Captain of the Systems Alliance Navy, John Shepard.
Arcturus Station
The flight from Earth to the “delivery ship” didn’t take long.
Among the other shuttle passengers, Shepard entered the main cabin and took the seat assigned to him by his boarding instructions.
He buckled up and calmly waited for the scheduled ship to arrive at the station.
Such flights had long ceased to be a novelty for him.
He considered them routine, so he didn’t pay much attention to the circumstances surrounding them.
During the flight, he thought about many things, including Dana.
But even more, he was occupied by the emerging feeling of “wrongness,” apparently connected with the upcoming work at Arcturus Station.
Yes, according to existing practice, an officer of his status and rank could be offered to first work at the Station, within the structures of the Systems Alliance Navy.
And only then—to make a decision about assignment to a ship.
Shepard felt he was fully prepared for both options.
But right now, it was the second option that worried him: something told him about upcoming difficulties with the ship and its crew.
Exactly at the time designated by the order, the delivery ship docked with the large space station.
The beeping wrist Omni-tool caught the captain’s attention.
It displayed a clarification on its small screen: “report to the Station’s Navy Personnel Directorate.”
Shepard, picking up his bag and briefcase, headed for the well-known sector of Arcturus.
In the office indicated in the clarification, a polished colonel was waiting for him.
Shepard gave the required military salute and reported in proper form—protocol and ritual, there’s no getting around it, following them isn’t difficult.
The colonel returned a crisp salute.
The command of the Navy contingent stationed on Arcturus maintained discipline.
Then the senior officer handed the captain, not the form-reader with the order, drawn up according to all the rules, as prescribed by the procedure approved by the Systems Alliance Navy admiralty, but a simple reader.
On the device’s screen, Shepard saw only three lines of text, which in its main part read: “Captain of the Systems Alliance Navy special forces, John Shepard, is to assume the post of Executive Officer of the frigate the Normandy.”
There were also encrypted station alphanumeric coordinates for the office of that ship’s commander—standard practice.
Saluting the senior officer a second time, this time in farewell, Shepard did an “about-face” and left the office, not forgetting to take his briefcase and bag.
The Station’s staff structures were already used to officers arriving at the Personnel Directorate straight from the delivery ships.
So they looked at the luggage with understanding, remembering, however, that according to the Navy Regulations, an officer for some reason should not appear in such institutions “with his things.”
As always: the rules say one thing, in reality—quite another.
The fact that the colonel was a staff officer didn’t irritate Shepard in the slightest.
People work everywhere.
And this colonel wasn’t the first or the last “parquet” officer the captain had seen during his service in the Navy.
The order, clearly written “not in proper form,” only added to his doubts and made Shepard pay closer attention to the upcoming conversation with the commander of the ship to which, as it turned out, he was now assigned.
From the materials of the Systems Alliance Navy bulletins regularly distributed among officers, John knew something about this ship: a joint human-Turian development.
At first glance—nothing special.
An ordinary scout frigate, of which there were many in the divisions of the Systems Alliance Navy.
But this ship was distinguished, firstly, by the presence of an advanced stealth system, and, secondly—by a clearly too large: both in size and power, drive core.
This made piloting this ship quite problematic, requiring from its pilots both special training and constant heightened attention.
At the N7 Academy, Shepard had been taught that his future service career would inevitably include problematic ships, problematic crews, and problematic assignments.
Such was the fate of special forces soldiers of the highest level, to put it in the journalistic style used by “hacks” for not-too-discerning readers.
Corridor after corridor, passage after passage, elevator after elevator, Shepard approached the ship commander’s office.
The meeting with this officer, by tradition—the first after God on board—would finally put a big, fat period on the uncertainty of the captain’s position.
It seemed that ahead truly was service on a problematic ship, which, of course, added neither joy nor satisfaction for John.
But, at the very least, it removed many questions, making room for new ones, born of the feeling of impending danger.
No, not connected with this ship, but more global, more terrible.
It was hard to pinpoint the cause of such a feeling right now, and so Shepard, making his way through Arcturus Station to the Normandy’s commander’s office, didn’t try to focus his attention on it.
He had been prepared for such feelings to occur before.
Without a developed sense of danger, it was impossible to survive and maintain combat effectiveness where special forces soldiers of his level most often had to operate.
Leaving his bag in the storage locker before the entrance to the Arcturus sector where the ship commanders’ offices were located—ordinary cabins, passed down through a complex system to all senior officers whose ships were temporarily or permanently attached to the Station’s fleets—Shepard paused for a few seconds in front of the right door.
And, pulling himself together, knocked.
“Come in,” came a calm voice, slightly muffled by the door’s seal.
The captain opened the door, stepped over the threshold, stopped, and waited for the door to close.
He gave the report of arrival required by regulations.
“Report accepted,” said the officer, who had stood up when Shepard entered the cabin from behind his work, most often called office, desk and had returned the guest’s regulation salute.
“Please, have a seat, Captain Shepard.” He pointed to a chair standing next to the commander’s work desk—one of two.
“I see you’re not pleased.”
“Yes, sir.
But for now, I’d rather not discuss the reasons for my displeasure.
Perhaps it’s unfounded,” Shepard replied calmly and clearly, sitting down in the indicated chair.
“Be that as it may, you have your assignment, Captain.” The master of the office sat down in his chair and turned on his desk Omni-tool.
“I am the commander of the frigate the Normandy, Captain David Anderson.
Since we hold equal ranks, you may address me as ‘Commander Anderson’ or ‘Commander.’ Departure is in a few hours.
Everyone is already on board.
I know you left your bag in the storage locker.
When we go to the ship, you’ll be able to retrieve it.
The Normandy’s launch is special, but not urgent.
So you’ll have time for that.” The officer handed Shepard a “large” reader.
“Here—all the materials on the ship and crew.
A sort of introductory information.
I believe that after reviewing it, you’ll be able to get answers to your questions.” Anderson stood up.
“Let’s go.”
Shepard left the cabin following the ship’s commander.
The feeling of the situation’s non-standardness was screaming.
It all pointed to Anderson not wanting to say much to his new executive officer right here and now, on board Arcturus.
There could be several reasons for this: the eternal competition between the military and the politicians—the main inhabitants of the Station.
Secrecy.
And—the commander’s desire to conduct the main procedure of introducing the officer to his duties directly on board his own ship.
Anderson, to Shepard’s satisfaction, hadn’t forgotten his promise about the storage locker: the bag was in place and was handed over to its owner by the quartermaster sergeant in record time.
A few minutes—and the officers move to that part of the station from which Arcturus’s shuttles and launches traditionally departed for the ships standing in orbit around the station.
A scheduled station shuttle delivered Anderson and Shepard to the frigate’s deck.
The ship’s commander gestured for his companion to proceed to the cabin.
“Have a seat,” Anderson said, approaching the cabin’s porthole and casting a brief glance at Arcturus Station, part of which was visible through the thick armor glass.
“They’re in a hurry…” The ship’s commander stroked the sensor controlling the armor shutter with his finger, but didn’t press it, lowering his hand.
Settling into the work chair by the table, Shepard noted the movement of the cabin master’s hand and became alert.
The invitation to sit down was usual, but “they’re in a hurry” was already interesting and non-standard.
It seemed the ship’s commander indeed felt more at ease on board the frigate than on board the Station.
That was familiar.
But…
It confirmed Shepard’s suspicions and fears regarding his assignment.
“You’ve been assigned the post of executive officer, Captain.” Anderson returned to the desk and sat down in his chair.
“Assigned…
under a non-standard procedure.
Which you’ve certainly noted.
I won’t hide it — on the Station I couldn’t say much to you openly.
The ship…
hasn’t even been properly inducted into the division of scout frigates subordinate to Admiral Mikhailovich.
I still haven’t seen a single document — neither plasti-paper nor electronic — confirming its acceptance into the fleet.
Nevertheless, we — the crew and the frigate’s team — have been ordered to depart for Eden Prime in a few hours.
The mission is special.” Anderson paused for a few seconds, then continued.
“The Arcturus command group is under pressure from the Alliance Presidium.
They’ve got some kind of complications with the Citadel Council there — or, more precisely, with the Spectres.
With the Spectre Corps,” the cabin’s owner clarified.
“Possibly with both the Council and the Corps at once.
By the way, one of those ‘agents’ is already aboard the frigate.
The turian Nihlus Kryik.” Anderson winced slightly.
“Quite a piece of work, that bird-faced one.
The Corps, by the way, still doesn’t consider it necessary to have its own ships.
And, for understandable reasons, it seeks to use the ships of the races its agents have to interact with.
Yes, the agent is a turian.
And the ship is also half more-or-less turian.
So there don’t seem to be any particular contradictions here.
To some extent, the Hierarchy does have a certain right to check how a ship built to its provided design is being operated.
Standard practice.” Anderson fell silent for a few seconds again.
“The mission is specific — exclusively in the interests of the Citadel Council.
To which the Spectre Corps is directly subordinate.
You’ll learn the details in time, Captain.
For now, let me note that there are more problems on this ship right now than the norm allows.
Nevertheless, we’ll have to work with what we have.
And I’m glad to meet a colleague.” Anderson laid an N7 token on the table.
His personal token.
John studied his interlocutor’s face, shifted his gaze to the token, read the number and code.
Anderson took the displayed distrust calmly:
“Yes, Shepard.
I am that very David Anderson,” said the frigate’s commander.
“Born in the year twenty-one thirty-seven.
In twenty-one fifty-seven, I graduated from the Officer Academy.
With the rank of second lieutenant.
Participated in resolving the Shanxi incident.
Was married.
Divorced my wife in twenty-one sixty-five.
She was extremely displeased that I devoted too much attention to military service.” Anderson paused.
“Then…
I was involved in the search for Kahlee Sanders in the ‘Artifact’ case,” another pause.
“This year, the Normandy SR-1 was finally launched from the slipway.
Its design and construction were sponsored by the Citadel Council.” The ship’s commander paused for a few seconds again.
“Political games…
are largely incomprehensible to me.
Uninteresting and — of little value.
It so happened that I was appointed to the post of commander of this ship.
After a long period…
of inactivity.” Anderson laid a small reader on the tabletop.
“The large reader contains a lot of information.
I’m sure you’ll familiarize yourself with it later, Shepard.
And here,” he slid the small reader across the tabletop toward his interlocutor, “this information is laid out more briefly.
And — more accessibly.
The main thing is — more briefly.
So — familiarize yourself.
And I think you should get acquainted with the officer — and not just the officer — complement of the crew and the ship’s team.
Soon it will be time for the commander’s rounds.
And we can do that together.”
Shepard nodded, switched on the device, and immersed himself in reading the contents of the files.
In this reader, the information necessary for an officer assuming his post was laid out far more briefly and accessibly.
Perhaps Anderson had adapted it himself.
“You’re right, Shepard,” the frigate’s master nodded.
“I cleaned up the information myself.
When I had to sort out the newly accepted ship and crew a few days ago,” he said quietly.
“They made a mess at headquarters…
I had to wade through it.”
Anderson stood up and walked over to the porthole.
Shepard understood — he didn’t want to interfere with his getting acquainted with the contents of the files.
Ten minutes elapsed.
Shepard switched off the reader and placed it on the tabletop.
Anderson didn’t turn around; he was looking at Arcturus Station.
Silence settled over the cabin, and Shepard was finally able to grasp that his premonition had proven timely, correct, and complete: he had been assigned to a genuinely problematic ship.
The fact that its commander turned out to be David Anderson — a man spoken of in the Systems Alliance Navy as a semi-legendary figure — was unsettling.
And at the same time — reassuring.
At the very least, he, Shepard, would be working under one of the best graduates of the N7 Academy, rather than under an ordinary fleet ship commander.
The frigate under Anderson’s command no longer seemed so problematic to Shepard: N7s were taught to handle far greater difficulties and complexities.
And taught well.
Anderson, approaching the table, pressed several sensors on the desk omni-tool and read the information from its screen.
“I’m leaving both readers with you, John.” He waited while Shepard packed the devices into his belt kit.
“Almost everything aboard is ready for departure.
Let’s go.
We’ll begin the introduction to the ship and crew.”
The pre-flight inspection of the ship, as Shepard understood, was no empty formality for Anderson.
The commander took an interest in details, asked his colleagues no small number of questions, listened attentively to the answers, and studied the instrument readings.
It all looked such that John had no doubt whatsoever: if he hadn’t been standing beside Anderson, everything would have been exactly the same.
The first person the ship’s commander headed for was the frigate’s navigator, Charles Pressly, who was serving as acting first mate.
The somewhat surprised look Charles cast at the officer standing a step behind the commander, Anderson interpreted correctly, briefly noting aloud that “this officer is the new executive officer.”
Shepard was certain that the moment they stepped away from the navigator’s console, located in the “combat information center,” more commonly called simply the CIC, this news would become known to all members of the crew and the ship’s team in the shortest possible time.
And henceforth the frigate’s commander would no longer need to voice the clarification.
Having studied the readings of the frigate’s navigation instruments on the console, Anderson nodded to Charles and stepped away, heading for the pilot’s cabin.
When they had moved a considerable distance from the “necklace” of CIC consoles, the commander said quietly:
“He doesn’t like aliens.
Oh, how he doesn’t.
Turians especially.
And we’ve got a Spectre aboard right now.
A turian, at that.
Well, never mind.
So far Pressly hasn’t allowed any ‘overstepping of bounds,’ and that’s a relief.
And he’s a very good officer and man.
A professional.
I think you’ll work well with him, Shepard — he knows his business.
And he’s never been a careerist.”
The captain only nodded barely perceptibly, trying to commit to memory what he’d heard and seen in the CIC.
The opening door to the pilot’s cabin let the new executive officer hear a fragment of a conversation between the ship’s pilot and a lieutenant-technician, in which Shepard, familiar with the contents of the small reader, easily recognized Kaidan Alenko — a biotic officer.
In the files of the small reader, Anderson had, by the way, noted that Kaidan flatly refused to replace his L2-series biotic implant with anything more reliable and safer.
The frigate was preparing for departure.
It would seem the pilot and the second pilot — a role which, to Shepard’s surprise, this technician-lieutenant was attempting to play — ought to have had more than enough service concerns.
Yet both officers — the captain easily recalled that Jeff Moreau held the rank of Navy lieutenant — were clearly idling.
Moreau kept chatting with Alenko about all sorts of trifles; Kaiden also liked to talk, but, as Shepard understood, he was very displeased that Moreau categorically refused to let him “take the helm” of the frigate on the departure leg.
The moment he saw Lieutenant Alenko, Shepard immediately determined that the man was, on top of everything else, suffering from a vicious migraine caused by his deteriorating implant.
An unfortunate series, an unfortunate model, and not very suitable for trouble-free removal at that.
On the armrest of the chair in which the lieutenant-technician sat, Shepard noticed a package of headache pills, secured by a narrow rubber band to a plastic box.
Half of the top blister was already empty — the lieutenant was eating the pills several at a time.
While the heavy hermetic door to the pilot’s cabin was opening before the commander and executive officer, Moreau managed to declare:
“Spectres are a bad omen.
I don’t like him being aboard.
Call me paranoid.”
“You are paranoid,” Alenko retorted.
“The Council helped finance the project.
They have the right to check where their investments went.”
“Oh, really?” Moreau feigned astonishment.
“And two Navy captains from the special forces were assigned aboard just for a stroll?
They say the arriving officer is also a graduate of the N7 Academy and holds the highest special forces qualification rank — an ‘N7.’ Just like our commander.
Catching the drift, Kaidan?
It’s heating up and getting more complicated, no doubt about it.
I can feel it in my gut.”
“Discussing the new executive officer?” Anderson asked quietly, appearing in the cabin.
Shepard carefully maintained his distance, standing a step behind the ship’s commander.
He looked at neither Moreau nor Alenko.
He was more interested in the compartment’s furnishings.
And — the pilot cabin’s equipment.
The captain had already realized that Anderson kept no AI aboard, making do with a VI.
Though, of course, the ship’s commander himself had been appointed to his post not long ago and, evidently, hadn’t had time to make such substantial changes to the frigate’s outfitting.
“Captain Anderson, sir!” Alenko, turning around, was the first to jump to his feet and snap to attention.
Moreau rose unhurriedly.
Shepard clearly saw that standing up was difficult for the pilot, which was why he rose not just slowly but carefully.
The small reader contained information that Moreau suffered from Vrolik Syndrome.
Simply put — increased bone fragility.
But he’d managed to earn recognition as both an active pilot and a Navy officer.
There was also information there about what a “test” flight this lieutenant had put the frigate Normandy through.
Had Shepard been more impressionable, he might have been surprised, but right now John was looking around, waiting for both officers — pilot and technician — to assume a vertical position.
“Captain, sir,” Moreau responded by the book, finally straightened and steadied on his feet.
“Forgive me.”
“Report the situation in the pilot’s cabin.
Spare me the summaries of your voyeurism, Lieutenant Moreau,” Anderson ordered.
The pilot, while Anderson familiarized himself with the readings of numerous instruments and the listings of equipment operation protocols displayed across several screens, spent exactly three minutes on his report.
Alenko was silent, carefully studying Shepard, who had taken an interest in the ship’s gunner console and the navigator’s console.
The captain, reading data from the displays and cross-checking it against memorized standard indicators, reacted in no way whatsoever.
“Good.
Continue your work,” Anderson nodded.
Both officers settled into the pilot seats with relief.
Now they no longer risked exchanging phrases about Spectres or the new executive officer between themselves.
“Let’s go, Shepard,” the commander stepped over the threshold of the pilot’s cabin.
The heavy hermetic door settled into place.
Both at berth and in drift, this compartment remained reliably isolated from the rest of the ship — as required by the instructions, written, as is well known, in blood.
“The stunt he, Moreau, pulled on the frigate’s test flights made the entire command pyramid of the Systems Alliance Navy hiccup.
And not just it.
For several days,” Anderson said quietly.
“And Alenko…
You’re right, Shepard, he suffers because of the implant.
Those constant headaches…
I don’t know how he overcomes that pain, which has become chronic.
The pills clearly don’t help much.
He tries to stay within service frameworks and protocols.
But…
This unscheduled flight ‘scrambled all the cards.’ The crew, by the way, as you’ve already seen, isn’t at full strength.
Special mission.
There are twelve marines aboard, and they, hm, have taken the places intended for the ship’s regular specialists.
The Navy command never tires of assuring me this is only for the duration of the mission.
Much about the upcoming work displeases me.” He headed decisively toward the elevator.
Descending to the lower deck, the officers entered the engineering compartment.
“Chief Engineer of the ship, Greg Adams,” introduced himself the man working at the central console.
“A god and a wizard,” Anderson added.
“If he and Moreau are aboard — I’m calm.”
“Thank you, Commander.
The ship’s core is, indeed, somewhat oversized by standards.
But, thanks to Jeff, we’re quite capable of handling most tasks.
Of a general and special nature.
And sometimes — of doing even more than the rules and norms provide for,” Adams noted, while Anderson delved into the instrument readings and Shepard surveyed the furnishings and contents of the engineering compartment.
“Ready for the jump?” Anderson asked, having finished reviewing the data displayed on the screens.
“Fully, Commander,” Adams answered firmly.
“Good,” the frigate’s commander turned toward the exit.
Having left the engineering compartment and waited for the doors of the cargo elevator cabin to close — the frigate had no passenger elevator — Anderson, glancing at Shepard, said:
“Spectre Kryik, since his appearance aboard, spends almost all his time either in the Communications Hall or in the hold.
Where he far less often runs into members of the crew and the ship’s team,” Anderson clarified.
“My colleagues don’t like him.
And they treat him with great wariness.
I don’t consider it necessary to introduce you to him or him to you.
Since your appointment is our internal crew and ship matter.
And it doesn’t concern him in principle.
So…”
At that moment, the cargo elevator doors began to open.