Choice—without choice.
Artyom's hand slowly unclasped its grip on his left hand, releasing the weapon. His armor creaked, unable to keep up with his body. The sword vanished in a blue flash. His palm struck Miranda's pauldron with a clang. The ringing had not yet faded when a shove sent the girl out of the line of fire.
The air on the ruined military base seemed to have turned to concrete.
The Collector, reacting to the movement, identified its target, aiming its weapon barrel at the chosen opponent. A star began to ignite in its black maw.
The captain's brain instantly calculated the shot's trajectory. A red line seemed to mark the beam's path. His mind could already almost feel the pain.
His right hand went up. The second sword was in the air when a steel grip closed on the blade, creating sparks.
His legs took two steps. Dust had only just begun to rise, disturbed by his stride.
A swing. The sword, intercepted like a spear, took flight. The vibro-generator sang its song.
Shep felt a blow to his back. The backpack's jet engines engaged. Flame, as if reluctantly, burst from the nozzles.
His foot landed awkwardly. A joint crunched. Miraculously, he maintained his balance.
Miranda only realized she was flying. She had just begun to turn her head to the right, towards where the captain stood.
The beam erupted from the barrel, heavy and slow, as if pushing through the air.
Inhale. The captain clenched his teeth tighter. The Rubicon had been crossed.
The weapon, blazing with all shades of blue, drew level with the spear of light, passing by.
His muscles burned with pain. The crunch of the joint caught up with his perception.
The energy stream touched the spacesuit, hitting the right pauldron. The metal instantly turned red, disappearing. The spear of light continued its path.
Artyom flinched, arching his back, trying to minimize the damage.
The helium lining boiled. The stinging radiation touched his skin…
"My armor is strong! I am Iron outside!" the first lines of the mantra boomed in his head, forcing his body into emergency mode.
A cold shock jolted his nerves. They evaporated faster than the pain impulse could form.
"And my spirit is strong! I am Iron inside!"
The fluid boiled, tearing through fibers that hadn't managed to evaporate. Bone ignited. The beam continued to slide down and diagonally.
The tip of the sword cut through the humanoid's armor, widening the hole. The impulse pushed him along with the weapon. The burning light changed trajectory.
His entire right side was burning. Molten metal gnawed at his skin. His right shoulder evaporated. The arm that had held the sword a second ago vanished in a cloud of ash.
Exhale. The captain's chest burned with pain. The crust on the seared flesh cracked, exposing his ribs. His leg buckled again.
The sword's tip appeared between the Collector's shoulder blades. Three steps remained…
The clang of armor. Miranda fell to her side, only now seeing the operative's movement.
A crunch. The muscles in his right leg gave way. Blood spurted from the poorly cauterized wound.
The fingertips touched the hilt. His left hand yanked the sword down, slashing open the abdomen.
A step to the side. A turn.
Howling, the blade bit into his neck. The grip loosened.
A pop. The girl fired. The bullet would hit an already dead body, but that would be later…
An activation gesture. Telekinesis grabbed Risa by the leg. A tug from an invisible hand. The sentient cat flew towards Shep.
Two more steps. Darkness fell in the man's eyes. Risa slammed into his chest. He caught the almost weightless body of his comrade. Instinctively…
The roar of a falling tower. The angry crackle of flames, having been denied their sacrifice.
Already in flight, time returned to its normal pace. The pain caught up with the man.
Losing control, the jetpack dragged the man and the cat sideways, in a direction only he could see. After several drunken somersaults, they were caught by Miranda's telekinesis.
Sweat beaded on the girl's forehead from the effort. Completely surrendering to the invisible force, she gently pulled the wounded towards her. Both fell heavily to the ground at her feet.
"Vera…" the captain whispered, looking with cloudy eyes at Miranda, who was bending over him.
His mind finally succumbed to the pain. Darkness. Cold. The last sparks of consciousness faded, dissolving into the void.
Somewhere far away, in space, as one voice fell silent for a time, others began to sound. In the dim light of the collector's ship, Argon's words sounded like claws scraping on stone:
"As expected. If you thought the demonstration of your pawns' inadequacy would move me, you are greatly mistaken," the former commander of the "Argentum" rasped.
He was not at all impressed by the broadcast image of his former subordinate's battle.
"I don't care about your expectations, organic," the chief collector stated indifferently. The once proud Prothean, now just an insect-like puppet, turned to the human. Stepping on its four legs, the empty shell extinguished the screen, plunging the compartment into an almost palpable darkness. The creature, which could not exist without the puppeteer's strings, bowed its head, allowing the Reaper to better examine the interlocutor's face through the puppet's eyes. "Your fate is already predetermined."
"Others will come for me," the officer, crucified to the compartment ceiling, retorted. "Then you'll see what's predetermined."
He looked unyielding, despite his wounds, hunger, and lack of clothing.
"This has been calculated. A minor deviation."
The sound of chitin colliding with the stone floor announced the approach of the puppet, which moved out of Kuznetsov's sight. Only the cold touch of the wind on his bare skin told him where the enemy's puppet was.
"As has your optimization, a vestige of flesh and blood," the puppeteer said, as if having already checked something.
The former commander let out a quiet, creaky laugh. The dry air drank the moisture, parching his mucous membranes.
"I will not serve you, how many times do I have to say it. Your mind-altering drugs won't affect me," the man cut off.
"There are things beyond the grasp of your primitive mind, so distant that you cannot even comprehend them. The spiral has turned so many times that you cannot imagine. Rarely can anyone of your form of existence accept the obvious," the Reaper's voice grew even colder. "You are already our tool, human. Direct intervention is not the pinnacle of our capabilities. Soon you will understand the futility of your efforts, as well as the organic form."
The man's dry lips twisted into a snarl.
"It's easier for you to kill me than to make me your slave. Even after years…"
"Not years," the puppet corrected him. "Decades. Step by step, we will reshape your nature. We will make you better. The sooner you accept this, the less pain you will experience… Your fate is to become our instrument. Your hands will begin the Harvest…"
In the void, no one will hear each other's cries of pain. The true master of destinies began his work, creating a flawless masterpiece. It will be one of the last chords of organic life in its time.
While some decided the fate of the galaxy, others merely thought they were deciding it. In the vastness of space, a small diplomatic ship lay hidden. Its streamlined hull and elegant lines betrayed it as a vessel of the Azari Republic.
Onboard, high-ranking diplomats were waiting for the moment to begin their game – to present their race in all its glory, strengthening their reputation as peacemakers. While the fleets of the USSR and the Hierarchy shed blood, the venerable Azari, barely reaching the age of matrons, languished in boredom in a luxurious lounge.
"How much longer will these barbarians keep smashing everything?" one of them whined petulantly, lazily sipping juice from a glass. "At this rate, there will be nothing left of the Hegemony."
"According to the analysts' calculations – not much longer," her colleague, a specialist in traditions, cooed. "The more they kill each other, the better for us and for the Citadel Space."
Pausing, she added with apprehension:
"The Turians have become too arrogant lately…"
"That's why we're hanging in the void," the diplomat interrupted her with barely concealed melancholy. "We're waiting for two varrens to fight to their heart's content. Even a hypothetical chance of their alliance cannot be allowed."
"But isn't it good if a new race joins our community?" the linguist asked naively, blinking her eyes. "The Knights of the Citadel were also savages once, until we civilized them."
"They were," the diplomat livened up, shedding her feigned boredom. "But we used it to our advantage. Don't delude yourself – they remained savages, just with more modern weapons now."
"Really?" the linguist wondered, putting down her tablet.
The master of traditions merely snorted ironically:
"The entire diplomatic corps knows about your weakness for Turian crests."
"At least I had a personal life, unlike you!" she flared up. "And I got my position deservedly, not through the bed!"
"Oh, how interesting… But it seems we are finally moving," the diplomat interrupted with relief, tired of the argument.
Unlike them, she did not waste words or connections. That's why she held a high position.
"Diplomacy is not just about negotiations, but also about knowing how to lie down under an opponent so that he firmly believes that he is doing it to you, not you to him…" she recalled the words of a matriarch.
She understood: life, though long, could collapse in an instant. Failure meant centuries of stagnation, even among the elite.
"But if everything works out…" her fingers clenched the tablet so hard her knuckles turned white.
With a predatory smile that even the most skilled makeup could not hide, she plunged back into her work, ignoring the chatter.
According to analysts, the Turians were about to shatter part of the USSR's fleet. Blindly believing the forecasts, the diplomat did not suspect that somewhere light-years away from her comfortable chair, the wounded but unbroken ships of the Union continued to fight.
As if with a roar audible in a vacuum, the two fleets clashed again. Like medieval knights, the tip of the attacking wedge of Palaven warriors fell upon the USSR's formation. Absorbing the deadly barrage, the Union ships, already quite battered, moved forward simultaneously. If medieval knights had been in place of the space wanderers, they would have swayed like a monolithic wall of shields, breaking the storm.
The red fleet held its formation. Ships changed places as if moved by a giant carousel, allowing plasma shields to regenerate and main caliber guns to recharge. Many pennants were already riddled with holes. Bulkheads stuck out like bare bones, stripped of armor. Air leaked from the holes. Fires raged on the decks. More and more voids appeared where gun turrets and batteries had been. Entire sections of the hulls turned into ruins.
Technicians hastily repaired everything they could. Sailors patched the plating and extinguished flames. Gunners performed miracles, achieving a rate of fire exceeding calculations. Boarding actions thundered on many ships. The hum of reactors spread through the corridors, resonating with the armor. Gun cooling systems hissed, weakened by the prolonged battle.
Space itself warped from kilowatts of energy and kilotons of explosives. The dark and dead cosmos came alive in apocalyptic splendor. Empty space bloomed with explosions and laser beams, only to be consumed by starship engines.
More and more pennants disappeared from the scanners, but the USSR squadron closed ranks again and again, preventing gaps from appearing in their ranks. Although the officers and sailors lacked real combat experience, they learned the science of warfare in this alien environment with astonishing speed. Again and again, the unified organism of the Union's military machine responded blow for blow.
Unified, literally sentient, they needed no words or orders. Everyone knew what to do. Together they amplified each other. Moreover, those who remained in the rear helped the fighters. Scientists analyzed, engineers looked for weaknesses, soldiers devised tactics, and civilians encouraged the sailors and officers.
Even the fallen, but awakened in the information space, rejoined the ranks, taking over system management and relieving the burden on their still-living comrades. Death was no excuse to stop fighting, for a communist!
Yet the squadron was losing the battle. Slowly, retreating and forcing the enemy to pay with blood for every killed and every step taken, but losing. The Turians, in skill and iron discipline no less than the Soviet cosmonauts, moved forward. Slowly and methodically, their ships broke through the defense lines.
Meeting a worthy opponent who did not falter from numerical superiority, the legionaries gave their all. In their understanding, honor demanded it…
Instead of a resounding victory, the sailors and officers increasingly felt the taste of decay. Duty demanded they move forward, for the glory of the Hierarchy and the Fleet… Honor demanded that the memory of this battle be black with soot.
They fought against those who had done what they should have done long ago! The Hierarchy should have rolled over the Hegemony like a steamroller, with fire and the iron tread of legions, so that the scum of all sorts would know retribution! Instead, the Knights of the Citadel, bound by trade agreements and promissory notes, protected murderers, rapists, and smugglers, killing warriors just like themselves. Warriors who came without hypocrisy and simply broke the spine of the filth…
Even if they did things that made the entire galaxy shudder, their prey were not innocents. For the first time in centuries, the scum got what they deserved, feeling in their own skin what their victims had felt. The legionaries winced at this cruelty, while simultaneously noting its effectiveness and understanding that it was because of them that it happened. They hadn't managed to root out the rot in its infancy.
Now, another crack had formed between the Knights of the Citadel and the Azari. It would no longer be as before. No matter how this battle ended, the Hierarchy would not win it, even if they destroyed the last enemy ship…
The Admiral of the USSR wiped blood from his face with his whole hand. His flagship was in the front line. A former nobleman who had once sided with the reds could never have imagined that his path would end thousands of light-years from his home planet.
As a cadet, he had only a vague idea of space. How ironic life and future death were. Yet the officer regretted nothing. He was proud to meet his end in battle, side by side with his comrades. The Admiral knew that even if the flagship perished, his consciousness would continue the fight.
His colleague on the other side, a Turian, mentally asked the spirits for forgiveness. He had never thought that war would taste so bitter. One could even realize that their duty was wrong. If he was so shaken, what was happening in the minds of the rank-and-file? Wouldn't this battle bring even more turmoil than there already was?
A female pilot spun her fighter, throwing herself back into the maelstrom of battle. The bulk of the enemy battleship obscured her entire view.
The engine was burning. The main gun was destroyed. The last missile had not even launched from the launch pylon. She would die, but she would do it on her own terms!
Her children are far away. She is a mother. She fights so that the horror they have burned here never comes home.
The nimble ship rushed into its final flight. The last, but bright in its finale…
"Cease fire!" a message from both sides ripped through the ether. The two admirals gave the order almost simultaneously, having received information from their governments.
The two fleets seemed to hit an invisible reef. The ships froze as if in amber. Space froze in a precarious balance, where one spark could reignite hell.
A bewildered silence hung over the bridges of the ships. Even the most ardent warriors froze, not believing their ears.
Pilots, sailors, and officers, heated by battle, suddenly felt all their exhaustion, not fully believing what was happening. Had the politicians finally reached an agreement?
Somewhere millions of kilometers from the bloody chaos of battle, words were indeed spoken that changed the course of… everything.
"...We await your envoys," the Azari diplomat said, breaking the communication link, having had the last word.
The chief coordinator of the USSR removed "Thought" from his temple, wearily rubbing his face with his hands. The short conversation had been incredibly difficult. One careless word could have led to the collapse of all plans and billions of deaths. Too great a responsibility for one person.
"We made it. The plan was executed in full, on time, and most opportunely," a thought full of bitter irony flashed through his mind.
The pieces had been set on the galaxy's chessboard. The USSR had entered a game with a cheat who had already dealt a stacked deck. Now it was time to play the performance called "Negotiations with the Citadel," but first…
Exhaling, Sechenov lowered his hands from his face, turning to the hologram hanging slightly to the right of the center of his office.
"I hope, Comrade Lebedev, you had a good reason to insist on this decision? Your request… to delay communication cost us many lives."
Now, for him, he was not a colleague or a friend with whom they had gone through many hardships, but a subordinate who kept many secrets.
"Colleague, you understand yourself that I cannot say," the scientist, the permanent head of the Academy of Consequences, said just as wearily. "I already took a risk by stating the reason. Predicting the future is precarious."
"I know that any trifle can change it before the bifurcation point," Sechenov nodded in agreement. "Even something as seemingly ordinary as 'Future Radio.' No computational power is enough to realize that the music playing from the speakers is different every quantum of time. But we are not here to discuss theory…"
Sechenov looked at Lebedev not as Academician Dmitry Sergeevich, but as a Wizard, demanding and ruthless in his logic. The chosen ruler, who had stopped the battle by contacting the Citadel diplomats directly, asked the question that interested him:
"I hope, someday, you will tell me what you saw years ago?"
The head of the Academy and prophet of science in one person, carefully choosing his words, replied:
"Certainly. Otherwise, our future will be a nightmare. For now, I can only say that there is not much time left. The boundary conditions have almost arrived. You understand, one cannot talk about what simply does not exist yet."
"Therefore, the country and the people can only rely on your intellect," the Wizard concluded with even greater weariness in his voice.
The connection broke, leaving a resounding silence and heavy thoughts about the future, which could not be predicted but must be changed, in the ruler's office…