Standing behind the ECM specialist, police Sergeant Ingvar Tempke, Shepard confirmed that he had fully settled into his new duties.
And was now clearly enjoying himself, doing what he loved.
The captain knew that the ECM specialist’s station had been unmanned since the start of the flight — few had believed back then that the frigate would have to engage in combat, conduct active real reconnaissance, or organize countermeasures against an enemy trying to identify a spy.
“Ingvar, quietly give me all the information on the technical and electronic infrastructure of Eden Prime on the screens.
Everything we can reach and use to our advantage.
Without entering the system — for now.”
“Easy, Captain.” Tempke, without turning around, clicked a few sensors.
“First, the spaceports.
There are officially three on Eden Prime.
They’re full of all sorts of electronics and technical equipment, with transport infrastructure.
Second, the power substations scattered across the planet.
They also have plenty of electronics, but the main thing is the powerful energy storage units.
Third, the monorail, which also requires a significant amount of energy and correspondingly complex control systems.
And finally, the tastiest thing in my opinion — the weather and climate control stations.
Electronics galore, powerful emitters and receivers, energy storage units.
A real treat.”
Ingvar was a little embarrassed but continued his report:
“Sorry, sir.
The guys and I were discussing…
We had a topic — climate wars using planetary technical infrastructure.
I did some calculations on the side: according to open data, the planet is agricultural.
They monitor the weather there very, very seriously, because if the slightest climate fluctuation occurs, the losses would be enormous.
It’s the off-season now, the harvest won’t start for a while.
Even for early-ripening varieties.
According to my calculations, sir, if necessary, it’s quite possible to create a local or planetary weather apocalypse in a few minutes.
Thunder, lightning, tropical-scale downpours with atmospheric electrification to the point of almost continuous breakdowns.”
Ingvar had clearly mounted his favorite hobbyhorse and was now wondering why this strange landing party commander wasn’t in a hurry to interrupt him.
Suddenly he remembered that Captain Shepard was now the ship’s first mate and stopped himself instantly:
“Sorry, sir.
Got carried away.”
“That’s interesting, Ingvar.
And more importantly, to the point,” Shepard said without a smirk, completely seriously.
“Calculate a scenario for a local Apocalypse for me.
Maximum height of the affected zone — six kilometers.
Zone width — two kilometers.
With maximum energy output at six points of impact.
Assume you have to destroy an object that is eight to twelve times better protected than the Destiny Ascension.
Condition — don’t let this object take off or activate its beam weapon.
Try to disable or temporarily shut down all its electronics and weapons systems.
Up to and including heavy weapons.
Level — superdreadnought.
Concurrently, identify points on the planet where the effectiveness of such an apocalypse would be maximum.
Is the task clear?”
“Yes, sir!” Tempke, forgetting even to nod, enthusiastically set to work.
While talking to Ingvar, Shepard had known for several tens of seconds that the ship’s commander was standing nearby.
So, taking a step back, he looked questioningly at the frigate’s senior officer.
Anderson only nodded silently and, with a gesture barely noticeable to the other officers present in the CIC at that moment, asked the first mate to step back further, toward the other, as yet unactivated, additional consoles of the “necklace.” The main consoles — every single one — were already occupied and operational.
“Getting ready?” Anderson asked quietly.
“Yes, sir,” Shepard said softly.
“There will be too many ears at the relay.
And while we’re en route, we have time.”
“What’s the next stop?” the frigate commander inquired.
“The main guns, sir,” Shepard replied.
“I know two policemen are working there now.
One at the main console, the other at the secondary one.
I think two gunners are enough for our capabilities.
Fire control will be organized from the bridge or from the frigate’s pilot cabin.”
“Agreed.
Let’s go see what we can do there.” Anderson turned, and both officers slowly ascended to the second deck.
The two policemen looked up from their work at the consoles for a second, nodded in greeting, and looked questioningly at the senior officers entering the compartment.
Anderson, walking slightly ahead, gave a short wave of his hand, meaning: keep working, no report needed.
Shepard leaned over the main console.
Anderson went over to the second one.
“What accuracy have you achieved with a two-charge salvo?” Shepard quietly asked the senior artillery officer.
“We managed to improve from third class to second.
I think,” the sergeant caught that the first mate was quite open to an informal conversation format, “in two hours, Tom and I can achieve first class too.
I assume we’ll need accuracy and speed?”
“Yes, Bill,” Shepard nodded.
“We need to hit a target at maximum first-class range — a circle just over a meter and a half in diameter.
With four charges in the minimum time.
Two salvos.
Get there before the laser’s charging chamber is closed by armored shutters.
The target itself is relatively slow-moving.
But the armored shutters will close very quickly.
At the slightest suspicion of aggression on our part.
We’ll need to deploy the guns in the shortest possible time and strike exactly as I just said.
I’m afraid we won’t get a second chance, Bill,” Shepard stated calmly.
“If the target activates its main emitter or closes it with shutters, the situation will get complicated for us very quickly.”
“Firing from what distance?” the gunner asked.
“At maximum — ninety to one hundred eighty kilometers.
The frigate will be moving in an anti-aircraft maneuver; I expect they’ll also be using small lasers on us.
Like our GARDIAN.”
“Hm.
Small.” Bill tensed up.
“Sorry, Captain, slipped out,” the senior artillery officer’s fingers quickly performed the necessary manipulations on the keyboard.
“I think we’ll need not even first, but zero class accuracy.
We can only guarantee that by five in the evening.
Interesting problem, Captain.
Just the kind I like.
But…”
“The frigate’s pilot will do exactly as you say,” the first mate replied.
“I’ve reinforced the pilot group with another specialist pilot.
Either both of them or one of them will manage, in any case.
But I’d rather not make the ship perform unimaginable pirouettes.
In close proximity to the target.”
“Understood.
We’re a reconnaissance frigate, not an assault one,” the senior artillery officer replied.
“Yes, Bill,” Shepard confirmed.
“Calculate two options.
First — dealing maximum damage in an attack scenario.
And second — dealing maximum damage in a finishing scenario.
Take into account that the target’s charging chamber won’t always be strictly vertical or strictly horizontal.
The guidance node may also move chaotically.”
“Understood, Captain,” the senior artillery officer said.
“You expect the target to fight back?”
“I’m sure of it.
And we need to make sure it can’t fight back anymore.
One strike — and the target must be disarmed,” Shepard said.
“Get to work.
I expect your results on my Omni-tool.
Deadline — seventeen ten.”
“Yes, sir!” The gunner nodded, catching the agreeing nod of his junior colleague, who had already spoken with Captain Anderson.
A minute later, both senior officers left the frigate’s main gun compartment.
“Commander, sir,” a policeman who held a chef’s diploma approached them.
“Here’s the menu for lunch.
For the entire crew and team.
Permission to offer you the control dishes for a taste test?”
Anderson looked over the menu and signed with his coder on the screen of the reader the sergeant had handed him.
“Let’s go, Captain.
We’ll take a sample straight from the kettles,” the frigate commander glanced at Shepard.
“Let’s go to your station, Sergeant,” he turned to the chef.
“Yes, sir,” the policeman stepped aside and walked to the left and slightly behind the ship’s senior officers toward the compartment now designated as the kitchen.
“Here,” he handed over a long ladle and plates.
Anderson, taking turns scooping portions from the kettles, filled several plates.
He leaned over the kitchen table and slowly sampled the first, second, and third courses:
“Good.” He looked at the first mate.
“You take a sample too, John.”
“Yes, sir.” Shepard took the ladle and, after trying the first, second, and third courses, smiled with satisfaction.
“Good, Michael,” he noted that Anderson was already signing the kitchen log lying on the counter.
“You can prepare the portions, Michael,” said Captain Anderson.
“I authorize you to prepare up to three reserve portions.”
“Yes, sir,” the policeman-cook nodded.
At that moment, Shepard’s Omni-tool chimed.
The landing party commander activated the small screen and familiarized himself with the solution proposed by Jeff Moreau.
Anderson also became interested, and the officers, stepping away from the cook, began discussing the pilot’s proposed solution in low voices.
“I think Jeff’s solution is acceptable,” said Captain Anderson.
“I suggest we go to my cabin and have lunch.
We can discuss it there.”
“Captain.
I agree that we need to discuss the information we’ve received.
But let’s not ignore the need for our presence among the crew members right now,” Shepard objected.
“Sooner or later, the officers, sergeants, petty officers, and enlisted men will have questions.
It’s better to clarify things for everyone at once.
Especially since in three or four hours we’ll be approaching the relay area.
In that time, we have far too much to do to prepare for every conceivable eventuality that might await us on the other side of the relay.”
“Agreed.” Anderson glanced at his watch.
“It’s exactly two in the afternoon now,” he looked at the cook.
“Michael, announce the assembly of the crew’s officer corps for lunch.”
“Yes, sir,” the cook nodded, activated the ship’s intercom on his console, and announced the standard formula for inviting officers to lunch.
Over lunch, Captain Anderson and Captain Shepard briefly briefed their fellow officers on the planned actions up to the moment of entering the relay leading to the Utopia system.
It was clear how much the ship’s officers had perked up upon hearing that what awaited them was not another round of tedious exercises, but real combat, reconnaissance, and sabotage work.
Neither Shepard nor Anderson revealed any details, but the ship’s officers already understood: a great deal would depend on what they managed to learn while conducting active remote scanning from their hidden holding position near the relay.
“And one last thing, colleagues,” Captain Anderson said.
“After lunch, every single member of the frigate’s crew, without a single exception, puts on light spacesuits and armor, and clips their helmets to their belts, fully ready for use.
First aid kits and pistols are to be carried on your person at all times.
Lieutenant Alenko has drawn up a duty roster for the rapid response team.
I anticipate that closer to evening we will conduct two or three drills for all crew members.
The approximate time is seventeen-thirty.
Details will be communicated to the personnel directly during the drills.
I want to warn you once more: every drill is to be executed to the maximum.
There is a very high probability that we will have to engage in real combat.
Therefore, there will be no clarification of whether a drill is a training exercise or a combat one.
Any future drill could become a combat situation at a moment’s notice.
For any mistakes made, my first mate and I will exact the full measure of discipline.
Officers are to check the equipment of their subordinates.
Helmets are to be prepared for transition to a closed cycle.
As quickly as possible.
Questions?
No?
You’re all dismissed,” he gestured, allowing the officers to leave their places at the mess table.
“You were right, Shepard.
The officers needed our presence.”
Exactly one hour later, the lights went out in all compartments of the Normandy.
The loud sound of the ship’s siren tore through the post-lunch silence that had settled.
Beams from powerful flashlights darted along the walls: the crew was running to their emergency stations.
Most of the consoles were without power.
“Crew: switch to manual control!
Seal helmets!
Activate autonomous life support systems.
Maintain silence in the compartments!
The ship is under threat of detection by the enemy.
— Such texts appeared on the helmet displays of most of the frigate’s crew.
— Revive navigation systems without activating external sensors.
Check the operation of ECM systems according to the ‘Ray’ and ‘Sphere’ schematics.
Identify and rectify malfunctions in the weapons systems.”
The scenarios came thick and fast.
The frigate’s commander and the first mate moved through the ship like shadows, carefully observing the actions of the crew members.
From the outside, it was not apparent that such a large-scale drill was taking place inside the ship — Jeff Moreau and his partner had received a categorical order from the commander on their omni-tools to maintain the ship’s current course and speed.
Inside the Normandy, however, it had become, in the truest sense of the word, rather hot: depressurization mode had been activated in many compartments.
Crew members were forced to constantly prepare for rapid transitions from one part of the ship’s rooms and compartments to another.
No allowances were made for the fact that in the depressurized compartments, separated by the bluish ‘lenses’ of emergency isolation fields from those retaining their atmosphere, weightlessness reigned.
Speed, quality, completeness, correctness.
In three compartments of the frigate, fires of varying sizes broke out chaotically — from simple electrical wiring ignitions to quite powerful and destructive explosions.
Despite the fact that Captain Anderson had not permitted the use of open flames in a number of compartments, accurately predicting when the next fire would occur, where it would break out, and what size it would reach was quite difficult.
The drill lasted exactly forty minutes.
Finally, lines of text crawled across the helmet display screens, informing the crew that the drill was over.
The ship’s siren gave a short blip, announcing the deactivation of the simulation mode.
The crew quickly and quietly took their places according to the normal flight schedule.
The emergency party dealt with the aftermath of the fires, returning the compartments designated for them to a normal state.
The regular lighting came on, and the consoles that had been powered down for the duration of the drill began to work again.
Captain Anderson, entering his cabin, announced the overall results of the drill over the ship’s intercom.
Everyone on the Normandy got it.
Without a single exception.
The crew members’ omni-tools received files with a complete analysis of each officer’s, sergeant’s, petty officer’s, and enlisted person’s actions, along with a full timeline of events.
As well as the potential and real consequences of the mistakes made and shortcomings allowed.
“The first drill has shown, colleagues, that the crew is ready for real combat operations at a rating of ‘satisfactory,'” Captain Anderson said over the ship’s broadcast.
“The drill will be made more difficult and repeated in the near future.” With these words, Anderson switched off the ship-wide broadcast and looked at Shepard, who was sitting nearby.
“It’s a good thing Nihlus Kryik didn’t try to poke his head out of his cabin,” he paused for a few seconds, as was his habit.
“Well, that’s neither here nor there.
What interests and worries me more is who would give us these three quiet days for training.”
“We have, sir, only a little over a day left before we have to go to war,” Shepard replied.
“And, to be honest, I expected exactly this result.
Exactly satisfactory.
At least it’s not poor.” Shepard, slowly turning his head, surveyed the captain’s cabin.
“At the very least, we now have a full complement of specialists who are more or less familiar with their duties.
That gives us hope.
Although — hope against a ship like that,” he indicated with a glance the ‘shrimp’ flickering on the nearest wall screen, located above the commander’s work desk, “is too weak a foundation for victory.”
“Now all the Normandovtsy will be on edge,” Anderson said thoughtfully.
“We won’t, I believe, have the opportunity to relax for long anymore, Commander,” Shepard said.
“I don’t believe that a ship like this is alone.
The archeo-base proves with absolute certainty: there are at least several dozen such ships.
The total period of existence of squadrons of such ships, judging by the age of the drawings, is frankly hard to imagine: more than thirty million years.
There’s a drawing that’s forty million years old.
For humanity, that’s an unimaginable figure.”
“For most of the sentient organic races we know of, Earthlings, in the explored part of the Milky Way’s space — it is too,” the cabin’s owner said.
“At best, two or three million years.
But not thirty.
Not forty.” Anderson nodded briefly, agreeing with the first mate’s opinion.
“Do you think we will need the support of Earth’s fleets?”
“No, Commander.
Any movement of our fleets right now would attract unhealthy and unnecessary attention to Eden Prime.
It would provoke this ship into active action.
Both against the planet, and against the fleets.
I don’t believe that we can’t complete our task to the maximum.
One ship against one ship, with the support of the planet’s infrastructure, is fair.
A fleet against one, even such a powerful ship, is a sign of weakness and immaturity,” Shepard stated with conviction.
“We cannot give the Citadel races grounds to continue considering us a ‘childish’ race.”
“If only we knew why this ship came to Eden Prime,” Anderson said.
“Whatever it came for, its appearance near the planet can confidently be classified as an ‘invasion.’ Even without taking a position at the relay, without conducting a full remote hardware reconnaissance, without deploying the ‘Prognosis’ complex in combat mode, one can be certain: the alien ship came for something very valuable and important.
For now, nothing comes to mind except the Prothean beacon, Commander,” Shepard admitted honestly.
“If only we knew what it wants it for.”
“We’ll find out, Captain.” Anderson switched on additional screens.
“For now, let’s think together about how we should make the next drill more difficult.
I think its execution should be scheduled for half past five in the evening.
We’ll hold the third drill at half past nine in the evening.
At eleven in the evening, the ship will take its position at the relay.
The duty shifts will begin working with the real data obtained during the remote hardware reconnaissance.
To be honest, I myself am waiting to see what the frigate’s equipment ‘digs up’ for us.
I can already see — we won’t be able to avoid a combat engagement with this ship.” Anderson glanced at the flickering image of the ‘shrimp,’ then turned his gaze to the first mate.
“I’m sure of it, Commander,” Shepard agreed, activating his omni-tool.
Both senior officers of the ship set about forming the scenario for the next drill.
At half past five in the evening, the silence on the ship was shattered by the bells of general quarters.
This time, the alarm was not an emergency one, but a combat one.
The frigate’s virtual intelligence worked at full capacity, creating all sorts of tricky situations for the crew members working at the consoles and drastically reducing the time available.
Both for making decisions and for carrying out the necessary actions.
In this drill, Anderson and Shepard participated on equal footing with all the other crew members.
The conditions and parameters of the drill changed as it progressed.
The ship’s VI followed only the general plan.
In all other respects, it was free to choose its course of action.
At seven o’clock, a briefly blipping siren signaled the end of the drill.
Helmet locks clicked shut.
The emergency blood-red lighting was replaced by the usual, yellowish-white light.