Two ships hung motionless opposite each other in the black void, connected by a thin line of docking sleeve. Asari officers, rescued by the task force from execution, descended from the Normandy's side through the transparent, soft tube.
The blue-skinned warrior maidens were forced to trust communists, who just yesterday had been their ideological enemies. Only in this way and no other did their people have a chance to withstand the coming storm. And you would do no less when your own rulers betray your people.
Therefore, although in other circumstances, a flight on an old Krogan transport would have been unpleasant for them, now everything was different. Leaving the seemingly hospitable Normandy, they felt only relief, the same as when they were saved from the clutches of the Justicars.
Looking through the porthole at the procession, Garrus thought about things not entirely typical for a Turian. "How far must the galaxy have fallen for loyal warriors to have to save themselves from their own?" the thought pounded in his head.
The warrior's mind tried to comprehend this reality, but could not. For him, as a former legionnaire of the Hierarchy, everything that was happening was wild. In his understanding, if you are loyal to your oath, honor your honor and ancestors, you are a respected member of society. Such a Turian has the law and the support of the entire people behind him. Although Garrus understood how this was possible, as an officer for whom honor was not an empty word, he could not accept it.
This was not the only thing that oppressed Vakarian. Having decided that from now on he was on the side of the USSR, if they were trying to stop the Reapers, the warrior understood that sooner or later he would have to shoot his own. The same loyal warriors to their oath and honor. Reality had divided the Turians to different sides of the barricades, which made him feel heavy and want to invoke the spirits, complaining about fate. The understanding that the Reapers' strength was chaos and deception, about which the communists, whom no one listened to, had warned, offered little comfort.
The irreconcilable was a patriot and not a fool, but looking at the blue-skinned maidens, he saw how his people were being manipulated and where everything was heading. The Hierarchy was almost split in half. Some understood that by attacking the Kvarians, weakened after the battle with the Geth, they would lose their honor, because there was no honor in striking down the obviously weak. Others would mindlessly carry out the order, as befits a soldier.
At the moment when the cannons would speak, an almost invisible rift would open, crossing out his people's history into "before" and "after," turning them into executioner warriors, without honor and conscience. Victory, which should have united the Hierarchy and secured its rear during the Harvest, would kill its soul. The spirits would turn away from their descendants, and the Turians would lose the right to be called Turians along with the privilege of wearing clan tattoos.
"No honor, no clans – everyone will become faceless," Garrus realized once again, looking at those who were fleeing now to give other Asari a chance for survival. "It's no wonder we called politicians that. In pursuit of power, it's so easy to give up honor, not for the good of the people, but for profit."
Garrus shook his head, trying not to move his mandibles from the surging anger. Taking a deep breath, he tried to calm down and stop dwelling on it. The repetition of the same thoughts over and over again started to give him a headache, making him angry at himself. He couldn't justify such a shameful weakness in his own eyes.
With mild interest, the SBC officer glanced at Shepard, who was also watching the forced guests transition from the ship. The Turian was good at reading human facial expressions. After all, he maintained law and order on the Citadel. His service had forced him to study the basics of psychology in order to anticipate the actions of even beings with a collective consciousness.
Without false modesty, Vakarian had achieved success in this difficult task, but now he could not say what was going on in this sentient being's head. In contrast to the Turian, Shepard felt not only a foreign gaze. Thanks to his sensitivity to emotions, which sharpened when they were directed at him, the "Argentum" operative sensed more than just curiosity in this interest.
"Is something bothering you?" the human asked him directly, pausing for a second.
"He probably decided to send me a mental image out of habit," the Turian correctly translated the hesitation into his own language.
"I'm thinking about the present," Garrus said directly. "About all the events and how everything turned out this way. For some reason, I can no longer blame you for all the misfortunes."
"We warned you," Shepard shrugged.
"And we didn't listen," the Turian agreed without much joy, tilting his head. "Now I see how much the Hierarchy is being manipulated. The Salarians want to distract us from themselves, because we remember all the grievances they inflicted. The Asari want to avoid just retribution. The Reapers, standing above all this, are pulling the strings, strengthening the division of the galaxy, which was united only in words. It's hard to admit the obviousness of your words, even after all this. As it turned out, I was also prone to excessive pride."
"Obvious words. Obvious situation. I'm repeating myself again!" Garrus suppressed his irritation.
"A rather straightforward position, however, characteristic of your species," the human replied with another obvious fact.
The Turian couldn't read him. The operative was good at controlling his face, showing only as much as he wanted. Now Shepard was showing mild interest, and Vakarian could only guess what might be hidden behind it.
The ship shuddered slightly as the docking sleeve detached from the Krogan transport, which immediately rushed towards the relay. It had a rather complicated journey to Tuchanka ahead of it, as far as the SBC officer knew.
"This is our dignity and at the same time our flaw. Honesty and openness are little valued in these times," the Turian turned away from the porthole. "Many consider us too harsh, matching our bodies, but we simply dislike hypocrisy and love order and discipline very much."
"Hmm, and after thousands of years, nothing has changed," Javik intervened in the conversation, peeling himself off the wall he had leaned against during docking, looking out the porthole with an unreadable gaze. "Warriors are considered thick-headed, and politicians are corrupt. Sentient beings have remained as they were in power of their stereotypes. Only the faces change, but not the essence."
The last soldier of the fallen empire struck the metal wall of the compartment with a backhand, unleashing his instantly boiling rage, regaining control of himself.
"I don't know why you're here," the Prothean pointed his finger at Garrus, still irritated, but radiating the arrogant superiority of an elder race again. "...and I can only guess, but I know why I am here. I didn't come here to listen to a primitive explain obvious things."
Vakarian's fists clenched involuntarily, and his mandibles parted. Although he didn't understand why, even an Elcor could have felt the undisguised contempt.
"Did you come to enjoy the hatred of the Asari?" the Turian counterattacked with a barb, restraining himself, almost shaking his head.
Shepard, folding his arms, watched with interest the confrontation between two warriors, who were from different eras, but in some ways like twins. The operative was not for nothing awarded the rank of lieutenant colonel. It was not difficult for him to understand why the Turian had started the conversation and why the Prothean had flared up.
"I don't care about the emotions of primitives," Javik leaned forward, as if about to headbutt his opponent. "Let them think and want what they want, you bone-heads! Like you, they were primitives… but your meat at least didn't taste like algae, even if it needed a very long marinade."
"Like two cats fighting over a bowl of food, and not sentient ones," Shepard thought ironically, continuing to watch as the two aliens hissed at each other almost quietly.
"But we didn't die out, unlike you," the Turian felt he was losing his composure, suddenly wanting to disdainfully wash his hands after interacting with a creature that consumed sentient beings. "Perhaps, if you thought less with your stomach, you would have managed to defeat the Reapers. You know, Prothean, sentient beings are good for more than just steak. Although perhaps you were defeated because you fed all your allies to your troops."
"Do you want to anger me, primitive?" Javik calmly clarified, suddenly becoming extremely calm. "Good. You have. I will flay you and eat your liver alive."
"No duels and eating sentient species on my ship!" Shepard, who had heard enough, stepped between the arguing parties. His hand eloquently rested on his holster, unfastening it. "You have one minute to say what you want."
"I just wanted to say that I am at your complete disposal," Garrus said calmly. "My honor has prompted me to reconsider what seemed obvious before. If you are going to stop the Harvest, then I will be on your side."
"I wanted to say roughly the same thing," Javik accepted moral defeat, but did not reconcile himself to it. "You can count on me, but not only as a warrior. My beliefs dictate that I bow my knees to the USSR, recognizing your power over myself, like the weaker before the stronger."
To reinforce his words, the Prothean actually knelt before the lieutenant colonel, who, although he did not show it, mentally rolled his eyes.
"I think I'll go calibrate a couple of rifles," Vakarian commented on the spectacle. "It's better than inhaling the stench that hangs here."
The Turian turned as if on parade and left. The grinding of the Prothean's teeth was his reward.
"The Fleet and the Hierarchy have begun to mass troops. It's better for some members of our crew not to know this fact for now," Shepard said to his back.
"I never intended to. I have no mood to listen to squeaks from under a mask," the officer said deliberately rudely, who understood everything. If anything, he didn't want the death of a child because of his actions. Although he didn't approve, he was sure that his people would win in the upcoming slaughter…
What could be better than calibration? Only calibration, after domination!
"...it's even good that this little brat is on your ship. I feel sorry for the girl as a human, but not for her father," he finished retelling the news.
Politics, politics, and politics again, damn it all! On the one hand, an inevitable evil, on the other hand, I regret that I am not a simple, naive, dumb-as-a-rock brute, as propaganda from Space painted me. Damn pies, how sometimes my own brain interferes with life! If I were stupid, I wouldn't bother with such things!
Judging by how Shepard's mental image twitched, I wasn't the only one who wanted to curse the whole area. Artyom has quite a zoo, and on top of that, this.
"I understand that the agency will take Tali into its orbit?" the friend stated very cautiously, not being entirely sure.
"CERBERUS wouldn't be CERBERUS if it didn't try to milk preferences from this mess." With this phrase, I ruthlessly crushed his timid hope.
The agency is not evil. It's just that scouts can't do anything else. They always try to drag everything home.
I understand this. Shepard understands this, but, like any soldier, he hopes that this disaster will resolve itself without his participation.
"If the rank-and-file nomads respected this chick's father, there was a reason for it, but among the higher circles in the Fleet, there was a good commotion. You know yourself, they don't like synthetics much. Even they look at us askance, like we're crazy for using AI. They're lynching their own suit-wearers for what the deceased pulled off. It was a very good move for him to give up his anchors at such a timely moment, but not for his daughter."
His answer was a questioning image.
"The admirals demand blood, and they will get it," I pretend to believe. Well, well, he didn't understand anything. "And the girl got her hands dirty very conveniently at the beginning of her voyage. On that vessel that carried the deceased's interesting parts, she was listed as a crew member, and actively participated in their acquisition. However, judging by the knock-knock from the Geth scouts, and her Quarian comrades, she herself was clueless about her father's work. The deceased used her in the dark, which is unexpected for a scumbag."
"I understand that this is not only the admirals' position in such a flattering assessment?" Shepard's image simply oozed with malice.
"A scumbag is a scumbag everywhere. You don't even need analyst reports for this," I stopped fooling around. "If he were our scientist, he could have been given the 'death penalty' right away. Assembling and activating Geth is just a trifle. All the admirals, one way or another, have dirty hands, but this one clearly went too far. Fortunately, the comrades worked quickly, cleaning up everything that was unnecessary, otherwise the chick would have been put face down on the floor long ago, with a show trial of the innocent. It's good that at least someone there has a conscience. The one she calls 'auntie,' although stern, is still holding out, not letting the accusation be made."
"But it's only a matter of time before it's presented to her," Shepard agreed. "Thanks to the 'aunt,' Tali will only face exile, but, I understand, the agency needs her to stay on the Fleet's board?"
"As I was told in secret, there is simply no better candidate," I closed my eyes. How I'm sick of all this. "And even the wizard agreed when I asked him. You know yourself, hardly anyone will tell the details, but I've already been asked for a liquidation team. And that's not a small matter."
Considering all the plans voiced, the scenario, figured out by me, even logically works out. Damn Geth! They're stubborn and that's it! So much destruction could have been avoided, but they have their motives for acting THIS way, and they are even justified. It will be an excellent landscape for a painting, a sin not to give away some pencils.
I only feel sorry for the girl. Who knows better than me how heavy the Monomakh's hat is? The admiral's epaulets will crush her…
I rewrote this fragment three times, but it seems to have turned out.
Pilgrims were returning to the Fleet. Dozens of ships were changing course, heading for the assembly point of the punitive flotilla. Kvarians were buying tickets on civilian liners, sometimes even buying the most expensive ones, to make it on time.
The Migrant Fleet was preparing to fulfill the dream of generations of nomads. Soon, thousands of starships would enter the Perseus Veil and drive out the synthetics hiding there…
More and more often, instead of patriotic slogans and jokes, the decks of the starships were filled only with silence. Kvarians understood that behind the noble idea lay a massacre. There was no bravado. Captains and sailors understood the true weight of the upcoming offensive.
Unlike them, the top leadership was optimistic. Years and hundreds of lives were supposed to pay off at the moment of attack. Scouts, hundreds of men and women, the flower of the Migrant Fleet, paid with their lives to find a breach in the defense of the rebellious synthetics. Having received this data, the Council of Admirals developed the plan for the entire campaign, putting the entire Quarian people at stake.
Every ship, whether it was a nimble corvette or a majestic liner from ancient times, would go into battle. Even the weakest weapon on a farm ship could change history at the most decisive moment, snatching the coveted victory from steel manipulators.
The morale of the crews was unsuitable for a fight to the death. Understanding this and sensing the smoldering irritation in the air, the admirals decided to let off steam. Daily court proceedings began to shake the Fleet…
The galaxy watched with general indifference. The Asari didn't care about the future bloodshed. Diplomats were busy putting out fires in the streets of Thessia. Hundreds of maidens were protesting, demanding the resignation of parliament and the deposition of the council of matriarchs. While the protesters were still too few for the flame of revolution to ignite, with each passing day, supporters of the new order grew more and more. They were tired of fanatics of various kinds. They craved to change the rusted system.
On the expanses of the former Hegemony, clashes of arms thundered again. A new redistribution of power began in this long-suffering corner of space. Thousands of refugees rushed into Citadel Space, fleeing from the massacre of fanatics, bandits, and weak leaders.
The Salarian Union was also burning. The horror mindlessly released by scientists began its march across the planets, but, for now, the fleet and army managed to contain the напасть, pretending to the entire galaxy that there were no problems. The Salarians feared that if the USSR found out, they would start asking questions about the presence of such exotic specimens.
Legions of the Hierarchy were leaving their permanent bases, loading onto starships. It was enough for just one order to begin the massacre of the nomadic people. The Primarch and the council of generals understood perfectly well that the cornered Kvarians would not surrender. Even exhausted from the battle with the Geth, they would fight…
The Geth Consensus gazed at the conflict-ridden galaxy. Synthetics, having grasped the truth, chose their own path. They intended neither to hide in the darkness nor to exterminate their creators. The final preparations were complete. The Quarians would receive a harsh lesson, or their creators would not withstand the coming storm.
In the next chapter, events will begin that will become the prologue to the Quarian War. After that, there will be several interactive segments that will determine the final composition of the meeting committee, in short, who will live to see the arrival of the Reapers. Anticipating questions, I have drafts of several options, otherwise I wouldn't have gone to such lengths.