Khaela.
With the others sent via teleport to the camp, only I and the spherical Splintered Design remained in the vault control center. All outsiders had to be removed from here one way or another so they wouldn't hear too much and draw conclusions. Shadow Broker agents were not the ones to be given information.
If it hadn't been possible to remove them physically, their life functions would have had to be terminated directly. They had already heard too much. Ensuring that the white vortex of the portal had swallowed everyone, I asked:
"The camp of the Salarians and their mercenaries. Why is it still standing? I am more than sure that you, with access to all the capabilities of the Forerunner complex, could have solved this problem long ago."
The Monitor, maneuvering between the terminals of the stasis complex and taking readings, replied easily:
"It's simple. First, equipment tests. Including combat ones. Where else would I get test subjects in such numbers? And they bring them to me themselves. Second, access to news happening in the galaxy. A hundred thousand system cycles of activity and loneliness is a long time. I could have blocked the corridor for the locals; there are no dead zones in the defenses. But that would return the situation to previous values. Especially since everything is under control."
Interesting. She shouldn't be alone, right? Did the Forerunners not even provide a backup Monitor? I'm starting to be disappointed in them.
"And the other Sentinels? Is there really no connection? No contact with anyone?"
The Monitor, although speaking in a mechanical and almost monotonic voice, managed to convey some sadness.
"Not for a long time. The last of us who still answered were 343 Guilty Spark and Penitent Tangent. But they, too, have long since stopped responding to requests. So there was simply no need to arrange a change in gravity in the sector. I am alone and had to preserve the Installation for the Reclaimers, to fulfill the task. They learned about it, albeit through third parties and an assistant, you. I did everything correctly."
Wait, wait, wait. This will be useful.
"A change in gravity. How exactly?"
The robot flew closer, pulling me into a portal vortex. We appeared on an open platform at the top of a mountain, surrounded below by a solid carpet of fir trees. In the center of the platform was a two-pronged tower of a Forerunner stationary defense plasma cannon. The Monitor flew up to a hologram that unfolded as she approached. Well, yes, a dialogue was no reason to be distracted from work.
"It's quite simple. The inner part of the entire Installation can be dismantled by a gravitational burst. Completely, sending organics and rocks into space in a given direction. For repairs or as a defense system. I did this during equipment tests. Are you suggesting using this against The Flood?"
It seems we've found a solution.
"Correct. Deprive the parasite of food and room to maneuver. Carefully send part of the biosphere into space, stabilize it where convenient, and destroy it. The infected zone can be fired upon from the defense towers so that it will be safe by the time the humans arrive."
Splintered Design immediately asked:
"The Reclaimers are moving here? Excellent. How long must we wait?"
"Humans will arrive at the Installation within three days," I replied calmly, "after all, current engines are much slower than those during the war between the Forerunners and Humanity."
The Monitor sighed.
"Then we must start the cleanup as soon as possible, otherwise we simply won't make it. The parasite will be able to subjugate a large amount of fauna and gain significant mass if ignored. It will likely be necessary to use a manipulator to guarantee containment. Analysis. Your decision is reasonable. We shall proceed accordingly."
And also, my dear command or the overly proactive subordinates of that same command will try to tear the parasite apart for samples. Margaret Parangosky, of course, understands this and is waiting to see what I will do. And what am I doing? I'm choosing to call a friend! As much as a Forerunner AI can be considered a friend. On the other hand, they left us such a little gift themselves—let them help clear it up. And I know that Splintered Design and Mendicant Bias didn't decide anything. But I need to coordinate my plan. Throw The Flood off the surface into space, bomb the section, and then conduct a cleanup of the technical zone to ensure nothing remains. Because the issue needs to be resolved immediately. Mendicant Bias looked at the forwarded recordings and replied:
"At the moment, The Flood will act instinctively. Trying to gain biomass for a proto-mind. The infected section must be cleared of any life that could potentially be infected. The plan is chosen reasonably. I support it."
The Possessed Vorhess looked questioningly at the Monitor. She replied easily:
"We need to go to the control room. I can initiate a shedding of the surface in the section. But if The Flood is in the tunnels, it won't help. Probability that The Flood is in the technical tunnels: eighty-three percent. The biosphere of the sector can be restored later. Simulations have been conducted. I also agree to the execution of the decision. Executing the decision immediately. Confirm, I will create a record of the decision. Initiators of the decision: assistants Khaela, Splintered Design, a shard of Mendicant Bias."
I nodded.
"In any case, we'll gain time. Go ahead."
Another teleportation, this time into a huge hall. Exactly in the center of the almost spherical hall is a circular platform with holographic terminals, connected to the exit by a wide bridge made of transparent material. Here the Forerunners were no longer modest, and the hall itself is large enough to hide a couple of frigates in it, and a D77 Pelican could fly through the door, or even two, side by side.
Two holograms hang in the center of the hall: a planet, a smaller hologram exactly in the center of the hall, and a Halo around it, about fifty meters in diameter. The Monitor positioned herself over the terminal, and it flared up, displaying formulas, diagrams, energy indicators. And then part of the Halo hologram flared red, and a section, corresponding to about a thousand kilometers in length, began to detach from the ring. Nearby, holograms of biological and memetic threats of the highest priority froze. Following the first, neighboring sections began to detach until the marks on the ring went out.
"Excellent. The target is set. And now—fire!" the robot exclaimed in a booming voice.
And from different parts of the ring, blue dots followed toward the detached part of the section, with designations of course, energy type, charge, speed, and other indicators in the Forerunner language. The Monitor reported:
"Within two days, the upper layer of the section will be completely evaporated by the bombardment. I have given the order for chemical treatment of the technical halls. We will likely finish sterilization before the Reclaimers arrive. Unfortunately, it will not be possible to rebuild the section within this timeframe; I express hope that the Reclaimers will not be too upset by the disruption of the Installation's symmetry."
Margaret Parangosky, in her office, openly choked on such doubts. I, meanwhile, smiled as much as Vorhess's face allowed.
"I believe the Halo itself will be more interesting to them. They will understand everything."
"Wonderful news."
Admittedly, I'm curious how the sentients in the Salarian camp will react to this performance when an entire section of the ring, thousands of kilometers long, suddenly goes dark, and then the entire upper layer is ripped away by a wave of anti-gravity and shot into space. Soil, mountains, all of it will be thrown upward by a colossal effort, leaving only the original technical buildings, the bare metal frame, the foundation. Thousands of tons of rock, wood, flora, and fauna will be destroyed. A cataclysm they will see from the front rows. And then the plasma bombardment will begin. The complete destruction of any life on the surface of the Halo sector.
All for the sake of containing the parasite. Splintered Design reported:
"Completed. The automation will proceed with the sector cleanup. Sentinels will conduct an inspection of the territory. The breach is localized, according to the task. The report on the counteraction is saved."
"Can the parasite use the transport system?"
The Monitor's sphere thought for a moment.
"Excluded. Potentially, The Flood can use technology by assimilating control devices. This was not allowed, therefore it is excluded. The bio-storage was sterilized. No Gravemind forms were detected; the intelligence level of the combat forms is low, they do not correspond to the coordination of higher forms. Meaningful action at such a level without a full Gravemind is unlikely. But not excluded. I suggest participating in the cleanup, as part of preparing the complex for the arrival of the Reclaimers."
I nodded.
"We'll get to it. But I need a weapon."
As a weapon, I was given a Sentinel Beam. It bakes the combat forms of the parasite in their own juice, which prevents them from being reanimated. It's thankless work, but necessary. Taking a tank of chemicals, a laser, and cleaning room after room. All to avoid giving the parasite even a chance to survive and gorge itself. And even then, there are no guarantees. There are chances that the parasite could hide, get lost among the countless kilometers of the Halo's mechanisms. Or manage to survive with some living organism; they are quite diverse on the ring. But this activity increases our chances, and that's why we do it.
The parasite is an enemy against whom there are no insufficient measures. Right now it is vulnerable and does not yet have enough mass or higher forms to coordinate the lesser ones. Which means it's cleanup time.
In any case, I have a reserve with an Asari infected with spores. A good argument in a dispute, especially since her infection level is quite low; without an infecting form and under medical supervision, she will quite likely survive. Everything will happen for the benefit of humanity. Not necessarily the way some of its representatives want, but definitely for the better. This issue is resolved for now.
***
Liara T'Soni.
Okay, the brothel thing wasn't a joke at all. When we reached the administration building, the Salarian manager immediately clarified where to sign me up. I, of course, began to ask questions, and an interesting, in some ways even expected, picture emerged.
The administration of the base—entirely Salarians; they interact with the rest of the world and distribute the others to other jobs. To my question about what the options were, I was given a free terminal with methodological materials about the life of the expedition, specifically for newcomers.
So, the expedition is built on collecting and exporting samples for study. Ships arrive once a month, take away samples, and bring in new personnel and orders. According to
It seems that Vorhess, through his actions (or Khaela, as he called himself), has seriously soured everyone's mood, depriving them of supplies, goods, and reinforcements. Moreover, since no one has managed to deactivate the ring's defense system, goods can only be delivered via a single route. This is despite the fact that research on the nearest weapon has been ongoing for over five years.
The Salarians are trying to investigate the complex, but the robots are actively resisting. This camp has a relatively safe ship route out of the system, which is why it is held by mercenary forces and robots, regardless of the losses. There is nowhere to retreat from here. If the camp is taken, we are all doomed to die of hunger and disease. This leads to the division of the camp into what are essentially castes.
All leadership consists of the Salarian administration and scientists. They sit in the central camp in the main building, rarely leaving it, maintaining communication and distributing resources.
The second caste, a level below and also a minority, is the service staff. Cooks, cleaners, "waitresses with expanded duties," technicians, and medics. A minority that serves everyone else, but they are also within the safety of the camp. Although they have an armory too, the mortality rate among this group should be very low. To my direct question, an Asari Matron in the position of a "waitress with expanded duties" replied:
"Everyone needs comfort, food, and soft hands, pleasant curves dancing before their eyes and relaxing them," the Asari answered easily, smiling with a certain hint. "I escaped from Batarian slavers, but I didn't have the money to fly off Omega. It's Omega—where can you earn there? If you couldn't get into Afterlife or other clubs in the rich district, you can live, but nothing more. But here, my dance skills are at a premium. The administrator ensures everything stays within set boundaries; the most aggressive and arrogant go into the attack first. Well, and I am required to do my job well, and everyone will be happy. I've been here for over fifty years, so everyone who offended me is already dead. And me, well, I'm in warmth, comfort, and practically in command of this bar. So why should I have regrets, Liara?"
There is logic in her words, even if I don't like it.
"You do realize we don't know when we'll get out of here?" I clarified.
The Asari smiled again, reaching for the top shelf with a graceful movement and wiping it so that one's gaze involuntarily focuses on her hips, on the smooth movements of her hands, on her smile, then hands and smile again. A professional dancer, presenting herself with every movement.
"Of course I understand, silly. But how is this home worse than any other? There are houses, there are amenities, the order is on the level of the rich districts of Omega," the Asari replied, preparing the bar for the evening shift. "You know, I like you. Want me to teach you to dance? We can be here together. It'll be almost like in Afterlife, hm? You and me, but without Aria? I see you're shy; I promise not to overwhelm you until you get used to it. You'll stand behind the counter, learn the ropes, and then you'll get a taste for it. I see how you look at me, hm? I'll teach you to do the same; when you get out, one dance and anyone will be yours. I promise."
I nodded.
"I'll think about it."
She shrugged, continuing to smile.
"Think away, you'll have to choose eventually anyway. At least it's safe here. Sooner or later the Salarians will get bored, and we'll get out of here. We just need to wait. We are Asari, and we are good at that. I'm offering you a very profitable option; you're a smart Maiden, you should understand that. We need to stick together."
Get out, yes. If everyone isn't abandoned here so they don't tell too much. How did I manage to lose the quantum transmitter during the attack! But there is logic and reasonableness in the Matron's words, even more than I would like. A choice will have to be made. If I don't get into the service staff, exactly one caste remains.
The last group, the majority, are the military. Technical specialists and soldiers who protect both the camps and the transport routes from the robots.
Several paths lead away from the central camp, along which "expeditions" are sent: suicide squads whose tasks are to collect trophies, pieces of equipment, and other useful things. They are suicide squads because, as a rule, such research sites have less protection than the central camp hidden in the canyon, and the robots eventually overrun the point. Plus, the road consists of kilometers across open terrain, risking running into robots or a bombardment. Neither option promotes survival; evacuation rests strictly on the shoulders of other squad members.
Not going on expeditions is not an option, as the base's supply directly depends on the results of these expeditions. And it's not about food, but about medicine, rockets, and other combat consumables. Without rockets, the large robots will mow down infantry with impunity; without medicine, soldiers will start dying from wounds and diseases. And then the leaders sitting in the camp will also come under fire. I don't think the robot guards are interested in Credits.
Hence, universal labor duty was born as a means of survival.
From this perspective, the patrol officer's offer no longer seems foolish. Since the alternatives are characterized by high mortality. It also makes the irritation over the disruption of cannon fodder supplies understandable. They will have to use local reserves in battle for the entire next month. The living shield between the robots and the administration will gradually die, and the warehouses will empty. It's decided.
In the end, I went to Dalama Talos, that very Asari Matron, as an apprentice, and with her recommendation to the Salarian manager. He thanked me quite sincerely for not crawling under the lasers. In my opinion, this elderly (age-related body defects are visible, like with Mordin) Salarian was glad that another Maiden didn't go looking for an adrenaline rush. Pleasant, considering the local contingent.
Suddenly, shouts rang out from outside, and I ran out of the administration building. More and more sentients interested in the noise began to gather here. The camp was located in a gorge where all the buildings huddle against the walls in case of shelling. The gorge is quite narrow, and the sun reaches the bottom for only a couple of hours a day, which makes it rather dark down there the rest of the time. But it's safe, that much can't be taken away. And judging by the projectors, the expedition managed to deploy a ship kinetic shield over us from a reactor standing by the wall. Except for a couple of impact craters, there are almost no hits specifically on the bottom of the gorge. But what is the noise?
Many sentients gathered in the center of the gorge, pointing fingers and looking up at the visible patch of sky. What's there? I approached, looked, and gasped.
"What is that?"
Part of the ring seemed to have crumbled into pixels. Considering that it must be tens of thousands of kilometers from us to that part, these pixels are simply enormous. Is the ring being destroyed?
Panic began around me, while I and a few others continued to watch as blue dots rushed toward the pixels. More and more and more.
While the others panicked, I realized they were clearing out that undead. Vorhess (I'm used to it now, I'll call him that) mentioned they were on the surface. And the blue dots were clearly the defense system firing. Like those beams that tore our ship apart.
But how enormous must the power of these robots be if they can afford to blow up and rebuild (and I'm almost certain that what was destroyed will be restored) a part of such a structure, the size of the Citadel or several of them. Simply no words. This is definitely information the Salarians were trying to use, and which absolutely cannot be left in the hands of a single race. Otherwise, there could be very, very dangerous consequences. Like the Prothean legacy, this ring must be shared.
In the end, we were all dispersed by the patrols, arguing that our crowd was a large and convenient target for the robots. And I went to my first working day, thinking about how best to utilize my position.
In most civilizations, places where sentients pump themselves with various psychotropics serve as sources for gathering information. The organism relaxes, loses touch with reality, and then it's a matter of technique and special skills. Here, this could work with the administration and ship pilots who know more than the brought-in spacers. Everyone I came with hasn't yet realized that Vorhess's patrons likely already know what the Salarians are busy with here. Which means sitting here for decades, like Dalama, won't be necessary. Also, the robots didn't touch us; if anything, I can just run straight into the field if problems arise.
I hope it doesn't come to that, but one must be ready for anything. Fortunately, Dalama didn't demand I wear a dancer's costume, and I limited myself to ordinary clothes. The Matron clearly doesn't want to pressure me but is recruiting softly so that I myself would want to stay here. Well, let it be so, at least for now.
The bar is a standard residential block used by colonists. Inside is a bar counter, tables and chairs made from makeshift materials; on the second floor is a balcony screened by walls for privacy and rooms for pilots and those ready to spend on comfort. For creating drinks, there are several distillation and brewing racks in the back room, producing from local raw materials. Mushrooms, plants.
Dalama gave me a math exam (spacers often don't even know how to count) and put me in the position of bartender with a legless Turian woman. She, while we were cleaning and preparing, told her story. A spacer who took an assault rifle from a corpse and thus earned a place here. At first, she went into the infantry, but after being wounded, she ended up with Dalama. Her legs were burned off by a robot, and that's how she got into the service staff. Once here, she got herself into shape as best she could to work fully. She's been sitting here for six years and doesn't complain. Well, almost; there are still too few clients, she's not an Asari, and she's disabled.
Well, behind the counter as an assistant, I can show what I'm made of, watch, and listen to conversations. Dalama dances—I don't know where she got that revealing dress, but it suits her very well; even my gaze is constantly distracted by her. The Turian woman and I pour local drinks and moonshine, the sentients talk, and I listen.
Unfortunately, today the main topic was what happened to the ring. Only a small segment crumbled, which suggests the ring is not being destroyed. They are still bombing it, clearly burning it to the ground. So the people drank, had fun, and afterward, some of the service staff went for their bonuses, yes.
I brushed off a couple of those wishing to get better acquainted; let's not rush for now. In the end, the Turian woman and I had to deal with the cleaning. The Turian has an anti-grav platform assembled by a Quarian from among the technicians, based on a local robot. As she said, her former boyfriend, a pilgrim. Former, because he was in the guards, and he is no more.
The second and third days were generally the same. Cleaning in the morning, cooking, maintaining order in the camp and administration rooms, then daily chores, a little rest during the day, lunch, and preparation for the evening. In short, monotonous work; all entertainment is the collection of rumors.
Of interest, I managed to find out that the Salarians clearly suspect the survivors from the ship. They have communication with Sur-Kesh, and from there, they've already relayed information about the problems with the ship and its captain. But the locals simply have no one to replace us with, especially since the planet from which reinforcements were flown turned out to be under a Geth blockade (!!!). Actually, a couple of stoned administrators were arguing about this while they thought I couldn't hear.
This news upset them very much, as it means reinforcements will arrive who knows when. So the administrators took turns drowning their sorrow in alcohol and mushrooms. And for this reason, they turned out to be outrageously talkative. I even had to play along with them a bit, stepping over my disgust, and allow myself to be pawed. Still, upbringing, but in this case, the job requires it.
Both talkative clients gave away a mass of interesting things about the expedition. In particular, that for the Salarians, this ring is also a place of exile for various offenders and failures who extract technology for their people. That this place is twice as old as Prothean structures, there's a whole heap of knowledge here that no one in the Council will investigate because the technologies differ too much from Eezo.
It turns out that sometimes technologies from here are tossed to the Council, but they consistently brush them off as unprofitable. And never mind that someone here is getting handsy—what arrogance! It turns out the Salarians can always say they offered the found knowledge to the Council, but they decided it was too difficult. And the Salarians, then, are quietly researching what they can on Sur-Kesh. I also managed to find out and memorize several names.
Then those two were already too drunk to continue, and I left them alone.
Unfortunately, the third day again was not rich in events. A convoy returned from the expedition zone, looking grim. Heavy losses, they got caught under platform fire.
And on the fourth day, a ship arrived.
***
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