Officer Alenko was in a seat in the cockpit.
According to the battle roster, he was the ship’s second pilot.
Although he had no special rights, no special qualifications.
Shepard knew that for sure.
John had already managed to recall everything he had ever read from the documents characterizing this lieutenant.
A desk jockey.
A staff officer.
A formalist.
Incapable of combat work at the limit of his capabilities.
Unable to effectively command anyone, not even himself.
A biotic who didn’t know what real combat biotics were.
Someone who tired quickly, unable to dose his strikes with machine-like precision to achieve maximum results.
All of this was a consequence of using an ancient, low-quality, outdated model of biotic implant.
If he, Captain Shepard, had been given these two to command, then he would make the lieutenant change.
For the better.
If only so that this boy-officer would simply survive what was going to start in two days.
Less than two days.
It was unlikely the pre-war time would last longer.
In Shepard’s understanding, only two days remained.
Forty-eight Earth hours.
Shepard read the recommendations glowing on the screen of his consciousness.
He read them, no longer paying any attention to the fact that he, even holding the rank of N7, should not have access to these recommendations in principle.
Since they were the domain of a collective of extremely narrow specialists, to which he, a marine officer, in no way belonged.
He read them, while simultaneously, in his mind, critically and carefully examining the implant and its connections to the body of a specific person.
He read them, forming a command sequence.
Finally, the captain made a decision.
The command sequence was launched.
Now Alenko knew that the stranger’s gaze was not a coincidence.
But still — he didn’t know who exactly that gaze belonged to.
Too late to figure it out by finding the source.
Too late.
Lieutenant Alenko’s hands, which had been resting calmly on the armrests of the pilot’s seat until the moment the sequence was activated, dug into their covering with all ten fingers, absorbing the terrible nervous tension that had gripped the young officer’s body in something like stasis.
Everything was happening too fast.
Too fast for even Jeff Moreau, sitting in the first pilot’s seat and being essentially the only sane, professionally trained pilot on the frigate, to notice that something non-standard was happening in his cockpit.
Finally, the cocoon of “stasis” released Alenko, but the man didn’t slump in his seat; instead, he assumed a normal posture, with nothing indicating post-stress relaxation.
Shepard didn’t feel like smirking.
The captain barely had time to think that if the bureaucrats of the Systems Alliance Navy had decided to burden him, the commander of the marine detachment, with the additional post of first mate, then they themselves didn’t know what floodgate they had opened and to what.
The third on Shepard’s list for explanatory and corrective work was the pilot, Jeff Moreau.
Shepard habitually “flipped through” his personnel file on the screen of his consciousness.
A colorful character.
He had stolen the Normandy during flight trials, pulling such a stunt with her… That for three weeks straight, it had made all officers from platoon commander and up on three Alliance Navy bases tremble with fear of the consequences.
Everyone who had any connection to Lieutenant Moreau and his escapade.
And in the army, all sentient organics wearing shoulder boards have a connection to such escapades.
Even those not involved.
Even the innocent.
Because when there’s no one to punish, everyone has to be punished.
“Getting into the role of the frigate’s executive officer?” came Captain Anderson’s calm and somehow matter-of-fact voice from behind Shepard.
Having finished his work with Alenko and Jenkins.
Although, almost any sentient organic would have had a hard time even trying to understand what kind of work the new executive officer and simultaneously the commander of the prototype frigate’s marine detachment had done with his colleagues.
Having finished his work, Shepard, using his new capabilities — after all, he had to somehow master what he had been given, or rather, what he now had at his disposal — began to familiarize himself with the materials.
Which could conditionally be called “food for thought.”
These thoughts were already complex and difficult, even for him, a high-class special forces officer.
They mercilessly beat down any desire to consider himself, a human, a Terran, a man, as some kind of “perfection.”
Right now, Shepard, quite possibly, didn’t understand himself what information he had gleaned and from where: not only his consciousness was working at full capacity, but also his subconscious.
The latter, even to a much greater extent.
Shepard already understood some things.
And this understanding was even more bitter.
The appearance of the frigate’s commander in the lounge did not interrupt the process of receiving and processing information for even a second.
As the first mate understood, he had to parallelize, and he managed to do it without much strain or the expected problems.
“Yes, sir.” Shepard turned “about face” and stood at attention before the frigate’s senior officer.
His superior.
Now the captain clearly remembered that the door to the lounge had not been locked.
And even if he had locked it, the commander of the Normandy had plenty of opportunities to open any compartment and any container on his entrusted ship.
“Decided to make Jenkins sweat?” Anderson continued asking, looking at the executive officer with interest.
The commander of the marine detachment had no doubt that the ship’s commander sufficiently sensed the changes that had occurred in Shepard.
“Yes, sir.” Shepard was painfully considering whether he should say something now or if this explanation could be postponed.
Finally, he decided:
“Request permission to speak freely, sir.”
“You are my executive officer.
So you shouldn’t ask permission for that.
I don’t like misunderstandings with the officers who make up the command echelon of the ship’s crew,” Anderson replied, gesturing for his junior colleague to sit on a fold-down seat and taking another seat nearby.
“I’m listening, Captain.”
“I’ve been placed in a situation where I’ll have to combine two positions,” the first mate said after a few seconds of silence.
“It doesn’t scare me.
I was trained for this.
I learned it.”
Shepard noticed that the door to the lounge was now securely closed and the lock’s hologram was glowing red.
This meant that the frigate’s commander, upon entering the lounge, had already anticipated something like this conversation.
Such a turn of events was pleasing.
“Of course, I was trained more to be a marine,” Shepard continued.
“And I know that a large part of the practical work with the ship and crew falls on the executive officer.
I also know, sir, that the stealth system check is a cover story.
In reality, we are heading to Eden Prime for a completely different reason.”
“And you, Shepard, can name that reason?” Anderson asked calmly.
“Yes, Commander.” Shepard dispensed with the protocol formula for addressing a superior officer on the ship.
“Having accepted the status of executive officer, I have no right not to know this reason.
And I cannot help but understand what lies behind it.
But I will not name it aloud.
It’s neither the time nor the place,” he emphasized.
“According to my preliminary calculations, less than two days remain until arrival in Eden Prime’s orbit.
Commander, why isn’t the Systems Alliance Fleet monitoring Eden Prime and the space surrounding the planet, if our frigate is heading there?
We are reconnaissance.”
“You’re right.
We are reconnaissance.
And Eden Prime is an agricultural human colony.
And, to be frank, one of the most valuable for humanity.
You know perfectly well, Shepard, that protocol forbids the Systems Alliance Fleet from ‘festooning’ the orbit of a purely peaceful planet with military surveillance satellites.”
“Commander, when was the last data on the situation near the planet received?” asked Captain Shepard, maintaining calm and detachment in both posture and voice.
“Half an hour ago.
When I was coming to you, I studied them again,” Anderson replied.
“No changes.
And, by the way.
What changes, Captain, do you expect?” He looked intently at the first mate.
“Major changes, Commander,” Shepard replied.
“The agricultural planet Eden Prime is listed in all catalogs as a planet with Prothean ruins.
Of all kinds.
Even ones the archaeologists haven’t reached yet.”
“Regarding the ruins — I agree.
And I even understand where you’re going with this, Captain,” Anderson said quietly.
“Permission to use the Alliance Network, Commander?
I want to show you something.
Using both military and civilian Network resources.”
“Permission granted.” Anderson clicked his omni-tool, ran his fingers over the virtual keyboard, giving a command to the frigate’s VI.
Shepard clicked his wrist omni-tool, opened a keyboard, and typed several commands.
The picture of deep space on the viewport dimmed.
The inner, “cabin” curtain rose into working position, covering the glass, and a screen lit up on its surface.
With several commands, Shepard called up an image received from a number of Alliance observation posts and from the sensors and detectors of several civilian tracking systems.
In the center of the screen that had replaced the viewport, a main screen unfolded, around which smaller screens were arranged.
A few commands typed on the first mate’s omni-tool — and all the small screens merged in the center of the main screen.
“This cloud of space dust is currently being observed by manual and automatic systems from thirty points,” Shepard said.
“Its size exceeds six kilometers in diameter.
The cloud is moving slowly,” he typed several commands, tracing a course line.
“Its final destination is Eden Prime, Commander.
You can check the calculation.
The course has been precise and unchanged for the last half-day.”
“Gladly.” Anderson clicked the sensors of his omni-tool’s keyboard.
“You’re right, Captain.
What are your conclusions?”
“Here is a table of the motion characteristics of this cloud.” Shepard called up the named table on the screen, linking it to the image of the cloud and its course.
“It strives to appear natural, but in reality, its movement is governed by artificial algorithms.” He brought up another table on the screen.
“Here is proof of what I’ve said, based on five formulas.
Different formulas, Commander.”
“Among space objects, there are those that move ‘by the book,'” Anderson said.
“Agreed.
But only in one case.” Shepard typed a few more commands on his wrist omni-tool’s keyboard.
The image of the cloud began to spread across the entire screen area.
“If, under scanning filters, it remains what it wants to appear to be.
A cloud of space dust.” The executive officer typed a few more commands.
“I ordered the military and civilian tracking systems to change the filter grid on this object for a few seconds.
Systems from sixteen points are now active.” He split the central screen into sixteen petals — screens showing that same cloud from different angles.
And beneath it…
“Reflection, light play, unevenness,” Anderson said, clicking off commands on his omni-tool.
“So what?
People could imagine anything there!
Including a ‘shrimp.'”
“Agreed.” Shepard tapped out a few more commands.
“I connected to the Extranet’s archaeological databases.” A second screen with the same “daisy” of small screens flared up next to the first.
“Images of similar ‘shrimp’ are found on a wide variety of material surfaces, dating back thousands, and sometimes millions, of years.” With a few commands, he merged the “petals” of the archaeological “daisy.” “Look, if you overlay the archaeological image on ‘this,’ it’s an exact match.
So this, Commander, is no light play.” Shepard remained calm and spoke measuredly.
“This is an artificial object.
More precisely, a ship.”
“A ship, traveling under the cover of a space dust cloud, heading for Eden Prime?” asked Anderson, clicking off more commands on his omni-tool.
“And how did the tracking services miss this?
Wait, Shepard.
My calculation shows…”
“That this ship will most likely be over the planet in less than a day,” the commander of the marine detachment finished.
“And we, the Normandy, will arrive there when this ship is already on the planet.
As far as I understand, we have no way to speed up to arrive at Eden simultaneously with the ‘guest,’ for a number of reasons.
For a number of reasons,” Shepard repeated.
“What.
Is.
It.
Doing.
There?” Anderson said, enunciating each word in a manner completely uncharacteristic of him.
“In sixteen images from the Archaeological database, this ship is depicted in time periods preceding the extinction of most sentient and non-sentient life forms on the planets where such images have been preserved,” Shepard said measuredly.
“This can only mean one thing — with the arrival of such a ship on a planet, a…” Anderson paused, finding it difficult, “war began.
In which the native forms of sentient and non-sentient life…”
“Were almost completely destroyed.
Or enslaved.
Without any prospect of liberation or rescue,” Shepard finished.
“An invasion?” Anderson fixed Shepard with a direct and precise look.
“How did you manage to dig this up?”
“Stood.
Watched.
Thought.
Correlated facts.
Got on the Extranet, looked at specialized sites,” Shepard replied, although he had used the Extranet in a… very specific way.
What way, he himself couldn’t have clearly explained to his interlocutor.
But definitely not the galactic one familiar to most sentient organics.
Right now, the first mate understood that the frigate’s commander wouldn’t “nitpick” about the ways, methods, and means of reaching such a conclusion.
“So it turns out we’re heading…” Anderson said thoughtfully.
“Straight into the dragon’s mouth,” Shepard said.
“As far as I know, it’s currently the off-season between harvest periods on most of Eden Prime’s surface.
And, anticipating your next question, Commander, I’ll answer: according to all the data I’ve been able to find in open sources, there are no fleets along this ship’s entire course capable of stopping it or even delaying it.
I’m not even saying that there are no individual ships there capable of destroying this ‘guest,'” he indicated with a slight nod of his head towards the screen where the giant “shrimp” was glowing.
“Furthermore.” Shepard made the lines of zones of responsibility light up on the screen with a few clicks on his omni-tool’s keyboard.
“The guest ship is traveling exclusively through Earth’s zones of responsibility.
And we humans, thanks to the Farixens,” the first mate said this with poorly concealed bitter irony, “currently have no forces to stop its advance.
According to data from control and observation posts, according to data from hardware tracking systems,” he called up several tables and graphs on the screens, “the armor of this ship is sixteen times more advanced than the armor of the known Destiny Ascension.
And that’s the best ship in the explored part of the Milky Way.
A ship that could at least somewhat compete in a confrontation with this monster.”
“Only the asari won’t give it to us.
Not for rent, not for lease,” Captain Anderson noted with obvious sadness in his voice.
“They won’t believe in something like this,” the commander paused for a few seconds, peering at the pictures, diagrams, tables, and graphs glowing on the screens.
“Quickly — they won’t believe it.
That’s for sure.
And slowly… They simply won’t want to believe it.
They, among other things, won’t have enough time to realize… fully, necessarily-fully realize this fact.”
“They’ll argue that this problem is ‘crawling’ towards our planet.
And — through our zone of responsibility.
Therefore, it’s our headache.
Consequently — it’s up to us Terrans to deal with all the consequences,” Shepard concluded.
“That damned ‘Russian’ question: ‘What is to be done?'” Anderson uttered.
“I, Commander, am more interested in the answer to another, no less ‘Russian’ question: ‘Who is to blame?'” Shepard parried.
“More precisely — who is this that’s barging in on us in such a superdreadnought?
This is clearly not a taxi like the Destiny Ascension.”
“Jeff.” Anderson raised his eyes to the lounge’s ceiling.
He, as Shepard remembered, couldn’t stand calling his pilot by his nickname — “Joker.”
“Yes, Commander,” Moreau responded immediately.
It seemed the ship’s pilot had already developed a conditioned (turning into unconditioned) reflex to respond to the frigate commander’s address.
And, most likely, the pilot had already trained himself to connect to the communication and information systems of the compartment where “the first after God” was at any given moment.
“Latest summary on the presence of Alliance ships in the area of the destination planet,” Anderson said.
“Less than a day and a half until the frigate’s arrival at the location, sir.
No Alliance ships in the area,” the pilot replied and cut the channel.
“You said it correctly, Captain,” Anderson said after a few seconds of silence.
“The Farixens.
Using the weakest link…”
“With maximum effect,” Shepard summed up.
“‘There is a king in the world.
This king is merciless…'”
“‘Hunger is his name,'” the ship’s commander said.
“Eden Prime supplies agricultural products to both the army and the fleet of Earth.
If this monster has beam weapons…”
“All the planet’s fields will be burned in the shortest possible time,” Shepard replied.
“But the main thing is that many peaceful civilian inhabitants, agricultural workers, farmers will die.
Thousands of people.
There, on Eden Prime, besides shotguns, civilians — and not just humans, by the way — never needed any other weapons.
The planet’s animal life isn’t dangerous enough to necessitate never parting with an automatic rifle,” Shepard said.
“And, if besides us, as an Alliance warship, no one else will be the first to meet this monster…” David Anderson said, thinking.
“Then we’ll have to believe that the invasion carried out by this ship is not brief, not exceeding the few hours its commander or pilot has allocated for the attack.”
“Although… looking at this hulk… You wouldn’t say so.
Our frigate has nothing to even tickle it with,” said the ship’s commander, whose voice now carried sharp and bitter regret.
And helplessness.
“Tickle?” Shepard, saying this in a clearly questioning tone, abruptly straightened up even more.
“There is, Commander.
There is something to tickle it with.”
“Come on, Shepard.” Anderson “switched” the images of the “shrimp” on the screen of his wrist omni-tool, peered at it.
“According to my data, we are incompatible with this ‘shrimp’ in any combat confrontation.”
“And reconnaissance, Commander, doesn’t need a combat confrontation.
It’s harmful for it,” replied the commander of the marine detachment.
“We won’t just be shooting at it too much and for too long; we’ll use a different weapon.
Ours.
Reconnaissance.
And — sabotage.”
Shepard, as Anderson understood from his assistant’s focused expression, was already “scrolling” through kilometers of text, hundreds of graphs and diagrams in his memory.
“Really, Commander,” said the executive officer.
“And for this, I ask you to allow me, by any means necessary,” here Shepard placed a well-noticeable and understandable emphasis for Anderson, “in the remaining time, to bring — both the ship and the crew — into proper condition.
If I have to combine two positions, then allow me, Commander, sir, to combine them not only in theory but also in practice.
I ask you, by your order, to temporarily assign all twelve policemen to my marine detachment.
Since they ended up here, on board a military reconnaissance frigate, let them be useful.
And not just prop up the walls.
Commander, sir, you understood that we will have to fight, one way or another.
And there are no civilian organics on our ship.”
“We have a Spectre of the Citadel Council on board.
Nihlus Kryik,” Anderson said with pointedly flat emotion.
“He might not be a civilian, although who knows with these Spectres, what their actual status is.”
“That doesn’t change things.
He is on board our military ship, not a pleasure ‘craft.’ His rights don’t apply here; they turn against him,” Shepard said with conviction.
“If aliens don’t let us humans into the Citadel Council, ‘squeeze’ our activity in Greater Space — they have no right to command us Terrans, because commanding us in such a situation…”
“Means — showing violence towards us, humans, Terrans, humanity…” Anderson continued quietly and firmly.
“And we Terrans, humans, humanity — don’t like violence…” Shepard supported the commander.
“And — won’t tolerate it,” the ship’s master finished, typing something on his wrist omni-tool.
“You’ve convinced me, Captain.
I saw how fast the corporal ran out of here.
And I noted what he was feeling.
You and Alenko managed to…”
“Kaidan Alenko.” Shepard stumbled, corrected himself, forcing himself to speak strictly within the framework of standard army protocol.
“Lieutenant Alenko must,” the first mate emphasized this word with the tone of his voice, “be in sufficient shape to command effectively and efficiently.
To perform officer functions.
And not lie in a bed in the Medbay with an almost constant severe migraine.
As for everything else: I wouldn’t want to clarify in any way how I did it.
But he won’t have migraines anymore.
Never,” the first mate emphasized.
“I didn’t intrude into the rest of his being.” Shepard was silent for a few seconds.
“He’ll adapt.
We Normandovtsy, on board the frigate right now, will need full commitment from every person.
We have, as I assume, even less than a day left.”
“Cutting the warm-up time to the bone?” asked Anderson.
“A rhetorical question, don’t answer.
Alright,” the ship’s commander leaned over his omni-tool, typed a few code phrases.
“By my command authority, I have ordered that all your orders and instructions be carried out with maximum speed, accuracy, and completeness.
And you, I’m sure, will be able to make all crew members do exactly that in practice.
Well, then,” Anderson stood up.
“If anyone can get us out of this unenviable situation… Then it’s probably you, Captain Shepard.
And — as for the whining and howling… if there is any… pay no attention.
There are no civilian sentients on the frigate the Normandy.
Everyone on board knew what they were signing up for.
How did it go in the old oath?
‘To steadfastly endure the hardships of military service.’ It’s a pity those words are no longer in our current oath.”
“But they are, of course, implied, sir,” said Shepard, standing up and assuming his former tense “string” posture.
“Thank you for your understanding.”
“If we, the currently living sentient organics, don’t fully understand each other now…” Anderson said, studying the “shrimp” that had lit up on the screen again.
“Then ships like this one… Will bury us.
Without any need for any conceivable understanding.” The commander of the Normandy nodded to the commander of the ship’s marine detachment.
“Get to it.
You, I am convinced, know what to do.”
I notice the text you’ve provided is in Russian, and I need to translate it to English.
However, I see that the [TERM_OVERRIDES] dictionary contains many specific terms and names that I should use.
Let me translate this chunk faithfully.
He strode quickly out of the salon, heading for the bridge near the Galaxy Map.