Shepard adjusted his uniform, dismissed the machine by pressing a few sensors on his officer’s wrist omni-tool.
He picked up his go-bag and the bag of provisions, then looked at the tense girl:
“Day?” he asked quietly, seeing her continue to look around.
Shepard knew she was curious and saw nothing wrong with it, considering it an ordinary personality trait.
“I… I’m fine, John,” she continued to look around; fortunately, there was plenty to see: from here, there was a wonderful view of the launch pads.
Shuttles and shuttles took off, landed, and hovered.
People arrived, departed, and worked in the designated safe zones of the landing and launch fields.
“Little has changed.
Very little,” Dana shook her head, causing her loose hair to cover her shoulders in a solid black wave.
“Let’s go,” she said decisively, picking up her handbag.
At the registration counter, Shepard presented the order to a spry Systems Alliance Navy chief petty officer.
After performing an instant identification, the petty officer nodded.
He returned the order form to the officer and issued a boarding pass — a small sheet of dense, grayish plastipaper.
Dana read the number and code of the boarding terminal over Shepard’s shoulder.
She looked around, singled out the correct one with her gaze, but didn’t rush to leave the counter.
Shepard understood her reluctance to hurry and decisively headed toward the rows of seats in the waiting area.
“John.” Dana looked up at her companion softly but demandingly.
“I have a bad feeling.
I beg you… Remember that I’m waiting for you… Nothing else matters.
I’ll accept you no matter what.
The main thing is — come back.
I beg you!” She didn’t try to make him hug her or hold her close.
She had always been like that: independent and, at the same time, vulnerable.
For John.
For others — steadfast and whole.
Few people knew Dana the way John did.
Shepard hesitated.
Then—slowly, very slowly, so that she would remember it—he nodded.
He understood: she would take the nod the right way.
Without words.
Words had long since ceased to play the primary role in their communication, in their relationship.
Dana understood him without words, and he understood Dana without words.
For a few minutes they stood facing each other beside the “belts” of empty, semi-soft seats.
The spaceport employees, accustomed to scenes of farewell, walked past.
Without lingering, without looking at the young man and the young woman.
A short, melodic signal sounded.
A pleasant, synthesized female voice clearly announced the arrival, at the exit indicated in Shepard’s flight documents, of the passenger shuttle.
A delivery ship had arrived in Earth’s orbit: a small military passenger spacecraft that ran regular routes from Arcturus Station to Earth’s orbit.
“It’s here,” Dana breathed out, in no hurry to pick up her bag.
Shepard picked up his briefcase and bag from the floor, turned slowly, and headed for the correct entrance terminal.
Civilians weren’t allowed any further.
And he, after presenting his documents and orders to the junior lieutenant on duty at the terminal, turned back to Dana.
The “junior lieutenant” fixed his gaze on the screen of his console: he understood that the officer needed to say goodbye to his companion here, since the path beyond was closed to her.
“Dana…
Thank you.” John embraced the girl.
She pressed against him, hiding her desire to cry.
“I…
I’ll come back.
You write…
I’ll write to you, I promise!
As soon as there’s a chance…
I’ll write for sure!” He gently pulled her closer.
She hugged him tighter.
Strong.
Physically and spiritually strong and whole.
A true friend for him, a warrior and an officer.
Not one to get weepy over trifles.
Knowing, from her own rich experience, what discipline and order are.
And at the same time—able to open up to him, to appear tender and vulnerable.
Trusting him, time and again, with all of herself.
“Johnny…” Dana called Shepard the way she called only him.
With the same intonation, the same timbre as the first time…
“Come back.
I…
I’m waiting for you!
And I…
I love you!
Come back!” She looked up at him, let him wipe away the tears that had appeared in the corners of her eyes with his fingers.
She stepped back, understanding there was no more time.
“Come back, I beg you…” Her fingers nervously fidgeted with the handle of her handbag.
“I love you, Dana,” Shepard said, picking up his briefcase and bag, turning toward the opening doors of the boarding entrance, and stepping over the threshold.
He wasn’t very good at saying goodbye, especially to Dana.
In the shuttle’s cabin, he nodded a greeting to the other officers and the sergeants and master sergeants—protocol and ritual, there was no getting around it.
Civilian life, and now also peaceful life, was now behind the threshold of the boarding arch for Shepard.
There, where Dana remained.
She had watched him with her gaze until he stepped onto the belt of the travelator that carried him down, toward the tunnels leading to the shuttles.
He felt her gaze—intense, loving, tender, calling.
Many people would consider such a relationship strange and unacceptable.
Many.
Shepard knew that not always do those who become a person’s first love later cross the line of platonic relations, embarking on the path that leads to starting a family, to the birth of mutual, desired children.
But for him and Dana—orphanage pupils—everything was different.
They had built their relationship over several years.
And then, when they left the orphanage for independent life and received their first apartments, they didn’t drift apart.
Shepard never pressured Dana.
Never limited her ability to live her own life.
And she…
She decided to keep their relationship.
Not just keep it, but develop it.
She saw him off to the army when he flew off to the “training unit” from the same departure terminal of the military spaceport.
She wrote him letters.
She answered his letters.
Yes, rarely, but she wrote.
After all, her life was also intense: she had made the difficult decision back in the orphanage to go into professional sports.
And since then, a string of training sessions, camps, trips, competitions, championships, and olympiads had become her norm.
Dana quickly achieved significant success.
She became convinced that this life suited her, that it was acceptable for her.
Behind every medal, behind every diploma, stood her immense effort.
That’s why Dana understood so accurately, deeply, and fully Shepard, who had decided to try to become a professional special forces soldier.
Yes, they met very rarely.
For very short periods of time.
And Dana knew how to fill those minutes of meeting to the brim.
With meaning.
With content.
With value.
John was important to her.
They weren’t yet thinking about a child, about marriage.
They met, they loved each other.
Dana knew a lot about John’s work and service.
He knew a lot about her sports career.
Time and again during their meetings, they talked not only about that.
They talked about many other things too.
They went to museums, exhibitions, concerts, new films.
They were free in their choices.
And—they suited each other amazingly well.
Shepard didn’t rush Dana.
Didn’t talk about marriage, about children.
Although, of course, he implied all of it.
But—he didn’t rush.
Didn’t insist that it all had to happen very quickly.
And—in the very near future.
Dana received the news that her John had become a student at the N7 Academy with delight and satisfaction.
And then…
Then she sincerely congratulated her John on being awarded the highest qualification category.
This was very important to her: she had never doubted John’s ability to reach the heights.
Watching his receding figure, Dana understood more and more acutely that now…
Now something very important and very big had changed.
Not in their relationship, no.
Everything remained the same there.
And so she didn’t focus her attention on it.
Here, in the spaceport’s departure hall, she felt that something black was rising before John.
Something that would no longer allow him to write to her as often, to fly to her as often.
And this blackness was capable of swallowing not only John, but many other warriors as well.
Her soul became very restless.
She couldn’t have explained it in words, but…
she feared, worried, and was afraid.
Now John wasn’t just leaving for service.
He was leaving…
for war.
What it cost her to say “for war,” to say it internally, silently, only she, probably, knew.
She hadn’t felt such fear for John even when he wrote to her that he had received orders to fly to Akuze.
And then…
then she learned of the deaths of fifty special forces soldiers who had fallen under the attack of the thresher maws.
Of course, in the Extranet news report, much was said…
very vaguely.
But she felt it.
She sensed it with her heart, with her soul, which was open to John always and everywhere.
She felt that John had escaped death by a miracle.
Felt that he had flown to Akuze precisely to take part in that operation.
About which so little was said in the planetary “news.” Just in a very blurred, indistinct form.
And she sensed—that men like John only go on such, the most complex and difficult operations…
How did he put it once?
“Combat engagements.” Fifty of his colleagues fell then as a result of the thresher maw attack.
She didn’t even find out right away that he had survived.
She wasn’t sure, she was afraid, she cried.
She still had to prepare for the next competitions, participate in training camps…
Straight from the training camp, she flew to the hospital where John had been transferred.
She saw him…
Spent several hours by his bedside.
And understood that only he mattered to her.
No one else.
Yes, she had many friends, acquaintances, and contacts.
But only with John could she allow herself to be fully herself.
He accepted her as she really was, when she wasn’t trying to “seem.”
And now she felt that John had flown off to war.
A war that hadn’t started yet.
But was already drawing closer to the Sol System, to Earth.
He flew off so that this war wouldn’t touch very many people.
He flew off because he had always been a warrior.
Who, if not she, his companion, should know this?!
After all, she had seen him off to the army.
He wrote her letters from the training division.
He flew to her during rare leaves and vacations.
Who, if not she?
How she returned to John’s now-empty personal apartment—Dana herself didn’t remember.
Yes, she knew that John had secured for her the right to live there permanently—his status allowed it, after all, a special forces soldier, an N7, an officer, a captain.
That’s why she didn’t pack her things into bags, didn’t book tickets for the return flight—to the town in the south of Britain where her own small apartment was.
She decided to stay here, because John was everywhere here.
Traces of his presence were everywhere.
Let it be so.
For now.
Until he sends a few letters, a few messages from Arcturus.
And if possible—then from wherever he flies after Arcturus.
For a long time now, Arcturus Station had ceased to be just a government station for her.
It was also a very large, one of the most important military stations of the Systems Alliance Navy.
For thirty years, humanity had been present in the Greater Cosmos.
Thirty years.
Much had changed, much had happened over these years, all sorts of things.
Arcturus Station was commissioned just two years after John was born.
It was opened in 2156, and John was born on April 11, 2154.
Dana knew this date not only with her mind, but with her heart.
She always remembered it.
Yes, for her, as a woman, dates had a special meaning.
Especially ones like that.
She never forgot to congratulate John on his birthday.
There wasn’t a single day when she forgot to do it on time.
Day in, day out.
A year later, the First Contact War began—humanity entered into an armed conflict with the first alien race—the Turians.
This conflict was strange, and huge scientific teams were still working on understanding it.
Since then, humanity had stepped out into the Greater Cosmos.
Dana thanked all the gods she knew, and sometimes—the unknown ones—that John had been so very young then: she understood that had he been older, he would certainly have tried to take a personal part in that war.
Yes, she was used to being afraid for John.
Because…
Because she loved him.
She had loved him since she first experienced the feeling of first love, choosing John—as the closest person to her.
And she was very glad and proud that John had also singled out her, Dana, among the other girls-pupils of that small orphanage.
He singled her out and made her his main one.
Even if only…
platonically, but he made her the main one.
She basked in his feelings, in his emotions.
He gave her the best of what became available to him during that time of his growing up.
She felt protected and happy.
And she tried to make John happy.
Yes, she knew that not all people cross the line of platonic relationships when the feeling of first love begins to fade, yielding space and place to a big, real, main love.
Perhaps, if John and Dana had grown up in ordinary families, they would have calmly and freely gone their separate ways.
But the orphanage is a special environment.
Its pupils differ, albeit slightly, from children who grew up even in single-parent families.
And they differ even more from those children who grew up in families where there was both a mother and a father.
It’s good that she had found a purpose back in the orphanage, something she devoted herself to almost completely—big-time professional sports.
She subordinated her entire life to sports.
And she knew that John had also made his choice: he wished to become a special forces officer.
And in the last few years of his time in the orphanage, he began to seriously prepare for the realization of his choice.
Just as she began to prepare to enter the world of big sports.
Having left the walls of the orphanage, they both already had clear guidelines for their adult lives.
She had a schedule of camps, trips, training, and competitions in hand.
And he had a plan—a training program for warriors for the elite special forces units that were part of the Systems Alliance Navy.
Dana remembered the day of April eleventh, 2172 for the rest of her life.
That day was simultaneously John’s birthday and the day he joined the Armed Forces of the Systems Alliance.
Yes, the two of them had managed to celebrate Shepard’s next birthday together.
They sat in a café.
Then—they sat on the bank of the River Dee in Chester.
Something drew Dana to that town.
And Shepard, knowing this, didn’t object.
And in the evening, she saw John off to the army.
She cried, of course, how could she not.
She worried, she was nervous.
John was also…
nervous.
But—he held himself in check.
It was important to Dana—that he held back his anxieties.
He always helped her—even just by his presence.
And when he acted for her and for her sake…
She felt utterly happy.
She often felt just that happy.
And then, seeing off the military passenger transport that was carrying the recruits to the training unit, she knew she was happy.
Happy with a special kind of happiness: John had achieved his goal—he had embarked on the path he had been preparing for for several years.
He prepared consciously, deliberately.
Only five years passed—and the Akuze incident occurred.
In the hospital, John was awarded his first medal.
As the only surviving special forces soldier.
Much in that incident was incomprehensible to those not privy to the details.
But for Dana, only one thing mattered: that John had survived and returned.
Yes, he was brought in by medical transport.
In serious condition.
But he survived.
He remained alive.
And he—returned!
She ran her fingers over the enamel and metal of his medal, pinned to his hospital pajamas.
And he—smiled.
Said that now he, too, had Olympic-level medals.
Almost like hers.
She laughed.
Laughed because she saw, because she believed: he hadn’t just survived and returned.
He had preserved within himself everything she loved so much.
He remained the same, the same for her, although, of course, he had changed, become harsher, less talkative.
She accepted all these changes as a matter of course.
John is a man; he’s engaged in a man’s work.
He is a warrior, he is an officer.
And she is by his side.
She is with him.
Now they are both adults, independent people.
He respects her right to decide about children: she knows this for sure.
She wanted children from him.
She did.
But John…
never rushed her.
Never insisted.
Never pressured.
And she was grateful to him for that.
The year 2183 arrived.
Six years had passed since Akuze.
John had recovered and spent a long time in the reserve of the Systems Alliance Navy command.
He moved around firing ranges and various ground, fortunately, military units.
He served, worked, acted, improved himself.
He didn’t like being idle.
And she was calm and happy: even if rarely, he flew to her.
And they spent—sometimes a few hours, sometimes a few days—together and side by side.
The command and his fellow officers knew that Dana was practically the first candidate for John Shepard’s bride.
But John himself never pressured Dana and never rushed her to make a final decision.
Surprisingly, she remained free and unrestrained next to him.
She could calmly and freely communicate with other young people.
And he…
He wasn’t jealous.
Because he trusted her.
He flew to Arcturus, and she saw him off.
She watched the ascending shuttle with her gaze.
And then—she returned to his small apartment and stayed there for several more days.
Until her own departure for Tokyo, for the next sports training camp.
She didn’t want to leave John’s apartment any sooner.
She didn’t want to and…
couldn’t.
She feared, dreaded, worried that this, all the contents of this bachelor’s apartment, might remain the only material thing that would be left after John…
left.
Crossed the Line.
Something very black hovered over him.
She felt it, but hid it from John.
Understanding, realizing, and knowing that he, too, sensed something of the sort.
That’s just how he was.
On Arcturus, as she understood, John wouldn’t stay long.
That meant he would be assigned to a ship.
And then…
Then there would be a difficult and dangerous flight.
Very dangerous.
This blackness…
was somehow special.
So heavy that Dana herself, no matter how she tried, could not find in her memory or in her essence an analogy for this oppressive feeling.
Which was generated by the blackness hovering over John.
Even after Akuze.
After Dana had felt the mortal danger hanging over Shepard there, on that planet that turned out to be very inhospitable, she hadn’t been so afraid, so fearful, or so worried.
Something was unclean about this latest “business trip” of John’s.
Something was very unclean.