Shepard, keeping the “string” setting active, descended into the engineering bay.
Engineer Adams met him at his main console.
He was already aware that Captain Shepard had received special authority from the ship’s commander.
So he wasn’t surprised when Shepard asked him to show the refined specifications of the Normandy’s primary systems.
The officers held a half-hour discussion.
After it concluded, Engineer Adams made numerous changes to the system settings.
Several of the ship’s most critical parameters were successfully optimized.
Others were significantly improved.
Having finished his brief professional exchange with the ship’s other engineers and technicians, Shepard climbed the ramp to the doors leading into the frigate’s main sections and headed up the staircase to the CIC deck.
The policeman standing guard at the deck exit apparently believed that Corporal Jenkins had exaggerated the extent of First Mate Shepard’s influence in his short story.
And so the Military Police sergeant hadn’t bothered to snap to attention before the suddenly appearing senior officer of the ship.
Shepard pretended not to notice the violation of Regulations, but, having stepped back exactly one pace, he sharply turned to face the guilty sergeant.
“Point one hundred forty-six of the Regulations of the Garrison and Guard Service of the Systems Alliance, Sergeant.
Shall I remind you?” There was nothing in the captain’s voice but indifference, behind which cold fury was clearly boiling.
“No, sir!” The sergeant shed his air of a veteran relaxing on duty in a second and snapped to attention.
“My apologies, sir!
I’m ready to accept punishment, sir!” He clearly felt the fury of the captain’s first mate.
“You were a decent businessman before your army service, weren’t you?” the captain continued, his seething displeasure somewhat tempered.
“I ran my own general store in my hometown, sir.” The policeman was genuinely surprised that the ship’s senior officer, a marine, was aware of such details of his, a simple Military Police sergeant’s, personal biography.
“I had more than a dozen different suppliers,” he clarified.
“As first mate, acting on the authority of Captain Anderson’s order, I relieve you of your duties of garrison and guard service.
And I transfer you to the position of ship’s quartermaster.
Your workplace will now be in the hold.
There’s a warehouse there and everything needed for successful work.
With suppliers.
And with goods.
The problem of your separate quarters will also be resolved.” Shepard was already about to turn and head for the next policeman, but he was stopped by the hesitant question of the sergeant-trader:
“Sir, but…”
“Sergeant,” the first mate said in a calm voice.
“I don’t need you in the guardhouse, which this ship doesn’t have.
And not with a mop-brush in your hands either,” Shepard clarified.
“You’ve been given a concrete task: take the position and properly perform the duties of ship’s quartermaster.
You have an hour to accept the property.
And determine what needs to be repaired, replaced, or purchased in the near future.
Gather all relevant data from the ship’s crew members.
Provide me with a copy of the list.
I probably won’t be sitting in my cabin — you’ll find me on the ship yourself.
Either in person, or over comms.
Get to it.”
“Yes, sir.” The sergeant shot toward the staircase like a bullet, and soon his footsteps were thundering across the deck plates of another deck.
“Master Sergeant Whitman, sir.” A stocky policeman approached Shepard, who was turning from the door.
“I command the police force unit on the frigate.
Greetings.” He rendered the regulation salute.
“Hello, Master Sergeant.” Shepard mirrored the salute.
“I take it you’re displeased that I arbitrarily removed your subordinate from his post?”
“I would have been displeased, sir.” The other man didn’t deny it.
“You’re right, that Alliance supply officer has started thinking far too highly of himself lately.
He, if you will, buys goods with his own money.
Interesting, where does he, that rear-area Alliance rat dressed in a semi-military specialist’s uniform —” Shepard distinctly felt the unspoken clarification “dressed by mistake” — “get his own money in such quantities.”
The master sergeant’s hands clenched into fists, little inferior to Captain Shepard’s own:
“They took him on for a ‘test’ flight, for about two weeks, and I, I can feel, this doesn’t smell like a test flight…
Sorry, sir.” The master sergeant straightened up.
“He’s simply robbing my boys.
And yours — he doesn’t even consider people…”
“Says we’ve dug in on the frigate, flyboys.
Flying high and thinking too much of ourselves?” Shepard remarked without emotion.
“You’re a real first mate, sir.
To know such…”
“These aren’t trifles, Master Sergeant.
For me, at any rate.” There was a note of steel in Shepard’s voice.
“Glad to hear it, sir.
Allow me to consult with you.” The master sergeant pulled out his commander’s reader.
“I saw you’ve tasked my sergeant with trade and supply on the frigate.
I support it.
I trust him.
I’ve been to his hometown myself, many times, where he was born and raised.
They trust him there.
He’s never shortchanged anyone, always gives discounts and sells exclusively quality goods, surviving on just two percent profit.
Captain, I understand I might be sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong.
But I don’t want you, first mate, to consider my people ballast.” Whitman clicked the device’s cover open, revealing the screen.
“Here, take a look.
A list of my proposals.
My boys are professionals.”
“I see, Master Sergeant.
And I appreciate it very much.
It’s good that you approached me right now,” Shepard said, having reviewed the master sergeant’s proposals.
“You know, Captain.
Frankly, I’m uneasy at heart.
I’ve been in the army for twenty-five years.
Seen all sorts.
And here…
It reeks of the grave,” the master sergeant swallowed, crushing the further words that were straining to escape in the bud.
“And that grave is very close…
I wouldn’t want that greenhorn Jenkins…
to become an invalid.
Or…
something even worse…
to happen to him…
He’s from Eden, after all…”
“I understand.” Shepard said after a pause.
“I see your boys don’t want to just prop up the walls.
Good.
Master Sergeant, send copies of your colleagues’ diplomas and certificates to the ship’s command-level Omni-tools.
With your identifier.
I think at a moment like this, as a deep reconnaissance ship, we shouldn’t reach out even through computers to request clarification from the Alliance VKS central database.
It’s troublesome,” the first mate noted.
“And those five, the youngest, who don’t yet have any professions or specialties besides army ones — send them to the hangar where Corporal Jenkins is currently working.
I’ll order Lieutenant Alenko to run a cycle of assault-landing training with them.” Shepard didn’t put it off; he opened his wrist Omni-tool, typed a message, and closed the device’s cover.
“As best we can.
But we need to make the assault group combat-capable, Master Sergeant.”
“Agreed, sir.” The master sergeant nodded.
“Permission to speak, sir?”
“Granted.” Shepard nodded back to his interlocutor.
“Captain, me and my men…
We want to express our…
unanimous opinion.
You just gave us the chance to become something more than army cops.
And we…
won’t forget this.
We’ll do everything so that our enemies are as quickly as possible…
dead.” The master sergeant threw up his hand in a military salute, pivoted sharply “about face,” and walked off, heading for the hold.
“Captain, sir!” A young man in a semi-military uniform was hurrying toward Shepard, barely dragging behind him a burly Military Police sergeant who was holding him back with one hand.
“Captain, they,” the visitor cast a wary glance at his escort, “confiscated all my goods!
And said they’ll now sell them at cost price!
Captain, this is…
This is robbery!
And they…
They’re military police!…
They’re supposed to protect the law!” He stopped two meters from Shepard, apparently seriously afraid to approach him.
The first mate measured him with a heavy gaze, growing furious once again:
“Front-leaning rest.
Take it!
One hundred twenty push-ups.
Do it.” Shepard’s lips spat out the words, his face once again turning into the mask of an Indian idol.
Hearing the commands, the supply officer silently collapsed to the floor and began doing push-ups.
By the eightieth repetition he could no longer straighten his stiffened arms and lay helplessly sprawled face-down on the metal deck plates, unable to move.
“You.
Quartermaster of the Rear Services of the VKS of the Systems Alliance of Earth,” the first mate hissed.
“Used the labor.
Of civilians.
Loaders.
For loading and unloading work.
With your goods.
Doing this.
Regularly.
Constantly.
Deliberately.
Forgetting the Oath of Civil Service of the Alliance VKS.
You.
Robbed.
Soldiers.
Of the Alliance.
Who.
As it is.
Receive.
Far from the largest.
Salary.
And nonetheless.
Continue to serve.
And — honestly fulfill.
Their duty.
You.
Created on board.
A combat frigate of the Systems Alliance.
A debt lawlessness.
Over the two.
Past.
Weeks.
So here’s the deal,” Shepard’s fists slowly clenched.
The police sergeant standing behind the prostrate supply officer assessed their size and weight with obvious respect.
“All debts.
None of my people.
Currently on board.
The frigate.
Will be returning.
To you.
Nothing.
No debts.
To you.
Do they.
Have.
Stand up!
Attention!”
The supply officer jumped up as if launched by a catapult and, stretched to his limit, froze.
“By the authority of the frigate commander’s first mate.
Given to me on the basis of Captain Anderson’s order,” Shepard snarled.
“I remove you.
From performing the functions and duties.
Of the frigate’s supply officer.
Your goods and all assets.
Will be assigned to the new supply officer.
All your debts.
Will be retained.
On you.
From this minute you.
Are transferred to the category.
Of the frigate’s service personnel.
To the position.
Of general.
Laborer.
If I.
Even once.
Hear.
Or sense.
That you.
Are performing poorly.
Your duties.
You will be thrown.
Out the airlock.
You will live.
In the inventory room.
Your capsule.
Passes into the use.
Of the frigate’s new supply officer.
About-face.
To the inventory room — at a run.
March!” Shepard spat out the final command, not even paying attention to the commendable speed with which the former supply officer vanished down the staircase.
“Thank you for your help, Sergeant.” The captain, instantly calmed, exchanged military salutes with the supply officer’s escort.
“Return to your duties.
The master sergeant will tell you the rest.”
“Yes, sir.
Thank you, sir.” The sergeant, turning smartly, left.
“So.
One policeman managed to be transferred to the position of supply officer.
The master sergeant is right — such a specialist will be useful and valuable to us.
Five policemen — young men — I received as reinforcement for the frigate’s assault group.
That’s little.
But, considering the starting conditions — it’s already good.
We’re reconnaissance, not an assault frigate.
Which means six of the group of thick-skulled policemen can safely be excluded,” Shepard thought, walking across the CIC deck and occasionally glancing at the officers and sergeants of the crew, growing accustomed to the fact that Military Police sergeants of the Alliance had taken their places at the consoles beside them.
“The remaining six, including the master sergeant, can be used in the CIC and at the frigate’s specialist posts.
Which is also good.”
Now, around the holographic image of the frigate occupying the central part of the “circle of consoles,” more often called the “necklace,” not a single workstation remained free.
Captain Anderson, standing on the bridge at the Galaxy Map, was pleased: before him, as if on the palm of his hand, was the entire CIC, all people were at work, none of the frigate’s crew were trying to shirk or work at less than full capacity.
Stopping beside Pressly, Shepard didn’t distract the navigation officer from his work.
Waiting until he finished entering data into the frigate’s navigation subsystems, Shepard softly and silently took his place to the left of the navigator.
“Charles, let’s keep it quiet and without formalities,” he said in a low voice.
“What’s your opinion on the approach procedure to Eden Prime?”
“Alright, Captain,” Pressly said just as quietly.
“If I sum up everything I’ve been able to hear and understand, a ship awaits us there that far surpasses the Normandy, at least in firepower.
That means we can’t just appear, unprepared, or even show ourselves in the system.
Before the relay, on the entry side, is the planet Xanadu.
But it, as calculations and modeling show, at the presumed moment of the frigate’s emergence from the relay, ends up on a direct line between the relay and the planet Eden Prime.
Our possible retreat in this case to the planet Nirvana under masking requires additional justification of its necessity.”
The navigator entered new data from the keyboard.
The picture on the console screens changed:
“The planet Sion is indeed a large planet, in whose shadow we could reliably and for a long time conceal the ship.
At the moment of the frigate’s emergence from the relay, it will most likely be far away, in another segment of the planetary system.
If we’re to take risks, and I think we’ll have to take risks in any case, then we’ll need to proceed under masking from Xanadu, which will be as close as possible to the exit point from the catapult, toward Arcadia.”
Pressly pressed several keys.
Several console screens flickered, displaying star map images.
“Having taken cover in its shadow,” the navigator continued his report, “using the blinding effect of the star system’s sun, as well as the corresponding radiation, we can mask ourselves.
Arcadia’s size will allow us, while in its shadow, to deactivate the masking and drift, occasionally activating the mask systems.
I believe, Captain, that as a navigation officer, there’s hardly anything I can add here and now.
All other recommendations I can give only when we approach the relay leading into the Utopia system.
And — conduct initial remote reconnaissance, without entering the relay.”
“Arcadia’s atmospheric layer contains, according to the Alliance Navigation Data Codex, nitrogen and helium.
Surface temperature is extremely high.
How long, in your opinion, can the frigate hold out in the planet’s shadow?” Shepard asked, activating additional screens on the navigator’s console and bringing up the needed data.
Pressly peered at the lines of text and tables with diagrams, calculated something on his wrist Omni-tool:
“Several days, Captain.
Only several days.
I presume we’ll have to leave the system through the relay — in case of difficulties with Eden Prime — under masking, whose resource we’ll have to strictly ration.
The Codex data indicates — we won’t be able to recharge on Arcadia.”
“And Nirvana?” Shepard changed the information on the additional screens.
Pressly jabbed with satisfaction at one of the frames on the right screen:
“The Codex states, Captain, that it has no scientific or commercial value.
The fuel delivered for the automated station is almost exhausted.
The atmosphere is residual, only xenon and krypton.
We can briefly count on the presence of iron oxides on the planet’s surface to mask the frigate and allow us to reduce the engaged level of our own masking.
But I wouldn’t rely on that too much.” He pointed to the corresponding table on the left additional screen and fell silent.
“And Xanadu?
How can it serve the masking function?” Shepard changed the information on the additional screens.
Pressly calculated something on his Omni-tool:
“An atmosphere of methane and argon could help us conceal the ship at medium masking levels.
Immediately after exiting the relay zone.
We just need to precisely calculate the moment of transition, so we can immediately slip into the planet’s shadow under masking.
The surface is ice, potassium, and calcium.
A bit tricky, but since the planet is rarely visited due to its low value…
I think, even accounting for other ships moving through the relay, we’re unlikely to be found.
Only the rationing of the masking will have to be done with jeweler’s precision.
I believe we won’t be able to linger at Xanadu for long — a few hours at most.”
“You’re right, Charles,” Shepard replied.
“Calculate the approach moments to the relay, the drift time at the relay, the passage through the relay.
So that we manage to slip toward Xanadu.
And calculate the movement and maneuvers to all the planets we’ve previously considered.
So that we’re as little visible as possible from Eden Prime’s viewpoints.
Make maximum allowances for the masking’s operation.
So that we don’t have to fly to the relay openly from any point in the system.
The rest — later.”
“Yes, sir, Captain.” Pressly nodded and immersed himself in his work.
“Yes, the new first mate didn’t say much,” Charles thought.
“He didn’t dig into details.
He made the main thing clear: we’ll most likely have to act according to circumstances.”
Shepard looked at his watch — time was pressing.
Turning to Anderson, standing at the Galaxy Map, he noted that the frigate’s commander had heard and seen their conversation.
And — agreed with Shepard’s decision on the navigation problem in the Utopia system.
The first mate took a few steps, climbed onto the dais, and approached the ship’s commander, who was leaning his elbows on the railing surrounding the Galaxy Map.
“Sir.
I discussed with Pressly only the first part of our work in the Utopia system.
Only what concerns navigation,” the assault crew commander said quietly.
“Before entering the relay, we’ll need a short drift — from half an hour to an hour and a half — during which we’ll have to conduct remote reconnaissance of Eden Prime.
And — of the situation in Utopia as a whole.
So that we can act only with certainty afterward.”
Shepard moved the Galaxy Map image upward, and in the freed space called up the image of the “shrimp”:
“According to refined data, this ship’s dimensions — along the vertical axis — are at most two kilometers.
The primitive scales of the images from the Archaeological Data Codex also indicate this.” Shepard brought them up on the screens, aligning them with the rulers.
“I presume the ship won’t remain in orbit of Eden Prime.
And — it will definitely make a landing on the planet.”
Shepard, refraining from verbal explanations, was rapidly forming screens with textual information on the free space, visible only to the commander and the first mate:
“We’ll have to use the planet’s infrastructure and its climate.” He made a short pause, so as not to voice aloud the further thought about the possibility of “tickling” that superdreadnought.
Deep down, Shepard, of course, very much hoped that they’d manage not only to “tickle” it, but, quite possibly, also to immobilize that ship.
To render it unarmed and safe.
“You wish to take the risk, Captain?” Anderson looked at the first mate without surprise.
Shepard noted with satisfaction that Anderson was apparently familiar with this ship for some reason very painful to his memory.
Otherwise, the ship’s commander wouldn’t have hidden it during the conversation in the salon.
When both the images from the Archaeology Codex and the images of the ship with its masking removed, directly obtained from the observation stations, lit up on the screens.