Time has always been a very fickle and uncreative concept. Ever since man became capable of complex thought and problem-solving ability, he needed a method by which he could measure change. Growth, stagnation, decay. Numbers were created, followed quickly by the principles of mathematics and numeric science. As systems were invented, so were seconds, minutes, and hours. Everything became cyclical, like the great shining orb in the sky that disappeared and returned without fail. Eventually, those cycles formed calendars, giving birth to days, months, and years. The idea of time became not a mere tool to be used for measurement, but a theoretical plane of existence that man simply couldn’t affect or control. It became less of a concept and more of a force of nature.
And now, time was destroying reality piece by piece. Popular fables tended to romanticize the idea of time being a healer, allowing pain and loss to fade away with acceptance and reconciliation, but just the opposite was true. Time did nothing—it was no unstoppable force or undeniable facet of existence. It was not an illusory fiction that could reverse whatever tragedies one may have been trying to prevent. It was a tool.
A tool the Illusive Man had used very well.
Of course, not many thought so. The Reapers had invaded quite unexpectedly—and with remarkable precision, at that—wiping out nearly every single one of Cerberus’s project cells and remote bases. Since Shepard had absconded with the Normandy and some of their best operatives, the organization had recruited heavily, but even those increased numbers had been worth nothing when the inevitable finally came to pass.
But even so, that wasn’t the Illusive Man’s only move. Miranda had been quick to judge him, and even quicker to remind him how the public saw him without Cerberus to back him up. What they didn’t realize was that he was more than Cerberus, much more. And Cerberus itself wasn’t what everyone believed it to be.
“Sir?”
The voice roused him from his introspection, but he was only mildly interested in what it said or who it belonged to. The former was more important, but the latter demanded more attention.
“Yes, Henry?”
Lawson stood there impatiently, his shadowy blue silhouette reflected on the glass floor beneath. It was a wonder that he was still alive, to be honest. The Reapers were not easy pursuers to evade, and the nature of Lawson’s experiments potentially held even more danger. It was a testament to both Cerberus' failsafes and the disdain he held for his daughter that he had survived as long as he had.
“We believe it’s time to enter final testing.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
“This time it’s different. We’ve seen marked growth in altered brain waves. The clinical trials the Council has been using on their operatives provided us with an abundance of data. We’re certain it’s ready.”
That the Council had supposedly begun “curing” indoctrinated individuals did nothing to increase the Illusive Man’s faith in Lawson’s team. They had been attempting for months—really years, if the idea’s conception were counted—to slightly alter the indoctrination signal emitted by a Reaper so that its drones could be controlled. They’d started with the remains of Sovereign; then slowly, after much investigation and many errors, they’d embedded agents on Khar’Shan to study the Reaper corpse found on Dis by batarian nationals. Even the shell orbiting Mnemosyne had yielded fascinating results before all personnel stationed there perished.
After all that, the accomplishments that had been borne of such dangerous work were nothing to scoff at. Physical augmentations, hypnotic suggestion, even limited biotic usage through hybrid Reaper tech. But in all of that grandeur, they had still never been able to replicate the indoctrination signal, nor had they ever been able to effectively alter it. Any attempts to do so resulted in what may as well have been white noise or static.
And worse still, they couldn’t even guarantee their own safety. When the Reapers had invaded, the impulse to simply surrender control and essentially commit suicide had been nearly impossible to ignore. As much as the Illusive Man hated to admit it, Shepard had been right about one thing; he’d gotten far too close. So much that they almost controlled him. Every second was a struggle. A constant voice whispering in his ear to simply stop fighting. To give in.
That was why he knew he was doing the right thing. They wanted him out of the picture. Immobile in every sense of the word, stripped of the brilliant mind that made him such a threat. There was still plenty left of the Illusive Man despite Cerberus's downfall, but without his intellect, he was nothing. There was a cold fire and a measured calculus in him that stood in polar opposition to the traits the Reapers feared in Shepard.
If only she hadn’t been so stubborn, the two of them could have brought the galaxy to its knees.
“Theta wave therapy is hardly the same as hijacking ten thousand Reaper drones,” the Illusive Man said. He had been robbed of his personal office aboard Cronos Station, and he had very nearly run out of nicotine thanks to this war, but there were still ways to make due. His personal shuttle did at least have a comfortable seating area, with hourly ventilation to get rid of the smoke from the cigar he lit. “I need more than that.”
“You’ve seen the command we respect from regulated soldiers.”
“You mean the people you pick up off the streets to run tests on.”
“I don’t see why that’s relevant. The results are the same.”
“A few dozen distraught humans would be far more susceptible to manipulation than Reaper drones.” He took a long drag and let the smoke linger between himself and the holographic image in front of him.
“Which is why we need more direct testing,” Lawson enunciated. His patience was already at the breaking point.
“What do you suggest, Henry? That we kidnap a few drones from the middle of a warzone? If that’s your plan, be my guest. But don’t complain about the bullet holes afterward.”
“If we used the full extent of your remaining resources, there would be no need to place non-combatants in the line of fire!”
“The galactic economy has collapsed. Money won’t buy much when the galaxy’s tangible assets are in the hands of individuals who see me as an enemy.”
His simple dismissal of Lawson’s concerns wasn’t a lie, but he understood the man’s agitation. There truly was no end to the Illusive Man’s ingenuity, and he’d proven that time and time again during this war. He’d continued to deal in information that he had no right being aware of, he’d made political maneuverings despite his limited capabilities, and his network had remained largely intact despite the wholesale slaughter of the majority of his forces.
What really got under Lawson’s skin, however, was the fact that the Illusive Man was still dealing with Miranda. Or at least, he’d sufficiently used her to his advantage, even if the only contact they’d had was a brief conversation over half a year ago. Distasteful as it was, the Illusive Man had to use what means were available to him. He no longer had the luxury of picking and choosing whom he dealt with.
Of course, it would be a lie to say that he hadn’t gleaned some primal satisfaction in bending her to his will yet again, all without her ever being aware of it.
“With all due respect, we both know you’re capable of far more than you let on,” Lawson continued. “How you’ve managed to maintain such a handle on the current situation eludes me, but don’t think me as ignorant as the Council.”
“I would never.”
The truth was that the Illusive Man didn’t hold Lawson in very high regard. There weren’t many he regarded at all, were he being brutal about it. Shepard had once held his respect, but she had lost it in her bullheaded attempt to take control of the opposition to the Reaper threat. Her rather blue-collar approach hadn’t been unexpected, but the Illusive Man had so hoped he could convince her to see reason—to see the merit in controlling such unthinkably powerful tools. Instead she had chosen the path to annihilation.
Lawson, on the other hand, had never been more than a means to an end. His money had come in rather handy over the years, and it was safe to say that without his support, Cerberus would never have become a fraction of what it had been. The Illusive Man may well have perished in the initial invasion if not for the safeguards and countermeasures that had been put in place using wealth and assets from Cerberus’s many benefactors.
But Henry Lawson wasn’t a visionary. He wasn’t a man plagued by great and terrible visions of the future, nor was he the least bit concerned about the state of the galaxy. He was a selfish man who, in his hubris, had created a woman who far surpassed him in every way. And even in the midst of the uproar the entire galaxy was currently faced with, the Illusive Man was sure Miranda would be her father’s downfall.
And that was the real reason Henry was so upset. His greatest contribution to the universe had been a daughter that would ensure his name was forgotten with time. His current work, while surely important to the overall goal the Illusive Man had devised, wouldn’t be remembered as his contribution. He was merely the facilitator, and that responsibility would earn him no prestige or fame that would stand the true test of time.
He deserved pity, if anything. This was his dying attempt to feel relevant, and the Illusive Man had made it clear that he wasn’t even important enough to devote any significant amount of attention. The testing was important in truth, and regardless of how ill-prepared they were to move to the next phase of trials, the Illusive Man agreed that further steps needed to be taken. However, he had all the data at his fingertips. If Lawson couldn’t get it done on his own, he would simply be replaced by someone who could.
Perhaps the Illusive Man could even trick Miranda into doing the work for him. She’d already made remarkable leaps and bounds when adequately incentivized, and she was ten times the genius and inspiring presence her father was.
It was too far of a stretch, but he liked to entertain the idea all the same.
“You know, I could have cut and run when the Reapers decimated Cerberus,” Lawson said emphatically, as if that were some revelation or show of loyalty. He’d merely been too cowardly to hand himself over to the Alliance. “Instead I remained to finish the work that we started years ago.”
“And for that, I will always be grateful, Henry.” The Illusive Man was lying through his teeth, but he knew that he’d perfected the art. Individuals unfamiliar with or disinclined toward deceit had tells, or didn’t know what the tell-tale signs were. If one’s morals told them that lying to someone was wrong, their faces showed guilt even in the most expressionless of people. Similarly, if they didn’t know what the human face subconsciously did when lying, they didn’t know what to cover up.
It wasn’t necessarily something he was proud of, like many of his skills, but it had been important that the Illusive Man perfect it. He was so familiar with the psychology of a liar that he had become the ultimate faker. Perfectly polite, never breaking eye contact, maintaining a respectful tone of voice in spite of his utter disdain towards the subject of his conversation; the best tutors money could buy had taken him a long way, but he had used his own intellect and experiences to make the connection flawless. In a world where discourse was the lifeblood of the universe, the Illusive Man had become the master at manipulating it.
That was all he was, really. A puppeteer pulling strings.
“Perhaps a show of that gratitude is in order,” Lawson said.
The insubordination surprised the Illusive Man. Not because it had been unexpected, but because it was out of character. Rarely did Lawson ever speak so directly. He was a man who knew how much the Illusive Man valued respect, and how much he loathed being disrespected. The implication that he was being selfish—that he hadn’t given Henry enough to accomplish his task, despite being the sole reason that anyone from Cerberus was still alive—was far more than disrespectful or treacherous. It was an insult.
But the Illusive Man didn’t lose his control. If he were to break the facade of superiority indicated by his coolheadedness, the entire illusion would fall apart. His hands would slip, the strings would be seen, and the curtain would pull back to reveal that it had been a meticulous performance the entire time. When the fate of the universe depended on that performance, it simply couldn’t be tolerated.
“Has sparing your life not been a remarkable show of gratitude?”
Lawson fidgeted for a moment, unsure whether he’d heard the Illusive Man correctly. “Come again?”
“You heard me the first time, Henry. Is it not enough that I’ve allowed you to live this long?”
“If this is some kind of threat, I don’t think—”
“I don’t make threats.” He spoke slowly, but loudly, and with the commanding voice that had stopped monarchs, heads of state, and the most battle-hardened warriors in their tracks. What chance did Henry Lawson stand? “You know as well as I do, Henry, that my greatest strength lies in information and honesty. When I say that you wouldn’t be alive if not for the protocols I established for this exact situation, you know I’m speaking the truth. And when I say that I can easily take what’s been given, I trust you understand the truth behind those words as well. If you’re not on my side, then you’re in my way. I won’t let anything stop me from saving this universe.”
The silence that grew between them was much more than the absence of sound waves reverberating off the walls. It extended through circuits and wiring, transmitting such a severity and gravity through the feed that Lawson felt it a thousand lightyears away. There was something to be said for sitting two people down together in a room and letting them speak, but in situations like these, the Illusive Man did pride himself in being able to make his power felt even through distant communication.
And he allowed that silence to become uncomfortable, patiently waiting for Henry to respond. This was his make or break moment; he could grow a spine and turn his back, or he could continue leeching off the success and determination of others in order to survive. The Illusive Man had no doubt which option he would choose, but it was important for Lawson to have the ability to make a way for himself. In choosing not to, it would only cement his reliance on the Illusive Man, and serve as a reminder that he didn’t have the will to be his own man.
“I’m very grateful for all that you’ve done,” Henry finally said through gritted teeth. The Illusive Man did gain some base sense of satisfaction at his victory, but he didn’t dare let it get to his head. “I only wish for our efforts to be more expeditious than—”
“The current longevity of our project is well within established parameters,” the Illusive Man interrupted. “It’s not ideal, but we’re not at risk of going extinct any time soon. The galactic community is too widespread for that.”
“But if we were to see the project through to completion, think of how much bloodshed could be avoided! Without their ground troops, the Reapers would have to go system by system, planet by planet, clunkily landing their superstructures just to be able to attack.”
This time, there was no fallacy in his logic. The quicker they completed their work, the sooner the galaxy could be saved. If the Illusive Man could have simply waved a magic wand to increase the productivity of his scientists, he would have. Every human life lost in this idiotic war was a needless tragedy.
But as the laws of the universe would have it, individuals lost their sense of creativity and passion when subjugated. As soldiers, it was a fine idea. One didn’t need to think critically in order to shoot a gun—at least, not when he had a million others shooting their guns with him. In-depth research and analysis, on the other hand, was an entirely different beast. Without passion and purpose, even the most intelligent of individuals amounted to little more than mindless drones.
“You’re not saying anything that hasn’t been discussed before,” the Illusive Man said. “As much as we’d all love this war to end, the best course of action is to stick to the plan.”
“And what? Hope that we can hijack the neural impulses of those treated with theta wave therapy?”
“The residual indoctrination signal should still be in place. Theta waves can’t eradicate electrical impulses in the brain.”
“That’s a hypothesis at best, and you know it.”
True. “It’s better than anything else we have at the moment. And we at least have a lead on where a handful of these ‘treated’ individuals can be found.”
Lawson chuckled dryly at that. “Your assets within the Alliance turned up another trail, I assume?”
The Illusive Man had always hated the term “asset” to describe a provider of information. Some of his most valuable “assets” had been the lowest of the low: street thugs, drug dealers, disgraced authority figures, down on their luck politicians. In this case, a facilities maintenance technician who cleaned toilets and kept the lights to Hackett’s flagship on. With little more than a small transfer of credits to his account, the Illusive Man had bought knowledge of quite a bit of what went on aboard the Armistice. No one cared what they said around the janitors. And while the intel proved unreliable on occasion, there had never been any cases of outright misinformation.
All because a single man didn’t understand how the galactic economy worked. If they survived this war, his credits would likely mean nothing. The entire galaxy was bankrupt. The only thing that mattered were physical objects, not the imaginary concept of money.
“You wanted a bone, and I’m throwing you one,” the Illusive Man continued. “Take your team to Omega. A Council task force will be heading there courtesy of the negotiations Hackett’s made with Aria T’Loak. We’re not sure what their ultimate goal is, but it shouldn’t be relevant to your mission. Test your latest findings, and if the results are promising, we’ll progress to more wide scale applications.”
That got Lawson’s attention. He truly wasn’t so different from a feral dog. Throw him something to sink his teeth into, and he would chew on it contentedly for hours. Keep him waiting, however, and the barking would drive one mad.
“I suppose we don’t have much of a choice, do we?” he asked, knowing the answer well before speaking. “We’re close to the Omega Nebula. We’ll fly in under the guise of pirate refugees and hope Aria’s feeling generous. If all goes well, we can be set up before the Council’s operatives arrive.”
A quick turn-around, as expected. Truthfully, the majority of the conversation could have been avoided if only the Illusive Man had led with this offering, but he enjoyed the show. If he was to be a puppeteer, he was going to make sure his performance was well worth the smoke and mirrors.
“I won’t waste any more of your time, then,” he told Lawson. “Follow protocol and keep in contact. I expect a progress report within the week.”
“Understood. Lawson out.”
The blue blur of Henry Lawson’s figure evaporated into thin air, leaving the Illusive Man alone in his shuttle drifting through space. He blew out a puff of smoke from his cigar, let the cloud hang in the air for a moment, and then snuffed his tobacco out in the ashtray next to his chair.
The cybernetic enhancements in his eyes flashed back at him from the reflection of the polished wall, and for a moment all he could do was stare into them. He couldn’t see any of his features in the reflection, or any indication that the interior of his shuttle existed behind him. All he saw was the distinct bright light emitted from his implants.
End it now.
He continued to stare. Long, introspective moments had always been normal for the Illusive Man, but this was something different. Could it really be called introspection if the voices in his head didn’t belong to him? It was more of a conversation, really; one that he never had gained the upper hand in. No matter how strong his resolve or how great his fortitude, there was never any end to the ceaseless whisper of machinery encouraging him to simply stop existing.
He wanted to, in some strange way. It would have been so much easier to simply give up; to free himself of all responsibility and burden rather than carry the literal weight of the galaxy on his shoulders. But that would be cowardice, and others would suffer because of it. While he sat comfortably in the thralls of the afterlife—or the void of nothingness; he hadn’t quite decided which he believed in—the rest of humanity would be doomed to a similar if not worse fate. They would be annihilated, surviving only in memory via a proxy that would desecrate the sanctity of their very existence.
So no, he wouldn’t end it all. And yes, he would continue to fight the battle raging inside his mind for the rest of time, if need be. Call it stubborn or pointless; surely, given enough time, the Reapers would win the battle. After all, it was almost impossible to outthink a race of hyper-intelligent sentient machines.
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Almost.
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The room had become deadly silent despite the copious amounts of alcohol we’d imbibed and the generally carefree feeling we’d established with our drunken antics. Hackett had tried to explain this batshit insane plan the biotics and scientists had come up with, but either the booze was interfering with my brain processes or it really just made no sense whatsoever. And the sad thing was that it hadn’t exactly been a blindside; we’d known they were working on some crazy shit, using Reaper tech to learn how to manipulate time via dark energy. I just hadn’t thought they would go so far with it.
“Say that one more time?” Adison requested. He was the only one who hadn’t actually consumed any alcohol, so we were depending on him to be the sober voice of reason.
“No, please don’t,” Antarom protested. “If I have to listen to that ridiculous pile of shit again, I won’t be able to think straight.”
I couldn’t have agreed more, opting to show my support by ditching the glasses we’d all been drinking from and instead going straight for the bottle. It wasn’t necessarily my intention to get any more inebriated than I already was, but there was no denying the fact that I wasn’t exactly sober either. You never function properly at the halfway point, so if I wasn’t going to be clear-headed any time soon, I might as well commit.
“Maybe this isn’t the right time to be intoxicated?” Liara gestured toward the alcohol and I frowned defensively.
“This is exactly the right time for it,” Troy countered, slamming a palm against the bar far more forcibly than I’m sure he meant to. “As if it wasn’t batshit enough that the biotics were trying to harness time instead of space, now they’re, what? Trying to infuse the Reapers with biotic power?”
Hackett scowled, staring at the third glass he’d poured for himself. “It’s not quite that simple.”
“Seems pretty damn simple to me.”
“Troy,” Adison chided, but he didn’t get far before Antarom interrupted again.
“No, for once the kid’s right.” She stumbled forward, clumsily making her way around the lounger she’d been seated at so that she could get closer to the group. “It was one thing to let our people be implanted with Reaper tech, but now this?”
After having the implant for over eight months, you’d think I’d have gotten used to the Seer telling me things that I wouldn’t have otherwise known. You’d also think that I’d have gotten used to being drunk while simultaneously having my sensory perception nearly tripled in comparison to the average human. Unfortunately, I’m a pretty slow learner, and damn was I an oblivious motherfucker. I’d heard footsteps and I’d smelled the ballistic fibers of body armor, and I’d even heard the electrical currents of his eyepiece before he’d rounded the corner, but Garrus still took me by surprise.
“What have I missed?”
Every head in the room turned to greet him, and by the look on his face, I knew we must have been a sight to see. It wasn’t really possible for turians to frown and raise an eyebrow at the same time due to their exoskeletal structure, but somehow Garrus still got the expression across. Of course, at least four of us were drunk, Hackett was quickly on his way, and Shepard was wearing civilian clothing, so naturally it was an unusual mess for him to walk into.
“Fucking great,” Antarom breathed before taking another swig of her drink. “If you guys start explaining it to him, I’m out.”
Shepard and Hackett both looked at each other, and I don’t recall ever having been more uncomfortable. I’d never seen either of them shy away from their duties, and I’d especially never seen them so casual about it. But when they looked at each other, it couldn’t have been more clear that neither of them wanted to give words to what was an impossible hypothetical to explain to someone.
“I’ve already done my part,” Hackett said while he sat on one of the barstools. “It’ll sound better coming from you, anyway.”
Shepard sighed deeply. “I thought you’d say something like that.” Then she sat down next to Antarom, took a swig of J’kal’s ale—which he nearly leapt out of his seat to stop—and faced Garrus.
Then she explained the entire thing, start to finish. A handful of biotics had implanted themselves with Reaper tech, begun learning to manipulate time in similar fashion to the way the protheans had, and they were now considering a technological union between themselves and the Reapers. She was sure to emphasize that no one was being converted—no new Reapers were being created, nor were any organics being mutilated, dissected, or otherwise harmed in any way. Rather, this theoretical consensual hybridization would allow the full power of a biotic individual to be enhanced to unimaginable proportions by essentially using a Reaper as a conduit and amplifier. Then, since they controlled the mass relay network, the Reapers would use that same technology to amplify the effect even further. With all the relays directed to the Omega-4 relay, and a biotic/Reaper hybrid unit shooting raw energy through the relays, they could hypothetically hit the galactic core with an enormous surge of biotic power that would create a reversed temporal distortion field, hopefully ending the galactic compression.
It took several long minutes for Shepard to finish her explanation, during which we all basically zoned out and started drooling like zombies while we tried to process the sheer ridiculousness of such a thing. Garrus similarly zoned out, but it was a sort of focused loss of clarity; he looked like he was absorbing all the information perfectly, but like the rest of us, was having trouble deciding whether or not it was a joke.
It had to be. It was all just a joke. The biotics and scientists and even the geth and Wardens had all gone insane during the last six months trying to solve an unsolvable problem. In their raving insanity, they had resorted to not one, but at least seven hundred bad ideas that all led us to the most unthinkable solution anyone had ever thought of.
That, or we really were being played, and the Wardens truly were still allied with the Reapers. It made sense, in a roundabout way. Their entire purpose was to harvest biotics in the hope that they could create a Reaper with the ability to manipulate dark energy. What better way to do that and simultaneously annihilate their most stalwart resistance with a single strategy? Granted, it was a very, very long con, but machines don’t necessarily have the same perception of time. For them, it was probably like the blink of an eye.
But that was bullshit. The biotics had already started the crazy shit and begun implanting themselves with Reaper tech, and so far none of them had turned on us. Yet.
Antarom left the room, as promised, well before Shepard finished hashing out the plan. When all was said and done, she looked exhausted just from trying to rationalize the irrational so that Garrus wouldn’t think everyone had gone insane. But they had, and this plan coming from the leader of the Alliance’s military force just reinforced the idea that we were living in a dream world where only the most ludicrous notions of one’s imagination came to life.
“Yeah . . .” Garrus vocalized after a solid five minutes of silence. “I’m . . . gonna need some time to process that.”
“The plan has merit,” Liara offered weakly.
“Merit?” Troy yelled, indignant at the thought of this intelligence-insulting plan having any shred of merit to it. “That’s what we’re calling merit now? Fuck me.”
“The science behind it, while theoretical, does seem to support the idea that—”
“Doctor,” Hackett interrupted, putting a hand to the vein on the side of his forehead. “We don’t have to sugarcoat it. It’s insanity.”
Liara frowned, dejected at the thought that she was the only one trying to stay optimistic. Or maybe not even optimistic, but rather accepting. When the Reapers had first told us that not all of them wanted to annihilate organic life, we’d been so skeptical that they literally had to sacrifice themselves just to prove a point. When they’d given us the technology to identify and treat the effects of indoctrination, we’d spent months running our own tests before even trying to restore individuals who had been subjected to the indoctrination signal. When they’d tried to help reconcile the geth and quarians by granting the geth individuality, the quarians had tried to murder every machine in sight.
Every time the Wardens tried to do the right thing, we let our own suspicions and notions of absurdity get in the way of actual progress. Everything that had happened in the war up until that point had been nothing short of chaotic and ridiculous. It made some ironic sense that the way to heal the universe—which in and of itself was a stupid concept—would require a course of action that seemed equally stupid.
And like Liara had said, the theoretical pseudoscience behind it all wasn’t technically impossible. Just highly improbable.
It occurred to me then that I might have been a contrarian. Any time a group of people in my vicinity agreed on something, I always wanted to disagree. Popular music? Actually, I hated it. Tasty food? Not for my palette. Insane plan to stop the universe from imploding? Well, it wasn’t that insane. We’d done crazier shit.
Now that’s a lie.
“So why are we treating this like it’s our only move?” Adison asked, again being the sole voice of logic and actual helpful conversation.
“Because time’s running out,” Shepard answered for Hackett. “The Reapers may not be able to wipe us all out any time soon, but we won’t be able to play hide-and-seek for much longer. If we wait, we may not have the manpower or the capability to put any real plans to action.”
There was a depressing thought. Whether it was weeks, months, or even years, eventually we’d reach a point where we just didn’t have the ships or the people to actually do anything. Sure, civilization could still hide and put up a fight with guerilla tactics, and they’d probably still last for decades. But within a relatively short amount of time, we’d be finished, even if we didn’t know it yet.
“That doesn’t seem like the greatest reason to fire a half-loaded rifle,” Garrus said. He’d taken the seat Antarom had previously inhabited, and if there had been any dextro alcohol there for him to consume, I’m sure he would have. He very nearly took a drink of J’kal’s liquor before realizing that he’d be the fourth person to do so, virtually guaranteeing his death. If the drink didn’t do him in, the batarian surely would have.
“You’re right, it’s not,” Hackett said plainly. “If we had the luxury of treating this war like any other, this wouldn’t even be an option worth considering. Hell, I still don’t want to give the scientists the green light to get it started. But I’m going to, because other than playing the attrition game, it’s the only plan we have. The smartest people in the galaxy say the dumbest idea in the universe might actually save us. I’ll be damned if I don’t take that chance.”
Fuck me, he was already committed. He’d just come down to the bar so we would all have a bit of a heads-up before shit hit the fan. In hindsight I should’ve realized the conversation wasn’t a simple brainstorming session, but I was drunk and dumbstruck and—at that point in time—altogether just very dumb. Nothing made sense, but everything made sense at the same time, and the only consistent thought in my head was that ultimately it didn’t matter because there was no going back to my old life. Whatever happened, happened, and I’d just have to deal with it.
God, what I would have given to have just landed my plane in Vancouver, watched a live music performance, and gone back home at the end of the week.
“That’s it, then,” Adison said. “No point debating it.”
“I—” Troy opened his mouth to argue, but stopped himself before he got even two words into it. I understood his impulse to continue vehemently vocalizing his concerns, but Hackett had made it clear there wasn’t any room for negotiation. He’d simply done us the courtesy of informing us before shit got really crazy and letting us vent without repercussion. Anything more than that, we’d have to sort out on our own time.
“So we start planning,” Shepard continued, picking up where Adison left off. “If the biotics and the Wardens are the key to saving the galaxy, we have to make sure they’re protected at all costs.”
Hackett nodded, slowly but surely slipping back into his business demeanor. “It’ll be a tricky maneuver. Obviously, the Omega-4 Relay will be our top priority. We have to maintain control of it even if it loses us everything.”
“Aria will have something to say about that, I’m sure,” Liara added.
“We’ve stayed in touch ever since the summit at Sentinel Outpost. We’ll be aiding her with a few engagements in the Terminus Systems in exchange for her letting a Council fleet patrol the area. Omega station itself will be the launching point for all our operations in that system.”
It blew my mind that we had transitioned from ludicrous hypothetical space magic to real war talk so quickly, but that may also have been due to the alcohol. Time does act differently when you’re drunk, and for all I knew we’d actually spent a decent amount of time letting the insanity breathe. Unfortunately, it would take me a much longer time to fully come to terms with all of it.
I did, however, know that if this was the plan we were going to follow through on, there were some things that we needed to clear up first.
“What about the other relays?” I asked. “Won’t they be just as important when we finally get all this shit into place?”
Hackett nodded again. If he noticed that I was drunk, he didn’t pay it any attention. “Eventually, we’ll need to draw up plans to get our Warden allies into place across the galaxy, protected by as much of our fleets as we can spare. But for now, we don’t want to give the Reapers any reason to believe we may have a plan that’ll see us moving vessels all over the galaxy. We keep things as quiet as possible, continue resisting, and draw their attention as far away from Omega as possible.”
Well, at least our part in the plan sounded fairly reasonable. If the biotics had to do their weird hybridization shit, fine; the less I knew about the details, the better. Where the rest of us were concerned, it was just another military op, and I had gotten all too familiar with those during the war. Asset prioritization, unit coordination, fleet deployments, VIP safeguarding—there wasn’t much we hadn’t been a part of, and it all came fairly naturally to me. Plus, Shepard and Hackett were some of the greatest military strategists I’d ever seen. Add the geth’s processing power and the salarians’ intricate minds into the mix, and we’d have a foolproof plan in no time.
Omega was a bit of a bigger concern. I hadn’t stayed up to date on what things had been like in the Terminus Systems, so hopefully Aria had it all under control out there. Furthermore, we had to take it on faith that helping her fight skirmishes in the surroundings systems wouldn’t draw too much attention to our real priority: the Omega-4 Relay. If the Reapers even caught a whiff of what we were planning, they were sure to blow up the entire relay network just to spite us.
They’re not that vengeful. They need the relays just as much as we do.
That’s what I’d thought about the Citadel right before it had been decimated.
“What’s our part in all this, then?” Garrus asked, reeling me back into the conversation.
“You’ll be running point with Aria,” Hackett answered before finishing the last of his drink. “Once we get the all-clear, I want all of you on Omega as soon as possible. As I understand it, the Normandy crew has quite a history there.”
Shepard scoffed. “I guess you could say that. Knowing Aria, we’ll be doing the brunt of her dirty work for her.”
“When isn’t that the case, though?” Troy interrupted.
“Be that as it may,” Hackett said, stopping the conversation before it devolved into another argument, “the work you’ll be doing out there will make sure we’re ready when we hit the home stretch, whenever that may be. There’s still plenty of strategizing and coordination that needs to be taken care of before we start making any big moves.”
I merely nodded, along with pretty much everyone else. Any time Hackett briefed us on an upcoming mission, there was no questioning it—it wasn’t a request, but rather an order, and we all knew it. We’d ask any questions we could think of that would be relevant to the mission’s completion, discuss the relevant details, and voice concerns, but when all was said and done we knew what was going to happen. We were being given a job, end of story.
Even so, Hackett was much more open and relatable than I’d ever seen him, and I knew it was for our sakes just as much as his own. The war had begun wearing us all down despite our best efforts to keep the stress at bay. The fact that we’d discussed military strategy in a bar while half of us were drunk was a testament to that fact.
“Listen,” Hackett said, standing from the stool he’d been perched on so he could get a clear view of everyone. “I know how chaotic all of this is. We’re riding out into a hurricane with nothing but a tree branch for protection. But we are going to make this work—all of us. And we all have to be at the top of our game.”
A wave of guilt hit me broadside hearing those words. I’d come a remarkably long way in regards to my mental and emotional baggage, but I knew full well that I was still far from my peak. Furthermore, I knew that there were plenty of others who had it far worse than I did: Tali immediately sprang to mind, only reminding me that damn near everyone had some trauma that continued to cause them pain thanks to the war. Garrus still hadn’t heard from his family, Shepard still couldn’t find some of her crew, Liara’s Shadow Broker responsibilities had reached a ridiculously taxing level; the list went on and on. Even J’Kal, as much of a surly bastard as he was, was still mourning the loss of damn near his entire people.
Then there were assholes like Antarom who seemed to enjoy the chaos and the carnage, but she didn’t count.
“We’ll be ready, sir.” Shepard’s voice abruptly jarred me from my own internal monologue, reeling me back into the moment yet again. I had to stop doing that.
Hackett nodded, gave the room a once-over, and seemed to decide that it was back to business for him. “That settles it, then. Until you hear otherwise, it’s back to the routine. You’ll slowly be getting more mission details over the coming days, so keep up to date on your omni-tools and report in with any questions or concerns.”
Everyone nodded in agreement or mumbled a militaristic, “Understood.” J’Kal, being the isolated recluse he was, simply grunted.
Satisfied that he’d accomplished his goal and hadn’t exploded anyone’s brains, Hackett left the bar and returned to his duties. I think all of us wanted to continue discussing the complete mindfuckery that had just happened, but no one seemed to be able to form the right words. Instead, following Hackett’s lead, people slowly drifted out of the bar and back to whatever they’d been doing. I would have followed, but honestly I didn’t have anywhere to go and I sure as hell didn’t want to make an ass out of myself by drunkenly stumbling back to my quarters.
Eventually, the only souls left were Troy, Adison, Claire, and myself.
“You guys . . . good?” Troy asked weakly.
Adison nodded, frowned, and never even blinked as his unflinching gaze locked on to the floor. “I think I just need to process. Everything.”
With just one word, I knew he was referring to more than just the absolute insanity of a plan we’d just been told about. The fact remained that we’d only been told hours earlier that we were stuck in this reality, and there really wasn’t any good way to handle that news. Whether we’d made our peace with it or not, the tangible reality of it had a way of smacking you upside the head so hard you’d swear someone just swung a battleaxe at it.
“I need sleep,” Troy said. “And less alcohol in me. I’m going back to my room.”
Nobody responded, choosing instead to watch as he stumbled his way out of the bar and down the hall. I wanted to pour myself another drink to help combat the clusterfuck of thoughts and emotions raging in me, but my better sensibilities told me that wasn’t a good idea. Not to mention the fact that Claire was present, and we weren’t in the same happy-go-lucky mood that had aided our drunken antics earlier. Getting any more hammered would only amplify the negative at that point.
“We should go, too,” Adison said, still not breaking line of sight with the floor.
“Go ahead,” I breathed, and I reached over to grab the pot of coffee he’d been drinking from. “I think I’m gonna stay here for a bit.”
He nodded again, took a second, and slowly made his way out of the bar.
Claire and I sat in silence for a long time contemplating everything that had just been thrown at us. I wasn’t sure what her reasons were, but we were both as content as we could be to just sit there running through everything in our minds. Of course, she had just been released after nearly eight months of what I could only assume was almost total isolation—of course she wouldn’t want to wander off on her own, no matter how much she had on her mind.
I wasn’t even thinking straight. When people tell you to take some time to process or get your head in the right space, it’s damn near impossible to actually know what they mean by that, let alone accomplish it. For me, anyway. I get distracted easily. When I’m with my own thoughts, they like to veer off on tangents rather than dealing with the immediate concern. After all, the subconscious mind is designed to keep us from danger. When it senses a train of thought that could derail my entire fragile emotional state, it tries to deflect.
“You okay with all this?” I heard from my right. Claire and I were both seated at the bar, and it was only then that I noticed she had also poured herself a cup of coffee. It was going to be a long night.
“Yeah,” I replied, brushing off the immense weight of everything that had been discussed over the past hour. “Yeah, I will be. Don’t have much choice, right?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
My forehead bent into a frown and I looked her in the eyes.
“We’re implanting ourselves with Reaper tech now?”
Of course. Claire had been left completely out of the loop regarding any and all goings-on behind the curtain, which naturally included all the stupid shit the biotics and tech nerds had been experimenting with. I’d thought the rest of us had received a shock, but I couldn’t imagine how she felt not having known that this was a path they’d already started going down.
“It’s Warden tech, but yeah,” I replied.
“From where I’m standing, there still isn’t much of a difference.”
I took a sip of my coffee, marvelling at how hot it was despite having been brewed over an hour ago. “You’ve been out of the game for a while, Claire. They’ve been in the trenches with us for six months. Kind of.”
She sighed loudly, and I couldn’t blame her. “I still don’t trust them.”
“I don’t think any of us do, really. But they’re not all bad. We might’ve lost you if not for their tech.”
If only foresight were as clear as hindsight. At first I thought nothing of the statement, but after a few moments of silence I glanced at Claire and quickly realized my mistake. She didn’t seem upset or even put-off, but I could see her mind reeling with thoughts that no one should ever have to consider.
“Shit, I didn’t mean to . . .”
“No, it’s fine,” she said. “You’re probably right. I’d just rather not think about it.”
She didn’t need to say another word. “Consider it dropped. We’ve got enough shit on our plate.”
Claire chuckled dryly at that. “‘I need you all at the top of your game.’ Like we’ve ever actually been a stable group of people.”
She was venting, I knew, and hardly held any positive feelings behind her statement, but I found it funny nevertheless. The fate of the galaxy really had been put in the hands of people who were tearing apart at the seams. Fate or God or whatever cosmic entity ruled over the whole of reality wouldn’t have had it any other way.
“We really should get some rest,” I said, trying to take the conversation in any direction that wasn’t painfully somber. “You’re gonna be back in the field soon, and weighing in on half a billion reports like the rest of us. Can’t save the galaxy without a good night’s sleep.”
There was a moment of pure silence where I can only assume she was weighing either her words or her options, because she was staring at the wall like she was trying to burn a hole through it. “I’ve been resting for six months. The last thing I want to do is sleep.”
I nodded, finished the last of my coffee, and set the cup on the bar. “Yeah, me too. I’ll probably just end up reading situation reports in my quarters for the next six hours.”
“Can I come?” Claire’s eyes finally drifted away from the wall and met mine. “I just . . . I don’t want to be alone. You can catch me up on everything I’ve missed.”
Well, that was unexpected.
Although to be fair, it really shouldn’t have been. Who would want to be left alone with nothing but their omni-tool to keep them company after being in isolation for so long? Add in the fact that we’d just been handed a giant pile of shit and told to swallow it like it was candy, and you had a winning combination of reasons why a person shouldn’t be alone.
Besides, I knew I wasn’t going to be sleeping any time in the near future. How could I with all the bullshit rumbling around in my brain? Claire would be a quite welcome presence, and it would no doubt do both of us some good to absorb all the lunacy we’d been fed together.
“Of course,” I said.
Then we headed back to my quarters.