The Collector General was slowly destroying the Salarian's brain. The victim was part of the Salarian STG, whose ship had been intercepted by the marionettes. The surviving crew had been subjected to interrogation. Among the records obtained by the Collectors from the SSV Normandy through agents were records of new types of modified beings based on the races of the current cycle—Husks, as they called them. Specifically, Asari Husks, "Banshees," created based on the so-called "Ardat-Yakshi." Asari individuals with a flawed reproductive mechanism that leads to the destruction of the target's nervous system during melding and an euphoric reaction for the melder. The latter was irrelevant.
Such a unit proved to be a quite effective means of extracting memory from a user's mind and a powerful combat support unit. Efficient. Their search and production must be ensured.
The subject of the reading tries to resist, but the Banshee holds him in a grip, squeezing the target's head with her hands and maintaining direct contact while drones secure the subject. And through her, the General—or rather, Nazara controlling him—saw. He did not like what he saw; the organics were again striving to create chaos. To disrupt the Cycle, as had happened during non-cyclic civilizations. Nazara watched, extracting more and more data.
He saw robots. He saw the ring built by those persistent, arrogant organics who had tried to interrupt the Cycle. They had almost succeeded, but the variability and chaotic nature of organic life had played against them. They had exterminated themselves using such ring-mechanisms. And now, one of the current races of the cycle was finding them. Unacceptable. Dangerous. The Cycle was under threat. Repeated use of the mechanisms could destroy the galaxy's population, which would disrupt the plan.
The device must be destroyed. The thought was implanted into the minds of the modified, but it met resistance. They considered the device an object of worship, desiring to protect it, possess it, not destroy it. Decision: change the paradigm. Destruction as an act of worship. The thought was accepted. Formation of fleet forces commenced.
A clarifying directive from the Catalyst: "Control the disposal of the object. Search for analogous devices and destroy them. Guarantee the execution of the Cycle."
Analysis. Confirmation of task adjustment. Priority: confirmed destruction of the target. Second-level priority: search for other devices, destruction of devices. Awaiting goal execution. Analysis of known countermeasures. Necessary to deploy all forces of the modified. Executing.
***
Khaela.
Upon returning to human space, the Vice Admiral changed flagships. It was now a Jupiter-class cruiser named the UNSC Lusankia. Sometimes keeping a fleet near the capital world proves extremely beneficial. The machine was fresh from the slips, so the surviving crew of the UNSC Apollo moved to the new flagship. It would take time for training and refitting, but the ship would begin operating as the Vice Admiral's headquarters immediately. And soon the crew would start producing sufficient efficiency ratings.
The UNSC Longinus ended up in repair, but the damage wasn't critical—a few days and the ship would be ready; the Dominion-class had already been restored. As for me, I fulfilled Yellow's request and came to see what Suslikov had achieved. No, I passed the information on the Salarians from the Broker to the Vice Admiral, but other squads are operating in that sector, so it's not our task.
Yes, I replaced one arm of the possessed fox with an obvious prosthetic for camouflage. Again, you don't expect a synthetic to have a prosthetic arm. Psychology is a powerful thing.
Sooner or later, our enemies, as well as our friends, will start to suspect they are being led by the nose, as humans say. But who and how is a matter of debate. That's why the hologram for the conversation with the Broker was adjusted to fit the legend. I'm just a wounded organic with a prosthetic; nothing for you to see.
Meanwhile, my fluffy possessed one is leaping across all surfaces, dodging series of attacks from the sorcerer. Tomoko, Vulpera, and many different, irrelevant names. None of it will help against the fists of the MJOLNIR Armor and spheres of sorcery. And I don't care that the Council Races call it biotics; "sorcery" is clearer for humans.
The possessed one bent in a way that would break a human spine, dodging a violet sphere. Immediately, she had to dodge a fist in a metal gauntlet and, using it as a pivot, make a dash that transitioned into a roll, breaking distance and evading a kick. I threw a grenade, performing a somersault mid-air as the grenade was sent back by sorcery. Well done, good boy.
But the giant in armor continued to press. He launched himself, but judging by the split seconds of disorientation, he wasn't used to the charge yet. Thanks to this, the possessed one—under my direct control and seeing dozens of scenarios, strike series, and movement sequences and combinations—did a front flip, jumping over the soldier flying on wings of sorcery. Who raised a hand and caught the possessed one by her prosthetic, ruining the entire maneuver. He saw an opening and took it. Well done, he saw one of the three windows of opportunity.
To be fair, the possessed one felt noticeably ill from the reverse jerk, and during the system stabilization period, she slumped like a sack in Suslikov's hands. The boy got scared by this and released my platform, clearly not knowing what to do. She fell like a sack onto the arena floor, unresponsive. The boy panicked openly:
"I didn't mean to!" he declared, stunned.
Well, yes, a sudden jerk in the opposite direction at the speed of a truck could have seriously harmed a human. Not fatally, but unpleasantly. The possessed one, having regained control, rolled away, leaving a paint grenade underfoot, which the boy failed to dodge.
"Not a bad maneuver. You're growing, kid. Though the load was unpleasant, you're right about that."
It seemed Suslikov was much more worried that he had almost killed his sparring partner than about losing.
"I didn't mean to! I didn't think!" he repeated, more calmly but still clearly surprised.
The possessed one stood up, stretched, and ran a general diagnostic. She brushed sand off her clothes and said:
"Strained ligaments, a concussion, possibly a torn-off arm. You're lucky this body has so much cybernetics," unlike Yellow standing by the ring, Cuckoldun has no idea. "The only thing saving you is that a normal human couldn't dodge like that. You were brought to this level of combat by me, as I am much faster than a normal human. But still, next time be a bit more careful; not everyone around is me."
Only Yellow is here among the spectators. I didn't lie.
"Well, how was it, Tomoko?" Yellow inquired.
He, at least, knows who I am.
"The kid's growing," the possessed one smirked. "With this kind of training, onee-san wouldn't have tossed them around so easily back then at the academy. Seven wins out of ten. Not quite there yet, but moving in the right direction."
It's impossible to see the boy's reaction under the armor, but I assume he's pleased.
"But?" Yellow interjected immediately.
"But you have to remember that neither of us are human. You're enhanced by implants, Cuckoldun by implants, sorcery, and armor. Me by extensive cybernetics, in some sense even foresight. It gives less of an effect than MJOLNIR Armor, of course, but we are only human in a conventional sense," I turned to the boy, showing I was speaking to him. "You confidently defeated a weaker opponent, a slower one. That's good. But still not enough. Want some advice?"
From the boy came:
"Yes, teacher," in a clearly mocking tone.
Fine, as long as he's listening. The possessed one sat in a lotus position right in the middle of the ring, raised a finger, and said:
"Training is your life. Moving forward is your path. Stumble and you die; such are the realities of this war. I hate cultivator stories; they usually don't show real mental growth, only physical. Soul cleansing that doesn't happen, a non-human who remains one—boredom. More muscle and magic, but knowledge that doesn't affect the mind. It doesn't work that way; knowledge defines the personality. But what is shown well: the whole process is a path, a lifelong one. A carp that passed through the trials of a turbulent river to become a dragon. You have every chance, Cadet Suslikov. If you don't stop."
With that, the possessed one sprang up, turned, and left the room, ignoring the openly amused (I've learned to distinguish this even through armor) Yellow and the seemingly surprised cadet.
Shift of attention priority.
Another possessed one, paired with Jacob Reyes, is unloading material from a Pelican. The pilot eyes the container covered in danger signs, the excited scientists, and clutches a cross on his chest. The possessed Dana smiled politely and informed him:
"No need to worry. We know what we're doing."
The pilot took a step back at that statement.
All conversation had to be postponed until the container was installed in the test zone. Which happened two hours later when the Pelican flew off with a clearly relieved pilot.
"Did it work?" Jacob asked, using manipulators to extract a bar of material from the box. Despite the fact that it should weigh five kilograms, it weighs eleven. "The very fact that we were able to perceive Element Zero in pure Slipspace is amazing! My theory was correct; the material's anomalous properties are a consequence of its multi-dimensionality! Yes, we can't see more than three dimensions, but they are there!"
The possessed one smiled.
"Well, it's not exactly a theory anymore, since we've proven it."
The man grinned widely.
"Don't be modest, Dana. Your idea to turn an old ship with a Slipspace drive into a laboratory for interacting with eleven-dimensional space and the discovered patterns contributed no less to our project. In simple terms, you made the microscope, and I started putting everything under it to see what happens."
I just used the developments of my own former command. Though the success is pleasant, I won't deny it. Creating materials that are anomalous by current standards was available to both the Forerunners and the humans of the past. I just suggested how, gave the proverbial fishing rod. Especially since as ships are replaced with newer ones, some can be refitted; for a laboratory, the ship's speed doesn't matter, only the ability to enter Slipspace.
Meanwhile, the sample was extracted. And the temperature in the room began to drop sharply, and the manipulator began to be covered in frost. Jacob smiled. The temperature sensors also went down very quickly.
"How interesting. The sample, having reacted in Slipspace, is now absorbing heat from the surrounding four-dimensional space. I expected the process to stop over time, but it seems this isn't a consequence of a reaction, but a new state of matter. It extracts energy for its existence from the surrounding world and constantly cools the matter around it to absolute zero."
The warning system wailed as the room with the sample cooled to minus fifty; the door locked so no one could enter.
"Excellent," the possessed one smiled. "Now we'll conduct general tests; we need more information. I want to know everything."
***
Max Otto von Stierlitz trudged through the corridors of Omega's inner complexes, disguised as a Quarian. Behind him, with a steady clatter on the metal grating of the corridors, marched two combat bots. The corridors are still unsafe after the Collector raid and the war of all against all. There is anarchy on the station.
The corridors are splashed with dried, rotting blood; a stench of rot wafts from a technical tunnel. Rotting meat, to be precise. No one is doing repairs or cleaning after the battles, so the station looks even more trashed than usual. Want to work? Go to the upper levels, to The Covenant; it's better and cleaner there. How you will survive against all the things running around the lower levels concerns approximately no one.
And it gets more dangerous here every time. A cult of modifiers promising relief from pain and hardship, hungry Vorcha. Then there are the creatures Khaela called Yahg, wild beasts that race through the tunnels, killing, eating, and raping. Gangs. Cannibalism is thriving, given that the station's supplies have ceased. Chaos and death.
Rare mushroom farms are protected at the cost of lives, as The Covenant lets no one off the station. Attempts to form large forces and gangs are suppressed by Drell.
They appeared on the station not long ago. There's no exact info on how many. Leaders of large gangs are simply killed by green reptilian individuals. They are indecently good at it.
Stepping along the floor grating, Max stopped. Something wrong? Well, nothing really, it just seemed like there were slightly more stepping feet; the steady clatters had become four instead of three. Looking back, the "Quarian" saw no one. Nor in front. Underfoot...
At that moment, the section of grating the agent was standing on fell away, causing the man to lose his balance. Damn Quarians and their walking on tiptoes! The agent tucked and rolled, but still fell on his back. Immediately, he had to take the blow of a knife from a creature covered in green scales and empty reptilian eyes on his suit's bracer. The dagger sliced his arm and got stuck, causing a flash of pain.
The attacker, seeing he had only wounded the target, took a step back, drawing a pistol. Suddenly he froze as a metal spike passed through his skull from top to bottom. It took the agent a fraction of a second to recognize the robot's limb. If it had used the emitter, everyone would have died, but the robot had used its strength to drive one of its legs through to spread the grating and strike. And it crushed the attacker's skull.
"Thanks, tin can," the agent smirked. "We should head back. And stop the bleeding," he picked up the knife with his good hand and handed it to the robot. "Sharp little knives this guy has. Looks like we've attracted attention."
The combat robot didn't reply but walked ahead of the man. A partner's voice sounded in the earpiece.
"Sorry, Max, I didn't see him. The bastard moved so as not to get caught on the corridor cameras."
Clutching his arm, which the robot was applying a tourniquet to (turns out they know how to do that, not just melt and cut everything around), the man replied.
"Viktor, don't sweat it. If these bastards weren't so good, they wouldn't be used. If not for my iron friend, we wouldn't be talking. You didn't see anything?"
"No," the operator replied. "When the platform fell, you disappeared from the frame. I didn't see a thing."
Cunning bastards. And to understand who killed him, one would have to go in person. Riiiiiiight.
"Lock down the sector; we'll enter ourselves."
"Lockdown initiated. Done," the partner reported. "Think they found us?"
The man shrugged, moving down the corridor toward the base.
"Who the hell knows. They definitely noticed us. What do we even know about these Drell? Vic?"
The operator made a query.
"Interesting guys. Inhabitants of the desert planet Rakhana, which they successfully trashed until the ecosystem collapsed; saved by the Hanar from total extinction. They live on the planet Kahje, used by the Hanar as agents and assassins."
"And the Hanar are clearly negotiating with The Covenant..." the agent said thoughtfully. "We have problems. These pests are good."
"Though they are overly fond of close combat," the operator noted.
"No, he did everything right," Max countered, examining his arm. "The robots would have reacted to a shot, they'd have scorched the whole area. A knife to the heart wouldn't have caused an unnecessary reaction, and the killer would have had time to escape. Good, like I said."
After a few more steps, the man heard thumping. Four Salarians and a Yahg ran out of a side corridor, leveling weapons at the wounded man.
"Halt, Citadel order. You are under arrest."
Oh, great. Given the robots, it's not surprising, of course. But still.
"I'm wounded, a wound, need antibiotics, infection..." the agent said in a faltering tone, imitating a Quarian.
The Yahg stared blankly into space the whole time, as if no one was there. It didn't look like a combat maniac that tears Brutes apart one-on-one in hand-to-hand. He looked stoned to the point of total loss of perception. And that's unsettling.
"You will receive medical assistance on site. Deactivate the robots and come with us. Immediately."
The agent, mimicking a tremor, nodded, saying over the internal speaker:
"Destroy."
The robots simultaneously fired blue beams at the Salarians, brightly illuminating the gloom of the corridor covered in dried blood. Their leader managed to command:
"Fire!"
Before the beams superheated their armor, and then they disintegrated into burning flakes. The Geiger counter the agent had been carrying since some time ago immediately reacted to the use of the disintegrator. As did the Yahg, suddenly lunging toward us. Silently, in large leaps. Considering this hulk is like two Krogan, we have about half a ton of Yahg wanting something from you. To hell with such entertainment; there are bad rumors about these guys. That they're like junkies.
The drones raised blades, tried to hit the Yahg with a beam; one of the giant's arms was severed by the blue stream and vanished, also disintegrating into glowing blue-violet flakes.
Snarling, the monster lunged at the robot and punched through the plating with its second, remaining limb.
"Back!" Viktor yelled.
But the operative himself knew what was about to happen. He and the second robot lunged back down the corridor, jumping over a panel lying below, while the mangled one with the Yahg lunged forward, toward where the Salarians had died. The monster is alive, though the robot is cutting into its chest, trying to break free, and isn't going for the agent, giving him a chance to survive.
Seventeen seconds later, a flash of blue light flooded the corridor. During that time, Max managed to duck around a corner. The robot held him back from trying to peek; moreover, it pushed him further.
"I wouldn't advise it, man. It's hell in there right now," Viktor replied. "Get out of there fast before you catch too high a dose. The authors of that tin can are psychos; I'm afraid of them now."
"Yeah," Max nodded, quickly hobbling away from the blast site. His colleague was right; he'd be safer. And he needed to deal with his arm; the limb had gone numb.
He only managed to admire the work of his hands (and someone's manipulators) at the base. When the agent looked at the recordings from the scout robot's camera while injecting a radioprotector into his shoulder, he whistled.
"I thought it would be more modest."
A hollow, white-hot spherical space of liquid metal, about four meters in diameter, had formed in the corridor. The scout robot's Geiger counter wailed, as did the temperature sensors; the image was grainy and losing clarity—it would have to be disposed of on site. The punctured pipes of the station's corridors released gas and liquid that boiled and evaporated, flowing onto the metal; the air was literally glowing.
"Good thing I didn't linger there. Otherwise, my skin would be sliding off and I'd be puking up my lungs."
"We need to be more careful with these robots," the operator agreed.
We do. They are good, of course. But when you see the consequences of such an explosion, your sphincter tightens. It's best to avoid this corridor for the next few years. By a very wide arc.
***
The crew of the UNSC Spirit of Fire was in high spirits. And the xeno ship hanging behind them, resembling a spiked mop, hardly bothered them. After the operation in that strange world, after the disease outbreak... No one particularly expected they'd be able to return. That they'd be found. They hoped, it was true. But they understood they might not succeed. Especially after the infection that killed half the crew. A very aggressive infection.
All the more reason for joy was that the returning lieutenant confirmed:
"There is contact with Earth. They will help us."
If not the entire crew, then certainly all the off-duty personnel met them in the hangar. Just to hear it. To find hope.
They had to release two blue soldiers for the sake of contact with galactic news, but that also opened access to information that the bored crew began to consume. They read everything offered, even blatant yellow journalism, learning what was happening around them, and then discussed what they heard for hours, digesting and pondering the information.
Galactic news, the war with The Covenant, the Council and the Citadel. Humans were there too, usually the antics of intelligence here and there. The revolution in the Batarian Hegemony, which had already engulfed seven worlds, became a subject of discussion.
A massive civil war between the lower and upper castes of their society, armies of slavers and nobility against those who supply them.
Moreover, the lower castes did not hesitate to cover the entire conflict in the Citadel media, gaining support in that way as well. Each return of citizens who had fallen into slavery turned into a show, covered as widely as possible. And soon, besides the trickle of those returned from the Hegemony, volunteers began to flow to the other side.
The aggrieved, the dissatisfied, those wishing to fight or profit from war, mercenaries. Or those sharing the values of the rebels—it didn't matter. What mattered was that they had volunteers, they had more weapons. They were turning into an army, into a wave that was no longer just undermining the order in the Hegemony but threatening to overwhelm the state.
At least, that's what the media said. And it sparked debates among the crew about how much the media was exaggerating.
On the other hand, in the ship's laboratories, Professor Ellen Anders and the Asari scientist Dr. N'Lari had found each other. The doctor had arrived on board, coaxing the crew to sell the records of the infection. Ultimately, they agreed to exchange the information for what N'Lari had managed to find out, plus some items and comforts for the crew, unusual foods (not much, but a little bit, it was interesting), and the scientists of the two races locked themselves in the lab. Captain Cutter honestly tried to listen to their conversations through the ship's systems but quickly handed the task over to competent subordinates.
The two scientists quickly became absorbed in questions of first the parasite, then culture and psychology. Dr. Anders, an experienced psychologist, found in her interlocutor, first of all, a being similar to a human...
Secondly, the creature is extremely lonely and susceptible to certain psychological manipulations. And not very emotionally stable at times. Also, extremely talkative if you ask the right questions and show that you're listening at the right time. N'Lari spoke about the archaeology and culture of her home species with great pleasure, clearly working off a thirst for communication. She clearly knew much less about the galaxy and was frankly confused in places. She would turn blue, get embarrassed, and apologize for not knowing. But she gave a general summary of the races of the so-called Citadel.
"You know, you act like a human teenager sometimes. Don't take offense."
To which the blue one replied:
"Well, that's normal. I'm less than two hundred standard years old."
At this, Dr. Catherine Halsey asked in surprise:
"Less than two hundred? But how old are you then?"
The blue one looked slightly embarrassed.
"Actually, asking girls their age is impolite, even though my species has no sexual dimorphism. But technically I'm over a hundred years old, so I'm old enough to be here."
The scientist nodded.
"I believe you. Tell me a little more about yourself, okay?"
The blue one folded her arms across her chest and threw back a slightly displeased:
"Hey! We're not that well acquainted!"
Ellen laughed.
"It's for my work. I'm a xenopsychologist, and here is such an interesting representative of another race that isn't trying to kill us. I'm not asking you to tell your secrets, right? Only what you want to tell yourself."
The Asari shrugged.
"Fine, but only what I want," and at the nod, she began her story...
***
Read the story months before public release — early chapters are on my Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/Granulan