The mood in the Citadel Council was mixed. There was excitement, but not quite. As soon as the latest news arrived, the Councilors gathered to discuss the situation and the further steps of their states within the framework of Citadel Council cooperation.
The Asari Councilor, who was not a military person, was rather pleased with the news but looked into the faces of the others, reading their reactions. They were not as positive as she thought. And that was strange, but perhaps they understood something the Councilor herself did not know, so she just had to ask the question.
"So, you won?" she asked cautiously. "The enemy fled."
The Salarian shook his head. The Turian Councilor countered:
"The enemy retreated from Palaven; the siege is lifted. We have gained a breathing room in this fight."
"But it's not a victory?" the Asari asked.
She didn't quite understand her colleague's mood. The opponent fled. Yes, Palaven took massive damage; plasma weapons burned entire blocks, and the ships' shields proved indecently strong. But even that wasn't enough to take the capital of the Turian Hierarchy, albeit with massive losses and destruction. Up to a quarter of Palaven will have to be rebuilt, but the enemy fled. So why this attitude?
"A tactical retreat, problems with logistics and equipment repair," the Salarian explained, agreeing with the Turian Councilor.
The latter nodded.
"The losses of the Council fleets participating in the defense of Oma Ker and Palaven—more than half the ships destroyed, a third damaged. Enemy losses: a third of the ships destroyed, half damaged. We couldn't destroy the flagship; we couldn't even pierce the shields. But three out of four Super-dreadnoughts were destroyed—one over Oma Ker, two over Palaven. With smaller ships, the score is better, but we still take losses, heavy losses, for every enemy ship. The pilots died almost to a man winning this battle."
The Asari nodded slowly. The destruction of Covenant ships was uneven; the larger the ship, the more losses incurred in its destruction. But that wasn't all.
"And the troops conducted a series of sabotages on Oma Ker; that helped too?"
"Correct," the Salarian added. "The enemy tried to use Oma Ker for logistics and vehicle repair. But resistance on the planet's surface, albeit guerrilla, continued. And we were able to interfere with that decision. And as ships were pulled back to the rear for repairs, our forces were able to act more freely and destroy the third Super-dreadnought, though at a great cost. Pulling back troops, conducting repairs, and returning is simply logical for them. We won't be able to prevent it or stop them after they return."
Now it was clear.
"Because the enemy will have a much better force ratio than the Council Races. Not a victory, but a breathing room. They will return. I understand."
"Correct," the Salarian agreed. "We were unprepared for this method of warfare. Usually, each ship class has its own combat range. Dreadnoughts for sniper duels, Cruisers as the main universal suppression ship, destroyers and Frigates for close-range maneuverable combat. A clear structure, action, and counteraction."
"But not against this enemy," the Turian added. "They are remarkably good at imposing comfortable combat conditions for themselves, breaking our usual patterns and moving Dreadnoughts into close combat, which our ships handle poorly—they are too sluggish. The firepower of Cruisers is frankly insufficient against their large ships. We have encountered an extremely inconvenient enemy. It reminds me of the Rachni, who simply ignored our military doctrine, fighting as they pleased."
The Asari was bewildered but asked:
"But what do we do then? We can't just leave things as they are."
The Turian Councilor sighed, nodding.
"The only option now is to conduct a series of raids on the enemy worlds found by intelligence. Slow them down, provoke them into spending forces on defense. Buy time." And then to the others: "The Primarch is asking your governments about their readiness for such operations and their funding. Salarian intelligence has successfully found worlds to attack. Are your governments ready to support the attack?"
The Asari shrugged.
"I don't see a problem. It's better than if other worlds in Citadel Space come under fire, if you'll pardon my bluntness. We will continue the supply of resources and troops one way or another. We must be ready for battle; that is the official position of the Matriarchs."
From her point of view, this was a perfectly pragmatic approach. Better to let the Turians fight. They chose their role as the army and military police of the Citadel Council, so let them earn it, as the Matriarchs' representatives said in a private conversation. On this issue, both they and the Salarian Dalatresses were in complete agreement: the Turian Hierarchy is their shield; let them bear the maximum damage. For all of us.
"The Clans support this decision. You will receive more assault units in the next shipments. And additional sabotage squads, equipment," the Salarian Councilor agreed.
Naturally, the Turian Councilor understood his colleagues' logic. But the fact that in the beginning of a war with a destructive enemy, the other Councilors and their leadership were helping rather than trying to prolong the conflict or leave the Turian Hierarchy alone with the enemy was good. Everyone does what they do best. Even if with the most pragmatic motives.
"And one more question," the Asari Councilor reminded. "The Humans. They might know about the enemy's technologies. We could negotiate cooperation. The information would be useful. Isn't it time we ended this conflict?"
But both the Turian and the Salarian answered this in unison.
"Out of the question," the Salarian countered. "Cooperation with the Geth and Krogan is unacceptable. Just like the creation of AI. It's not even about breaking laws, but about ignoring our interests and our position, acting out of spite. Humans seem to act specifically to cause maximum damage. Unacceptable!"
"AI?" the Turian asked. "I wasn't aware of that. And what about the Krogan? Is the investigation still ongoing?"
The Salarian Councilor nodded.
"We haven't been able to obtain samples; Human ship systems are completely wiped when threatened with capture. Nothing usable remains. But there are grounds to believe that Humans use AI, and on very compact carriers. We were able to obtain wreckage from several of their Cruisers through interception. An investigation into the incident on Tuchanka was also conducted. It's easier to work with our own systems than with Human ones; they couldn't bypass all our safeguards, and we managed to learn a few things. Including from emergency data carriers, 'black boxes'—recordings remained there. The assault on the station was carried out by joint forces of Humans, Geth, and Krogan. And they extracted all laboratory data on the Genophage. Data, samples, everything."
The Asari covered her mouth with her hand in surprise.
"You think Humans could cure the Genophage to use the Krogan as an army? Like against the Rachni, but... against us?"
The Salarian nodded again.
"It is possible. Therefore, there can be no talk of cooperation until we confirm the status of the Krogan and their forced return to Tuchanka in full. We already have to spend a mass of resources to restore the destroyed station and one of the towers of The Shroud. We don't want a repeat of the Krogan Rebellions. This is the Dalatresses' principled position. We paid too high a price to give the Krogan a chance. It is inadmissible."
And the Turian Councilor agreed.
"The Turian Hierarchy also has many questions for the Humans and their policies. Including regarding Oma Ker. The fact that the planet was sequentially attacked by Humans and then by this Covenant might not be a coincidence. Therefore, cooperation must include an investigation into their activities. We also agree regarding the Krogan. We were able to win when the Krogan were alone. But with Human weapons, when we don't know where their worlds are located? Relying on goodwill is foolishness."
The Asari nodded silently. It was too obvious that Humans wouldn't go for that. And why would they?
When you have two races with essentially infinite armies (Geth and Krogan) in your alliance, and the Krogan owe you for the Genophage, you have essentially unlimited supplies of infantry on your hands. The fact that the Covenant is occupied with the Council Races also gives Humans nothing but benefits. Therefore, cooperation should be established on one's own, without expecting Humans to join Citadel Space.
The Republic will buy information if the others don't want to cooperate, at least for themselves. Everything has its price. The Turians forgot this, delegating economy and trade to the Volus. The Salarians... might think the same, they just won't say it. But the Matriarchs will find out and draw the correct, most complete conclusions. And they will negotiate, as always.
***
Khaela, the Possessed-curator. Earth.
When the Vice Admiral suggested taking a job at a school attached to the military academy to fill the social module, I didn't realize it wasn't a reward, but revenge. Ultimately, what could be bad about Human children? Listen, analyze, fill the social module's library for all occasions, I thought. Well, that wasn't the smartest decision, as it turned out.
In just a month, the social module was fouled with concentrated school drama and mass entertainment products. Captain Vorhess came from exactly that. The original Batarian captain was more classic. Medium armor, weapons typical of the Batarian Hegemony. Except he was also a pirate and indeed lost his ship due to excessive greed, and he had a Pyjak. But the social module decided that a more memorable image was needed to attract attention with its unconventionality. It worked, but still...
And there are no, and can be no, complaints about the school itself. The school at the military academy remembers the initial officer training of future cadets and provides a well-rounded education. And it's not just about physical and ideological training, of which there is plenty. Basics of tactics, psychology, in-depth study of sciences, stress resistance tests, and the ability to keep secrets.
These schools feed not only the Navy and Army but also intelligence; recruits are picked out in advance. This is a sensible and positive part of what's happening. A graduate with high grades simply by fact has a letter of recommendation and benefits for admission to specialized educational institutions, which also creates demand. Or even for training in intelligence if they show themselves well, but that's already secret. So the educational institution and the curriculum are the best part of information gathering.
And then there are the students. And that is the negative part; without them, the school at the academy would be much better. Chaotic, numerous, unstable. Upon passing the standard physical training for an ordinary Human, they immediately begin to behave like a crowd of lustful, aggressive primates. As a curator from intelligence, I have access to the surveillance system. And it's a circus.
The students are divided into groups. There are more pleasant ones—individuals focused on learning. They might make mistakes or act incorrectly, but they easily accept behavioral correction. Working with trained units is still easier, but this is the best part of Human children. Not all of them are like that.
There are also aggressive monkeys who stretch their upper limbs toward the Possessed and get hit for it, even to the point of bruising. But it doesn't stop them, as if it's some kind of competition in what they understand as "masculinity." Lust, strength, and the drive for dominance over everything, including fairly young teachers and curators. Qualities worthy of an animal, not a higher sentient life form.
And no, Miranda, even if she isn't always logical, still belongs to the first group, even if she lacks information. But she learns and recognizes boundaries. However, as it was explained to me, this is a temporary phenomenon.
We'll see; it's hard to believe. These "students" are inadequate and often ignore the consequences; Miranda doesn't behave like that.
The sergeants and mentors are trying to solve the problem of the younger generation's workload, unsuccessfully. No matter how much you load teenagers, they'll still have free time. And considering that teenagers across the board pass physical training standards, unbridled strength is added to general hormonal instability. And the desire to apply that strength—to go out into the open field and start swinging, flexing pumped-up thighs in front of an audience, playing with biceps, and showing off six-pack abs! Look at what my social module has come to!
Or breaking the rules as a demonstration of "coolness." Breaking the rules leads to punishment and nothing else. Systematic violation leads to severe punishment and exclusion from the system. So what's the point?
It's a good thing they left the possessed part of me just to observe, attached to the mentors, and ninety percent of this isn't my problem. I can collect information and pretend to carry out the program integrated by Dr. Catherine Halsey. I have orders and permission for both actions. There are duties, but they aren't burdensome for someone with my capabilities.
Writing educational software, conducting simulator tests, calculations, searching for potential recruits for ONI. For me, it's not difficult; most of the work falls only on the social module, which doesn't participate in scientific projects at all—it has its own tasks. So, ninety percent of the time, all the students' problems aren't mine.
The remaining ten percent falls on practical exercises. And that's when the circus begins. Just like now.
"The hike will be interesting, eh?"
I turned to the old caretaker sitting in the co-pilot's seat. Also a mentor, also from intelligence; we crossed paths back at the academy on Earth. Now the academy is conducting a field event for promising students, and we've met again, though she doesn't know it. That time it was a combat avatar; this time, a possessed one.
Klavdia Petukhova, or as she was called behind her back, including in her personal file, "Baba Klava." A granny for whom being a Marine sergeant is a way of life and an orientation. It's very hard to believe that this hunched old woman, who barely reaches the waist of a combat avatar and the chest of a possessed one, is capable of hitting ninety points from ten meters with a Magnum using artificial fingers (her real ones burned off thirty years ago) or knocking the wind out of a cadet with a punch to the "plywood." A strange term.
Of course, in hand-to-hand combat, it would be hard for her due to age and spinal problems, but with weapons, thanks to cybernetics, she handles them better than the cadets in every parameter.
Which isn't useless, as rebels aren't shy about hitting the "puppets of the ruling regime," regardless of gender or age. The war with the Covenant, victories or defeats—it doesn't matter. Dropping a tank of chemicals on a military academy is a delightful prospect for them. And then they'll tell stories about how they defeated everyone, even though from a pragmatic standpoint, cadets are an extremely easily replaceable resource. They aren't experienced military specialists, though attacking such people is much harder than damaging a ship or dropping those same chemicals on a school. You could die in the process.
This is partly why exercises are needed, and in the residential blocks, you can find chemical protection, armor, and even weapons. Every student must be ready and know how to act in case of danger, chemical or radiation alerts, or a Covenant attack—how to put on armor in the allotted time. Even civilians get a minimal course, as do drivers, and everyone in general. But for future military personnel, the "how to behave in a critical situation" course is the most comprehensive.
Of course, it's not just about sadism, but also walks in the fresh air. For example, residents of megapolises or airless worlds (the classic example being the Moon) react very sharply to a forest and get lost, not knowing how to behave at all. Nature shocks them, fresh air causes breathing problems, and the sounds and sensations cause shock. For them, a series of such "hikes" is absolutely necessary to get used to unusual fauna and open spaces after the corridors of space bases where they spent their entire lives.
Plus, teamwork training, and just practice and a change of scenery. Getting used to non-standard situations. And, of course, testing physical skills. As well as tests for readiness to act against "their own" on orders. In general, an extremely useful process, including those conducted in cooperation with various services.
Actually, the current exercises will look like this: a scheduled atmospheric transport with fifty students will fly to the site of the hike, as Klavdia said. They'll be unloaded there, given tasks to complete in the process, and left for a week under the supervision of drones and cameras, "at liberty," recording every step, conversation, and action. Then they'll be picked up, the recordings analyzed, grades given, and disciplinary actions handed out so that no one leaves offended. And there will be many punishments.
For the students on board, this is the first such event. Which means they are guaranteed to make mistakes of all sorts and kinds. For them, this event is still just a trip to the fresh air. They are right, of course, but not entirely. Not just a trip to the fresh air. Students need to be kept busy; otherwise, they start doing stupid things, like drinking diluted alcohol from the first-aid kit or fighting.
So I nodded to the caretaker sitting in the next seat of that very atmospheric transport. I am the pilot—with my capabilities, this isn't a problem for the possessed one—she is the lead mentor of the event from ONI. And she understands everything.
"Yes, the conditions were set by intelligence. The kids won't die of boredom."
The old woman snorted.
"More likely from over-screwing," and squinting slyly, she added, "what do you want to bet that no one will get a passing grade, not even that girl you're watching, that 'promising' Keyes. She'll lose her head because of youth and they'll screw everything up, and we'll have to terminate pregnancies upon return. What personal task was she given by intelligence? You definitely know, come on, spill it. Hmm?"
So, the tasks. Upon arrival, the team receives a set of actions to be performed during a week of sitting in the forest. Under supervision, but without the direct presence of command. Arrive at the right point, find the cargo, or something else. Two radio stations are allocated to the squad for coordination with adults. Miranda and another boy are their operators. They can ask for something or get more information; this is also evaluated. Correctly asked questions are also good.
And some receive personal tasks. For example, to steal something, interfere with the squad's mission, or something else. Something in the style of typical tasks for junior personnel from ONI. They will also receive points for this, as will those who catch them. I ordered the transport to begin its descent and turned to the old, hunched, but stern woman with the vulgar jokes.
"Deliver the second radio station to the given coordinates, unnoticed, for thirty points. Priority: delivery and stealth, in that order."
The granny nodded, then winced at the noise in the cabin. The students, a third of whom were seeing a forest live for the first time, were frankly mesmerized and gave in to emotions, causing a hum even in the cockpit as if there were a swarm of insects instead of people.
"They've relaxed, the kiddies. Not good; a soldier should be exhausted and have no strength left to be surprised by anything. Let them run around, eh?"
I nodded.
"That was in the technical specifications. Proceed."
So the grandmother picked up the radio, turned on the loudspeaker, and spoke:
"Salags! You have two minutes until deployment! Everyone get ready, we're under fire!"
And I slammed the throttle to the floor, making the passengers grab onto anything they could. Well, what of it? We're maneuvering—avoiding fire, yeah. Not too sharply, of course, but enough to make the cabin tense up.
The scheduled transport roared over the treetops, hovering over a pre-cleared clearing. And the granny really found her inspiration; she growled in the best traditions of the paratroopers:
"We're on site! Two minutes for unloading, salags, take your bibs with you! Whoever stays behind died in the line of duty! Go-go-go! Don't sleep, you landlubbers, or are your asses not fitting through the door? Do I need to give you a kick to provide acceleration? Move it, before I come to help!"
Chaos and anarchy ensued, for the most part. Those who had military relatives or acquaintances had found out what to expect in advance; they had one bag, which they grabbed and rushed for the exit. Miranda herself cooperated with a couple of friends since she also had to carry the radio station; they carried her bag while she quickly put the backpack with the station on her shoulders. Not everyone was so quick-witted.
There were those who got underfoot, those who had several bags, or a couple who jumped out first and then ran back for their things, creating a crowd in the aisle. Looking through the cameras in the cabin at this circus, I asked:
"How much cargo do you think will be left, Klavdia Vasilyevna?"
She looked, sighed, and replied:
"A third. If they had formed a chain, they would have unloaded everything, even like this. But as it is, a third," and added over the comms, "one minute left. Did you stop for a smoke break, salags?"
Even though two and a half minutes had already passed, hmm.
The circus continued. Or rather, chaos and anarchy.
"It'll be a lesson in cooperation for them."
The woman nodded. The thing is, like Pelicans, the transport hovered half a meter above the ground. Not such a great height, if you think about it, but if you're running back and forth for forgotten things on a timer, the need to climb in and out is very hindering. And Baba Klava was counting.
"Ten! Nine! Eight!"—to the accompaniment of teenagers frantically pouring out of the cabin, falling over each other with bags and preventing others from getting up—"Three! Two! One! Liftoff!"
In the end, about a third of the things remained in the hold, as did one of the two radio stations. I'll have to throw some points to Miranda if she and her friends—who stuck to her because of her captain father (and practical knowledge of what to do and what to expect from such events)—manage to swipe the radio from under the nose of the chosen "police." After all, the station is their (the school squad's) method of receiving up-to-date information, like evacuation points.
True, there is also a map that the class president secretly received, containing absolutely all the coordinates, and which she cannot show according to the legend of her own task, and some other sources of information. After all, no one wanted to make the teenagers suffer, just to make them a little nervous. And there are also caches with supplies in the territory, if they find them.
But that will be later. After all, we have a week to amuse ourselves at the expense of humans. A little sadism will do them good. In time free from other tasks, it's not my priority.
***
Read the story months before public release — early chapters are on my Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/Granulan