Benezia and Saren.
Awakening and the Beginning of Recovery
Why she had decided that her first surgical patient should be Spectre Saren Arterius — the turian who had already become a legend in the Corps — Karin herself couldn’t have clearly explained even to herself at that moment.
Hardly because, as a male, the turian was physically more primitive, and therefore the trauma surgeon was confident she could perform the necessary surgical intervention faster.
And, perhaps, with less trauma.
Working with the scalpel, Chakwas didn’t think about it.
She acted.
During the operation, it didn’t interest her much.
Although some part of her mind was still processing the question, using all the information available to the doctor at that moment.
Saren, following the logic of the situation as Karin understood it, was the first to fall under the influence of the Watcher Reaper.
And he had been under its influence much longer than Benezia.
That was probably why Chakwas decided to operate on the turian first, and the asari second.
Besides, as Karin remembered, Shepard had repeatedly noted, even if not always explicitly or verbally, that the turian had gotten it worse and his condition was… more severe, so to speak.
However, as the medic remembered, the first mate hadn’t insisted that his point of view was the only correct one.
For Chakwas, as a military medic, cutting implants out of a sentient organic’s body was easier.
And even, to some extent, now more familiar than the routine work of mending fractures, treating sprains, and other physical ailments.
On the screens mounted on brackets above the operating field, data from small automatic and semi-automatic medical scanners glowed, compiled into large-scale graphic maps and diagrams, helping the doctor navigate the jumble of microchips dotting the turian’s skeleton.
Routine movements, a practiced technique.
The main thing was not to miss any unnecessary or harmful implant, not to leave it in the patient’s body.
Karin worked, occasionally glancing at the Spectre’s status indicators.
She knew Shepard had already flown off to the new dig site, the results of which were still unknown.
The frigate’s arrival at Eden Prime this time had been extremely non-standard.
No one, as Chakwas now understood, among the Normandy’s crew — not even Citadel Council Spectre Nihlus Kryik — had expected the humans would have to fire on a real, actual Reaper.
Karin knew that the frigate’s crew members were still actively discussing the encounter.
What was there to say, really; the event was exactly the kind people usually called “out of the ordinary.”
These enormous ships were generally considered legends.
Legends that few modern sentient organics believed in seriously or deeply.
The legend, however, turned out to be… more than material.
If not for the frigate crew’s quick reaction, if not for the well-executed and comprehensive instrumental and hardware reconnaissance of the situation on Eden Prime “post-relay”… Chakwas wouldn’t now vouch that many of the Normandovtsy would have survived.
The Reaper could easily have had time to respond to the frigate’s attack with its main gun.
And it, according to objective hardware data, including video recordings, had one that a scout frigate would be better off never getting under in any conceivable situation.
The Reaper turned out to be a great specialist at subjugating sentient organics to its will.
Yes, Chakwas remembered that the batarians, for instance, almost universally used chipping on sentient organics who fell into their captivity and most often became slaves of the four-eyed ones.
And the Reaper… As it turned out, it had done more than just chip Saren.
It had stuffed so many implants into the turian’s body that, after reviewing the medical scanner data, Chakwas was forced to conclude: even in the worst-case scenario, Saren Arterius, as the obedient servant of the “shrimp,” was practically invulnerable to most types of modern weapons.
Only a large-caliber artillery piece could have stopped him with its charge.
Something like the frigate’s Thanix.
Anything smaller would hardly have achieved the necessary result.
The turian’s skeleton was completely covered in implants.
Collectively, they sharply increased Saren’s ability to survive even the most terrible bombardment.
A turian Spectre — enslaved by a Watcher Reaper.
Chakwas couldn’t have even imagined such a real-life scenario before.
And now she not only had to see this turian but also operate on him.
The Reaper, by the way, hadn’t gone anywhere either — there it was, lying quietly and, for now, peacefully on the surface of Eden Prime.
The pile of implants removed from Saren’s body, placed on a medical tray gleaming with white enamel next to the operating area, was growing.
Karin tried to limit her field of vision to the “operating zone” alone.
And mentally, she occasionally returned to the realization that the vast number of implants hadn’t done the patient any good.
Before finally being subjugated by the Reaper, Arterius had been in many serious skirmishes.
Saren’s skull had been roughly operated on multiple times; his jaw was held together by pins and plates, giving the Spectre a fearsome appearance.
It was quite possible that Saren didn’t like taking off his helmet for that reason.
And if he did, it was only when absolutely necessary.
While removing the unnecessary implants, the doctor glanced at the patient’s face.
She wondered whether she should also get into maxillofacial surgery.
To put it simply, to bring the Spectre’s head’s appearance back to a more or less normal state.
For now, Chakwas decided to focus on leaving a minimum of implants in the turian’s body.
And then deal with Arterius’s face and head issues.
After double-checking the removal results, Karin performed the standard set of procedures to ensure the fastest possible wound healing.
After that, she put the turian into a deep medicated sleep.
The patient couldn’t wake up for at least several hours.
If necessary, the sleep duration could be increased within any reasonable limits.
Which meant enough time was freed up to work on the asari.
Covering the turian’s completely naked body with a sheet fixed on a light wire frame, Chakwas stepped away from the bed where the turian Spectre lay.
She slowly approached the bed where Matriarch Benezia lay.
Glancing at the readings on the monitors hanging above her bed, the doctor confirmed that when the Reaper fell to the ground on Eden Prime, the asari had indeed sustained multiple injuries.
In their report, the landing party members stated that Benezia T’Soni had most likely not had time to sit down in her chair.
Moreover, her dress, unlike a suit, didn’t form a rigid enough frame.
So the asari had plenty of problems with bodily integrity.
Benezia’s age, moreover, was far from young.
Healing, as Chakwas assumed while preliminarily examining the patient’s body, would be long and difficult.
Shepard had already managed to “dress” Benezia’s left forearm and right shin in a set of splints while still on the Reaper, smearing the wounds in several places with a thick layer of medi-gel.
He had performed the necessary primary medical procedures.
Which, of course, made the professional doctor’s subsequent work with the injured asari much easier.
Finishing the examination, Chakwas carefully cut the black-and-white dress.
She removed it from the patient’s body, trying as much as possible to preserve its integrity.
Of course, she would have to sew up these cuts later.
But for now… the asari could easily use human women’s dresses.
The female technicians and engineers on the ship would help.
The frigate’s doctor was certain of that.
Her underwear was also damaged, but to a lesser extent.
After removing it, Chakwas freed the asari’s head from her ritual-ceremonial headdress and began the standard pre-operative procedures.
Shepard had noted in his report that she lay there like a “broken mannequin.” Scanning the matriarch’s body with small scanners, Karin confirmed the conclusion drawn by the special forces marine: besides fractures, sprains, and contusions, Benezia had other physical problems resulting from the fall from what was, admittedly, a small, but still a height.
It was a good thing Shepard had worked on the psychosphere of the Reaper’s former captives himself.
Or perhaps, slaves?
Karin didn’t want to answer that question even to herself right now.
She needed to start dealing with the injuries as quickly as possible.
And the asari matriarch had plenty of them.
Never before would Karin have thought that a special forces officer, a military man, could so professionally, safely, and — most importantly — effectively resuscitate not the body of a sentient organic, but its essence, its soul.
While performing the routine procedures, Karin recalled how the first mate had worked with the asari and the turian.
She was convinced once again: without his help, she would hardly be calmly and freely doing her part of the work now, putting the bodies of both injured sentients in order.
She remembered the word “husk,” often encountered on several Extranet sites, which referred to bodies devoid of mind and soul.
Of course, as is often the case, specialists and ordinary, non-academic commentators didn’t agree on what exactly should be understood by “husks.” Neither historical excursuses nor logical arguments using often far-fetched arguments and evidence helped.
Karin remembered and noted with some amazement that she had unexpectedly managed to see real husks.
Both Saren Arterius and Benezia T’Soni had been exactly that — husks.
Husks, submissive to the will and desires of the pilot of this gigantic (by the standards of most races in the modern Galaxy) ship.
Husks.
If not for Shepard, who risked himself, both the asari and the turian would have remained in that state for a very long time.
If not forever.
It was unlikely that there were specialists in the Galaxy right now capable of returning Arterius and Benezia to a normal state.
Karin was inclined to evaluate what Shepard had done as nothing less than an embodied miracle, of which she had been a direct witness.
In the few days since the new first mate had appeared on board the prototype frigate, so many important events had occurred that Karin Chakwas couldn’t recall in all her rich and varied — not only medical — practice.
Shepard, as the doctor understood, was oriented, first and foremost, towards continuous work.
And quality, efficient work at that.
He, quite possibly, didn’t know how to rest, didn’t know how to relax.
To some extent, this mindset was conditioned by his specialty — marine and special forces.
Perhaps also by the fact that Shepard was an orphan.
As the head of the frigate’s medical service, Karin had, of course, reviewed the first mate’s personnel file and dug into the Systems Alliance Navy’s special databases.
But there, to her great regret, was little relevant information that could shed sufficient light on many circumstances of John Shepard’s life.
Chakwas knew about Akuze; she knew that on Earth, Shepard had a beloved girl waiting for him.
Her name was Dana.
She was a fairly well-known professional athlete.
So, personally, John, as Chakwas supposed, might not be lonely.
But… even now, approaching the middle of the list of necessary procedures according to protocol, Chakwas remembered how warmly Shepard had treated her, almost the only woman — a senior officer — on the ship.
He seemed to be following in the footsteps of his current commander, David Anderson.
Yet he didn’t mechanically copy the “first after God on board’s” attitude towards her, the ship’s chief doctor.
He treated her in his own way, in a way that Karin couldn’t find a trace of pretense or a “hidden agenda.”
It was quite possible that John Shepard was a little in love with her.
Just as David was in love with her.
Shepard had certainly, as Chakwas was sure, noticed that only she was almost always called by her first name by Anderson, not by her last name or rank.
And not only because she was a Major and the ship’s commander was a Captain.
Not only.
But also because David loved her, Karin Chakwas.
Loved her, of course, with a mature, steady, and deep love.
A mature love.
Shepard, of course, loved Karin in his own way.
He treated her like a mother he had never really been able to know — the captain’s personnel file clearly stated he had become an orphan in infancy.
Whether his mother had abandoned him, or the situation had somehow turned out that John was left alone, wasn’t clear.
One thing was clear now: John knew how to love.
He knew how to love, knew how to give love, knew how not to demand anything for himself in return for his love, for his wonderful attitude towards other sentients — and not just humans.
And Karin also noted that John didn’t force his love on anyone.
On no one.
He didn’t divide or separate humans and aliens.
Those very xenos that humanity had first imagined for itself in a multitude of forms and colors, and then, upon actually encountering almost a dozen and a half alien races, had, frankly, been scared into a slight stutter.
John was equally ready to help a human, an asari, and a turian.
And, without any doubt, a sentient organic of any other race.
He loved sentient organics.
Including because he understood, knew, and realized: their life is not easy, and giving them a little love, participation, and good treatment is not difficult at all.
Perhaps, guided by the right to love, the right to give his love, and knowing how not to demand anything in return for his love, John was able to help both Benezia and Saren in a way that neither professional medics nor professional scientists could have.
The salarians, for example.
John doesn’t turn his love into an obligation; he gives his love, helps sentient organics live.
Not only through action — through his very presence.
He gave both the asari and the turian as much time as was needed to preserve them not just as biological objects, as bodies, but also as individuals, as essences, as souls.
This, what John Shepard managed to do in her, Karin Chakwas’s, presence… the best doctors on Earth or the Citadel could hardly have done it.
And he did it — and flew away.
He flew away, having barely recovered from such a soul- and body-draining procedure.
It was no wonder that she, the ship’s doctor, considered his appearance and stay in the medbay necessary after the work at those strange excavations was finished.
Shepard loves his Dana.
Loves her — Karin doesn’t just see it, she feels it.
And for John, there’s no problem in the fact that Dana is essentially his first love, and according to a well-known unwritten rule for many Earthlings, such love rarely grows into something big.
For as many days as Chakwas has known and observed John — why hide it — for that long she has understood: Shepard doesn’t tie Dana to himself; he gives her complete, every opportunity to live her own life, to have her own circle of acquaintances and friends.
Including very close friends, quite capable of one day becoming the main friends for this girl.
What difference does polygyny or polyandry make?
Humanity is wise enough to understand: what doesn’t kill the soul makes a person stronger.
Both physically and spiritually.
John loves Dana, it’s clearly visible and clearly felt.
But he doesn’t tie her to himself — she is free in her life and her destiny.
If she likes being near John, she stays near him of her own free will.
Not because she owes John something, or because John Shepard has, in one way or another, tied her to himself.
He doesn’t force Dana, as Karin now understands, to necessarily think about a wedding, about marriage, about pregnancy, finally.
He gives himself to Dana, helps her, and — of this Chakwas was now convinced — demands and asks for nothing in return.
Dana trusts John.
She knows him too well — they grew up together in the same orphanage, and according to the documents, it turned out they were in the same shelter.
She trusts him, but she also, in an amazing way, doesn’t tie him to herself; he is free.
Of course, it’s quite possible that among the reasons Dana gives John such freedom, one could count the fact that both Shepard and his companion are orphans.
One could also consider the reason that from an early age, both defined their life paths and chose their professions.
John — a military man, Dana — a professional athlete.
Discipline, routine, a strict schedule.
The frameworks of life — where would we be without them?
Probably, these circumstances also played their binding — and, perhaps, cementing — role in the relationship between Shepard and Dana.
Right now, for Karin, it didn’t make much difference what Dana’s last name was.
For John, she always was — and Chakwas was convinced — would always be just Dana.
It was enough for him to know her name.
To know it not with words — with his soul.
Dana understands that John meets many people and, probably, at least assumes that one day John will meet his true, complete, only love.
Perhaps she is ready for this.
Ready, because she knows — John will be able to make sure that she, his very close friend, won’t suffer, won’t feel abandoned.
Chakwas had seen, relatively recently, John writing a letter to Dana, perched in a corner of one of the frigate’s compartments on a fold-down seat.
He wrote thoughtfully, slowly, sinking into memories.
And she saw him reading Dana’s reply letters.
How he rejoiced at every letter.
Even a short — a few lines — note.
Before the frigate stopped at the mass relay at the entrance to the system where Eden Prime was located, John had managed to receive too few letters from Dana.
Too few, as Chakwas acutely realized now.
Too few.
Shepard loved Dana.
And, as Karin was now convinced, he was capable of loving many sentients that way.
Not only humans, but also aliens.
If he weren’t so capable of loving aliens, he would hardly have been able to help the asari and the turian so effectively and completely.
They had endured — due to the situation and circumstances — not the best of times.
They had endured — and returned, thanks to Shepard’s selflessness and heroism, yes, yes, completely unostentatious, even somehow mundane heroism, to normal life.
Karin, pausing for a second and glancing at the monitors hanging above the hospital bed, felt with particular force that Shepard loved all the Normandovtsy.
They had become his own.
Yes, it was quite possible he had paid special attention to her, the chief doctor of the frigate’s medbay, Major of the VKS Medical Service Chakwas.
But he had also paid attention to David — Karin noted this automatically, perhaps even subconsciously.
Shepard not only commanded and directed, as befits the first mate of a ship’s commander and the commander of the landing crew of a prototype scout frigate.
He learned.
Karin was convinced — and this conviction had just received additional — and more than one — proof — that Shepard had decided to learn a great many things — from her, and from David.
To learn unobtrusively, without drawing the attention of his teachers and mentors to it.
But to learn genuinely, really, fully.
The few days of Shepard’s stay on the frigate had given the crew and the team a good shake-up.
Yes, the new first mate was tough, strict, meticulous, even ruthless — nowhere near Jenkins or Alenko or Moro when it came to falling under his hand or his gaze again and again.
But the new first mate was careful, attentive, quiet, modest, and able to see and understand much of the good that existed not only in every person, but in every alien as well.
If he had been even a little more callous, he would hardly have managed so well to restore the psychosphere of the asari and the turian.
Many psychotherapists and psychiatrists — humans — could not have done, as Karin was now convinced, even a hundredth of the useful and absolutely necessary work that Shepard had accomplished in those minutes spent over the bodies and souls of those two former husks.
Former.
It was unlikely now that the asari and the turian would often recall those months of their powerlessness and helplessness.
They would remember those months.
And — they would remember that it was a human, a man named John Shepard, who had ended those times.