Liara T'Soni.
We managed to pass through another typical square room with capsules when that suspicious Batarian stopped and stared at Li—or rather, at the shard sticking out of her armor.
It was quite small, but sharp and broken off right inside the armor. It wasn't possible to extract it without removing the armor; the small spike was stuck fast. At least it didn't hinder movement, though the younger maiden was clearly wincing. We should definitely deal with it during the next halt; there just hadn't been time yet. But Vorhess had clearly decided otherwise. Does he know something?
The Captain himself, while running and fighting, had hardly gotten dirty; his suit wasn't particularly crumpled, no damage was visible, even though he had taken a hit from a Brute to the torso at least once. He lost his Pyjak, maybe, and had a few spots of Brute blood on his clothes. He's too good for a mercenary. He knows and can do too much. Batarian intelligence? Possibly. Such interest is quite logical, but what exactly do they need? What do they know? Too little information. What a pity the terminal was lost...
And so Vorhess, pushing through the halted squad, approached Li and began examining the wound. It didn't look particularly critical; there was almost no blood, only small blue traces on the armor. Which, if you looked closely, was covered in—what? Mold? That was fast.
"Is that mold? That was quick," noted the Turian, who had stayed close the whole time, keeping Vorhess in her sights.
He snorted, completely ignoring how those around him were reacting.
"Bad wound, poison got into the blood. You can't let wounds like that go; the poison will drive even the strongest of us to the grave. And rum won't help, nor tequila. Though where would you get that, for millions of miles around. She needs to rest it off, otherwise the demons will take her for themselves. It won't be good," Vorhess said, examining the wound.
Okay, this stopped being funny. I pressed my pistol to the back of the Batarian's head amidst approving nods and comments from the others.
"Who are you and what do you know? And what's wrong with Li?"
But he wasn't even upset. In fact, he played the fool.
"Captain Vorhess, of course! Captain and just a wonderful Batarian in every respect," and when I pressed the weapon against his four-eyed head with noticeable force, making it tilt, he added, "and also your chance of survival in that hole you've fallen into. You can't kill me. Or rather you can, but that'll be the end of your little walk here."
I snorted.
"Are you sure? I can get answers another way."
He nodded, continuing to smirk.
"Of course. Otherwise, no later than in a couple of days, your friend will die, and maybe sooner, and you along with her. I have ideas on how to get out. Do you? Where will you lead the others? Where will they meet their death, eh? You need me more than I need you. Catch my drift? I'm ready to discuss the price."
I shoved a fist glowing with biotic light under his nose.
"I can strip the skin off you with biotics in ribbons, one by one, until you tell me everything I want to know. My price is that I don't do that, and you tell me what you know and how to help Li. Immediately."
It didn't faze him.
"The reality is, my dears, that it's not me who needs help, but you. You haven't paid me, you wrecked my ship, because of you the local robots want my blood. It's you who have no idea where you are, where to go, or what to do; it's your sister dying of poison. And your trick with the pistol and biotics just quadrupled the price. Doubling for every stunt. So, where's my lucrative offer?"
I gasped at such arrogance and slammed the insolent man down with a Throw. Vorhess rolled across the floor, hit the wall, and laughed, staring at the ceiling and trying not to move—his ribs had clearly taken a hit.
"Delightful! Amazing! Wonderful! I wonder, did you break the stasis capsule the same way, releasing that filth that has surely already gone through the vents, infecting the surface? You've seriously added to all our problems, you know?" and he pointed at Li, "and hers too. You're wasting not just our time, but hers, Asari. Catch my drift?"
I exhaled and looked around to get my thoughts in order. I need to act more cold-bloodedly; the Batarian is clearly no fool and knows what he's doing. I need to look, listen to the silence, and think.
It's quiet and peaceful in the room; if there is an enemy, they aren't attacking yet. Another standard hall, except the huge runes on the wall are different. The Quarian calmly approached the Captain, grabbed his arm, and connected to the Omni-tool. Rael'Zorah nar Rayya, Tali's father. I only recently realized it was him. I need him to survive, because right now he's a young Quarian on his Pilgrimage, not a prominent figure of the Migrant Fleet. And he doesn't have a daughter yet.
"The Omni-tool is empty," the Quarian said, stunned, continuing to search the device, "there's nothing at all, just basic software. It's as if he's never used an Omni-tool. I don't understand, he was using it!"
"Encryption?" the Turian asked.
Rael'Zorah shook his head.
"No, the memory is exactly empty. Nothing was loaded onto the device; the history is empty. It's a clean Omni-tool, as if turned on for the first time. There aren't even usage logs. That doesn't happen!"
"Twenty, and I'll tell you why," Vorhess chimed in immediately, but after getting a punch to the stomach from the Turian, he coughed, "forty Credits and I'll answer. Raising it further or will you pay?"
I ignored this insolence. It's clear anyway that Vorhess is not simple. Either we start a heavy interrogation here, or we don't. But we don't know how soon we might be attacked. I need to try to find out at least something else. We'll interrogate him later.
"So, you also have nothing on your Omni-tool. But you mentioned a map. Where is it?"
"In my ass!" the Batarian proclaimed, "Not on the Omni-tool, not in my pockets, where else? I'm not a girl, after all. So in the... oof!"
And he flinched from simultaneous slaps, and the Turian's blow was clearly much stronger, making the four-eyed head jerk noticeably.
"Watch your words, Batarian."
He smiled again.
"I can do that too," and in an unthinkable way, he dodged another slap, tearing his suit slightly, "I understand you like to be tough with men, but let me remind you of your problems! Otherwise, you'll never pay up, heh."
True enough; while we waste time here, we aren't moving. So I said, toying with my pistol:
"Fine, Vorhess, what's your plan? And I'm not going to pay you; I'll just walk beside you and watch what you do."
He shrugged.
"Don't say I didn't warn you. First thing is to help your sister; she's going to kick off."
I nodded; the others gathered around, some watching the doors, some observing our spat.
"So, you know what this nasty stuff is and how to fight it?"
"No, I don't know how to fight it," he countered, "and I won't be able to cure the turned. But your sister is still alive, which means the problem can be solved. In theory."
Against my will, I exhaled slightly. Li can be saved, or I'll have someone to blame for her death.
"How?"
Vorhess smiled again.
"Cut away the flesh with the infected blood, sterilize it, wrap her in a blanket, feed her antibiotics, give her hot drinks, and maintain a high body temperature for a couple of days. At forty degrees, the disease won't hold out. Perhaps the poisoning is small after all and she's still alive. There's a chance she'll pull through."
My good mood crumbled instantly.
"And how do you imagine that here? We're in an empty complex, without food, and the undead and robots want to kill us. I can do literally nothing of what you're saying."
The Batarian spread his hands.
"I don't know, maybe... hmm-hmm-hmm. Oh! Stasis cells! We're going to have to run around here; doing that with a wounded person isn't the best idea. And you're so lucky that I know exactly how to turn it on."
I thought about it. It's a risk. Trusting Vorhess is an even bigger risk. But I can't do nothing either. What if it really turns out that we didn't help her when there was a chance? I won't forgive myself, and Matriarch Benezia won't forgive me. So I have to decide.
"Do it, Vorhess. But no funny business."
Under suspicious glares (Rael'Zorah was getting in the way quite shamelessly), Vorhess fairly quickly opened one of the capsules—having to kill a few bags with tentacles—and placed Li inside, giving her first aid. First, despite her hissing and a quiet cry, they cut away the dried blood overgrown with yellow mold, which had already begun to grow into the body and had gotten into the blood a bit. But according to Vorhess, if Li is placed in the heat and her temperature is raised, she will recover... However, in the capsule, she now has time.
It was a bit scary that the undead would appear, but Vorhess is sure that the undead are climbing up, and this is an elevator down. And he still hasn't shown where his map is. It's strange, but it can wait; there are no other options here.
We were almost finished with the freezing—Li had already gone still—when a steady hum sounded from behind, and through a hole in the ceiling, a metallic sphere with a large purple circular camera flew into the room. And asked:
"What, in your opinion, are you doing, trespassers?" The voice was female, though you couldn't tell by looking.
Weapons were immediately pointed at the sphere, but it wasn't fazed; it flew right up to Vorhess, almost point-blank, bumping into the console. Vorhess looked at the sphere and asked snidely in a synthetic voice:
"How about introducing yourself, Monitor? Out of politeness. For example: Councilor-class AI 18-436, Khaela. Contact code transmitted. Glad to meet you, but outraged that you left The Flood here! I hope you have a coherent explanation for the stupidity of your creators. Because I don't."
What? What Khaela? You're Vorhess, a Batarian. What is happening?
The round robot flew back about two meters, scanned the Batarian, and spun around its axis. And delivered a monologue in an enthusiastic voice:
"Assistant to the Reclaimers! Amazing! Forgive my ignorance, of course. I've grown so unaccustomed to communicating with other sentients, so many system cycles, I almost forgot the rules of polite conversation. My mistake, Councilor. I am the Monitor of Installation 06, AI 16807, Splintered Design. I am glad to meet you! But there are no Reclaimers with you. Is this reconnaissance? I understand! But we have problems with containment; quarantine has been breached, samples are at large! And these stupid aborigines, they don't listen to warnings at all! If we cannot stabilize the situation, we will have to fire; the Creators' plan will be disrupted! We cannot allow such a thing! And these aborigines just keep coming and coming. They don't want to understand that they are the perfect tool for escape! They and their ships!"
"Sterilization?" Vorhess cut into the monologue.
"Impossible! The samples are part of the installation's resources; they must be preserved for study. These organics damaged the capsules at a completely inopportune time; the samples received biomass for primary development and were not suppressed. It is necessary to purge..."
The flying sphere keeps talking and talking, and I'm trying to process what's happening. Okay, this Batarian is some kind of AI named Khaela. And he's an assistant to the Reclaimers. Does that mean the Reclaimers are Batarians? And his story about Bandshugg isn't just a bored captain's tall tale? And that's why he knows how to operate things here? And these things are Batarian demons? What on earth is going on here???
Some of those present tried to butt into the conversation, but the sphere ignored them. Moreover, four robots descended from a hatch in the ceiling, but at least these aren't attacking and allow themselves to be examined. An elongated body, a head, two limbs on top, and an emitter on the bottom.
I took a life-form scanner and... nothing. The Batarian just spread his hands at my actions, as if to say, "didn't check for yourself." Amazing! I just have no strength, no words, my head hurts, and everything is annoying. But I can't—Liara, you're an information broker, so collect information. You can hate everyone around you later.
"Who built this place?" I finally asked, waiting for this talkative sphere, which was switching from long sentences to mathematical formulas, to shut up.
"The Forerunners, of course," it replied calmly, "this equipment is extremely reliable."
"I've never heard of such a race," the Quarian said.
Vorhess replied:
"And yet we are walking on living testimony of their power. Splintered Design," he addressed it, "I insist on the sterilization of the block and on leaving the complex. There is enough of The Flood for study; we cannot allow the enemy to obtain additional infectors."
The sphere was outraged.
"Unacceptable! We must preserve the samples for the Reclaimers. Preparation for the implementation of the rights of the Mantle of Responsibility includes, among other things, the collection and transfer of information about The Flood! Without samples, the data will be incomplete!"
Vorhess gave a crooked smirk.
"What if I do this?"
The sphere was silent for only half a second, though nothing changed outwardly.
"Reclaimer! But... I see, that changes things. I will begin preparations immediately."
After which the entire squad was simply sucked into a white vortex from which we literally fell out like sacks. A small room, six by six meters, with a large number of terminals along the walls and a single door.
The Quarian, by the way, is shying away from the sphere and the robots and eyeing them. At least he's not shooting. But he's eyeing them. I suspect he's already realized that the round thing is a local AI. And it's not particularly friendly, but at least it's not attacking immediately. It only tried to shoot us down on approach.
I realized something didn't add up. After all, the Salarians brought Batarians here too; I remember that. But if this round thing is in charge here, why didn't it react to that? Why didn't it protect them? Or did it protect them, and that was just a distraction by the Salarians? Questions, questions, my head is throbbing with questions. I asked the sphere:
"Who are the Reclaimers?" not really hoping for an answer.
Unexpectedly, it replied:
"The Forerunner race possessed the right of the Mantle of Responsibility. As it was said: Guardianship of all living things lies with those whose evolution is most complete. The Mantle of Duty covers all. When the Forerunners left the galaxy, the Mantle was passed to the Reclaimers. Reclaimers are the heirs to the Mantle."
"Left, but where to?" a question rang out. Well, yes, the others are eyeing the robots and listening in.
"Unknown," the sphere replied, "we were not informed. My task is to maintain order on the Installation entrusted to me. The order that you violated with your presence. Damaged the equipment. Released The Flood—nothing but violations. Containment protocols breached!"
And it continued to recount how much we had damaged.
And Vorhess is already working on the consoles without hiding, not too fast, but he clearly knows what he's doing.
"Okay, transferring capsule 19648 to block 412, in progress. Aha, done. Mass defrosting of the block. Done. Activation of sterilizers. Sealing. Done. That's it, we're finished."
The Turian asked:
"So, are the undead dead now?" You can understand her; this complex is built so that realizing something is happening outside is simply impossible. Even what's happening in the next room can't be heard; even shots are muffled. I don't know how the sterilization is going, but for us, who don't understand the terminal data, nothing is happening.
The robot replied.
"Negative. The parasite has penetrated the internal systems and reached the surface. We have only suppressed the stockpiles in this block, slowing the process somewhat. The threat is not eliminated. You should be isolated."
Vorhess waved it off.
"Send them to the camp, to the others."
I object! I need information! And Li!
"What? No! Vorhess!" someone demanded.
"You owe me ten times the cost of the transit!" the Captain demanded, "for the ship, for the setup, for the attempt to shoot me, and for me being so kind!"
A white flash consumed us.
***
The first sensation was cold. Instead of the halls of the stasis complex with a standard temperature, there is wind here, and it's generally quite chilly. Then groans and rustles sounded around. These were the other members of our squad starting to get up and look around. Under my fingers were stone and soft soil, green grass. Some kind of insect. I got to my feet; someone whistled.
"No way!"
And there is something to see. Besides the view of the huge ring curving the horizon inward, we were clearly far from where the ship crashed. Instead of jungle, there is coniferous forest to the horizon. Which curves inward, yes.
This place, like the others, is covered in forest and cliffs, and in the background, among the mountains, are twin-beam towers. But the biome is clearly cooler, northern. Much closer to where I'm used to living on Thessia.
"How beautiful..." the Turian exhaled.
And it was true. Night cliffs shrouded in mist, the light glow of the ring, and the forest, as if lit from within by blue. And fresh air. We were dropped on a cliff, so the view from here is the best. Of course, this still doesn't solve our problems with food and the rest, and the aggressive undead might be somewhere nearby. But how beautiful it is here!
"He said to send us to the others. What others?" asked a commando, one of the three remaining with the squad after all our adventures.
"There," Rael'Zorah pointed.
We all turned to see a wave of robots flying... not toward us, thank the Goddess. The robots, a swarm of small dots and a dozen larger ones, are flying over the cliffs, and then tracers begin to hit them. It seems we weren't lied to about this; we really did end up near the camp.
"There's a camp there!" one of the commandos confirmed the obvious.
Meanwhile, the robots began sending scarlet streams in response... darts, it seemed, and then beams. I winced, remembering the experience of communicating with these robots. And there are a dozen of them there. Will they hold them off?
Unexpectedly, whoever's camp it was (likely the Salarians), they held them off. Missiles flew toward the robots, and after a couple of flashes of hits, one large one crashed, followed by a second. The small ones continued to burn with lasers, a brick-shaped platform flying on the edge of visibility bombs with missiles or something similar, but the robots are gradually running out. When about a third of the robots remained, they retreated, but the bombardment only stopped ten minutes later.
"I think this is far from the first attack," the Turian concluded, "shall we go introduce ourselves? I'm hungry; maybe they'll have something."
"Let's go; we were going to them anyway," I shrugged, and we moved in that direction.
We had to go through forest and cliffs. And the closer to the camp, the more traces of battle, robot husks, craters, and burnt trees.
"You're definitely right," I said to the Turian walking beside me, "they've been fighting back here for a long time."
"And the robots aren't attacking us yet. I'm almost sure that if we start shooting at them, that will change," she noted, looking at a flock of small metallic things flying over us. The size of a Varren, but compared to the giant, they're small.
The robots flew forward another kilometer or so, and then began burning someone with lasers visible in the dark. We looked at each other and ran in the right direction.
"Don't shoot! It's not worth angering these flying insects until we get to the camp!" I shouted just in case.
By the time we reached the point, the robots had already flown away. But four corpses remained. Two Salarians, a Quarian, and a Turian. The lasers had sliced them practically into slices. The squad had managed to shoot down three machines, but they were caught in the open; the robots, when they want to be, can be very fast. In this case, the human expression "one leg here, the other there," talking about explosives experts, is quite relevant. Only not just in the context of legs, but arms and the rest too. It was as if they had been chopped for frying.
"Did they cut them so the undead couldn't use them?" Rael'Zorah asked philosophically.
And it was true; the damage was much, much higher than lethal. They were chopped into small pieces, whereas the undead used whole bodies. Interesting, and worth remembering.
"They have rations!" the Turian exclaimed, "Charred, but okay, edible. Want some?" she held out a sealed packet to the Quarian; he took it.
After a hearty lunch, the much more energetic members of the squad went further and finally reached the camp.
The survivors' positions were in a canyon, and a fairly deep and narrow one at that—apparently good protection from shelling, if you exclude boulders falling on your head. The number of craters, pits, and husks was quite indecent, and destroyed Citadel Space equipment was also encountered. They probably tried to go on counterattacks, but as soon as space appears... Over there, by the crater, traces of blood are visible. But while we were walking to the wall, it seemed like no one tried to kill us, and the robots didn't launch any raids.
The wall was typical Turian, made of three-meter square metallic plates on hydraulics. They build field outposts from such standard shutters. And on the wall, having previously hidden behind it, Turians and a couple of Salarians rose.
"Who are you? Where from?"
I exhaled.
"From the last ship. We were shot down. These are the only ones who survived at all," I shouted back, approaching.
Well, yes, there are eight of us left out of a hundred and fifty in the transport. The Turian cursed.
"Which means we can't expect reinforcements for at least a month. What a moron your captain is, went off route. He was warned he'd be shot down. And what did he do?"
"He's a bastard," the commando grumbled, "wanted to explore. Though he's a good pilot; landed us under fire."
The panel lowered, opening the entrance to the camp for us.
"Come in. Quickly," the Salarian demanded, "you're in the line of fire of the guns. In case of an attack, you'll just die. If you want to live, never walk like that again."
We entered. The camp inside looks okay, though it's clear it was assembled crudely. Prefabricated living blocks sit next to ship husks and equipment; sentients of the most specific appearance walk around. A Turian walked beside us, showing the way. Up close, scars are visible on the soldier's body, which were clearly poorly treated. In his hands was a standard rifle—a Turian Phaeston. The medium armor wasn't new, with scorch marks, but intact.
"Welcome to the Old Camp. There was a new one too, but the machines wrecked it. Over there, behind the mountain, on one of the towers, there are scientists, but they're sitting underground and don't poke their heads out. And rightly so; they'll be safer."
"Robots?" Rael'Zorah clarified.
"The very ones," the Turian nodded. "While we're going to the camp leader, the Salarian Gorm'Ez, a few rules: First—Gorm'Ez's word is law. We're alive here because there's order in the settlement and no one will let you break it. Second—everyone works. We're under martial law here. Can't fight? You go to the kitchen, repairs, or," he looked at me in my light armor, "there's a brothel too. And don't scowl; it's safe there at least, and you're cute. Maybe a hundred years ago this was a scientific camp, but now we're an army trying to hold a bridgehead and allow samples to be taken off this ring. The people here are simple, rough, but strong; girls like that. So I suggest you think about how you're going to earn your keep. Out there, where our mortality rate is high and because of your captain we're left without reinforcements, or here in safety."
Amazing, I already hate Vorhess or Khaela, whatever he is, even more.
***
Read the story months before public release — early chapters are on my Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/Granulan