suppose. I've got five credits on everything I say and do being dissected, organized, labelled and put in a neat folder by our resident psychologist for delivery to Miranda. It's not like EDI makes it a secret on how the Normandy is filled with surveillance devices from stem to stern, probably including this datapad that's doing all the actual noise making. Yes, I'm definitely feeling a bit put out at all the constant watching, no it's not really fair since your boss poured all that money into making a dead man walk, but I don't care. So bite me, or not if you value your teeth. I've also been a lot more talkative these five minutes than I've been the past few weeks, maybe more than I've been since I graduated from marine academy. I expect that I'll be back to my relatively abrupt self in a few weeks once the novelty of having my second hand voice back wears off.
Silence returned to the hanger bay as the datapad generated voice stopped, the assault platform that comprised Alexander Shepard's body remaining motionless as it considered the simple tool before it. Minutes of inactivity passed before the machine's sensor pod lifted to the gunship suspended in it's gantry, swivelling sideways until it's field of view settled on the sealed stasis pod where an armoured krogan warrior lay in cryogenic sleep.
Onto the log proper, by strict mission parameters, the Korlus operation was a scrub. Okeer is very much dead, he chose to stick behind in the cloning chambers while his Blue Suns sponsor decided to gas the entire room. Thanks to that, whatever knowledge he has on the Collectors has passed on with him. Personally, while I am displeased that he chose to yank my chain with hints about what he knew before expiring, I can't say I'm unhappy that Okeer decided to go out with a whisper than end up on this ship as part of the crew, even if that meant he ended up taking his knowledge of Collectors with him. It was clear from the dossiers that we'd be dealing with a driven, possibly fanatical individual, but our brief talk painting a nastier picture than I had imagined. Okeer was one of the most practical fanatics, paradoxical I know, I've come across in a long time. The warlord knew what he wanted, and went about getting it on top of who knows how many thousands of krogan corpses. If he had survived, best I could have done was pick his brain clean and dump him on Tuchanka or wherever he wanted to go before he decided our ship would better serve his 'legacy'.
However, I am not going to consider Korlus a loss on the grounds that even though Okeer did not survive the operation, he left quite a trove of data behind. We stripped the lab clean of any useful tech, though we had to fight off a lot of the local scavengers to keep the perimeter clear while we emptied the lab. Fortunately, the entry points to Okeer's lab were easily secured against any ground entry and we were the only ones in the area with airborne transports, which is how we got the equipment out with a minimum of fuss. That isn't to say there weren't any attempts made to break through though. You'd think anyone who lived to adulthood in Korlus would be smart enough to stay clear of the group who'd just wiped out the local Blue Suns, at least until you had a firm idea on how strong their forces were. To answer that question, very, and they weren't, though some of them weren't all that intelligent either, mostly street gangs. The kids were smart enough to stay away after a scare, thanks be for small mercies like that, shooting children would have been a fine way to cement my relationship with known terrorists. At least the Korlus regular army stuck their nose out of it until we were well away, I'd rather not have to deal with an interplanetary incident on top of everything if I can help it.
As to what we've got, it's too early to say whether all the tech we salvaged from the cloning lab was worth the effort, but so far, the results are promising. Most of it was cutting edge gene sequencers, rare high end technology, but available if you know the right people and have a lot of credits. That made almost all of it was completely useless to our primary objective, but we did get a few gems. I'll spare the details, but suffice to say, Okeer's Collector tech wasn't as completely consumed in the cloning process as he had claimed, and his disposal measures for the rejects were less than thorough. It wasn't much, but Mordin salvaged enough Collector hardware from our haul to start building, not growing, a copy of the paralysing swarmer Veetor told us about. Apparently the damn thing is 95% machine with the rest being an organic shell for reasons no one seems to know, though Mordin has a few ideas. On that particular topic, I'd like to add that it's a good thing Mordin's cleared out the surveillance gear beforehand, which EDI and Miranda no doubt already know about but can't rectify. The last thing we need on top of the Collector problems is Cerberus getting their hands on the recipe to building their own paralysing swarmers. The professor is smart enough not to let anyone pilfer his lab data while he's around, and once the tests are complete, I'm going to recommend that Mordin destroy the samples. But the important thing is that with this, we should be able to test out in a few days how the Collectors paralyse the colonists and build a countermeasure to it.
Jacob has actually volunteered to be the guinea pig in this experiment, though I am debating the wisdom of permitting him to do so. Mordin is fairly certain the effects are temporary even if he can't work out a countermeasure, but there's always a chance something might go wrong, especially with tech we know so little about. I think Jacob was trying to make up for his lack of participation in the last mission by doing this, but that's just stupid. I don't hold him responsible for not having drop pack qualification beforehand and he certainly wouldn't have been able to help by splattering himself all over Korlus when we made the drop. I may not have a choice in the matter though, I'm not about to order one of the other crew to take up the job, and there's no slack room on the rosters in this ship for anyone to be considered expendable. Whoever gets tested, Mordin's countermeasure has to work, or we're going to be sucked up just like the rest of the colonists when we fight with the Collectors, and those four billion credits will have been flushed down the sink. I didn't start building this team and getting these weapons so they'd be wasted. End of log.
Shepard paused in his ruminations, sensor pod rising from the datapad as it stared off into the wall, settling back on his haunches with a quiet whine of servo motors. On it's own accord, the grenade launcher attachment hissed into position, the weapons platform rising over his shoulder before pivoting down into firing position, the muzzle brakes extending into position and shoulder clamps locking down to absorb the recoil from firing it's heavy payload. Shepard turned the sensor pod that was his head from right to left, or tried to, the attempt ending with a hollow clank as the lip of the armoured plate struck the shoulder mountings.
Note to self, I'll have to adjust the shoulder mount a bit if I want to keep from hitting my head against it. It took some time adapting to that third eye on the gun sights, but I still haven't gotten used to the whole thing sitting where I could bang my head into, one more way the lack of tactile senses is playing havoc with my situational awareness.
I'd like to say I was surprised to see Rana fooling around on Korlus as lab assistant to Okeer, but then I'd be lying to myself. The Galactic Codex paints the Asari as this race of wise and smart people, sharp as tacks as they get older, and I've seen plenty to confirm that stereotype, but Rana's a... well, she's a flake. No idea how old she is, but she's definitely a brilliant scientist, it's just that she doesn't seem to have any real idea of what she's doing to the bigger picture or if she does, it's all eezo and platinum. Garrus really didn't like the idea of letting her run free; a great deal of intelligence, but not much in the way of ethics is a recipe for disaster after all. She probably reminded him of that insane salarian geneticist, Dr Saleon. Personally, she reminds me more of Liara, except with a much tamer subject to obsess over to the exclusion of that not so common common sense.
The thing is, I owe her one from way back in Virmire. If she hadn't shown us Saren's personal lab, I'd probably would have kept to my mission and made straight for that triple-A tower. And that would have meant no Prothean memory device, no second hand memories which still hurts to think about, not enough information to figure out what Saren's real goal was, and no heart to dagger talk with Sovereign. If it wasn't for that, I'd probably still be thinking of Sovereign as some Reaper ship with no clues as to where Illos was, much less find out what the Conduit really was or it's importance. I'd be caught flat footed along with the rest of the Fourth fleet while Saren launched his backdoor invasion into the Citadel and called in the entire Reaper swarm. She probably doesn't realize it, but letting her go again seems adequate payback for that one time. Maybe it would have been better to keep her around for a proper interrogation for a while instead of focusing on Okeer alone, but there's no undoing that now. Either way, I get the feeling I'll run into her again sooner or later, probably working for some deranged project to make Hanar super assassins (can they even hold guns with those tentacles?) or some other mess like a how-to guide on blowing up stars.
Letting the grenade launcher pack away behind his shoulder, Shepard lifted his sensor pod again to glance at the stasis pod, watching the milky fluid gently bubble as it's contents floated serenely inside, utterly at odds with the permanently scowling visage and the powerful musculature that formed the bulk of the krogan's body. It took only a moment of thought to imagine it's charging bulk tearing apart people and weapons with contemptuous ease were it to be consumed by battle rage, a state of being any krogan easily fell into.
Speaking of a mess, there's the one sitting right there across the hanger bay just waiting for some poor fool to decant, and judging from personal record, I guess that fool would be me. The professor has already gone over the krogan inside, biggest I've ever seen, and given him a clean bill of health. A full grown adult, completely stuffed with thousands of years of krogan history and combat techniques thanks to Rana's imprinting technology. Going by our best estimates and field experience with Okeer's rejects, we could decant him right now with no special preparations and he'd be ready to fight a full scale war in less than a minute. I can't say whether I'm impressed or horrified at the implications of this technology. It takes eighteen years for a human to grow old enough to join the Alliance marines, half a year of training to graduate up to a basic grade, and a full four years of additional training and combat deployments before he or she is even considered for N specialist training, another year on top of that before they're qualified. All that investment makes us valuable resources that you don't throw away on a whim. But if you can grow combat ready super soldiers by the troopship in that short a time, galactic civilization might not be around long enough for the Reapers to show up.
Miranda of course, is in favour of giving Okeer's legacy to Cerberus bio-technicians for dissection and analysis, ostensibly to reverse engineer for Collector tech though I have my doubts on that. She was positively livid when I suggested opening our package of krogan perfection while on the ship, logically not the best course of action for any potentially hostile being bred to excel in close quarters combat. But I suspect that there may be more to gain from decanting Okeer's mega-krogan than just another hand with a gun if my suspicions on the imprinting technology and that bastard's personality are right. Of course, there's the matter of actually getting cooperation from his pet project, there's no guarantee that the things Okeer had imprinted in his head would match what Wrex used to tell me of Krogan culture, such as it is...
Bah, I've mulled over this a dozen times already, either I give Okeer's legacy a chance or I hand it over to Cerberus to play with, and I'm not so sure if they'll do anything with it that I'm comfortable with. I'd have preferred to try this in the port storage room, less fragile things to break, but if this is going to work, I'm going to need some room. Miranda is going to have a fit when she finds out what I'm about to do, but I'd rather this be on my terms than what she'd prefer. Besides, I out mass him two to one, and have a skin made out of high density armour plate, what's the worse-
Actually, better delete that last line, no sense in challenging the universe to prove me wrong. Yes, delete it...
Hah. "I delete errors like you on the way to real errors"? Amusing trick you've done with my voice Mister Programmer, whoever you are.
I'll have to remember that.
**********
Krogan.
It was the first thought the being had held when the Voice had begun to speak, showing images, smells and words that it had been tasked with remembering. It was Krogan, the Voice had said, without weakness or flaw. It was the thought the being had held when the roar filled the universe of darkness that encompassed it's world, a gurgling sound that accompanied strange new sensations the Voice had never bothered to describe. The cushioning liquid that had held it drained away, unceremoniously dropping it onto it's... feet before it knew how to use them. A command that sang across it's awareness as it fell forward, arms reaching out to catch the floor before it could strike the surface. Tightness grew in its chest, and another command that was stronger than the Voice made it choke, coughing out gouts of foul smelling liquid as it began to inhale, the constrictive feeling replaced by relief and the thunder of it's multiple hearts. Eyes snapped open, and then instinctively closed as the overwhelming light threatened to blind it, but only lasting less than a single beat of it's racing hearts as they adapted.
You are Krogan.
Smells filled his nostrils, chemical and sharp scents that Okeer's voice categorized or remained silent upon, but the Krogan did not think to smell. There was a... thing of metal and plastic, shaped with clumsy arms and legs, a head that glowed with a sullen red eye. By itself, Okeer's voice thundered in his head, speaking volumes. A machine, a mech, the voice named it scornfully, a sign of weakness and cowardice among lesser races who could not fight on their own strengths, crafting these... things to do battle for them. It was not one of the small frail ones with spindly limbs favoured by the lesser races, but large, it's size greater than a krogan. He saw and understood, the powerful limbs that were a part of the machine, weapons concealed in fingerless arms powerful enough to bring even a krogan down in seconds. It did not breathe, did not think, but it was a merciless thing that could easily kill the weak, the careless, and the stupid. No mere Krogan was any of these, and he was more than a mere Krogan.
The perfect Krogan.
All this he saw and understood in the moment between expelling the foul fluids and his first real breath that filled his lungs. Okeer's voice had told him many things, some of them had covered the machines, their strengths, their weaknesses and how a perfect krogan would exploit them. If he had a reason to. Knowledge filled his head, pictures that demonstrated how to strike before it could threaten him, where there was weakness to bite and claw at, how to reach past armoured plate to tear at vitals before it could bring those weapons to bear on him. But of reasons to do so, Okeer's voice had nothing that gripped the Krogan. And still there was a drive more compelling than Okeer's recollections and images, boiling inside his chest as the machine focused in his vision. It took only the knowledge that the machine was more than a lump of inert metal, that it was looking at him, for that inner voice to scream out.
Enemy!
**********
"Operative Lawson"
Miranda was awake at the first syllable, and out of her bed by the time the voice of the shipboard AI had mentioned her name, easily slipping on her Cerberus uniform with practised smooth motions. Normally loose when unworn, the uniform molded over her form as she put it on, smart fibres and interwoven micro-circuitry tightening the fabric over her geometric curves with tiny packets of flexible but skin tight non-newtonian fluid packs that would stop a mass accelerator round in it's tracks. The distance between the holographic projection that was now sitting on her desk and her bed were only meters apart, but by the time she had reached it, she was fully dressed, fastening her belt and braced for what she suspected would come. The artificial intelligence would not be calling her quarters without good reason, and on this ship so far, there was usually only one cause.
"Do you have a report EDI?" It was an academic question, there would always be something to report, but EDI was an artificial intelligence and still needed the occasional promptings to provide what another human would have done upon sighting her. The blue orb pulsed once in acknowledgement of her request.
"Commander Shepard ordered the hanger bay to be sealed and prepared for immediate venting. He has begun the shutdown sequence on the krogan stasis tank."
The Cerberus operative listened with anticipatory concern at the first sentence, but she was already out her door and strapping on her sidearm by the time the shipboard AI had finished the second, running mechanically through a very small list of unflattering descriptions in her head as she did so. Unlike her failure with Wilson, Shepard had been less of a closed book to her, and she had anticipated something like this, argued against it even. Okeer's project was far too dangerous to release in the tight confines of a ship the size of Normandy without risking damage to both the ship and critical personnel, like the Commander.
She didn't stop to question the artificial intelligence why it had chosen that particular moment to tell her, or attempt to delay the commander while she made her way to the service elevators, nor did she ask if the security teams had been alerted. The lack of alert status had clued her in to the clandestine nature of the ex-SPECTRE's actions faster than any spoken words would give her. She didn't question the Illusive Man's motives or judgments, he had never been off the mark during her years in his service, but she did find his insistence that Shepard be left without a control device to be frustrating, if only to get him to stop damaging himself. The Alliance Commander had thrown himself fully behind their goals of stopping the Collectors, something she appreciated, but at the same time seemed intent on destroying himself in the process.
When the elevator doors slid open to the engineering deck, the first thing she saw was the grizzled figure of Zaeed with his back to her, nonchalantly looking down through the observation ports to the hanger bay. He didn't turn, but waved a smoking cigar with a hand as Miranda hurriedly exited the elevator. "You missed the opening event sweetheart," the mercenary deadpanned with a smirk on his scarred face, "it's been one hell of a fight so far."
Underscoring his words, there was an all too familiar enraged roar and Miranda reached the observation ports just in time to catch Okeer's pet project slamming into the bulkheads hard enough to crack the pipes running along them. The lights had been dimmed, but it was bright enough for Miranda to see that most of the hanger bay remained undamaged, though the area around the krogan's stasis pod lay in various states of destruction. Oddly, she could see no damage that would have been indicative of weapons fire, only deep dents in the deck floor and smashed crates. When her eyes alighted on the commander, her lips thinned in a line of firm disapproval as she catalogued the damage his body had suffered in a sweeping glance. Exposed circuitry and machinery pumped or whirred where hardened armour plate had been ripped off, while sparking wires between the joints spoke of how strong the bloody krogan was in it's attacks. Only luck or skill had kept the krogan from penetrating anywhere near that all too vital brain concealed within and she hadn't spent two years salvaging it to trust to luck or martial skill now. She turned on the mercenary with a frosty look.
"We aren't paying you to spectate Zaeed, get down there and provide Shepard with some fire support." Miranda was about to tap on the communicator to call in for more reinforcements when Zaeed stopped her with a rebellious scowl.
"I'm not down there because Shepard doesn't want anyone there lady," Zaeed ended her objections with a flat stare, "his orders not mine."
Down below the krogan stormed to his feet, bouncing off* the floor as he charged the commander with a broken length of pipe like a spear. "Cerberus may be picking up the bill, but your contract makes him my boss, and if he doesn't want anyone going down there, then no one is. If he wants to provide a goddamned gladiator show while he's at it, that's his business. Besides," the impromptu spear skidded off the edge of a raised weapon sheathe, sliding off into empty air as the commander's other arm lashed out, catching the krogan full in the ribs and knocking him onto the floor "I'd say he's doing a damned good job of teaching the lizard who's in charge. Hell of a bad idea for most humans, but he isn't all that human any more is he?"
Miranda's expression didn't change one bit, but she didn't miss the faint tinge of respect in the mercenary's voice, and it certainly didn't do anything to quell her frustrations with the apparently suicidal commander. She pulled out her sidearm, and made to march off to the hanger bay access elevator when the speakers crackled with an all too familiar voice.
"STOP THERE"
She'd known about the commander's habit of patching into the secure intercom system since before Korlus, when EDI had informed her of the successful attempt to link the VI in his cybernetic body with the ship borne tertiary systems. But hearing his voice over the intercom and seeing the projected holographic mono-ocular avatar on the terminals EDI customarily inhabited still perturbed her greatly. Not only because of his greater integration with the machine which would complicate the transfer process when the replacement clone was complete, but she also suspected that Shepard might have gained access to some of the surveillance gear on the Normandy in the same way he had tapped into the intercom with the artificial intelligence's aid. It was very much like losing more control of the ship to the commander than Cerberus had any intentions of giving.
"NO INTERRUPTIONS"
And with that instruction, the holographic projection winked out before the Cerberus operative could say anything to object. Down in the hanger bay, the krogan had managed to close to the commander again, catching one arm at the shoulder while the other blocked the swing of the other with it's free hand. It began to pull and even from her vantage point, she could hear the groan of metal as Okeer's legacy began to literally disarm Shepard. But a moment later, the tables turned as the commander swept the krogan's feet out from under it with a sharp kick that left it dangling onto his arms with it's iron grip, only to go sailing across the hanger bay when Shepard sharply spun his torso to one side. Miranda quietly ground her teeth, frustrated that she was now deliberately prevented from putting a stop to the insanity, but elated that the bloody lunatic seemed well in control of his actions enough to fight and win against the krogan in hand to hand combat with a cybernetic body that was poorly suited for such things.
From his corner of the observation port, Zaeed let out a harsh laugh and took another puff on his cigar. "Don't know why there's all that fuss over one test tube krogan. Sure it's impressive for being a day old, and it's learning fast for a lizard, but you should have seen how it fought when it got out of that oversized lab tube," he shook his head, dropping and grinding the cigar underfoot, "like a goddamned rookie."
Miranda bottled up her frustrations, but she still had an acidic reply on her lips when the door to engineering slid open and one of the specialists walked through, holding a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and a datapad in the other.
"What the hell is going on?" Kenneth Donnelly demanded, his attempt at being serious broken by the wide yawn that split his face while he walked up to the observation ports. "I'm getting some kind of power fluctuations in the hanger bay, nothing major, just a few of the auxiliary lines have gone dead- saint's preserve me, what's the commander doing?!"
"Nothing that concerns you serviceman Donnelly," Miranda replied smoothly, trying to regain some vestiges of control over the deteriorating situation. The last thing this debacle needed was the rest of the crew getting wind of it, damaging morale and distracting everyone from their duties. "return to your post until this is sorted out."
"Like hell it doesn't," the engineer burst out angrily, forgetting exactly who he was talking to before sheepishly adding in a much more conciliatory tone, "uh ma'am. They're tearing up the hanger and it's causing all kinds of power fluctuations so it's my business to know what's going on that's causing this mess." He winced as the krogan landed a solid hit on the commander with a shoulder charge, driving the man into the wall with enough force that it caused the metal panels to crater. "It'd be nice if they stopped before they put a hole in one of the bulkheads too"
Zaeed burst out laughing, "don't count on them stopping the fight any time soon if you don't want to be disappointed. A fight like this is all about establishing who's in charge and who gets to pick up what's left of their teeth if they're lucky. Bloody hilarious to watch, but they're not seriously trying to kill each other yet." He paused for a moment, and then added, "At least Shepard isn't. The lizard's giving all it's got, but it isn't bloody enough. If Shepard was serious, a straight fight to the death would have been over in a couple of seconds flat, and then you'd have a bullet ridden corpse to space before it stinks up the whole ship. You go in now and play the peacekeeper, and likely you'll get tossed out the airlock in your birthday suit." As he said those words, Miranda closed her eyes in exasperation, opening them again to catch the Commander arch backwards and then lunge ahead, striking the krogan in the head with the top of his armoured sensor pod. There was a dull crunch and the krogan stumbled backwards, blood flying from the crack in its head plates.
The engineer picked up his jaw and closed it shut with a datapad before mutely shaking his head. "That sounds utterly insane but, uh, the commander's going to come out of it fine won't he?"
The only reply the mercenary gave to that question was a contemptuous snort while the krogan waded back in and traded fresh blows with the commander, "He ain't dead yet is he?"
For the briefest of moments, Miranda considered letting this lunacy play out the way the commander had ordered. Okeer's project showed no signs of slowing down or tiring, and the more damage Shepard suffered to his body, the sooner he might reconsider his actions before something irrevocable happened to that irreplaceable brain of his. It was the result of her exasperation with the man that she had even considered such a thing. But unless she could come up with a good reason to put an end to things that even he would accept, it would cost her his trust, trust in Cerberus, that she was not willing to sacrifice easily. It was beyond infuriating. The one person they were placing the majority of Cerberus resources and critical priorities with, and he was fighting against a krogan strong enough to tear out armour plating in hand to hand combat while her hands were tied. What this said about the man's mental state, there had never been any hints of this level of self-destructive behaviour in his previous records, she did not care to speculate. The sooner the replacement was ready, the better.
It would be less than an hour later when Miranda found herself back in the section of the hanger bay where Shepard's makeshift quarters had been situated, and wondering if she should have gone ahead and vented the cargo hold instead of letting him do as he wished. Persuading the man that it had been an act of necessity despite going against his explicit orders might have proven a simpler conundrum to manage than the potential jeopardy he was placing the entire mission with his seemingly reckless acts.
"Commander, while I can understand your desire to increase our odds of success by adding to the ground team, I strongly object to your latest decision. Adding a hostile krogan to the team, much less entrusting it with a weapon? This is ridiculous." The Cerberus operative swept a critical eye across the cargo hold as she paced across the decks. Most of the damage to the bay had been superficial and easily repaired, the crews having already removed most of it's signs well before Shepard's own repairs inside the maintenance scaffold had been completed. While she had been forced to admit that the damage to the commander had been equally negligible, having only to replace torn armoured plates and non-critical systems, the krogan had emphatically demonstrated how it easily could have been otherwise. But instead of sedating the krogan and returning it to containment, the commander had armed the creature and quartered it in the port cargo hold without any restraints on its movements. Even the turian who had far too much loyalty to the commander had not approved of the idea.
Though the former SPECTRE never moved from his position, staring motionlessly out from the maintenance bay rather than turning a sensor pod to focus on her, the commander proved that he was at least paying attention.
"NOT HOSTILE"
An immaculate eyebrow rose at the statement, and she couldn't entirely hide the disbelief at the rumbling pronouncement he had made. "Commander, you can not be serious! According to your own recounting of events, the krogan attacked you the moment it stepped out of the stasis pod with every intention of killing you. I am forced to admit that you were able to pacify it for now, but we simply do not know what else Okeer may have imprinted into it's consciousness that might trigger further aggression. If the rejects could be imprinted with simple commands, there is no telling if there are more complex behavioural triggers carried inside it's head, or for that matter, if it thinks the same way other krogan do. What if it turns on you on the ship or in the middle of a mission? It is an insane risk to take."
Now he did move, stepping forth from the scaffolding with heavy steps that echoed in the hanger bay to loom before her, forcing Miranda to crane her neck upwards to retain eye to optic contact. An unoccupied part of her mind wondered if this was an attempt on his part to intimidate her, but dismissed just as quickly. On the edges of her peripheral vision she caught sight of the krogan through the windows of the upper port cargo hold, occasionally casting an unfriendly look her way. It was still fiddling with the shotgun Shepard had given it, and even the presence of the safety lock that would prevent it from being fired on the ship did little to assure her of the certainty commander's statement. At least he had conceded to her suggestion that an armed guard be posted outside it's makeshift quarters rather than let it roam the ship completely unfettered.
"MINIMAL RISK." The commander rumbled, "EARLIER EVENTS RESULT OF KROGAN COMPETITION FOR DOMINANCE. I WON." he added when Miranda opened her mouth to reasonably object that he couldn't have known that before opening the stasis pod. "ALLOWING IT TO STAY IS MY DECISION. MY RESPONSIBILITY" There was a brief pause before he added in what she imagined must be a mollifying gesture "DAMAGE CONTROL IS CLEARED TO VENT THE CARGO HOLD IF EDI REGISTERS IT AS A THREAT"
"I see commander," there was no keeping the stiffness out of her voice, even with Shepard's little revelation. Though he no longer had any of the facial cues that would have made reading his intentions a simple matter, she could tell when this was all he would give regarding her concerns of shipboard security. She would have no better luck getting him to consider the matter any further than she would have of throwing his cybernetic body without the aid of biotics. "Will that be all then?"
To her surprise, it wasn't.
"THERE IS ONE OTHER MATTER" Though he hadn't moved a millimetre, the Cerberus operative got the feeling that behind the ever glowing optics in that sensor pod, Shepard was weighing her on an invisible scale. "JACK"
"The biotic potentate?" She lifted an eyebrow at the name, instantly recognizing the name from the dwindling list of potential recruits the Illusive Man had sent them. She had read all of them of course, and accessed additional data on a few of the more... potentially difficult candidates that the commander had not been privy to. Jack was a biotic, one of the strongest human ones ever to exist, possibly stronger even than her, Miranda admitted easily enough. But while their strengths might have been artificially grafted, her's had been branched out in many other fields to create the perfection desired by her megalomaniac father. Jack's sole development had been focused biotic strength to the exclusion off all else, as her extremely violent record had proved once she had escaped confinement. All the available data suggested that Jack would be an extremely powerful biotic but equally as unstable, and likely very hostile. Jack had been the result of a Cerberus cell before escaping and in all likelihood, would not have missed that particular detail, though in reality it had been a rogue cell operating without the Illusive Man's sanction. Given her past dealings with Cerberus, recruiting Jack would be... an extremely risky prospect. Did the commander share her doubts?
If he had doubts about the idea of recruiting the potentate, he did not say. "SHE IS HELD ON PURGATORY FOR MANY CRIMES BUT IS BEING RELEASED TO US WITH NO ISSUE. CERBERUS IS INVOLVED BUT THE DOSSIERS DO NOT MENTION HOW THIS HAS BEEN ACHIEVED. I KNOW YOU KNOW"
"Ah," she murmured non-committally, briefly wondering whether he was concerned with the nature of Cerberus's relationship with the warden of the interstellar prison ship or just their methods. "The answer is simple enough commander. Jack was made available by Purgatory authorities for a significant sum of credits, of which Cerberus agreed to meet in exchange for her release." Compared to the rest of the potential candidates, Jack's acquisition was planned to be the smoothest one with the least trouble in the process, but Miranda had her doubts. "The warden who runs Purgatory is known to sell prisoners on a bidding basis should there be any interested parties willing to meet their reserve prices."
"I SUSPECT HE WILL HAVE READ THIS THEN" Shepard rumbled, picking up a datapad that had been left on a packing crate and showing it to her, or at least tried to. It took several attempts before he managed to gingerly scoop up the relatively fragile device with an open gun sheathe and presented it to her, displaying what appeared to be a press release from Synthetic Insight expressing their denial of involvement in certain events in Omega. Distorted as it was by corporate speak, Miranda had no trouble recognizing the so-called 'events' as their operation to retrieve and recruit the turian who was now quartered in the Normandy's fire control station, thanks in no small part to the inclusion of a picture of Shepard in his grey and red striped pattern, clearly visible against Omega's backdrop. There was also a statement of sizeable interest by Synthetic Insights in 'acquiring' him. "WHAT IS YOUR ANALYSIS"
Miranda lifted an eyebrow at Shepard, recognizing a peace offering when she saw one. "I'm sorry commander I can't have heard correctly," she began archly, not quite willing to keep the smug tones out of her reply after he had so casually dismissed her concerns over the krogan, "that rather sounds like you're asking to hear what my opinion is."
There wasn't any facial tic or sudden stillness that would have indicated her point had made it's mark of course, but there was a very soft whirr of servo motors as his grip on the datapad tightened. Had Shepard still possessed his face, she would have imagined he was clenching his jaw as he stared down at her. The psychological dossiers on the man had spoken of a temper when provoked, but Miranda stood there and continued to match stares with him.
"I MAKE NO PROMISES TO FOLLOW ALL YOUR RECOMMENDATIONS" He grudgingly relented after a minute of silence, and Miranda knew that she had gained a small victory here even before he added "BUT I WILL CONSIDER THEIR MERITS"
Miranda permitted herself a small smile of victory at the admission, knowing full well while pulling an agreement from the man when he was stubborn was always problematic, he always honoured them when they were made. Studying the man's habits and behaviour over the years she had reconstructed him had it's advantages. Reaching out, she took the datapad from Shepard and gave it a more in depth look.
"Warden Kurill is not known for betraying his clients Commander, especially paying ones. It would be uncharacteristic of him to throw away his reputation for the possibility of reward for bringing in a rogue 'artificial intelligence' such as yourself" she began, looking at the wording of the article. It was a trivial matter to read between the lines of what was being said, and 'interest' had all the hidden meaning of 'bounty'. There was a witness account as well, but downplayed as the ramblings of a shellshocked survivor. Obviously the commander's intention to announce his return to the living by sparing the freelancer mercenary had not gone entirely the way he had hoped. However, if Synthetic Insights believed the commander to be an artificial intelligence worth acquiring, they would not offer a small price for the task. Likely not as much as Cerberus had paid to secure Jack's release, but possibly high enough to tempt a mercenary warden into committing betrayal. And of course, there was still the matter of Wilson's real employer, whom Cerberus had yet to identify, though their intelligence cells suggested a sharp increase in bounty hunting interests on the man he had attempted to kill or kidnap.
"Still, a little additional insurance might be in order."
**********
Not a machine, not fully a human, Okeer had said nothing of the sort in all the words and images he had showed to Grunt in his time in the tank. This... Shepard, he smelled like plastic and steel, sweet when lubricants had been spilled instead of the iron tang of blood he would have expected of a human that it claimed to be. He knew things, how to kill, how to fight, what weaknesses to seek even when his enemies were metal instead of flesh, but he had not been prepared for the human machine that called itself Shepard. He did not like uncertainty, but the fight, teeth flashed momentarily in a predatory gleam as he remembered the first fight he had upon awakening from the tank. Okeer had taught him how to fight, but he had never hinted at the thrill that fighting had given him. The blood roaring in his head, urging him to even more destruction until all was flattened before him. It was glorious.
He hungered for more, wanted to feel the crack of bone or armoured plate beneath his fists as he tore them away. Had this Shepard fought like the memories had shown, as a human or a machine, he would have felt nothing more than simple satisfaction at crushing it. But Shepard had fought him the way a Krogan warrior would, he thumped a balled fist into his palm, right to the face. Had he not interrupted their fight by asking for his name, Grunt was sure that their battle would have continued until the machine known as Shepard had been turned into a pile of scrap.
But the not-machine had asked, and he had stopped to consider. Now that the fight had been interrupted, his blood did not sing as loudly as it did, and he forced down the instinct to fight and consider. Beasts didn't have names, but he was better than that, he would be in control, a name would be the first step. Okeer had placed many expectations but not a name, and he had spent the time wiping the blood from his chin to consider his identity. Grunt would be a suitable name, it was an empty word that meant nothing, not like 'Legacy' or 'Okeer' like the not-machine had suggested. Those names had expectations he could not, and did not care about. What he did care about, was strong enemies to fight, battles that set his blood to singing again and the roar of his hearts as relived the sensation of destroying those he stood before him.
The not-machine known as Shepard must have felt it the same way he did, because he offered Grunt a place in his ship and clan before he could answer the demands of his heated blood again. Strong, worthy enemies, and no shortage of them to do battle with as long as he stayed with Shepard's clan. There were memories of deception, warnings by Okeer never to take what was in the claw without looking it over closely. But he was fresh born, and there were no enemies to fight unless he did so blindly against everything. Now that his blood had cooled, fighting like that was not him, not when he did so out of his control. As his battlemaster, if Shepard could deliver worthy enemies to fight, then Grunt would fight. If he told him to stop, he would stop... he snorted in amusement, eventually.
Worthy enemies or not, Shepard had known what to give Grunt to fight them with. The ship was a human one, though there had been a turian smell earlier, and it's armoury would have weapons fitted for the fragile human fingers, but looking over the weapon in his hands, he knew without anyone telling that the weapon had been made for a krogan. Heavier and clumsier than the flimsy human sized weapons, with a trigger guard large enough to fit a human hand through, the shotgun in his grip felt natural, as if it had always belonged there. Grunt had approved, but there had been a human female who had objected to the idea when Shepard had given the weapon to him. He had almost broken his promise to accept Shepard as battlemaster by shooting the female right there, even if she was part of his clan.
A flicker of motion in the distance caught his sight, and his eyes focused down into the hanger bay of the ship where Shepard had placed himself. Okeer's voice spoke of weaknesses in the design, how weapons fire concentrated here would scatter heavy cargo and cause havoc, but he ignored it and focused on the human woman approaching the machine that was not. It was the same one who had not wanted him to be armed, calling him 'dangerous'. That had been the only smart thing Grunt had heard her say so far, but Shepard would not want him to personally prove that to the human... yet.
He couldn't listen through shock proof glass, but he could tell that they were talking about something. His interest spiked when Shepard closed with the human, looming over her close enough to touch. He didn't need to hear the words to know that it was a challenge. Maybe he would get to see if the humans this Shepard commanded were worthy foes as well.
To his disappointment, the human didn't take the challenge, only speaking more words that he couldn't hear. There was some movement too far to see properly, and the not-machine passed a datapad to the woman, but only for her to read. He couldn't see what was on it, and didn't care, his interest waning when there would be no answering to the challenge. Grunt snorted, the human female was weak against this Shepard, a krogan would have met it head on and prevailed or learned who was the stronger. Seeing no further interest in the human, he turned his attentions back to the weapon he had in his hands, checking it's action once more.
If this was the quality of Shepard's subordinates, he could not imagine that his enemies would be any greater challenge.
**********
Warden Kurill liked to think of himself as a fair and just turian, providing a necessary service to the galaxy that no one else had the guts to do. No matter what some of the addle brained portions of society said, some sentients, though he was loathe to use the term on the kind of animals he had rotting away in the cell blocks of Purgatory, could not be rehabilitated nor made to see the error of their ways. They were dangerous, incorrigible animals who were a threat to the galaxy if they were let free, instead of being kept away in cells for the good of everyone else. The only thing productive thing that they could give back to society was by parting with their organs for more deserving people, and only some of them. Fortunately for the prisoners, Kurill was not the same kind of criminal scumbags that they were, so they got to keep their organs where they belonged.
There was never question of their guilt, not really. The people who came to enjoy Purgatory's hospitality were not the kind who'd steal a credit chit or cut a deal with red sand. Cutting you and your family to pieces, blow up your home colony and fashion your body parts into a macabre suit was some of the less horrific offences of the thousands of scum incarcerated here. Two minutes alone with any one of the softer hearted and addle brained portions of society, and there'd only be one sentient left alive, and it would be the one in the orange prison jumpsuit. These were the kind of sentients the galaxy at large wanted to go away forever. Some might have argued that it would have been cheaper and more effective to simply put a bullet in their heads, but there was always the question of expenses to cover. Purgatory was not a cheap ship to run, and her crew expected annual bonuses to keep the inmates from becoming too... energetic.
Since he and his men were performing a service to the galaxy, Kurill felt that the government 'donations' to keep their prisoners locked up tight were in fact justly earned. If they had to be reminded about what could happen had they run out of the money to keep them in their cells, well, that was how the universe worked. Their populations would simply have to play host to the criminals he had when he released them at a time and place of his choosing. If someone wanted to personally mete out justice for the wrongs the criminals had committed on them however, that was something Kurill approved of and provided, at a reasonable price of course. Some of his men in the early days had mentioned concerns of releasing the scumbags to criminal associates, but that was a remote worry. The inmates of Purgatory had no friends, at least those outside of bars. Today however, would be a special case.
"I assure you Miss Lorus, Purgatory is well equipped to handle a handful of armed guests, your concerns are unwarranted," the warden smoothly assured the holographic projection in front of him. On the other side of the intergalactic communication, the turian woman flicked a well filed mandible interestedly. A rarity this one, Kurill decided in the depths of his mind, turian women were so rarely encountered outside of Hierarchy space, much less working for a decidedly non-turian concern. From what he could see of the holographic representation, life outside of the Hierarchy had agreed well with the woman, with mandibles sharp enough to cut glass and a beautifully formed fringe plate. A shame this was going to be strictly a business relationship with the Synthetic Insight representative. "Your bounty will be deactivated and securely housed on one of our transports in less than a cycle once we confirm payment."
The holographic projection nodded her head. "As you say Warden Kurill, we agree to your specified price in principal, but expect all observations you have regarding the rogue AI to be forwarded to us prior to the actual payment. In addition, one of our AI specialists will be arriving shortly to analyze the mark to confirm if it is exactly as you say before we transfer the sum you specified. A business precaution, I am sure you understand."
Kurill nodded amiably before continuing, voice just as smooth as before. "Of course Miss Lorus, one should always be careful with their purchases." Two years earlier, and he would have been mortally insulted at the implied questioning of his promises, but he accepted it with an easy equanimity. The Terminus systems taught you to be always careful with the people you were dealing with, no matter how reputable they were. Had she excepted his word without question, he would have thought less of her for that. Of course he had not made mention that this would be the first double cross the Warden would be committing on a paying client in years, but with the expanded bounty he had negotiated with Synthetic Insights and the sum they were being paid to secure Jack's release, Kurill would earn enough credits to live like a king, and as securely as one, for the rest of his life. An opportunity like this came only once in a lifetime.
Their negotiations completed, the Synthetic Insights representative ended her communications with the possible promise of further business if their transaction was successful, leaving the Warden in a reflective state. His office was a sparsely decorated, but what it lacked in furnishings, it made up for in communications gear. Rows of holographic display panels showed entire cell blocks, their occupants suitably pacified while one was permanently fixed on the cryogenic stasis chamber which housed the most dangerous bundle of hate to ever walk the stars, Jack. The prisoner wasn't visible of course, buried deep in the titanium lined cyrogenic chamber that could only be removed with the purpose built heavy crane, three YMIR assault platforms on permanent watch duty over the frost lined chamber.* Had it been any other sentient housed in Purgatory's cells, he might have thanked them for being such a valuable ticket to their retirement fund. With Jack, he was simply content with the knowledge that the walking disaster zone would never be out of that ice box for the rest of his life. And what a life it would be once the trap closed.
Finding out about the highly unusual mech had been a trivial task, even a child would have heard the news of it's exploits on Omega now. Learning who was controlling the mech, and the priceless AI that ran it, had been a slightly more difficult task, and the informant had not parted with that little gem cheaply, but Kurill had long learned to follow his hunches where credits were concerned. It was money well spent. For a shadow organization, Cerberus has not chosen to be particularly inconspicuous this time, but their carelessness was his fortune. Finding out that the very people who had sponsored Jack's release were also the same people who were going to walk into Purgatory with a king's ransom in the form of an artificial intelligence had been almost too good to be true. Not to mention the ship they would be arriving in. The name and basic specifications had cost Kurill another twenty thousand credits to learn, but if he was going to carry out this double cross, living long enough to spend his gains would require neutralizing the ship before any alert could be sent out. Capturing it intact on the other hand, would net him and his men more money than they could spend in this life.
There wouldn't be any guilt over this one either, no worries about putting bullets in innocent people when this trap would be sprung. The rogue artificial intelligence was a threat nobody wanted running loose in the galaxy, and nobody would care if he killed or ransomed off the crew of this particular ship. Few would have seen any difference between slavers and Kurill, but he drew a line while the scum of the galaxy didn't. Cerberus was a nasty piece of work, and nobody loved them. He'd deal with them like any other client, but he wouldn't lose any sleep double crossing them either. If he had been still in the Hierarchy navy, they'd have given him a medal for what he was about to do.
An alert flashed on one of his view screens, resolving into a sensor on the tactical display of Purgatory's long range sensors at the press of a button. A moment later, more data streamed into the display, IFF interrogations identifying the incoming vessel as the Normandy, the ship that was supposed to collect Jack. Despite himself, the mandibles of his jaws flicked in anticipation, knowing that his men were already readying themselves to receive their latest guest.
When this was over, he was going to be a very, very rich Turian.
**********
Codex Entry: In the Thresher Maw's Den, Terminus Publications
"Make no mistake, we hold the most dangerous criminals in the galaxy" These were the first words Warden Kurill had to say to me, on the first, and thus far only, interview ever conducted on the infamous prison ship Purgatory. "The indentured labour mines on the moons of Tessang Prime and orbital containment facilities of Luna may claim to hold the hardest criminals, and I don't mean to insult their facilities, but they wouldn't be able to contain the kind of prisoners you see here on the Purgatory. These aren't the mindless butchers or killers you'll find infesting the galaxy at large, these are highly intelligent balls of hate and murderous intent. Viciousness isn't what makes them dangerous, it's the intelligence they've got to go with it. We've had prisoners build firearms and explosives out of bedding and waste matter, and they won't hesitate to use them. Any other prison, and these criminal scum would be long gone."
And the Purgatory is a very well built prison. We weren't allowed to take pictures, but the from the tour we were given, it's clear that the former ark ship has been rebuilt to a level of security that some might call excessively paranoid. Along with the usual assortment passive security systems such as kinetic barriers and eezo powered stasis restraining systems, Purgatory also maintains a high level of lethal deterrence to any prison riots in the form of automated sentry guns, security mechs and the ubiquitous Blue Suns security agents, all heavily armed and armoured. Over three thousand cells line the exterior pressure hull of Purgatory, two way modular blocks capable of venting it's luckless occupant into the cold depths of space itself or the airless vacuum chamber that separates it from the pressurized habitation block where the Blue Suns security personnel do their work as jailers of the galaxy's worst criminals. Only once has Warden Kurill had to exercise this total power over the lives of his prisoners, venting an entire cell block when they "became completely unmanageable by conventional means and had to be made an example of."
Despite what the reader may think, the Warden claims that the conditions aboard the Purgatory are strictly compliant within all Council law and is regularly inspected by Council agents to ensure said compliance. This correspondent can only wonder what the situation was like that it necessitated such extreme measures.
When asked about the possibility of an external attack by former confederates of the more well connected prisoners, Warden Kurill had this to say. "It's true that Purgatory was never designed to stand up to a serious attack by the criminal cartels and gangs that our inmate populace belong to. Despite being of cruiser weight, the Purgatory is not a warship and won't be able to stand up to anything in her weight class. But if the cartels try making a prison break with one of those, they'd never get any prisoner off the ship, at least not in one piece. Anyone who wants to disable the ship will have to shoot through our outer hull, where we place our prisoners, before they'll be able to knock out anything important. Any significant damage in the opening volley, and life support in the entire block goes, killing their prize. A more practical approach with boarding parties would be met with significant fighter cover and our GARDIAN laser batteries, more than enough to drive off the usual sort of criminal and pirate attacks you'd expect in the Terminus systems. No inmate has ever gotten out of Purgatory without our say so, and that's never going to happen in anyone's lifetime."
Continuing the tour of the facility, I was permitted to see one of sample cells in which the Purgatory inmates spend the vast majority of their lives. Far be it for this reporter to disparage his methods, but the charges by the Sentient Rights League are indeed correct when they charge the Purgatory inmate lives as cramped and uncomfortable. The cells are cubical blocks measuring two and a half meters on any side, little more than airtight cargo containers with airlocks on either end and a chemical toilet for sanitation. Synthetic protein paste is provided to the prisoners on a daily basis in the same way that the cells are transferred for processing, via a mechanical arm mounted in the vacuum chamber. Once a day, they are individually permitted to briefly leave their cells for cardiovascular activities in a highly secured yard, but beyond that, they have nothing else but the walls of their cells. Contact between prisoners is strictly forbidden. It is a harsh existence these prisoners face, but the warden disputes the notion that they deserve any better. "These are animals who have butchered their way across continents and entire planets. We didn't kidnap them, or catch them for ourselves, the planetary governments of the Terminus systems gave them to us because they couldn't deal with them. These aren't your common murderers or criminals, these are people who the governments want to go away forever. And we provide that service."
And an expensive service it is. Though this Terminus Publications were not permitted access to the financial records of Purgatory, it is clear that despite cost cutting measures, the running and maintenance of the ship and it's escorts is not a cheap endeavour. Rubbishing claims of slavery to finance their operations, Warden Kurill claims that their expenses are often underwritten by the various governments in the Terminus Systems. "We have a service that no one else has the guts to do. Because of us, innocent citizens can go to sleep knowing that these butchers and animals are on their trip to the next star cluster and will never again threaten anyone. The rights groups may make their noises about living conditions or throw their laughable claims of slavery, but it's because of us that they don't get their heads cut off by these animals. The politicians make the occasional politically correct noise, but they know who lets them sleep safely, and they're grateful enough to give us discounts on the necessary expenses it takes to keep this place running. In exchange, we take in their worst troublemakers, the serial killers, the psychotic murderers who get their kicks out of butchering kids in exchange for the price of their incarceration."
Coming to the end of our tour, the Warden had one other thing to say regarding the SRL. "No one has to like my methods, but they work when nothing else will. The Rights League, and their so-called claims of just and fair treatment haven't stopped the galaxy from producing criminal scum who prey on others, and so long as that keeps on happening, we'll keep on doing this. Count on it."
The funny thing is, I'm not that good at writing summaries. Had to go through a few iterations before finally arriving on the one I had on FFnet.mkire said:y'know, every time i saw this recommended i figured it was junk from the descriptions. I was very wrong. Thank you for posting this
No, he's probably not going to. But then again, nobody is likely to get what they're expecting on the Purgatory once things go down.Mercsenary said:In any case, Warden's not going to get what he is expecting is he?
The Citadel was once a shining beacon of galactic civilization, it's technology and artistry unmatched. Now it is a burned out hulk, ruined beyond even the skill of it's now extinct Keeper population to repair. Some say it was an ancient race, enacting revenge for reasons long forgotten. Others say it was the hubris of those who inhabited it's hallowed halls. There are as many stories as there are tellers that explain it's fate.Cpl_Facehugger said:"Ah yes, "Shepard." We have dismissed your claims. You are clearly a fascimilie tastelessly carrying a dead man's name."
I am so using this.Jace911 said:"AH YES 'REASON'. THE LOGICAL THOUGHT PROCESS OF SENTIENTS ALLOWING THEM TO FORM RATIONAL THOUGHTS. YOU APPEAR TO HAVE DISMISSED THAT NOTION."
I CANNOT wait to read this.
*Shepard7 has logged in*vIsitor said:Somewhat more seriously, maybe he should take up online gaming to pass the time during his 'down' hours; might almost be beneficial to his mental state, such as it is. And our favorite Geth is a gamer, right? Would be mildly amusing if Shepard unknowingly crossed paths with Legion.