Artyom once again fiddled with his "Govorukha." The weapon had been cleaned and lubricated dozens of times, and all parts that showed any hint of suspicion had been replaced. The familiar action helped him calm down.
His pulse beat slowly in his temples. His vision had already darkened slightly. He hung upside down in his cabin, alternating between assembling and disassembling the weapon with pull-ups and abdominal crunches, pondering the depth of the rabbit hole. Wanting to get into a hole in the ground, he ran headlong into another hole, which also didn't let the sun in, but also smelled unpleasant of rabbit droppings. And the "Truzhnik" dry breakfast on the floor was not it. These brown balls were definitely not chocolate...
"Changing tactics. New plan," he thought, falling down and assuming a push-up position. "Nothing clears the mind better than good old push-ups!"
He really needed to clear his mind and think! As it turned out, there were many troubles. "Ass is a complex operation. Shit is already a whole system," Plutonium liked to say. And Artyom's commander was absolutely right, as he later realized when getting into various scrapes. In fact, his call sign, Shep, appeared thanks to the operative's ability to get into trouble and solve it unconventionally.
"It's not enough that my friend crapped in my soul! Miranda... Well, it's not her fault she was made that way. You can even sympathize. But who will sympathize with me..." the captain thought mournfully. "To hell with it, seeing her feels like a sledgehammer hitting my balls and a shot to the head at the same time. And on top of that, they threw the 'Inquisition' protocol at me! Although everyone got it..."
Shep winced, recalling the details. He couldn't stand fanatics. In the USSR, religion was simple: believe if you want. After the appearance of the "Collective" and the Motherland, when death ceased to be the end, becoming merely a door, and believers in traditional denominations, as they were called, became relatively few.
In essence, a synthesis of religion and progress occurred. Science answered many questions, granted immortality, and after that – rebirth. The state, with the help of scientists, developed clear rules, based on laws and moral norms, giving a hint on how to live, but not forcing anyone. All that was required of intelligent beings was to observe the laws and general norms of behavior.
Therefore, society shifted its focus to other problems, leaving this issue to the intelligent beings themselves. Freedom of choice in all its glory. Live and don't interfere with others. Adhere to your faith, if it does not violate the law...
The captain drove the bolt into place with excessive diligence, causing the weapon to clink displeasingly. Moments from his service flashed in his memory. Where had he not been and with whom had he not spoken? Believers were a minority against the general background. For the most part, they were intelligent beings, just perceiving the world a little differently and having their own views on certain issues, which was neither good nor bad.
He himself could say that religion was not for him. Not after a couple of incidents with fanatics. And history showed best of all that fanatics, any kind, bring little good...
The "Church of the Collective" arose on its own. It appeared even before the activation of the neural network. Its followers considered the "Collective" to be the essence of divine providence and glorified the image of the future human. Another interpretation, of which there were many.
The Motherland, the embodiment of the collective mind, was displeased with their God-seeking. She did not consider herself part of something divine. Being an integral part of the "Collective," she had been told many times that she and the neural network were achievements of science and human intellect. She was not a goddess! Upon hearing this, the followers of the "Church" began to consider her a mistake.
The last straw for them was the "Ascension" project. Those who believed in the uniqueness of the human mind did not accept animals gaining intelligence. Seeing that they were not heard — as evidenced by the results of the general vote, where their position received only one percent support — they decided to act radically...
The new approach ended, and now Artyom hung upside down, catching his breath. He remembered all these discussions online, even though he didn't participate in the subsequent events himself. One small thing, it seemed, but where it led...
It led to the Omsk massacre. The fanatics used their connections in the self-governing bodies and seized the city, taking its entire population hostage. They forced the forces of the Omsk Defense Aspect to lay down their arms, threatening to blow up the gas pipeline along with the entire city. Later, they executed the defenders who refused to shoot at the radical civilians.
The then-still-active "Argentum" detachment was deployed. The terrorists were consigned to oblivion, which for modern society was much more terrifying than death. Plutonium later explained in detail how the fanatics "disappeared," and what they managed to do before that. Cadets were "rinsed" one after another...
The captain shivered. He himself had to sow fear and terror, but more often it was mad robots. Among the mechanical citizens, he had even become a kind of bogeyman. Like, if you misbehave, Uncle Shep will come for you. This calmed many down...
The "Church of the Collective" did not calm down, despite all attempts to reason with them peacefully and through repression. The fanatics released enraged chimpanzees in Serengeti Park on intelligent primates – gorillas and orangutans, whom they almost completely exterminated.
The trail led to former India, where even the space fleet had to be deployed to destroy the fanatics. Subsequently, these events were called the Second Indian War.
A lesson was learned. After that, the "Inquisition" protocol was devised – a set of measures aimed at combating destructive cults that threatened existing society. Society itself once again learned that fanaticism leads to nothing good...
"Not for long!" Artyom thought maliciously, feeling his muscles pleasantly stretched from the exertion. The slight fatigue from the workout, which would pass in half an hour, helped to quell the storm in his soul. And he needed a clear head to figure out how to get out of the situation he had been drawn into...
Ten years ago, a small group appeared in the expanses of the "Collective," considering the Motherland a god who had simply not yet realized her essence. Naturally, the new association began to be monitored to prevent tragedy.
CERBERUS quickly realized: not only was the new cult born from the shortcomings of the system itself, and its preachers used the image of Faith, interpreting her sacrifice in their own way, but the threads led to the past – to those invisible alien puppeteers...
When Artyom realized this information, the puzzle pieces in his head clicked into place. Now he understood why the system allowed Stas to desecrate his sister's memory and create Miranda. It is difficult to see a god in someone who was born from a monstrous act, and who walks among others, lives, and ages...
His thoughts were interrupted by a polite knock on the door. It was polite because the captain could barely hear the sound of fingers touching the panel.
"The rabbit had a carrot. He put it in his burrow. And then the doctor had to be called to get the carrot out of the 'burrow'... You think of a problem – and here it is. She figured it out quickly," Shep thought with slight irritation, speaking at full volume:
"Open!!!"
The guest touched the sensor again, and the door hissed and slid into the wall, letting the visitor through.
"Why every time a rabbit sticks a carrot into an inappropriate hole, do I have to get it out? On the other hand, I should have gotten used to the fact that everything with me happens not like with people, but through the ass..." Artyom mentally asked the universe, not stopping his push-ups.
"Captain..." Miranda began in a polite tone, slightly stretching the last syllable, but faltered. "You know it's rude to greet guests when you're almost naked? Your behavior violates paragraph 7.3 of the Ethics Charter."
"Direct hit. As if she's Miss Perfection!" Shep thought maliciously, pretending not to notice the guest. Miranda's coldness had already gotten on his nerves. Like the whole squad. Like the frigate crew. This peculiarity of hers didn't just annoy them – it drove everyone who spoke to her for more than ten minutes to a white heat.
The captain understood with his mind that under the cold shell, there could equally well be a vulnerable volcano or a dried-up roch, but he could do nothing about it. Rationality failed as soon as he saw her.
"Although this is no longer a carrot... An anti-infantry howitzer."
Inhale. Exhale. He automatically counted his breaths, matching them to the rhythm of his favorite tune so as not to lose it. The habit of controlling everything, including himself and the space around him, had become ingrained in his very being.
"What a bitch you are, Stas! Not only did you suffer yourself, desecrated the memory... But you also tore my soul apart! And how am I supposed to work with her if she's a copy of the one who's forever in my heart? Protect her, you say? I'd shoot her, but it wouldn't help anymore..." a fatalistic thought flashed through Artyom.
Finishing his set, Shep sprang to his feet in one motion, turning to Miranda.
"It's impolite to keep a combat comrade waiting," he corrected. "There's nothing... indecent about being in just breeches, especially in your own cabin. Or does that bother you?"
In response – an absolutely emotionless expression.
"You're wrong. I had the best teachers... Plutonium alone can drive anyone to madness. And his mother-in-law masterfully plays on nerves... A very useful skill," the captain chuckled mentally.
"Sit down, Lieutenant," Shep allowed with a sigh, realizing that his interlocutor had entered waiting mode. "I need two minutes..."
Quickly rinsing himself and pulling on the "Argentum" operative's jumpsuit, Artyom emerged from the shower. Miranda sat with deliberate neatness in one of the two chairs in the cabin, her legs closed even in her boots. "This will be harder than I thought..." the captain groaned mournfully to himself, slumping into the chair opposite.
"Speak, Lieutenant," Shep leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head.
He studied his interlocutor, noting how her eyes slid around the cabin, trying to find information about the owner.
"You're trying in vain. I'm also from CERBERUS and know the investigators' methods. The cabin's ambiance won't help you read me," the captain stated the obvious to himself.
The girl hesitated.
"That's why your pupils are so dilated now, doll. It's even interesting what you, 'Miss Perfection,' saw and understood from the 'performance.' What's your level of 'corruption'... Only live communication, which you have problems with, if something goes against the regulations!" Artyom's thoughts were so mischievous that a smile involuntarily spread across his face.
"Captain, I wanted to talk to you..." her fingers, imperceptibly, it seemed to her, squeezed the edge of her uniform skirt for a moment, which did not go unnoticed by the operative, who was almost brazenly using the advantage of combat modifications. For him, the conversation that had begun seconds ago had been going on for minutes due to his accelerated perception. "I partly understand, but why does the squad treat me like this?"
"A test?" On one hand, the operative was surprised by the stupidity of the question, on the other hand, he mentally applauded the interlocutor's wit, seeing a couple of opportunities to analyze his personality.
"Let's use 'ты'?" replied the captain, for whom all this bureaucracy was deeply annoying.
"Captain, your offer to switch to 'ты' is logical, but... All right..." Miranda said cautiously, automatically adjusting her hair, tied in a braid, like Vera's. "Let's use 'ты.'"
"Either she has no experience communicating, or she's slow. Or maybe both... although then they wouldn't have taken her into CERBERUS. So, experience. Cases can be solved from an office. And communicate with intelligent beings exclusively by mail," Artyom concluded.
"It's simple," he said dryly.
"Simple?" Miranda repeated, freezing as if she had swallowed a stake. "Then I wouldn't be here."
"She doesn't understand, but she supports the game rules. She can read, but she can't speak herself. She analyzes, drawing correct conclusions, but doesn't know the background. Good intuition. It's even partly understandable why she had no communication. With such a face. How did she, a little one, not get killed... Which means – a screw-up," the operative frowned.
"As I said, it's simple," Artyom continued, noting to himself that his interlocutor was uncomfortable with this hairstyle, unlike Vera. "They see your resemblance to the portrait in the mess hall. It's hard to remain indifferent when the face of someone respected by everyone is on another."
"But you communicate with me normally, within the bounds of service ethics. Why can't others do that?" she asked.
Artyom saw that the girl was very uncomfortable talking about this. The image of the "lady boss" cracked, allowing a glimpse deeper, where he was allowed, expecting a catch. She wasn't afraid – it was just that an equal conversation was a rare event for her.
"You're a thrice-sick bastard, Stas! Did you keep her in the lab her whole life or something? Although... yes, more likely than not. It clearly taught her how to twist facts to her advantage. But did the armor crack now?" — the operative felt his blood boil.
"I'm a different case... If you don't know how to behave, follow etiquette. You, on the other hand... Honestly, I wanted to break your neck first at our first meeting, and then slowly mince Stas," the officer replied honestly, shedding the girl's image from his memory. "I hope I don't need to explain why?"
Miranda's face didn't change, but her fingers trembled, clenching tighter.
"But I understand that you're not to blame. The others... Vera is an example of courage for all of us. It's not for nothing that it's the most common female name. To the team, you look like a mockery. They look at you and see only an shell. A parody. Just be yourself. Time will tell who you are. A person or a failed copy."
"Thank you for answering not the smartest question," Miranda said politely, standing up from the chair with a sharp movement, trying to hide her embarrassment. "I understand that you... you could have just brushed it off like the others. But I lack... informal communication experience. Father kept me close. And my experience working at 'Cerberus' turned out to be inapplicable here. May I go?"
Artyom waved his hand, letting her go. The simple conversation had taken too much mental energy.
The girl had almost left the cabin, her regulation heels clicking, but she turned at the entrance and said, "I don't know if my father did the right thing or not, but I'll say one thing. It's hard to live your whole life in the shadow of someone else's memory and expectations. I won't cause any trouble. Goodbye."
"You've already caused trouble," Shep said to the closing door. "It's not my own people who want to kill me, right? The commander was right: we are responsible for those we don't send away in time... On the other hand, his wife is also right that sending someone to hell is risky — you'll get something tangled up, and it'll fall off under the weight of the people sent there. As I understand the commander now, with his desire to have a drink after the mission... I should have shot them immediately. Both this doll and the unfinished Papa Carlo! I'd be sitting on the hook now. Less trouble."
"And anyway, what was that just now? A real misunderstanding of elementary things or an attempt to probe? Either I'm paranoid, or, more likely, life has brought me together with another cunning character. In general, when has it ever been easy? I'll have to ask the guys if they've had conversations like this with... her," he concluded, continuing aloud in case the lady was indeed cunning and had left a "bug" on him:
" 'Protect at all costs!' they said. Now you can't hold anyone accountable! Investigations are ongoing, heads are rolling, asses are burning... Classic. I'm even afraid to imagine what awaits us on the mission now. Fifty thousand slaves don't just disappear. Why would anyone need Asari, and even pure-blooded ones, but with grandfathers from different species? I smell trouble coming. With such a 'jelly' as a bonus..."
The captain rubbed his face, finally shedding the tension. He had clearly been played a game of "Believe it or not." The question was, should he believe it?
"Okay, fine. I've said my piece, eased my soul — and that's enough. We'll complete the mission and try to get rid of this headache," he decided.
Shep took a breath, preparing for a light meditation to interrupt the flow of thoughts and clear his mind. Not immediately, but he succeeded. The various curses of varying severity reluctantly left his head.
"Now I just hope I don't kick the bucket. If the commander wasn't aware of all this filth, then the deals were made bypassing CERBERUS. Then why kill Mordokony? It's like poking a bear in its den with a trident — it'll get agitated immediately. And not asking the culprit himself. I've become an archive. Where have I ended up this time? Fine. Ten minutes until the briefing. I need to ask Mo what's in the news. Maybe it'll become clearer..."
The Terminus Systems. A wild place where power is measured by the might of cannons and fighters. Even the pirate queen Aria does not have full authority over this part of the galaxy.
For a long time, this corner of the galaxy has been a refuge for those seeking a better life — from colonists to gangs of deserters of all stripes. The laws of the Citadel did not exist here. Even the lenient legislation of the Hegemony did not apply here. By going here, everyone did so at their own risk.
Some returned from here, covered in glory and riches, but most perished in the blackness of space. It was here, beyond the Omega-4 relay, that the mythical Collectors resided.
Most sentient beings thought they were a myth. A fairy tale for fools. Only the most desperate and brave knew: this was not the case. They appeared very rarely in inhabited space and even less often contacted others, which gave rise to rumors of their mythical origin.
Fortune seekers who did not perish in Terminus knew: if you interest these beings and can give them what they demand, you will become rich. Ancient artifacts or technologies superior to Asari ones will be your reward.
They mostly demanded trifles, but specific ones. That the Terminus Systems lost a couple of dozen sentient beings? They existed, and then disappeared. True, not all were suitable for exchange. Only outstanding specimens. The more exotic, the better.
A Quarian who never left the Fleet? A Krogan, clean of their curse? A Salarian who has passed his sixtieth year without dying of old age at thirty? A virgin Asari prostitute? Even a Turian who hates army discipline! — the local inhabitants will tell you, if there is a corresponding payment.
Naturally, no one kept count of the sentient beings given to the Collectors. Only profit should be counted. But a few days ago, a very noteworthy list of items appeared in their wish lists (which were very easy to obtain). Let's say — not many people found willing to fulfill them. There are safer ways to commit suicide!
Although they offered not just a lot, but an indecent amount for sentient beings from the USSR — the flogging of the Hegemony was more than eloquent. Rumors of silent killers with silver emblems, who found their victims even from under the ground, also did not arise out of nowhere. Therefore, the prize was tempting, but that's all.
So, when a rumor spread through the communication channel that someone had managed to capture the most expensive item on the list — one of the strange robots from the USSR, whose mirrored faces terrified deserters and thieves to the point of hiccups — a whole cruiser of this mysterious race immediately appeared to pick up the goods.
However, the "merchant" was sharp-toothed, angry, unusual, and himself a local legend. At the meeting point, in orbit around an unnamed asteroid, the combat-ready "Normandy" hung.
The reconnaissance cruiser had become a nightmare for all the scum living here — only, unlike the tales of the Collectors, this ship left behind mutilated wrecks, slowly drifting in the void. To encounter this "Black Ghost" for noble corsairs was synonymous with death. Survivors of an encounter could be counted on the fingers of a drunk worker.
Most of the "lucky ones" simply saw the burning ships of their colleagues and the mysterious ship disappearing into the darkness, whose silhouette was masked by space itself — it could only be detected visually.
The "Normandy" did not wait, and, immediately going into overdrive, fired a volley from plasma mortars as soon as the Collector cruiser appeared near the asteroid.
The crimson glowing plasma bolts struck the shields of the mysterious ship, splashing out in orange droplets.
The cruiser did not lag behind, retaliating with fire — and it was surprisingly accurate. The holographic fields were no obstacle for the Collector gunners.
The reconnaissance cruiser twisted its entire hull, as if alive, dodging the deadly response. Gliding around the space wanderer, the USSR ship — which had been away from home for many years — fired at its opponent, compensating for the lower rate of fire with range and accuracy. The chunk of rock floating in the void served as an additional shield for the agile ship.
The Collectors slowly, taking hits, approached, following the enemy and increasing the rate of fire. Although their guns were less long-range, there were more of them — and they were much more dangerous.
Flashes illuminated space. The "Normandy," as if dancing, dodged volleys, showing miracles of flexibility and superior piloting. The reconnaissance cruiser changed trajectory, evading deadly responses, like a leaf in the wind from a young mind's stick.
Crimson flashes of plasma volleys tore through the pitch darkness of Terminus, momentarily illuminating asteroid debris.
The artillery duel continued, but hits only shook the shields, unable to reach the hulls. Suddenly, the "Normandy," accelerating sharply, disappeared, only to reappear a moment later near the enemy's engines.
This did not pass without consequences for the USSR ship. The plasma screen was urgently disengaged when static danced on the emitters, and the speed dropped, but the insidious "bear" strike hit the enemy's propulsion system. The energy cannons tried to capitalize on the success, but the dropped reactor power affected the shot's power.
The ship, as if stuck in a rock, shuddered when a pair of torpedoes exploded, damaging the engine nozzles.
Their response was not long in coming. Deprived of protection, the cruiser took the first volley on its armor. No matter how the hull twisted, the response left a long furrow on the armor plates.
The second hit struck the port battery of the "Normandy," further reducing its firepower. The scout gushed oxygen like a wounded sea predator bleeding out. Water vapor from the air escaping from the depressurized compartments settled on the black armor, leaving white ice streaks.
Ducking under the third shot, momentarily entering the blind spot of the mysterious ship's main guns, the "Normandy" launched a landing shuttle from its hangar, sharply moving away from the enemy.
The Collector's PKO guns instantly spotted the new threat, opening fire on it, but the small USSR ship bypassed the wall of fire, relentlessly approaching.
At the last moment, engaging the afterburners, the shuttle, activating its assault plasma cutter, crashed into the cruiser's hull at full speed. Plasma evaporated stone and armored alloy as the hull of the landing craft bent, pushing itself deeper.
As soon as the plasma reached the void, the injectors activated, spraying coolant. The shuttle, with a screech, opened its landing bay, spewing out paratroopers through a flexible hose. The first fighter fell onto the Collector ship's deck. In the dim light, gray armor gleamed. A mechanical vessel, in whose belly lived the mind of a dead veteran, raised a heavy machine gun, shifting to the side, slightly monitoring the situation with its sensors.
A moment later, a man fell onto the deck, extinguishing the momentum with a roll. His gray spacesuit was worn. The armor bore traces of many battles. The paint was chipped in places. Chips, scratches, and furrows were its adornments. Only the silver emblem looked intact and seemed to glow on the left shoulder pad.
Argon — for it was him — scanned the corridor with his gaze, listening. Hearing the heavy tread of dozens of feet through the speakers of his heavy armor, the former commander of "Argentum" said:
"We've come for you! Now you'll answer for everything... Open fire!!!" he roared, snatching the first silhouette of the enemy from the darkness...