Shepard did not take his eyes off Nihlus, seeing perfectly well what it had cost him to say even that, which pertained to no small secrets of the Turian Hierarchy.
“Excellent, Nihlus,” the first mate said.
“Your fellow turians give Captain Anderson a ‘sub-frigate’ and expect him to end his earthly journey shortly.
For various reasons that supposedly have much in common with natural ones.
And what kind of frigate did you foist on us?
Or rather, foist on Captain Anderson?
A reconnaissance frigate, correct?”
The turian nodded nervously.
“And do you know what interesting mindset exists among very many people, Nihlus?” Shepard was now openly mocking the operative.
“You don’t know, Nihlus.
You don’t know, because if you did, you would have given this frigate a wide berth the moment Captain Anderson came aboard.
There is an interesting country on Earth with a very complex and ambiguous history.
It is still called Russia.
And there, there is an expression, a mindset, so to speak.” The first mate paused for a few seconds and then said, each word spoken as if it were a blow from a heavy hammer.
“Don’t trust.
Don’t fear.
Don’t ask.”
Shepard watched with relish as the Spectre’s body shook with a violent tremor at each spoken word:
“And we Europeans know why in Russia these are not just words.
We Europeans also have similar expressions.
But they are not as clear and definite.
Neither in sound nor in meaning.” The first mate paused again.
“So, Nihlus,” he continued.
“We Terrans do not trust you aliens.
We have a very powerful xenophobia, against which you have no vaccine.
We are not afraid of you aliens.
If we were not afraid to fight among ourselves for all the thousands of years of Earth’s human history, locked on a single planet in a relatively small star system, then we are not afraid to fight any enemy that comes into the Solar System from outside.”
Shepard’s voice grew stern:
“We have no fear.
We have a desire to win.
In many armies of our planet, warriors of any rank have a tradition: to take the enemy to the grave with them.
And we ask nothing from you aliens.
It was you turians who asked us to moderate our belligerence.
It was you turians who ‘pushed through’ the Farixen restrictions through the Citadel Council.
It was you turians who found yourselves facing our reconnaissance fleet, unprepared for Contact.
It was you turians who tried to foist sub-frigates, sub-battleships, sub-dreadnoughts on us, knowing that very soon we humans would be able to fill the Hierarchy’s space with our ships, against which you, the main military force of the Citadel Council, would have no adequate response.
And you, Nihlus Kryik, came here to flash your badge?
A Spectre’s badge?
The badge of a militant operative of the Citadel Council?
The badge of a chained cur?
Yes, Nihlus, I didn’t misspeak and I won’t take my words back.
A.
Chained.
Cur.
Of.
The.
Citadel.
Council,” Shepard spat through his teeth, watching the growing fear and helplessness in the turian’s eyes.
“Do you think that if you, your Turian Hierarchy, gave us this ship, you can play the role of master here?” Shepard’s gaze bored into the turian’s eyes like an auger, and the turian recoiled.
“What an honor for us plebeians!
What an honor!
The master has deigned to reside on a sub-frigate together with his serfs!
A monstrous risk for a higher being!
Sound familiar, Nihlus?!
Sound familiar, I can see!
For decades you’ve grown accustomed to all sentient organics of any race ‘snapping to attention’ before Spectres and serving them simply by virtue of a particular sentient possessing a Council Spectre identifier.
But we humans have a different tradition.
A different one, Spectre Nihlus Kryik.”
Shepard switched back to his hammer-like style of speech:
“Any authority, any reverence, any worship must be ear-ned.
Through practical actions.
Through practical risk.
Through practical effort.
Captain Anderson is a professional.
And this rank, this level, does not exist in our Earthly qualification handbooks.
It is something we humans feel deeper than our skin.
Deeper than sight, deeper than the mind.
You wanted to humiliate him, trample him, grind him into the dirt by ‘pushing through’ Anderson’s appointment as commander of this reconnaissance frigate?
It didn’t work, Nihlus.
It didn’t work.
For our professionals, working on the most problematic ships is the norm.
Working with the most problematic crews is the norm.
Working in the most dangerous directions is the norm.
We humans, for the most part, do not flaunt ranks and positions.
We simply work.”
Shepard was silent for a few seconds, fixing a heavy, intent gaze on the turian standing before the table:
“The commander of the Normandy has earned over years of service not only authority.
But also the sincere respect of hundreds, thousands of people.
Yes, people holding different posts and different positions.
But who clearly realize that he, David Anderson, is a professional.
Note that he, the commander of the frigate foisted on him by you turians, did not in any way show his negative attitude toward you, a representative of the Special Corps.
Although he has every conceivable reason to do so.
And, since we are all aware of the situation here, Nihlus, I believe you should immediately and deeply understand that you are a passenger here, a civilian.
Not an all-powerful sultan, shah, maharaja, or emperor.”
Shepard paused briefly, savoring the sight of the weakening Kryik:
“We humans have our own powerful legislative framework.
Which you, as a Special Corps operative, know about, but frivolously believe that a wave of your Spectre ID badge leaves everything behind.
No, Nihlus,” the first mate emphasized.
“Not everything.
We humans have been demanding recognition from the Council for a decade now.
And you turians, the Turian Hierarchy in the person of your Councilors,” Shepard, pressing several sensors on his wrist Omni-tool, displayed data on the councilors from the Turian Hierarchy on the wall screens, “are desperately trying to oppose our desire, our aspiration, our right.
The right to take our rightful place among the other races of the Milky Way.
You are afraid, turian Nihlus.
You are afraid of humans.
You are afraid of us.”
“It is within my functions…” Kryik began, but Shepard didn’t let him finish:
“Oh, yes, it is within your functions to see where your investments went.
The investments of the Turian Hierarchy have materialized as a noose around humanity’s neck, Nihlus,” the commander of the boarding team and senior assistant to the frigate’s commander spat out, as if driving eight-inch nails into the turian’s body.
“We humans spent two weeks on a protocol ‘presentation’ addressed to you personally, and through you to the Citadel Council.
And you were satisfied.”
Shepard displayed the texts of the reports Nihlus had sent on the screens:
“As you can see, even on an understaffed sub-frigate, we humans have enough specialists.
Capable of cracking a ‘Spectre-grade’ cipher efficiently and, most importantly, quickly.
Your functions, Nihlus, according to secret instructions, include what in our human language is called betrayal, a stab in the back.
And sabotage.”
New data flooded the plates of the activated screens.
Additional screens flared to life, displaying new texts and tables with graphs.
Anderson, his eyes glued to them, frankly had no idea where Shepard could have obtained such information, but he didn’t ask yet, watching as the two-meter turian shifted his weight before the table where two Terran officers sat.
Shifted his weight and began to understand that his lordly position had come to a definitive end.
“You still haven’t understood who you turians and the Citadel Council have run into, Nihlus.
You haven’t understood,” Shepard said.
“Do you know what a ‘catalyst’ is?”
“A substance capable of steering a chemical reaction in a certain direction and facilitating the achievement of certain, pre-calculated results,” Nihlus rasped.
“Limited, but correct.
So, Nihlus.
You have run into humanity as a catalyst for processes that are beyond your control, direction, and understanding.
We humans will not play by your rules, Nihlus, after the humiliations you turians have inflicted on us.
We will not,” Shepard emphasized.
“Don’t count on it.
And we will begin by reducing the status of alien Spectres on our military and civilian ships to that of a civilian with no authority beyond basic physiology.
Since, according to my data, there aren’t that many Spectres in the Solar System right now, we’ve already identified them all and placed them under surveillance.
And you, Nihlus Kryik, we have deprived of the main thing — communication.”
“I have…” the turian said.
“Oh, yes, you have an order from the Citadel Council.” Shepard, without moving from his spot, raised a different look to Nihlus.
A completely different one.
“An order to take from us humans the Prothean beacon found on a planet belonging to us, to humanity.”
The first mate watched with relish as the arrogant turian flinched violently:
“To take it, because someone there on the Citadel, or perhaps somewhere farther and higher, decided that we humans haven’t matured enough to have such information repositories on our own territory.
Because you, the Turian Hierarchy, as well as the other members of the Citadel Council, are terrified that you won’t be able to control how we use that information.” The special forces captain paused.
“Yes, Nihlus.
It took us Terrans a long time to activate the mass relay and ‘break through’ to you Old Races.
We humans have a saying: ‘even an unloaded gun can go off.’ At the most inopportune moment.
Simply put: a closed mass relay can be opened.
And you were not ready for its activation.
Completely not ready, Nihlus Kryik.
Shall I name those who decided that humans are not worthy of possessing a rarest Prothean artifact?” Shepard placed the fingers of his right hand on the sensors of his wrist Omni-tool’s keyboard.
“We have not only names.
We have direct and irrefutable evidence.
Well!”
“Do.
Not,” the turian forced out.
“And it all started so well,” Shepard said mockingly.
“The master-Spectre-turian comes to the ship’s fleet-army Terran serfs to demand a report on the work done and information about immediate and not-so-immediate plans.
And he is more than certain.
No, even convinced that the serfs will give him that information.
Of course, because he, Nihlus Kryik, is a Spectre, a celestial being.
An entity beyond the law.
In one fell swoop, all the stupid little humans are vanquished.
Note, Nihlus, I’m not getting personal yet.
My commander is already guessing that I have plenty of interesting things there too.
Things I can voice regarding you personally, Nihlus Kryik.” Shepard grew stern, tensed.
“So, shall we continue playing the celestial being?
Or will you now quickly and silently return to your cabin and never again try to exceed the status of a powerless civilian on a military vessel?”
“The cabin,” Kryik said after a few seconds.
“You may go, Nihlus.” Shepard lowered his gaze, felt the turian slowly and clearly reluctantly turn his back to the Terran officers sitting at the table.
“Remember that any attempt to harm us humans will be punished.
With all cruelty.”
Waiting until the turian had left the deck, Shepard relaxed:
“Sorry, Commander.
But there was a direct necessity to confine that subject within safe bounds,” he said, not looking at Anderson.
“We have less than a quarter of an hour before combat activation.
Having that slug behind us means subjecting everything important, valuable, and necessary to us humans to unjustified risk.” He entered a code on his Omni-tool’s keyboard.
“His cabin is already cut off from all communication and information lines.
There’s a bathroom in there; if he’s trying to play the military man, let him stoically endure the hardships of military service.
If necessary, I’ll put him in a coma with an energy pulse.”
Anderson’s Omni-tool came to life:
“Captain, the ship is at the point,” Jeff Moreau reported.
“Engines are ready for the jump to the mass relay.
Engineer Adams guarantees we can deliver peak power in sustained mode and handle Eden Prime without any problems.”
“Good.” Anderson switched channels, activating the ship-wide intercom.
“Attention all personnel.
The ship is at the point.
Activate remote reconnaissance equipment in combat passive mode.
Begin scanning in passive mode.
This is not a training exercise.
This is not a training operation.
Activate the ‘Forecast’ complex in combat mode.”
After listening to a few brief reports, Anderson leaned back in his chair.
Then, tensing, he stood up abruptly and walked around the table.
“Shepard, come with me to my cabin.
We’ll look at the ‘passive’ data there.
We need to rule out the negative impact of shocking information,” he said, stopping next to the chair in which the first mate was still sitting.
“Aye, Captain.” Shepard rose and stepped away from the table.
Both officers entered the captain’s cabin just as the first data from the passive long-range scanners appeared on the large wall screens.
The marker of a giant ship glowed as a red diamond.
“Damn, it’s near the reserve spaceport,” Anderson said, glancing at the coordinate grid.
“Judging by the data from the planetary ground sensors, it’s holding position.
Communication from the planet is jammed.
It really is filtering all traffic.
Weapons are not activated.”
“It doesn’t need to use weapons.
That two-kilometer ‘shrimp’ is a pretty good psychological weapon in itself.
The spaceport is empty.
Nothing but corpses,” Shepard said, increasing the resolution of the passive scan.
“And, by the way, there are the consequences of indoctrination,” he pointed to some data in the table.
“The brain activity of many who fell into the ‘sphere’ shows characteristics of external control.
With elements of suppression.”
“Let’s see.” Anderson turned on additional screens.
“The ‘Forecast’ complex confirms your conclusions, Shepard.
Jeff,” the commander looked at the cabin ceiling, “activate the stealth system.
Into operational mode.”
“Aye, sir,” the pilot responded.
Indicators confirming system activation flashed on the instrument panels in the captain’s cabin.
“I know it’s foolish, but I’m really hoping that the few sentients aboard that ship,” Anderson said, “don’t have access to optics or portholes.
At this distance, it will be hard for standard non-optical means to spot us.
What’s your plan, Shepard?”
“We approach Eden Prime, Commander.
And we deliver a coordinated strike on the ‘shrimp’ using the emitters of the planetary climate system, the energy accumulators of the spaceport nearest to the ‘shrimp’s’ landing site, and the frigate’s weapons.
Then, if necessary, the frigate’s boarding party takes the ‘shrimp,’ unable to actively resist under such ‘pressure,’ under our control by storm.
I believe our ship’s attack will provide that ‘shrimp’ with a couple of large holes in its hull,” Shepard clarified.
“At tempo.
The main thing is speed and momentum.
I know there will be new significant destruction and casualties among the population on Eden.
But we either need to capture that ship.
Or destroy it,” the first mate briefly outlined his vision of the scenario.
Anderson pondered for several minutes, then stood up.
“Let’s go, Captain.
Our place is on the bridge of the Normandy.
We’ll get the latest data there and begin combat deployment.”
“Agreed, Commander.” Shepard let Anderson go first, left the cabin, followed the head of the crew into the CIC, and stood behind the ship’s commander on the platform at the Galaxy Map.
“Ready for action.”
“Attention, all hands.
This is the commander.” Anderson activated the ship-wide intercom again.
“You’ve all seen our primary target.
We have two choices: capture that ship or destroy it.
We cannot let it take off.
We cannot let it open fire.
We cannot let it escape.
This is a scout.
It is alone.
And it must remain alone.
We cannot let it transmit any information outside.
We must do all of this.
We are intelligence.
We understand and know better than anyone how to counter intelligence.
And we will do it.” Anderson switched off the intercom, switched the Galaxy Map to operational-tactical command mode, bringing up the Utopia sector in three-dimensional space.
“Jeff, under stealth, in the shadow of the container ship ‘Letran,’ heading for the Citadel.
Conceal the ship in the shadow of the planet Xanadu.
Be ready for a jump to the planet Nirvana or a direct jump to Eden Prime.
Execute!”
“Aye, Commander,” the pilot responded.
The frigate left its position, disappeared behind the vast stern of the container ship, and moved away from the huge carrier to the required distance so that the mass relay wouldn’t fuse the two ships together during the ‘jump.’
A minute later, the Normandy entered the corridor opened by the activated mass relay.
“Three minutes, sir,” Moreau clarified over the audio channel of the commander’s headset speaker.
“The ‘Letran’ is already preparing to exit.
Decision, Commander.
Straight through or do we head for Xanadu?”
“Straight through, Jeff.
Straight through,” Anderson said, double-checking the data coming from the ‘Forecast’ complex on individual screens of the Galaxy Map.
“Aye, Commander,” the pilot switched off the channel.
“Ingvar, Bill.” Anderson called the ECM specialist and the senior artillery officer onto a conference call.
“All ship weapon systems to combat operational mode.
Ingvar, you’re the first violin.
Make that ship crash and shut down!
I repeat: crash and shut down!
Do whatever you want with the planet’s infrastructure and weather, but the ship must be immobilized and disarmed!
All the data we’ve managed to gather on its capabilities has been sent to you.”
“Understood, Commander.
Ready.” Ingvar, having entered ‘combat’ mode, began speaking in clipped phrases.
“Data entered into the system.
Ready for coordinated strike.
Bill?”
“All frigate weapons are ready, Commander,” the senior artillery officer reported to Anderson over the audio channel.
“The main emitter of that thing is in the sights of the ship’s main battery.”
“Jeff.” Anderson called the pilot.
“Ready, Commander.
While we’re heading for the planet at full speed, Ingvar will do enough to keep the shrimp from escaping.
And Bill will curb its attempts to resist.”
“Begin!” Anderson snapped.