Fifteen minutes after the siren, the VI’s analysis of the drill was posted on the wall screens.
The information also arrived on the omni-tools of the frigate’s crew members.
“Not much better,” Anderson said, meeting Shepard again in his cabin.
“Now I see that a third drill is absolutely necessary.”
“Commander, permission to report,” the voice of the Senior Artillery Officer sounded.
“Zero-class accuracy in the settings of the ship’s artillery systems — achieved and locked in.”
“Received.
Prepare the artillery systems for effective fire,” Anderson ordered.
“Reduce the time to bring the artillery systems to combat readiness to a minimum.
Even a second will be too great a luxury for us.
Act.”
“Aye, sir,” the Senior Artillery Officer replied and closed the channel.
“You’re anticipating both the attack and the finishing blow?” Anderson asked, having reviewed the data transmitted from the ship’s artillery consoles on his omni-tool.
“Yes, Commander.
If the influence of the planet’s infrastructure, including the weather control stations and the equipment of the monorails and spaceports, proves effective, then we will have to do everything to ensure this ship cannot offer resistance.”
“And indoctrination?” Anderson asked.
“Commander,” Shepard replied.
“I have no intention of building castles in the air.
But after such a complex combined strike, in my opinion, there can be no question of quick indoctrination: the ‘shrimp’ simply won’t have enough energy for the impulse.
And as for the rest, the landing group under my command will handle it.
A strike on the planet’s energy infrastructure, a strike from the Edenite climate installations, a strike from the reconnaissance ship.
Three strikes, combined into one, will be able to render this monster inoperable.
For a sufficiently long period.
I concede that the ship might survive such a complex strike.
But will it be anything more than a hull…”
“I see, Captain, that something is troubling you.” Anderson cast a keen glance at the first mate.
“Something you’re not yet willing to even hypothesize about.”
“Captain, I don’t know how to formulate this precisely,” the first mate replied.
“I very much want to believe that after our encounter with this ship, we won’t have problems like this again.
And I can’t.
I don’t have the feeling that this will be an isolated case.
Such a ship appeared in the space of the Galaxy at the time when the Apocalypse was coming for any sentient race capable of leaving a clear image of it on some durable material medium.
Which means: the ship did not use its weapons to their full extent.
It didn’t destroy sentient, mostly, I think, organic, life immediately.
It…
played with it.
At ‘cat and mouse,’ as it were.
It was proud of its power, its invulnerability, its strength, its might.
It wore them down.
It punished,” Shepard said thoughtfully, but clearly.
“For what did it punish?” the first mate asked himself aloud after a short pause.
“I don’t know.
It’s beyond my understanding.
Why is it that on planets where descendants later found such images, nothing else testified to these ships?
Where, in general, are all the local — sentient and not — inhabitants?
I know that archaeologists are not all-powerful.
But any excavations proved the almost complete absence of remains.
Does that mean such a ship was not alone?
Does it mean it came to this planet accompanied by smaller ships?
Ships with different capabilities, performing different functions?
I don’t know.
Something tells me this ship is the beginning of a terrible period in the history of the Milky Way.
And the fact that it has moved towards our, human, colonized planet…
Does that mean we, humans, humanity, are in the front ranks for destruction?”
There was no tension or anxiety in Shepard’s voice — it was even, but Anderson felt that the first mate was speaking not just thoughtfully.
He was speaking from the heart, with deep feeling:
“I’m not ready to say that this is a pure machine driven by a program, Commander,” Shepard continued.
“And I’m also not ready to assert that it is a living being.
I am forced to assume: for us to defeat such a creation of an unknown mind, we will have to unite the power of sentient organic and sentient synthetic life.
I understand that none of the current races of the Milky Way will agree to a full-scale synthesis.
Perhaps we can manage with coexistence, partnership, alliance?!
But only at the expense of organic life, its capabilities to defeat a horde of such ships…
I don’t have the feeling that such a ship is unique or that there are few of them, Commander…”
Shepard saw that Anderson was listening to him attentively and was satisfied with this attention.
And, most importantly, with the understanding of what was said.
It was still good when the ship’s commander was a person equal to you, the first mate, in terms of level and profile of training:
“For now, until we can get an artificial intelligence as an ally, we will have to work in modes that are beyond the limits for organics.
And there’s this other problem, Captain.” Shepard pointed to the image of the relay, which had already appeared on the navigation screen.
“We, humans, are a young race by the Galaxy’s standards.
And we…
With an ease worthy of a better cause, we’ve already ‘latched onto’ the relays.
And, consequently, almost completely ceased the development of engines and systems that would allow us to do without these ‘catapults.’ If it weren’t for this relay, for the necessity of moving along the tunnel it has punched…
We could have used most of the reconnaissance methods known to humanity.
But the distances between systems…
They are enormous for our current capabilities.”
Shepard fell silent.
Anderson did not hurry his colleague.
“It’s clear that in a year, Eden Prime could well be left as a bare, rocky boulder, devoid of both its atmosphere and almost all of its current infrastructure,” the first mate said.
“Just one year — and everything could change drastically.
For the worse, for us, sentient organics.
And we, I somehow know, might not have that year.
And we might not even have a month.
Even ten days — we don’t have those either.
If we don’t show up at the planet tomorrow…
This ship will fulfill its function.
And I personally have no doubt that it will leave the planet.
It will leave loudly and very painfully.
Painfully for us organics.
It will leave because it is confident: we have nothing significant to oppose it with.
For us, the sentient organics of the Galaxy, I am sure of this, in just a few hours…
Information about the ‘shrimp’ and its actions…
Will be a shock.
For the entire crew of our ship, without a single exception.
By my calculations, there are only a few hours left before this ‘shrimp’ enters the range of the long-range scanners of the Eden system control.”
Shepard did not voice the standard phrase denoting regret over the unrealized nature of many already developed plans:
“Not taking many factors into account, according to the standard scenario, the first thing this ship will do is ‘cut off’ all long-range communications.
The planet won’t be able to call for help.
The Identsy will call.
But they…
won’t be heard.
I assume the presence on board this monster of a powerful system that filters information traffic.
From the outside, almost everything will seem as usual.
But any hint of a call, of information about what happened, will be tracked by the Reaper, without any doubt.
And — blocked.
This planet doesn’t have the newest military communications centers, doesn’t have a developed military infrastructure.
I believe this is no reason for complacency.
Even systems like the Martian anti-space defense, with its truly cyclopean guns.
Even they can offer little against this ‘shrimp.'”
“Do you think that after landing on the planet, this ship will be more vulnerable?” Anderson asked, reviewing profile data on his omni-tool.
“Large ships of most of the sentient organic races I know generally — for a variety of reasons — cannot perform any standard landings on planets.
On any of the possible and acceptable ones,” Shepard clarified.
“Except perhaps in the case of a catastrophe.
But that’s no longer a standard landing.
That’s a crash.
A significant portion of onboard energy will be expended, I dare assume, on holding a ship like the Reaper in a state of immediate takeoff readiness.
If we imagine a ‘chain,’ then its first link becomes the landing of such a ship on a planet, the second — the lack of need for such a ship to move around the planet, the third — the execution of some short-term mission by the ship’s landing crews, the fourth — the ‘natives” lack of any ability to offer anything significant against either the ship itself or its landing force.
In the end,” the first mate emphasized, “it’s clear that even an automaton at the level of current VIs or even a minimal AI will not keep the shields at maximum.
Energy will be needed for the constant, mundane balancing of the ship’s position in space.”
Shepard touched the giant ‘appendages’ with the beam of his laser pointer:
“These legs, quite possibly, will not — in this particular case — be the ship’s supports.
They won’t take on its weight.
I suspect they will be retracted.
And the ship itself will barely touch the planet’s surface with its ‘legs.’ Perhaps, thereby, feigning a landing, misleading the locals, masking itself.
Maintaining the ‘cocoon’ around the hull will allow it to launch immediately, without lengthy preparation.
The ‘cocoon’ will be there, the shields — will be there.
But I find it hard to imagine an automaton keeping the shields at maximum in such a safe atmosphere and on an almost unarmed planet.
That’s paranoia, and automatons don’t suffer from paranoia,” Shepard clarified.
“Only the creators of automatons can suffer from it.
But paranoia is very difficult to program in full.”
“I can’t say that I fully agree with everything you’ve said, Captain,” Anderson noted, having thought for a few minutes about what he’d heard.
“In many ways, of course, you’re right.
I very much hope that the hardware reconnaissance won’t give us grounds for any ill-considered and hasty actions.
Although, summing up everything you’ve said on this matter,” David cast a quick glance at the screen image of the ‘shrimp,’ — “I can say one thing: we will have to quickly overcome any conceivable shock and gather the maximum amount of data in a very short time.
I doubt, sincerely doubt, that we will be given much time to make decisions regarding the further plan of action.”
The frigate’s commander switched on the audio link via the speaker:
“Ingvar, how long will it take to bring Eden’s climate control systems into ‘local apocalypse’ mode?”
“If only through climate control — from fifteen minutes to a minute,” the ECM specialist responded.
“That’s a lot.
Can it be reduced to three to five seconds somehow?” Anderson asked.
“It can, but we’ll need to know precisely where the target is and what its characteristics are,” Tempke replied.
“At least the most general ones.”
“You’ll know where the target is.
As for the characteristics…” Anderson paused.
“Consider that to be the maximum.
Of everything you can imagine.
We’ll need one strike capable of completely neutralizing the target.”
“Destruction?” the specialist clarified.
“Yes.
I believe that’s exactly what we’ll need.
I’ll be able to say more precisely only after the hardware reconnaissance, Ingvar,” Anderson replied after a few seconds of silence.
“Calculate the destruction option.
And — the option of maximum disarmament.
In every sense.”
“Permission to submit the solution to your screens in two minutes?” the specialist asked, clearly, as Shepard understood, having sensed another extremely interesting and complex task.
“Permission granted.” Anderson cut off the communication on this channel but did not raise his gaze to the first mate.
“You don’t really want to destroy this ship completely, do you, Shepard?
Am I right?”
“Yes, sir.” Shepard did not try to be disingenuous or lie.
“If Charon gave us, humanity, access to Arcturus, access to other civilizations, then I am more than convinced: this ship will give us the experience of thirty million years of development.
Which is orders of magnitude greater than the experience of any race in the Milky Way.
Having such a machine…
Humanity will be able to prepare for war much better.”
“So you do believe it’s not alone?” Anderson asked.
“I do.
It, like us, is reconnaissance.
Observation.
Control.
Surveillance.
Call it what you will.
And if we manage to ‘tame’ such an active internal spy, putting it in the service of the Galaxy’s inhabitants — that will be more valuable than a metallic or plastic corpse.
Even — a corpse like it.
And something tells me there are several more such…
corpses within the Milky Way.
There’s no need to add another one to their ‘community.'”
“And…” Anderson noted cautiously.
“I understand this sounds like a mystical revelation, Commander…” Shepard clarified.
“But I already feel that there are organics on this ship.
Sentient organics.” The first mate was silent for a few seconds.
Anderson clearly felt — this was not a tactical pause, customary in communication between people.
“It’s as if their souls…
are weak…”
“You think they’re…
prisoners?” Anderson asked, without raising his gaze to his first mate.
“More than prisoners.
They are under its control, Commander.
Puppets,” Shepard replied quietly.
“It’s hard to formulate this verbally.
The conventionality…
grows in leaps and bounds.
Many necessary meanings…
are lost.”
“Indoctrination,” Anderson said.
“Yes, as one possibility,” the first mate agreed.
“And can you identify the races they belong to?” Anderson still did not seek to look at either the figure or the face of his interlocutor.
“I can,” Shepard confirmed.
“But I wouldn’t want to disturb this ship’s systems too much right now.
I have no doubt about its perfection.
And I don’t want to ruin the entire operation we’re preparing.
‘It’ might become wary.
Then we won’t be able to conduct reconnaissance, won’t be ready for effective and immediate action.
And out there, on the planet, there are thousands of people.
Earthlings.
Not only Earthlings, which is also important,” the first mate clarified.
“If the Reaper starts ‘zapping’ the planet and its inhabitants with its beam…
We, the frigate’s crew, the Normandovtsy — will never wash ourselves clean of it.”
Shepard, as Anderson clearly felt, was maintaining his composure with difficulty:
“There is only a supposition, a well-founded supposition, that these few sentients…
are extraordinary individuals.
I doubt that a ship of such a high class would take mediocrities on board.
Even as prisoners or slaves.
No.
They are clearly not people of the last rank.
And does their race really matter so much?…
In any race, there are always such individuals.
In any, Commander,” Shepard repeated, for whom verbal repetitions had never been something negative.
In the orphanage, he had often heard one phrase: ‘Repetition is the mother of learning.
And not only of learning.’ And he agreed with both the meaning and the essence of this phrase.
“Commander, sir,” Ingvar came on the line with Captain Anderson.
“Transmitting the solution.”
“Received, Ingvar, thank you.” Anderson looked at the small screen of his wrist omni-tool.
With a touch to the rim, he switched off the speaker.
He stood up, moving closer to the large screen.
Shepard rose as well, also approaching the screen, on which the solution was already appearing line by line.
“It might work,” Anderson said thoughtfully, reading and peering intently.
“It might work,” a clear note of interest mixed with satisfaction sounded in the frigate commander’s voice.
“No, wait, it might work!” he exclaimed.
“It just might!
Now we need to conduct the third drill.
We need to finish preparing the ship for its station-keeping at the relay.
And we…
We can solve this problem!” Out of the corner of his eye, Anderson caught the first mate’s nod of agreement.
At twenty-one thirty, the silence of the frigate’s compartments was shattered by the simultaneously sounding sirens of the emergency and combat alarms.
This time, the ship’s virtual intelligence used its capabilities almost to the maximum: the crew was run off their feet.
The complications of the scenarios came in an unbroken stream.
The ship was plunged entirely into darkness, cut only by the dim beams of the helmet lights on the spacesuits and the narrow beams of lasers.
Fires raged in five compartments simultaneously, compounded by multiple gas and chemical attacks.
Only at eleven o’clock did the VI deactivate the virtualization complex and switch on the regular lighting in all compartments.
“Not bad, but not enough,” Captain Anderson said, having familiarized himself with the VI’s analysis of the completed training session.
Both senior officers had secluded themselves in the captain’s cabin once more.
“A pity.
We can’t afford more.
In an hour we take up position at the mass relay.
I propose we let the crew have dinner.
And prepare for combat operations.”
“Yes, sir.” Shepard rattled off several dozen orders over the ship’s intercom.
“We’ll have to hold a discussion over dinner.”
“We will.
It’s necessary,” Captain Anderson confirmed.
“Let’s go.”
The discussion took place and lasted just over fifteen minutes.
But what minutes they were!
The officers spoke little, concisely, precisely, perfectly aware of how much of importance lay hidden behind this unfamiliar brevity.
And since they were aware, it meant they understood: the jokes and the words were over.
The real, combat work was beginning.
After dismissing the officers, Shepard and Anderson lingered at the table for a few minutes.
The duty officer was loading dishes and utensils into the dishwasher, disinfecting tables and chairs with a portable medical emitter.
Slow, heavy footsteps were heard.
The turian Spectre stepped onto the deck.
He was heading straight for the table where the ship’s senior officers sat.
Stopping at the table, he looked with displeasure first at Anderson, but then focused his gaze on Shepard.
“I wouldn’t advise it, Nihlus, staring at me like that,” Shepard said, quickly regaining his habitual state of taut readiness.
“Why am I being denied contact with the Council?” Kryik asked.
“And what were you planning to report to them about?” Shepard looked directly up at the turian.
And the Spectre clearly didn’t like that look.
“You are on a military reconnaissance vessel.
Which is not on a training cruise.
There is a command structure here.”
“I am a Spectre,” the turian said.
“We are aware,” the first mate replied.
“I repeat once more: you are not an officer of this ship, so we have no reason to accommodate your wishes to the fullest extent.” Shepard kept his heavy gaze fixed on the turian.
“You are a passenger.
A guest.
A civilian,” the first mate ground out.
Anderson did not intervene in the conversation, but watched the proceedings closely, maintaining a calm and somewhat detached air.
“I am an operative of the Special Corps,” the turian said, the words carrying a clear threat.
“I repeat once more: we are aware.” Shepard did not change the tone or volume of his voice.
“And we know perfectly well what your organization has been involved in.” The first mate, pressing several keys on his wrist-mounted Omni-tool, activated the wall screen nearest the table, on which lines of a summary of the Special Corps’ most problematic operations over the last several decades appeared.
“Trying to play the saint, Nihlus?” Shepard asked.
“Trying to lead and command us humans, us Terrans?
Trying to treat us like children?”
“I will not answer those questions, human,” the turian said, still trying to maintain his composure, but Shepard saw and clearly felt how tense the Corps operative’s nerves were.
“We don’t need your answers, Nihlus Kryik.
We know that your mentor, Spectre Saren Arterius, breaks the law time and again, using its imperfections for his own personal gain.” Shepard launched a new sequence of text and images on the screens from his Omni-tool.
One screen displayed information in Turian, the second in English.
Captain Anderson read the English version with interest.
Much was becoming clear to the frigate’s commander.
“You turians are afraid,” Shepard continued, not changing his posture.
“Afraid that your forces won’t be enough.
Don’t tell me, Kryik, that the collection of old tubs we humans encountered at the outbound mass relay is your Fleet.
Or even part of it.” At these words from the first mate, the turian’s whole body twitched nervously.
“Don’t,” Shepard repeated.
“We know perfectly well about your thirty main Fleets, Nihlus.
And we know about the fifteen reserve ones too,” he clarified.
“You, as I recall, tried to move one such Fleet toward our star system borders.
Only a direct order from the Citadel Council stopped it.
But you don’t know, or perhaps simply don’t understand, for a number of reasons, something else, Nihlus.
My colleague and commander won’t let me lie.” Shepard did not exchange a glance with Anderson.
“There is not a single year in human history when combat operations were not conducted between people on our home planet.
We have fought for practically our entire human history.
Fought among ourselves.
Fought at the limit of our capabilities, fought using literally everything for victory: all our technology, all our science, all human potential.
Fought, losing millions of people.
Culling humanity’s gene pool better than any radiation or epidemic.”
The turian twitched again.
Shepard noted it immediately:
“Better and more effectively,” he repeated.
“Yes, we humans don’t have that many ships.
But we are excellent at waging war using human potential and abilities.
Your Turian Hierarchy pushed through the Treaty of Farixen behind the scenes because you turians realized: we are capable of ‘sealing’ our Solar System with thousands of dreadnoughts.
Yes, we will build them, making all of humanity go hungry.
Yes, it will be difficult for us to maintain the pace on other fronts.
Yes, it will be a great strain on many people.
But we humans will do it, Nihlus.
And you turians felt that.
The main thing is that for all these ships we will have five crews each.
For every ship of every class.
Even though for us, the army is not the foundation of society, not the foundation of the state, not the foundation of the system of government.
You turians felt that all too well.”
Shepard displayed the treaty’s restriction tables on the screens:
“See?” the first mate asked.
“You’ve seen them.
I know, I see, I feel that you’ve seen them, and more than once, Nihlus.
Who has the most ships?
You do.
Who has the most dreadnoughts?
You do.
Who has the most cruisers?
You do.
You turians, for whom the army and fleet are everything.
But for us Terrans, everything is human society.
And you think we won’t be able to resist under such ‘treaty’ conditions?” The corners of Shepard’s mouth twisted into a mocking smirk.
“Next to me is my commander, frigate captain David Anderson.
Who do you think pushed through his appointment to this frigate?
Well!”
“The…
Turian…
Hierarchy…” Nihlus forced out, unable at that moment to resist Shepard’s pressure.
“Shall I name the reason for Captain David Anderson’s appointment to this post?
Or will you do it?” Shepard continued to ‘pressure’ the Special Corps operative.
“We expected that Anderson’s service on this ship…
would be short…” Nihlus squeezed out.
Captain Anderson clenched the fingers of both hands into fists, but did not raise his gaze to the turian standing near the table.