Shepard touched the giant "appendages" with a laser pointer.
"These legs may not be landing supports, in this particular case. They may not take the ship's weight. I suspect they'll be drawn in. And the ship itself will barely touch the surface with its 'legs.' Maybe it will only indicate a landing that way, misleading the locals, masking itself. Keeping the 'cocoon' around the hull will let it launch immediately, without long preparation. The 'cocoon' will be there, shields will be there. But it's hard to imagine an automaton keeping shields at maximum in such a safe atmosphere and on an almost unarmed planet. That's paranoia, and automatons don't suffer paranoia," Shepard clarified. "Only their creators can. But paranoia is very hard to program in full."
"I can't say I fully agree with everything you said, Captain," Anderson remarked after thinking a few minutes. "In many ways you're right, of course. I very much hope the hardware reconnaissance won't give us grounds for any rash, fast actions. Though, summing up what you've said," David threw a quick glance at the "shrimp" on the display, "I can say one thing: we'll have to overcome any conceivable shock fast and collect the maximum data in a very short time. I sincerely doubt we'll be given much time to decide what to do next."
The frigate captain activated an audio channel over the speaker.
"Ingvar, how long will it take to bring Eden's climate-control systems into 'local apocalypse' mode?"
"If it's only through climate control—fifteen minutes down to one minute," the electronic warfare specialist replied.
"Too long. Can it be cut down to three to five seconds?" Anderson asked.
"Yes, but we'll need to know exactly where the target is and what its characteristics are," Tempke answered. "At least the most general."
"Where the target is—you'll know. As for characteristics…" Anderson paused. "Assume it's the maximum. Out of anything you can imagine. We'll need a single strike that fully neutralizes the target."
"Destruction?" the specialist уточнил.
"Yes. I think that's what we'll need. I can say more precisely only after the hardware reconnaissance, Ingvar," Anderson replied after a few seconds. "Run a destruction variant. And a maximum disarmament variant. In every sense."
"Permission to deliver a solution to your displays in two minutes?" the specialist asked, clearly sensing—as Shepard could tell—another extremely interesting and complex task.
"Granted." Anderson cut the channel but didn't raise his eyes to his XO. "You don't want to destroy that ship completely, do you, Shepard? Am I right?"
"Yes, sir." Shepard didn't lie. "If Charon gave humanity a way out to Arcturus, a way to other civilizations, then I'm more than convinced: that ship can give us experience from thirty million years of development. Orders of magnitude beyond any race's experience in the Milky Way. With an apparatus like that… humanity could prepare for war far better."
"So you do believe it's not alone?" Anderson asked.
"I do. It's reconnaissance, like us. Observation. Control. Surveillance. Call it what you want. And if we manage to 'tame' such an active internal watcher and put it in service to the galaxy's inhabitants—that will be worth more than a metal or plastic corpse. Even a corpse like it. And something tells me there are already several such… corpses within the Milky Way. No need to add another to their 'community.'"
"And…" Anderson said cautiously.
"I understand it sounds like mystical revelation, Commander," Shepard clarified. "But I already feel there are organics aboard that ship. Sentient organics." The XO fell silent for a few seconds. Anderson clearly sensed it wasn't a tactical pause typical of conversation between humans. "It feels like their souls… are weak…"
"You think they're… prisoners?" Anderson asked, still not looking up at his XO.
"More than prisoners. They're under its control, Commander. Puppets," Shepard answered quietly. "It's hard to put into words. The conditionality… grows in jumps. Many necessary meanings… get lost."
"Indoctrination," Anderson said.
"Yes, as a possibility," the XO agreed.
"And you can identify the species they belong to?" Anderson still didn't try to look at Shepard.
"I can," Shepard confirmed. "But I don't want to disturb that ship's systems too much right now. I have no doubts about its sophistication, and I don't want to ruin the operation we're preparing. It may get suspicious. Then we won't be able to recon, we won't be ready for effective and immediate action. And there, on the planet, there are thousands of people. Earthborn. Not only Earthborn, too—which matters," the XO added. "If the Reaper starts firing its beam at the planet and its inhabitants… we—the frigate crew, the Normandy crew—will never wash that off."
Shepard, as Anderson could clearly feel, was holding onto his composure with difficulty.
"There's only an assumption—a justified assumption—that these few sentients are… extraordinary individuals. I doubt a ship of that class would take mediocrities aboard. Even as prisoners or slaves. No. They're clearly not minor figures. And is their species really that important? In any species there are always such individuals. In any, Commander," Shepard repeated. Repetition was never negative to him; in the orphanage he'd often heard: "Repetition is the mother of learning. And not only learning." He agreed with the meaning and the essence of that saying.
"Commander, sir," Ingvar came on comm with Captain Anderson. "Sending the solution."
"Received, Ingvar, thank you." Anderson glanced at his wrist omni-tool, then muted the speaker by touching the bracket. He stood and moved closer to the large display.
Shepard rose as well, stepping up to the screen where the solution was already scrolling line by line.
"Could work," Anderson said thoughtfully as he read. "Could work," interest mixed with satisfaction now clearly audible in the frigate captain's voice. "No, it could work! It really could!" he exclaimed. "Now we need to run the third drill. We need to finish preparing the ship to hold station near the relay. And we… We can solve this problem!" Out of the corner of his eye, Anderson caught his XO's agreeing nod.
At twenty-one thirty hours, the quiet of the frigate's compartments was torn apart by the simultaneous wail of damage-control and combat alarms.
This time the ship's VI used its capabilities almost to the maximum: people were run ragged. New complications poured in continuously.
The ship was plunged into total darkness, cut only by the dim beams of helmet lamps and narrow laser beams.
Fires raged in five compartments at once; multiple gas and chemical attacks were added on top.
Only at eleven o'clock did the VI shut down the virtualization suite and restore normal lighting in all compartments.
"Not bad, but not enough," Captain Anderson said after reading the VI's analysis of the drill. The two senior officers secluded themselves in the captain's cabin again. "A shame. We can't allow ourselves more. In an hour we take station near the relay. I propose we let the crew have dinner. And prepare for combat operations."
"Yes, sir." Shepard rattled off several dozen orders over comm. "We'll have to hold a discussion over dinner."
"We will. It's necessary," Captain Anderson confirmed. "Let's go."
The discussion took place and lasted a little over fifteen minutes. But what minutes they were. The officers spoke little—tight, precise—keenly sensing how much important meaning hid behind that unusual brevity. And since they sensed it, they understood: jokes and words were over. Real combat work was beginning.
After dismissing the officers, Shepard and Anderson lingered at the table for a few minutes.
The watchstander was clearing dishes and utensils into the washer and disinfecting the tables and chairs with a portable medical emitter.
Slow, heavy footsteps sounded. A turian Spectre stepped onto the deck. He walked straight to the table where the ship's senior officers sat.
Stopping at the table, he looked at Anderson with displeasure at first, then focused his gaze on Shepard.
"I wouldn't advise it, Nihlus, staring at me like that," Shepard said, quickly returning to his familiar taut "Wire" state.
"Why am I not being allowed to contact the Council?" Kryik asked.
"And what were you planning to report?" Shepard looked up at the turian from below—and the Spectre clearly didn't like that look. "You're on a military reconnaissance ship. Not on a training cruise. There's a chain of command here."
"I am a Spectre," the turian said.
"We're aware," the XO replied. "And I'll repeat: you're not a ship's officer, so your wishes won't be treated as overriding. You're a passenger. A guest. A civilian," the XO ground out.
Anderson didn't interfere, but he watched closely, maintaining calm and a degree of detachment.
"I am a Special Corps operative," the turian said, his words carrying clear threat.
"Again: we're aware." Shepard didn't change his tone or volume. "And we know perfectly well what your organization has been involved in." Tapping a few keys on his wrist omni-tool, Shepard brought up the nearest wall display; lines from a briefing on the Special Corps' most problematic operations over the last few decades appeared. "Trying to play a saint, Nihlus?" Shepard asked. "Trying to command and control us humans? Trying to make children out of us?"
"I will not answer these questions, human," the turian still tried to keep calm, but Shepard saw and clearly felt how tense the operative's nerves were.
"And we don't need your answers, Nihlus Kryik. We know your mentor, Spectre Saren Arterius, crosses the law again and again, exploiting its imperfections for his own personal interests." Shepard triggered a new sequence of texts and images on the displays via his omni-tool. One screen displayed in turian, the other in English.
Captain Anderson read the English version with interest. A great deal was becoming clear to the frigate captain.
"You tURIANS are afraid," Shepard continued, still holding the same stance. "Afraid your strength isn't enough. Don't tell me that that formation of old clunkers we met at the outbound relay is your Fleet—or even part of it." At those words, the turian's whole body twitched nervously. "Don't," Shepard repeated. "We know perfectly well about your thirty main Fleets, Nihlus. And about fifteen reserve fleets too," he added. "You once tried to move one of those Fleets toward our stellar borders. Only a direct order from the Citadel Council stopped it. But you don't know—or perhaps you don't understand, for certain reasons—something else, Nihlus. My colleague and commander won't let me lie." Shepard didn't exchange looks with Anderson. "In humanity's history there has never been a year when war was not being waged on our home planet. We fought practically our entire human history. We fought each other. We fought at the limit of our capabilities, using literally everything to win: all technology, all science, all human capacities. We fought while losing millions. Thinning humanity's gene pool more effectively than any radiation or epidemic."
The turian twitched again.
"Better and more efficiently," Shepard repeated. "Yes, we humans don't have that many ships. But we know how to fight, using human capabilities and strengths. Your Turian Hierarchy pushed through the Farixen Treaty behind the scenes because you realized: we could 'seal' our Sol system with thousands of dreadnoughts. Yes, we'll build them by starving all humanity. Yes, it will be hard for us to maintain tempo in other directions. Yes, it will be enormous strain for countless people. But we will do it, Nihlus. And you felt that. The main thing is: for all those ships we would have five crews per ship. For every ship of any class. And that's despite the fact that for us the military isn't the foundation of society, the foundation of the state, the foundation of government. You tURIANS felt that too well."
Shepard displayed treaty-limit tables on the screens.
"See?" the XO asked. "You've seen it. I know it, I see it, I feel that you've seen it more than once, Nihlus. Who has the most ships? You. Who has the most dreadnoughts? You. Who has the most cruisers? You. You, tURIANS, for whom the military and fleet are everything. And for us Earthborn, everything is human society. And you think we won't be able to resist under 'treaty' conditions like these?" The corners of Shepard's lips formed a mocking smile. "Beside me is my commander, frigate captain David Anderson. Who do you think pushed his assignment to this ship? Well!"
"Turian… Hierarchy…" Nihlus forced the words out; in that moment he was in no condition to resist Shepard's pressure.
"Should I name the reason Captain David Anderson was assigned to this post? Or will you?" Shepard continued to press the operative.
"We expected that Anderson's service on this ship… would be short," Nihlus squeezed out.
Captain Anderson clenched both hands into fists, but didn't look up at the turian standing near the table.
Shepard didn't take his eyes off Nihlus, seeing perfectly well how hard it was for him to say even that—one of the Turian Hierarchy's not-small secrets.
"Excellent, Nihlus," the XO said. "Your people give Captain Anderson a not-quite-frigate and expect he'll soon end his Earthborn path. For various reasons that, supposedly, resemble natural causes. And what kind of frigate did you slip us? More precisely—slip Captain Anderson? A reconnaissance frigate, right?"
The turian nodded nervously.
"And do you know what interesting saying is common among very many humans, Nihlus?" Shepard was now openly mocking the operative. "You don't, Nihlus. You don't—because if you did, you'd have steered ten miles clear of this ship the moment Captain Anderson came aboard. On Earth we have an interesting country with a very complex and ambiguous history. It's still called Russia. And there's an expression there, a mindset, so to speak," the XO paused for a few seconds, then said as if each word were a sledgehammer blow: "Don't believe. Don't fear. Don't ask."
Shepard took pleasure in watching the Spectre's body shudder with a heavy tremor at each spoken word.
"And we Europeans know why in Russia those aren't just words. We Europeans have similar expressions too. But they're not as clear or as defined, in sound and meaning," the XO paused again. "So, Nihlus," he continued, "we Earthborn don't believe you aliens. We have a powerful xenophobia, and you don't have any vaccine for it. We don't fear you aliens. If we didn't fear fighting one another for thousands of years of human history, locked on a single planet in a relatively small star system, then we don't fear fighting any enemy coming into Sol from outside."