Viridia would not have become a fleet admiral if she hadn't been able to think quickly. Only the Primarch's order and his request had made her trade her bridge for a seat on the Citadel council. "You don't have to love politics, but you must uphold your people's interests," she had been told then. The Turian, as a loyal daughter of the Hierarchy, agreed, because commanders' orders are not discussed, especially those given to you personally by the Primarch.
The Steel Hand of Palaven approached her new appointment with all seriousness and, having quickly filled in the gaps in her education so as not to be a "duty soldier" in this very council, began her work. The inheritance from the previous councilor was extremely neglected. Even as an admiral, Viridia had more informants in the ports than the councilor's apparatus. She had learned from her academy days that without good intelligence, an excellent result is not guaranteed.
Politics was a dirty business, but if the Primarch ordered it, Viridia would deal with it as thoroughly as fleet tactics. She had to work and play the Asari matchmaker to find the right sentients, carefully choosing whose help to accept. Despite her combat reputation, a straightforward approach that worked in the Hierarchy could lead to mission failure here. She had to work with non-kin most of the time, but relying on trusted allies among her own kind, she had managed to bring considerable benefit to the Hierarchy.
This was one of the reasons why the Turian became a political opponent of Tevos. The combat admiral really disliked the Asari's desire to constantly reap the fruits of victory not by their own sweat and blood, but by the hands of others. Moreover, Viridia was irritated that she had to compromise with the cunning councilor, who had nothing but cold calculation and poison between her words, but she couldn't change the situation at all.
As bitter as it was for the admiral, the "Knight of the Citadel" had been put on a leash that was too thick and short by the blue-skinned maidens. Without their zero element, the Turian military machine would stall, unable to satisfy its appetites with domestic raw materials. The "Faceless" used this, trading the lives of Turian legionaries for credits, multiplying their fortunes with their insatiable greed, risking almost nothing in the process.
Viridia felt pain at the realization that all the military might, which was a deserved source of pride, along with defense capabilities, depended on the rulers of not her people. It was only within her power to lose the battle of interests with dignity each time, turning the Hierarchy's defeat into a bitter victory for the Asari Republic.
Sometimes, when alone, Viridia would clench her fists so hard that her gloves would crack at the seams. She imagined Tevos standing before her fleet, and she slowly raising her hand to give the command: "Salvo!" A moment of weakness, allowing her to reconcile with reality. Even if she personally twisted the neck of this matron, it would change nothing and only make things worse. Those who stood behind her opponent were beyond reach, even with the full might of the Hierarchy...
Today, seeing the news headlines, the admiral knew what would happen next. A very real, not metaphorical, chain would tighten even further, and the "Knights of the Citadel" would be told: "Sic 'em!" The Primarch would try to postpone the inevitable. And he would wish for it, because haste would be paid for with Turian lives. But even the ruler of the Hierarchy could not break this chain, only loosen its grip... for a time. And as a loyal daughter of her people, she would do everything to further slow down the beginning of the inevitable process.
Listening more and more to the ambassador's story, while carefully reading the conclusions of military analysts, whom she trusted far more than the cries of a fat, sweaty sack of dung, the admiral was already drawing her own conclusions.
"Fundamentally different military school. Different doctrine of warfare. Powerful computational resources, exceeding those of the Quarians in their prime by three times. Battle-hardened ground army. Not very experienced, but a quickly learning fleet. And most importantly - a different method of interstellar travel, with a high probability. I wouldn't fully believe the preliminary analysis. It could also be a cloaking system. One thing is certain, going against such an opponent without reconnaissance... you'll be washed in blood."
She mechanically tapped out a simple military march rhythm with her mechanical fingers, feeling Tevos's scrutinizing gaze on her. The Turian, without even looking in her direction, felt the Asari's growing unease, who, in turn, knew perfectly well how she would act with the Primarch. For her, the sour expression of her colleague from realizing the obvious truth once again: the Hierarchy is not a soulless weapon.
Madam Ambassador, as soon as she heard the drumming of the march, began to sweat even more, knowing perfectly well how her kin had died to such tapping on the bulkheads of captured ships. The Hierarchy didn't like pirates, but Viridia, who had lost her elder brother first, and then her parents consumed by grief, hated them even more.
It was precisely thanks to her hatred, which she had turned into a weapon with the help of iron discipline, that she was able to not only ascend to the bridge of a warship but also to repay many times over for all the legionaries who did not return home because of such scum.
"I have no doubt about the valor of the legionaries and that we will defeat the enemy, but this war will not benefit the Hierarchy. We are being forced to save a mad varren living right under our noses, so that he can continue to slaughter livestock. Everyone will win except the Turians. The Asari will protect their capital and influence. The Hegemony will escape the noose. The Salarians will get technology. And we will get blood, death, and a pat on the shoulder." Viridia thought irritably.
She looked at Tevos, bowing her head, clicking her mandibles. The Asari closed her eyelids for a second, agreeing.
"If the Turians are forced to go into battle when it could have been avoided, then it will be by the Hierarchy's rules. The Asari prefer to forget that a chain has two ends. If we depend on them economically, then they depend on us - militarily. The most loyal allies. I would call it a sworn alliance," the councilor shook her head, having obtained the necessary delay for her people.
"They tried to turn us into a club, like the Krogans, but the Hierarchy was and is an elegant rapier! And you can't just wave a sharp blade mindlessly anymore. You can cut yourself. It's a small matter - to announce the price of drawing the rapier from its sheath, while also finding out what the Salarians will offer us. Wanted to be traders? Don't be surprised that you're being charged, since you've turned your honor into credits. All that's left is to wait for the end of this farce of democracy. Although let the Asari play. Time is now on our side," the admiral concluded her thoughts, remaining pleased with herself, as she had just lightened the burden for thousands of legionaries...
***
Artyom saw the target. The warmth of the polywood stock on his cheek brought him a sense of calm. Catching the emptiness in his chest between heartbeats, he smoothly pulled the trigger, releasing a reactive bullet at the target. As the bullet left the barrel, the captain exhaled, already seeing the pinpoint impact from the microscopic engine.
The rifle seemed to have spat out the spent casing of the ejection charge with satisfaction and returned the bolt to its place. The operative felt it as a part of himself, as if his muscles were snatching a new bullet, not the bolt mechanism.
The casing completed its flight silently, falling into the embrace of its sisters, already in a special bag. No clink, no glint. The quiet rustle of fabric wouldn't be heard even by a cat more than a meter away from the shooter, and the gleam of metal wouldn't betray the position, which was hard to determine by the projectile's ballistics. The rifle's ballistic computer programmed each bullet individually, which, combined with the flash hider, increased its stealth.
In an instant, Artyom changed position, leaving behind neither a thermal trace nor an acoustic profile. Taking a stable kneeling stance, he consecutively fired three smart bullets, setting a unique angle of entry for each. Synchronized via a wireless channel, the deadly ammunition described diverging trajectories to reach the target simultaneously. The old artillery tactic of "fan fire" had found a new embodiment. Now, a single shooter could create the effect of a volley, if they were truly a master of their craft.
Another change of position, and Artyom's fingers were already making adjustments to the ballistic algorithm, acting on pure muscle memory. A shot on the move. The bullet described a steep arc, masterfully bypassing the contour of the hostage mockup to pierce the only gap—a narrow strip of unprotected neck between the helmet and the armored collar. Even a heavy spacesuit wouldn't save you from a shot fired by a master and a skilled shooter…
"The captain seems a bit out of sorts…" Mo stated, observing how the man had turned into one swift whirlwind, freezing in place only for another shot, inevitably hitting the target.
Shark was engaged in two activities at once: contemplating the work of others and filling his stomach, carefully picking up giant-sized golubtsy (fitting for him) with titanium chopsticks.
After watching another dish disappear, noting how it vanished almost without being chewed—which was normal for an intelligent shark—Risa returned to cleaning her rifle, finally deigning to answer her interlocutor:
"Men… You have no tact. He was with a lady… though with your nose, you should have figured that out faster than me. Now he's just flagellating himself."
"And what's the problem? It's a young man's business!" Mo, the intelligent cat, didn't understand the hint.
"The problem is, my uncomprehending friend, that he has a different lady every time," the cat condescended to explain. "Our commander is quite the heartbreaker."
"Ugh. It's indecent, of course, to discuss others' personal lives, but in our time, casual flings are especially indecent!" Shark's face contorted.
"And again, you didn't understand, you brute, and even vulgarized it," Risa hissed at him, rolling her eyes (as much as felinids can), irritated by the excessive words and regretting three times that she had answered. "That's the problem, he found *that* one… And then lost her. In short, he's a 'forget-me-not'!"
"Oh-o-o-o," Mo winced as if in pain, already looking at the man with sympathy. "I wouldn't want that. To love, to be loved in return, and then to lose. My neighbor popped up belly-up like that… Couldn't handle it. Thanks to empathy, everyone falls in love to death… I understand that it didn't awaken after death, right?"
"Even worse, you stupid fish," the cat said, looking at the shark with a hint of pity. "Not even a memory archive of her remained. And, anticipating another hundred stupid questions or conclusions… His beloved was THAT Vera! I'm even afraid to imagine what it's like to be part of a collective consciousness that, to become so, was finally activated through the sacrifice of a girl who had already died half an hour ago, and who, moreover, saved everyone!"
"He was little then!" Shark was surprised.
"And can't children love?" the felind asked, and seeing Mo about to answer, added, "Love knows no age, my thick-skinned comrade. And for children, everything is brighter. After all, it's their first time, and it seems like it will last forever."
"But so many years have passed… He hasn't let go?" Shark asked, tilting his head. "I admit. I haven't loved, and it's hard for me to understand."
"And you're still a man and, by default, an emotionally inferior life form," Risa sighed, starting to assemble her rifle. "I, too, haven't loved, until… But he let her go. In his heart, she's a pure image that evokes only a slight sadness. When Iris buried her Murzik… In short, I barely dragged her out of that abyss. I even went into the Defense Aspect for her, although I was already working as a systems operator! But… even after decades, the scars on her mind haven't healed. I can tell you this as her twin. I feel her emotions as my own. Now you understand what the price of empathy is, thinking about whether it's worth it at all. Only remembering THAT happiness do you realize that yes, it's worth it."
"And we sharks are considered emotional," Mo remarked warmly.
"We felinids simply don't show our emotions to less developed species. For us, it's indecent. You can only open up to your pride or friends," the cat chuckled.
"So, we are friends?"
"That's why you're thick-skinned, Mo. If you weren't my friend, I wouldn't be going on like this! And if you weren't Iris's friend, I wouldn't have told you about her at all!" Risa flared up jokingly.
"I just wanted to hear it from the mouth of a representative of a higher race, not to guess," Mo remarked slyly, swallowing another golubtsy and, as always during meals, closing his eyes. Some reflexes remained from their ancestors.
"What? Are you gossiping about me?" Artyom plopped down at the weapons maintenance table.
"Not without reason," the shark remarked, hiding sympathy behind simplicity.
Shep disassembled his rifle and began checking each component, adjusting imperceptible inaccuracies with calibrated tools. Feeling awkward, Mo was about to finish eating and leave, but the man's voice stopped him:
"Risa is right. It doesn't pass. Few 'forget-me-nots' find the happiness of love again… You can't escape physiology. And only embraces, and the warmth of another's body, allow you to forget the pain for a while…"
"Can we skip the details? I'm a girl, you know!" Risa exclaimed, her tail betraying extreme embarrassment.
"There's nothing wrong with that. You are my combat comrades and should know such things about me. How I've gotten used to you after this mess… It's hard not to get used to it when we walked under bullets together and didn't bow. And you yourselves brought up this topic…" the man smiled slyly.
Artyom couldn't help but laugh, seeing Risa hide her face in her paws and lower her ears, and Mo trying to mimic a piece of furniture. A few moments later, his laughter was joined by that of his two friends.
I fall next to Ferrion onto the concrete, letting out a sigh of relief. Only ten hours have passed since the beginning of the whole mess, but I've run around as if it's been two days, crawling on my belly from superior forces…
The Turian flinched, causing his helmet to slip again. The sight of the alien in partially Soviet armor was… a bit amusing, and the way his helmet tried to slip off brought a smile to all the Red Army soldiers, regardless of their species. If not for his lost, unfocused gaze, one could already take a photo for a propaganda poster with some pompous call for all that is bright against all that is good.
I silently hand him a flask of water. Ferrion took the container, sniffed it, looked at it skeptically, took a small sip, and then latched onto it firmly, drinking half of it at once. I understand the poor guy. After the pancilin injection with vitamins, the thirst is like from a good hangover, sometimes even worse.
And the fact that he sniffed it… it's understandable, of course. His biochemistry is fundamentally different from ours. Only in his case, it's too late to drink mineral water when his kidneys have fallen off and his tentacles have grown. He didn't die from the injection.
"Good robot… We could have been friends," I broke the silence.
The former captive legionary gave me an unreadable look before answering:
"You're more frozen than a drunk krogan on 'red sand'! I'd just be glad to have escaped the Prime alive and on my own two feet… And you, Plutonium, went hand-to-hand with a Juggernaut! Just idiocy and courage! I'm even envious… a little. But I would have seen spirits five times over with such an approach to service!" the Turian exclaimed, straightening up.
"That's why I say he was a good robot. Haven't warmed up like that in a long time," I honestly noted.
Ferrion rolled his eyes, judging by the tilt of his head, and muttered:
"Spirits… why?! I don't think I've destroyed temples or sinned, serving the Hierarchy faithfully, to get this…" he lamented, which made me want to giggle, it looked too funny.
"Hardships temper," I philosophically remark. "Perhaps your… spirits are testing you, knowing that something much greater awaits you?"
"A blade that's overheated breaks in the first battle," the Turian supported my philosophical tone, having resigned himself. "But that doesn't negate the fact that if I did something like that, I'd already be dead. You'd still go out to a thresher maw naked and with just a knife…"
"Maybe I will. Who knows what the future holds. Today you are here, tomorrow you are interstellar gas… One thing is eternal—your duty to your Motherland, if you chose the military path. We are expected to die, but to do everything possible."
"I can't believe I'm saying this… but I agree," the Turian stated with a sigh. "And you've really improved your language."
"Practice with a good interlocutor," I shrug. "It's not like interrogating pirates. There, the language barrier is purely their problem, not mine."
"I'm even afraid to imagine that interrogation," the legionary shuddered. "If we had met you, Hierarchy, much earlier…"
"Then we would have been either sworn enemies or best friends after a good fight. In battle, it's immediately clear who your friend is and who your enemy is," I interrupt him.
"Most likely, the Asari would pressure the Primarch, forcing him to help the Hegemony," the interlocutor said, as if in passing, but looking at me intently.
"I'll tell you more. Most likely, they've already pressured him. Even I can tell you that, with minimal data. We just took that into account when starting all this test. We deliberately let information leak, without completely breaking the connection at once, while simultaneously making our own insertions into your Extranet."
I gave the Turian a couple of minutes to process before continuing:
"We want to punish the Hegemony, but we don't want to fight your Hierarchy. Therefore, knowing that you are cautious, we dosed the information so that it would be interesting, but completely unclear…"
"And we, unlike you, won't go head-on," Ferrion continued for me. "This is a week, maybe a little more!"
"That was the calculation," I nodded to him. "The maximum will be one or two squadron battles. We don't want to fight you. It's much more useful to be good friends against someone. And the Hegemony as a state will cease to exist by then. There will only be Batarians with their quirks and without slaves."
"And you're telling me this so calmly?" the legionary was surprised.
"Naturally, I requested permission for limited disclosure," I chuckled. "We have a collective consciousness, so such things are done more easily. And, anticipating your reaction, I'll say right away… We are not those bugs you fought. We have our own 'I' and a common one, and it was achieved through science. Empathy comes from there, as a means of restraint and a pleasant bonus. It's hard to hurt someone when you feel that pain. But sometimes you have to…"
"Spirits…" was all Ferrion could utter, having processed what was said. "What have I gotten myself into…"
"Heh," I clapped him on the shoulder and calmed him. "You've only learned a little. And what's coming will be brutal hell…"
"Commander, where are we going?" Mo asked, still feeling awkward but successfully fighting it.
Artyom turned to him, putting aside the tablet with which he had been corresponding with Plutonium, and replied:
"We've been assigned another fighter. From CERBERUS. What's characteristic is that neither a dossier nor even a name was attached to the assignment file. Only a visa from Comrade Lebedev, which makes everything even more unclear. I got to know him well when I worked with him, preparing for my candidacy," the captain said.
"I knew, of course, that you in 'Argentum' are not just operatives, but to this extent…" Shark mused thoughtfully.
"That's precisely what's shown to us," the man smiled. "For official reasons, I got involved in programming and a bit of robotics, and then somehow it just happened that I optimized a couple of processing algorithms for AI."
Risa, twitching her ear, added her weighty word:
"Now it's clear why you have 'Govorukha'! You're a professional robot hunter," the cat stated as a matter of course, with a similarly affirmative nod from her sister, which looked comical because they were sitting on the same seat of the electric car, while the intelligent shark occupied the entire back row. "Now it's clear why you have both a jetpack and 'Groza'."
"Well, yes," Shep shrugged. "The SVK-UP15 can fire not only reactive bullets but also an impulse laser, but you need to load a special round into the magazine. If you fire without it, the rifle draws nitrogen from the atmosphere, and the impulse is weaker. Whether it hits a robot or a living being—it will just stun them. Killing a metallic citizen just because they've just become self-aware and are not themselves is not only foolish but also a crime."
"A laser that needs bullets?" Mo asked again.
"An attempt to get rid of a cable or a heavy polymer battery. The principle is like the pistol for astronauts made in '84, if memory serves. I have fiber optics in the barrel, frayed—no rifling is needed for reactive bullets, and the lens is in the flash hider. And the bullet is like this…"
The man took a cartridge from his spatial backpack, offering it to the shark.
"A light bulb… Cool," he commented, returning the cartridge.
"The working body of a chemical laser," the man corrected him. "One of these is enough for five shots. Weaker than a reactive cartridge. The impulse will only penetrate medium armor, but it's perfect for urban environments. But I like 'Govorukha' for its versatility. Change the barrel and bolt group—and you get a good assault rifle, which is sometimes useful. Universal modular design. Kalashnikov repeated his triumph once again, creating not only an assault rifle but also a rifle…"
A buzzer sounded, interrupting the man. Glancing at the car's instruments and seeing they had arrived, the captain said:
"We're disembarking. Dolok is already waiting for us. You guys can get acquainted while I go get the last member of our combined squad. Risa—you're in charge."
"Yes, Comrade Captain!" the cat said, dropping her condescending tone, instantly losing her feigned laziness and slight disdain for the whole world…
"Oh, look who it is! Long time no see, Captain," Eleonora's voice was, as always, pleasantly warm, with a hint of sexuality.
"Hello, Aunt El!" Artyom smiled.
"Don't you call me that!" the AI of the Martian Factory said jokingly. "I'm not that old! You're still the same boy with a burning gaze! At least something in life is constant."
The captain chuckled, looking at the mirrored mask of the avatar, but couldn't resist sticking out his tongue, as he had done years ago when he and other cadets were up to mischief.
Both—the AI and the human—laughed. After they finished laughing, Eleonora waved her hands, saying, "What am I doing?! I have a gift for you! We're not strangers, after all…"
"Later," Artyom replied with regret. "Work first. But I promise, as soon as I'm free, I'll drop by!"
"I understand," Eleonora immediately became sad, but then quickly recovered. "Let me at least escort you, shall I?"
"Why not? Let's go," the captain rejoiced. "Is Lebedev at our fleet base?"
"Of course! Although, I don't know why myself… No one knows… Well, you know the academician! He just smiles and says…"
"And that makes it even less clear," Shep finished the thought, picking up on the artificial intelligence's words.
"Actually, we're here," Eleonora stated, stopping near the cabin door. "It went by so fast…"
"It usually does," Artyom agreed. "See you later."
The AI approached him and ruffled his hair, saying,
"Bye, boy. I'm waiting for you!" Eleonora cooed, walking away. "You've forgotten about an old woman… Neither you nor Seryozha and Katya have visited in a long time…"
After standing at the threshold for another half a minute, Shep pressed the sensor. There was no point in delaying. "Plutonium and his wife have been on expeditions for a year and a half. If there had been trouble, they'd be warming their bones on Venus's beaches right now, with their children. Maybe I could have met up and had a beer with the commander…" a thought flashed through the captain's mind, and he realized: he was feeling shy before the upcoming meeting.
"Open!" a vaguely familiar voice sounded, making his heart ache painfully.
Sighing, Shep pressed the sensor again, opening the door. Taking off his shoes and putting on slippers, he walked from the vestibule into the living room.
"A mad scientist's den," was the first thought that came to his mind as he looked around. Instead of a living room with sofas, he was met with a biolaboratory.
Emerging from behind the equipment, a scientist literally flew towards him and tried to hug him. He *tried*—Shep was still two heads taller due to military modifications.
"Wow, you've grown so much, Artyom!" Stan exclaimed joyfully and a little madly.
"It's all the healthy food," Artyom mumbled shyly.
"What am I doing?!" Stan came to his senses. "Let's go to the study. We'll talk! By the way, they say you had your first fight?!"
Feeling even more embarrassed, Shep pulled himself together and answered concisely:
"Not exactly, but one of the first."
His gaze wandered around the cabin, mechanically noting details.
"You don't live alone?" the captain observed.
"With my daughters," his old friend said somehow strangely. "The elder one has grown up so much, though it seems like she was just this tall recently!"
The scientist gestured with his hand about half a meter from the floor. Feeling even more awkward, Shep said sincerely:
"I'm happy for you."
Fortunately for him, they entered the study, where a robot steward was already serving sliced food and setting out shot glasses for vodka, which made Shep inwardly wince. "I'll have to sip. I'm flying out soon. I'd need at least ten liters to get drunk, but it would be awkward in front of my comrades," the captain thought mournfully, anticipating even more awkward moments.
"Well, to our reunion!" Stan, grabbing a glass and clinking it, downed the contents, grunting as the alcohol went to its destination.
Shep also drank the cold liquid, not wanting to break etiquette. Noting the notes of lemon peel and the purity of the drink, he quickly ate a piece of salo to prevent even a theoretical effect of alcohol on him. While he was chewing the fragrant slice, his glass was refilled.
"Well, to seeing each other more often!" the scientist downed his glass.
The captain simply took a sip, quickly ate again, mentally shaking his head, thinking about where his friend's wife was looking. Although they hadn't seen each other since the activation of the "Collective" and Vera's funeral, only occasionally corresponding, he didn't like how his childhood friend was pouring vodka into himself.
"It seems his life has also been tough," he thought, regretting not maintaining contact. It was too painful for him to recall, at first. And then it just happened.
"What's with the long face?!" Stan exclaimed, snapping him out of his melancholic thoughts, which made him feel ashamed again.
"Yes, memories…" Shep said with a sigh. "I probably should apologize to you, Stan… I kind of got lost in the vastness of the galaxy. What kind of friend am I, missing even my childhood best friend's wedding…"
"No, that won't do!" the scientist exclaimed, slightly madly, refilling the captain's glass to the brim. "Drink, or I'll be offended!"
Shep drank, no longer tasting anything.
"Yes, I understand you. I barely survived myself and know how you feel, friend…" Stan said, wanting to pour more, but the captain closed his glass with his palm.
"That's all. I'm out. I have a combat flight, and I want to sit with you again sometime," Shep said a little sternly, smiling.
"Looking for missing slaves?" his friend clarified. After receiving a nod from the captain, Stan smiled madly again. "And you're probably expecting an investigator from CERBERUS? Well, then I'll make you happy!!! I know who it is!"
The captain raised an eyebrow questioningly, and his friend didn't keep him waiting for an answer.
"It's my daughter. The elder one. Who else could I trust my treasure to, if not my friend?" Stan asked Shep, which embarrassed him even more. "I'll call her now!"
The scientist pressed the selector button, clearly, despite the alcohol, saying:
"Miranda, my girl, come into the study, please."
"Okay, Father," a voice vaguely familiar to Artyom sounded from the speaker, but his memory simply refused to tell him where he knew it from. Shrugging mentally, he turned his head towards the doorway, hearing footsteps…
A moment of realization, and he felt as if snow had fallen down his collar in the middle of summer, as soon as he saw the girl's face. Only by an effort of will did he not crush the glass in his hand. The world narrowed to him and this girl. Even the light disappeared. Only his wildly beating heart spoke of the reality of what was happening.
The same face, only older. The same eyes with a slight twinkle of sky-blue color. Even her skin was pale, like alabaster, which was emphasized by the CERBERUS uniform!
The grown-up Vera was looking at him, only her hair was blacker than the void of space. The captain's perception sharpened. Time became viscous, as if in the face of mortal danger. Even the frantic rhythm of his heart now seemed slow, like solitary drops of water.
It was her, only… Miranda didn't smell entirely human. The reason for this was not the implants, which the operative's keen eye had already seen in the girl's body without any X-ray, or genetic modification.
She didn't even smell alien. Xenon! A stranger! Perhaps other spirits, masking this wrongness, would have deceived someone else, but not an operative of "Argentum"!
"Who is this, Father?" a voice, painful to hear, brought him back to reality.
"This is my friend! Artyom Pastukhov!!! He will be your commander!" Stan, not noticing the change in Shep, said with a cheerful madness.
"Alright," Miranda said, without expressing any emotion. "Then I'll go change. Captain. Nice to meet you."
Having said this, the girl left, leaving Artyom in complete disarray. In his soul, not even rage was seething, but the most natural fury, mixed with such pain that he wanted to growl and scream at the same time. The creature he mistakenly considered a friend had not only dangerously approached the line of crime but, completely disregarding morality, had committed such an immoral act that the very thought of it was monstrous!
"Is she truly perfection?!" Stan asked Shep, smiling even wider, but he faltered when he saw the operative's cold gaze, which was more than eloquent.
"Name one reason why I shouldn't kill you right now, you sick bastard?!"