by Joan Jett
“That’s why she went to work with Saren, isn’t it?”
My breath caught in my throat. “I hadn’t thought about that, but you may be right. Goddess help her, she must have been trying to redeem him.”
“Not the best case study for the moral point we’re trying to make, I suppose.”
“No . . . but what if she had succeeded?”
Suddenly a thought struck him and he beamed up at me, an expression of such surprised happiness it brought the sting of tears to my eyes. “Liara. She did succeed. She redeemed herself, and she gave us the chance to stop Saren, which means we might still be able to redeem him as well.”
I closed my eyes and felt the tears run down one cheek. “Oh, Shepard. I hope you’re right.”
“I know I am. All we’ve ever been promised is that everything will work out as it should in the end. Before then, all we can ask for is a chance. Benezia took that chance and did the best she could with it. Now it’s our turn.”
I smiled at him and caressed his cheek. “And if Cerberus gives us a chance?”
“We take it. And the Illusive Man had better worry about what we might do with it.” He stood abruptly, and held out his hand for me. When I took it, he pulled me into his embrace and kissed me.
Let the record state that Shepard was a superb kisser. Unhurried, thorough, committed, and Goddess, he tasted good. After the first second of surprise I let my body melt against him, let a flood of heat wash through me, and lost all capacity for rational thought for a long moment.
Eventually he drew back to look into my eyes from very short range. “Hmm. I must admit, I am strongly tempted to ask you to stay.”
“I would be strongly tempted to agree,” I told him. “However, you need to go on your rounds and remind everyone who is in charge . . . and I have Prothean artifacts to catalogue and analyze. Duty calls.”
He told me in no uncertain terms what he wanted to do with duty.
“Shepard, surely you can think of much better things to do that with.”
He shook his head ruefully. “Oh yes. But you’re right, now isn’t the time. Liara, once this is all over and we can take a few days for ourselves, what do you say we go somewhere quiet and beautiful, just the two of us, and live off nothing but room service for a solid week?”
“That sounds wonderful.” I broke away from him, very reluctantly. “Do you feel better?”
“I do. You’re not only good for my morale, you give very good advice.”
“I’m glad to be earning my pay,” I joked.
“Every credit, Doctor.”
A few hours later, when I was about ready to retire for the night, my omni-tool chimed. I found a text message on it, from Shepard:
Set me as a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm.
For love is strong as death, passion fierce as the grave,
Its flashes are flashes of fire, a raging flame.
Many waters cannot quench love, neither can floods drown it.
If one offered for love all the wealth of one’s house, it would be utterly scorned.
I shook my head, smiling. Too bad the Athame Codices don’t include any love poetry, I thought. Still, I’m sure I can find something appropriate.
Chapter 25 : Cry Havoc
22 April 2183, Alliance Navy Headquarters/Arcturus Station
The lift doors opened, and I stepped out into the midst of more humans than I had ever seen in one place in my life. Fortunately none of them paid much attention to me, all in a rush to be somewhere else. Shepard and Lieutenant Pressley strode out into the fast-moving throng, and I hurried to keep up.
Normandy had come home, to the heart and capital of the Alliance.
From our position I could easily see the shape of the station: a vast torus, rotating to provide artificial “gravity” without any need for mass-effect technology. As we moved spinward, the ground seemed to slope up and up ahead of us, until it vanished around the curve of the torus. Above us countless stars shone through the transparent roof, but an array of mirrors also served to provide us with adequate “sunlight” from the red giant star Arcturus. Everything felt surprisingly homelike. My body told me I walked on the surface of a habitable planet, even if my eyes disagreed.
All around us stood a complex of two-story and three-story buildings, all white metal and silver glass, marked with the insignia of the Alliance Navy. Between the buildings we saw wide greenways and small parks, lush with green foliage, punctuated by the occasional monument or small fountain. Elsewhere in the station I knew areas existed for civilian housing, light industry, commerce, entertainment, and even some parklands and agricultural facilities. The builders of Arcturus Station designed it for self-sufficiency, ready to provide anything the Alliance’s leaders, or their families, might require.
It’s too bad the station lasted less than ten minutes when the Reapers finally arrived.
Most of the humans around us wore uniforms. Shepard and Pressley had put on their “dress blues” for the occasion, formal gear I had never seen them wear before. For my part I wore a dark blue shirt, trousers, and boots without any insignia, so I could blend in without actually wearing the Alliance uniform to which I held no claim. I attracted enough surprised stares just for being asari.
We entered one building and approached a set of double doors. Shepard strode up to the Marine guards at the door. “Lieutenant Commander William Shepard, SSV Normandy. Lieutenant Charles Pressley. Dr. Liara T’Soni, civilian consultant.”
One of the guards consulted his omni-tool and shook his head. “Sorry, sir, you and the lieutenant are on the list, but the asari isn’t. She’ll have to wait outside.”
Shepard scowled. “Dr. T’Soni is most certainly on the list, Petty Officer. I verified that just before we made port. I personally don’t care who took it upon himself to change the access list at the last minute in order to exclude a member of my staff, but if I have to take it up with Admiral Hackett, I suspect he will want to find out.”
“Just a moment, sir.” The Marine switched his helmet microphone to “private” mode, and apparently engaged in a conversation with one of his superiors. It didn’t take long. “Sorry, sir, someone in Security put a hold on Dr. T’Soni until they could verify that an alien was cleared for the conference. It’s been expedited. She can go in with you.”
“Thank you, Petty Officer.” Shepard, Pressley, and the Marines exchanged salutes, and then Shepard turned and led us through the doors.
I saw a very large conference room, capable of seating several hundred, with several concentric circles of seats arranged on a shallow slope down to the central table. Very few seats remained empty when we arrived. I looked around and spotted a few human civilians, and even three or four turians sitting together near the central table, but the vast majority of the people in the room wore Alliance military uniforms.
I thought to sit in the back of the room, but Shepard touched my arm and led me down toward the center. The three of us found places already set aside, in the very first row of seats above the central table.
The assembled company hummed with low-voiced conversation, but around us a small island of silence grew as people turned away. For a few moments I wondered whether it was my presence that drove Shepard’s colleagues away from him. Then I noticed most of the stares – many of them fearful or resentful – lay on Shepard rather than me. That puzzled me, until I realized that I saw another significant difference between asari and human psychology.
Among asari an individual who displays great talent or virtue, who accomplishes great things, will normally attract nothing but admiration. We evolved in large groups, most comfortable with many of our own kind around us. We certainly have competitive instincts, but the need to support and defend the group is always paramount. We can afford to admire others who succeed, because their success also enriches us as part of the same community. It helps that we are parthenogenetic and very long-lived, so that each of us can sire or bear as many children as we ca
n afford. When we do engage in reproductive competition, the stakes are low because we always have plenty of time to find a suitable mate and have children.
The two-gendered, short-lived humans evolved in much smaller groups, troops in which every member engaged in a constant high-stakes game of social dominance. With an optimum breeding lifespan of only a decade or so, humans never had time to simply wait for power, prosperity, or access to suitable mates. Even worse, the male gender is designed for a strategy of scattering one’s genes as widely as possible. For most humans, males in particular, the result is constant and fierce sexual competition. They evolved with no limiting factors on their competitive drive. Even now that they have become civilized creatures, human groups always have their alpha members – loved, feared, respected, resented, powerful so long as they continue to play the social game well, but always in danger of a humiliating fall.
Shepard had been present for the flash-point that had given rise to the current war. During the war he had pressed himself forward, demonstrating drives and talents unusual among his kind. He had been granted the signal honor of becoming the first human Spectre. He had spoken up during the last war conference, and had persuaded officers far senior to him to follow the strategy he had devised. He had the patronage of Admiral Hackett. He had become an alpha human, set apart from most of his people, marked out for distinction or for abysmal failure.
There would be many who would prefer to see him fail.
That will not happen, I resolved. Not as long as I am with him.
The lights in most of the hall dimmed, while those illuminating the central table rose. Admiral Hackett appeared, followed by three other officers with admiral’s emblems on their uniforms.
“All rise!” shouted a junior officer. Everyone in the room rose to their feet, including me after a moment’s hesitation.
“As you were,” said the admiral, in his deep and raspy voice.
Thus I saw Steven Hackett for the very first time. Later I came to know him very well, counting him among my best human friends and allies for many years. Today, of course, he stands tall in the accounts of galactic history: the great architect of the Reconstruction after the Reaper War, the leader who consolidated the victory that Shepard won, the statesman who guided humanity into its current stable and honorable place as one of the foremost races in the galaxy. Among humans his reputation is hardly the less, standing with men like Cyrus, Alexander, Julius Caesar, or Napoleon Bonaparte as one of the greatest military commanders of all time.
In 2183 CE he remained a relatively young human, not quite fifty years of age, with most of his reputation still ahead of him. He had a scarred face, craggy, gaunt and long-nosed, but illuminated from within by enormous force of character. His gray eyes reminded me of a carnivorous avian, missing nothing as he gazed about him. He had permitted his close-cropped hair and neatly trimmed beard to turn silver. He possessed impeccable carriage, erect as a marble pillar, eloquent of confidence and strength of will. When I looked at him, I thought I could see what Shepard might look like in twenty years: a seasoned exemplar of humanity.
“The Fifth Fleet has new orders,” he said without preamble. “Within twenty-four hours, we launch a new offensive against the geth: Operation BLUE LIGHTNING.”
A hologram appeared above the table, a map of the galaxy. It quickly zoomed in on a region far out on the galactic disk, about ninety degrees to trailing from Earth. Bright stars were sparse there, on the far end of what the humans called the Perseus Arm.
“This is the Armstrong Nebula Cluster, on the far edge of the Attican Traverse. Several hundred star systems, most of them unexplored, the most notable of them the double giant star Vamshi. We know of no civilizations native to the region, and no major galactic power has established colonies there. This is neutral and very nearly empty territory . . . or at least it was until very recently.”
The hologram zoomed back out partway, showing not the entire galaxy but a large section of its outer fringes. The far Perseus Arm was displayed in relation to the so-called Outer Arm, which in this region lay along the remote fringe of the galactic disk. A deep red sphere appeared in the heart of the Outer Arm.
“This is Rannoch, the quarian homeworld, also the center of geth civilization. Ships from our organic civilizations which venture past the Perseus Veil – here – normally do not return. Without better intelligence about the size, structure, and capabilities of geth civilization, the Admiralty is very reluctant to commit to a large-scale invasion.”
Another red sphere appeared in the Armstrong Nebula region. A winding red line followed the mass-relay network between the two geth concentrations.
“However, the geth appear to have established a supply route from their homeworlds to the Armstrong Nebula. Intelligence believes this to be the largest concentration of geth ever seen outside their home territory. Our assessment: this concentration represents a staging area for a full-scale invasion of human space. We are going to pre-empt that invasion by striking first.”
A great murmur of voices rumbled all around us. I glanced at Shepard, and saw him sitting grim and unsurprised. He knew about this in advance.
Hackett and other officers delivered briefings about the astronomical structure of the Armstrong Nebula, the estimated arrangement of geth outposts, the timetable for the attack. Normandy would depart at once for the Gagarin system, with orders to scout for and destroy geth listening posts. Other new ships in the same class, the Antietam and Kalinga, would strike similar targets on the outskirts of the cluster. After that the whole Fifth Fleet would move in, hoping to locate and destroy the main body of the geth.
The conference lasted for about three hours, issuing general orders, detailing timetables and contingency plans. I heard surprisingly little discussion or debate. Admiral Hackett certainly knew how to organize and manage a large meeting.
Once the conference ended, Shepard stood and moved over toward Hackett, waiting patiently while higher-ranked officers spoke to the admiral. Finally Hackett won free and turned to us.
“Commander,” he said, accepting Shepard’s salute and extending a hand for him to shake. “What can I do for you?”
“I was wondering whether we could borrow about five minutes of your time,” said Shepard.
“Not easy, but for you I will make an exception.”
“Thank you, Admiral. Let me introduce Lieutenant Charles Pressley . . .”
The admiral bestowed a handshake on the navigator as well. “I’m familiar with your record, Lieutenant. You did very fine work on the Agincourt. Between you and Shepard I’m sure the Normandy is in very good hands.”
Pressley nearly lost his composure at the admiral’s praise, but managed to control himself, shake hands, and murmur, “Thank you, Admiral.”
“. . . and this is Dr. Liara T’Soni,” Shepard concluded.
Hackett glanced at me with interest, and shook my hand firmly. “You must be Benezia’s daughter, the Prothean expert. I understand you’ve been a great support to Commander Shepard’s mission.”
I felt a daimon rest its hands on me as I took the admiral’s hand and bowed over it with just the right degree of dignified correctness. Perhaps my mother advised me from beyond the grave.
“It’s Dr. T’Soni’s work I want to discuss with you, Admiral,” said Shepard. “I believe she has begun to provide solid empirical evidence supporting the geth belief in the Reapers.”
Hackett frowned. “Walk with me, Commander.”
As the admiral set out for his next meeting, the three of us from the Normandy followed.
“Commander, you should know the Admiralty is not prepared to spend time on this Reaper hypothesis. Most of us regard it as a distraction from the real issue – the geth.”
“That is not my intent, sir.”
“I know that, but my colleagues don’t. It doesn’t help that you seem to have learned about the Reapers from this vision of yours.”
“Sir, my experience with the Prothean beacon
is off the table. It was subjective and nobody else is ever likely to be able to verify it. What we can verify is the history of past galactic civilizations, as uncovered by archaeologists like Dr. T’Soni. The empirical and objective evidence strongly suggests some unknown force has been destroying civilizations for a very long time, with a level of regularity and thoroughness indicating deliberate intent.”
“Do you concur, Doctor?” the admiral asked me.
“Yes, Admiral.” I took a datapad from a pocket of my shirt and handed it to him. “This includes a paper I’ve published on the subject, along with new evidence I’ve gathered and collated since then. The evidence is not yet conclusive, but we are well along the way to that point.”
Hackett took the datapad without glancing at it. “All right. Yet once again I must ask the question, Commander: what does this have to do with the geth?”
“Sir, the geth believe in that civilization-destroying force. They believe themselves to be allied with it. The geth are mysterious but they have never been known to be delusional. Where did they get that notion?”
“From Saren?”
“All right, where did he get it? If it’s a lie, how did he manage to come up with a fable that’s supported so well by evidence we’re only now starting to uncover?”
“Good point.”
“Then we have some of the discoveries we’ve made on our patrols, sir. The find at Trebin was especially alarming. The geth are using technology identical to what we found in a million-year-old archaeological site. They couldn’t have developed that technology themselves. It predates the Protheans, it predates every civilization we know about. Where did they get it?”
“Another archaeological site in their own space?”
“That’s possible, sir. It’s also possible that they got it directly from the people who created it. It’s much more reasonable to believe in civilization eaters if they’re right there partnering with you.”