"Master Sergeant Whitman, sir." A stocky cop approached Shepard, who had just turned from the door. "I command the MP detachment on the frigate. Good day." He saluted.
"Good day, Master Sergeant." Shepard returned the salute. "Assuming you're unhappy that I pulled your subordinate off his post without asking?"
"I would be unhappy, sir," the man didn't deny. "You're right—your Alliance supply officer has started imagining too much about himself lately. He 'buys goods with his own money,' you see. Interesting where a rear-echelon Alliance rat, dressed in the semi-military uniform of an Alliance specialist"—Shepard clearly caught the unspoken addition: "by some mistake dressed"—"gets that kind of money."
Whitman's hands clenched into fists, not much smaller than Captain Shepard's own.
"They brought him on a 'test' flight for a couple of weeks, and I can tell you—this reeks of something other than a test flight… sorry, sir." The master sergeant drew himself up. "He's straight-up robbing my men. And he doesn't even treat yours like people…"
"Says the fliers dug in on the frigate. Flying high and thinking too much of themselves?" Shepard remarked without emotion.
"You're a real XO, sir. Knowing things like that…"
"These aren't little things, Master Sergeant. Not for me," steel crept into Shepard's voice.
"Glad to hear it, sir. Permission to consult with you?" The master sergeant pulled out his command datapad. "I saw you put my sergeant on trading and ship supply duty. I support it. I trust him. I've been to his hometown more than once—where he was born and raised. People trust him there. He's never shorted anyone, always gives discounts, and sells only quality goods, surviving on a two-percent margin. Captain, I understand I may be stepping out of my lane. But I don't want you, XO, to think my people are ballast." Whitman flipped the datapad open, brought up the screen. "Here. Look. A list of my proposals. My men are professionals."
"I see it, Master Sergeant. And I appreciate it. Good timing, coming to me right now," Shepard said, scanning the proposals.
"You know, Captain. To be blunt, I feel uneasy. I've been in the military twenty-five years. I've seen everything. But this…" The master sergeant swallowed, crushing the words trying to climb onto his tongue at the root. "It smells like a grave. And that grave is very close… I wouldn't want that rookie Jenkins… to end up disabled. Or… worse… He's from Eden…"
"Understood." After a pause, Shepard spoke. "Your men don't want to just prop up bulkheads. Good. Master Sergeant, send copies of your people's diplomas and certificates to the ship's command staff omni-tools. With your identifier. At a time like this, as a deep reconnaissance ship, it's better not to go out on comms even through the computers and request verification from the Alliance Navy central database. That's trouble," the XO noted. "As for the five youngest—those who don't have any professions or specialties besides military training—send them to the hangar where Corporal Jenkins is working out right now. I'll order Lieutenant Alenko to run them through a cycle of assault-landing training." Shepard didn't delay; he opened his wrist omni-tool, typed a message, and closed the interface. "We'll do what we can. But we need to make the landing team combat-capable, Master Sergeant."
"Agreed, sir." Whitman nodded. "Permission to speak, sir?"
"Granted." Shepard nodded back.
"Captain, my men and I… want to tell you our… unified view. You've just given us a chance to be something more than army cops. And we won't… forget it. We'll do everything we can to make our enemies as quickly as possible… dead." The master sergeant snapped a salute, pivoted crisply, and walked off toward the cargo hold.
"Captain, sir!" A young man in a semi-military outfit hurried toward Shepard, almost dragging along a burly military police sergeant who was holding him by one arm. "Captain, they"—the visitor glanced warily at his escort—"confiscated all my merchandise! And said they'll sell it at cost from now on! Captain, that's… That's robbery! And they're… military police! They're supposed to uphold the law!" He stopped two meters from Shepard, apparently genuinely afraid to get any closer.
The executive officer measured him with a heavy stare, growing feral again.
"Get. Down. Push-up position. Now! One hundred twenty push-ups. Exe-cute," Shepard's lips spat, his face once more turning into the mask of some Indian god.
Hearing the order, the supply officer dropped to the deck without a word and began doing push-ups.
By the eightieth rep, he could no longer straighten his stiffened arms and collapsed face-down on the metal deck plates, unable to move.
"You are a Systems Alliance Navy Supply Service quartermaster," the XO ground out. "You used the labor of civilian dockworkers for loading and unloading. For your merchandise. Doing it regularly. Constantly. Deliberately. Forgetting the Civil Service oath. You robbed Alliance soldiers. Soldiers who already don't get the highest pay. And yet they still serve. And honestly do their duty. You created debt-lawlessness aboard an Alliance war frigate. Over the last two weeks. So here's how it is." Shepard's fists slowly tightened. The MP sergeant behind the supply officer, standing at attention, sized them up with obvious respect. "No one on this ship will repay you anything. No debts. They owe you nothing. Stand up. Attention!"
The supply officer sprang up like he'd been launched by a catapult and froze at attention.
"By the authority of the frigate's executive officer, granted to me under Captain Anderson's orders," Shepard growled, "you are relieved of your functions and duties as ship's supplier. Your merchandise and all assets will be assigned to the new supplier. All your debts will remain on your books. Effective immediately, you are transferred to support personnel. Assigned as a general laborer. If I hear—once—or sense that you are performing your duties poorly, you will be thrown out an airlock. You will live in the storeroom. Your pod is reassigned to the new ship's supplier. About-face. To the storeroom—double time. Move!" Shepard spat the final command, not even glancing at how commendably fast the former supplier vanished up the ladder. "Thank you for your help, Sergeant." Instantly calm again, the captain exchanged salutes with the escort. "Return to your duties. The master sergeant will brief you on the rest."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." The sergeant pivoted crisply and left.
"So. One MP was transferred into the quartermaster role. The master sergeant is right—this specialist will be useful and valuable to us. Five MPs—young guys—I've taken as reinforcement for the frigate's landing team. That's not enough. But given the starting conditions, it's already good. We're reconnaissance, not an assault frigate. Which means six of the group of MP lugs can be safely crossed off," Shepard thought as he walked across the Combat Information Center deck, occasionally watching officers and NCOs as they got used to seeing Alliance MP sergeants step up to consoles beside them.
"The other six, including the master sergeant, can be used in the CIC and at specialist posts. That's good, too."
Now there wasn't a single empty station left around the holographic image of the frigate occupying the center of the "ring of consoles," more often called "the necklace."
Captain Anderson, standing on the bridge by the Galaxy Map, was pleased: the entire CIC was spread out before him, every person had work, and none of the Normandy crew tried to slack off or work at anything less than full capacity.
Stopping beside Pressly, Shepard didn't distract the navigation officer from his work. When Pressly finished entering data into the frigate's navigation subsystems, Shepard stepped quietly to his left.
"Charles, let's keep this quiet and drop the ranks," he said in a low voice. "What's your opinion on the approach procedure to Eden Prime?"
"Good, Captain," Pressly replied just as quietly. "If I sum up what I've been able to hear and understand, a ship that far outclasses the Normandy is waiting for us there—at least in firepower. That means we can't just show up in-system without preparation, or even let ourselves be seen. On the far side of the relay at the entry point is the planet Xanadu. But calculations and modeling show that at the projected moment the frigate exits the relay, Xanadu will be aligned between the relay and Eden Prime. Our possible withdrawal to Nirvana under stealth would require additional justification for why it's necessary."
The navigator entered new data. The images on his displays shifted.
"The planet Sion is indeed a large planet, in whose shadow we could hide the ship reliably and for a long time. But at the moment we exit the relay it will most likely be far away, in another sector of the system. If we're taking risks—and I think we'll have to risk it in any case—then from Xanadu, as close to the catapult exit point as possible, we should move under stealth toward Arcadia."
Pressly tapped a few keys. Several screens flickered as star charts appeared.
"Hiding in its shadow," he continued, "using the glare from the system's star as well as appropriate emissions, we can mask ourselves. Arcadia's size would allow us, while in its shadow, to disable stealth and drift, re-engaging the mask systems from time to time. I don't think there's much more I can add right now as the navigation officer. I can give the rest of my recommendations only when we approach the relay that leads into the Utopia system and conduct initial long-range reconnaissance without entering the relay."
"Arcadia's atmospheric layer contains, per the Alliance Navigation 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, bringing up additional displays on the navigator's console.
Pressly studied the text lines and tables with diagrams, ran some quick math on his omni-tool.
"A few days, Captain. Only a few days. I assume that if things get complicated at Eden Prime, we'll have to leave the system through the relay under stealth, and our stealth resource will need strict rationing. The Codex indicates we won't be able to recharge at Arcadia."
"And Nirvana?" Shepard switched the information on the additional displays.
Pressly jabbed a finger at a frame on the right-hand screen with satisfaction.
"The Codex says it has no scientific or commercial value, Captain. The fuel delivered for the automated station is nearly depleted. The atmosphere is residual—just xenon and krypton. For a short time we might count on the presence of iron oxides on the surface to help mask the frigate and allow us to reduce our own stealth level. But I wouldn't rely on it too much." He pointed at the relevant table on the left additional display and fell silent.
"And Xanadu? How can it provide cover?" Shepard asked, switching the information again.
Pressly ran a quick calculation.
"An atmosphere of methane and argon can help hide the ship at medium stealth settings, immediately after leaving the relay zone. We just have to calculate the transition timing precisely so we can slip into the planet's shadow right away under stealth. Surface composition: ice, potassium, calcium. Tricky, but since the planet is rarely visited because it's of low value… even with other ships moving through the relay, I doubt they'll find us. But stealth rationing will need to be done like fine jewelry work. I don't think we can stay at Xanadu long—several hours at most."
"You're right, Charles," Shepard said. "Calculate our approach timing to the relay, drift time near the relay, and relay transit. So we can slip to Xanadu. And calculate movement and maneuvers to all the planets we've discussed. So we show ourselves as little as possible from Eden Prime's perspective. Build in the maximum margins for stealth operation so we don't end up having to fly openly to the relay from anywhere in the system. The rest—later."
"Aye, Captain." Pressly nodded and went back to work.
"Yes. The new XO didn't say a lot," Charles thought. "He didn't get into details. He made the main point clear: we'll almost certainly have to act as circumstances demand."
Shepard glanced at the clock—the time pressure was rising.
Turning to Anderson by the Galaxy Map, he noted that the frigate captain had heard and seen their conversation—and agreed with Shepard's solution to the navigation problem in the Utopia system.
The XO took a few steps, climbed onto the dais, and approached the ship's captain, who was leaning his elbows on the railing around the Galaxy Map.
"Sir. With Pressly I only discussed the first part of our work in the Utopia system. Only what concerns navigation," the landing team commander said quietly. "Before we enter the relay we'll need a short drift—half an hour to an hour and a half—during which we must conduct long-range reconnaissance of Eden Prime. And the situation in Utopia as a whole. So we can act only with certainty afterward."
Shepard shifted the Galaxy Map upward and called up an image of the "shrimp" in the space he'd freed.
"According to refined data, the ship's size along the vertical axis is, at most, two kilometers. The primitive scales in the Archaeological Codex images also point to that." Shepard pulled them up and overlaid rulers. "I assume the ship won't remain in orbit of Eden Prime. It will definitely land on the planet."
Holding back from giving verbal explanations, Shepard quickly formed displays with text visible only to the captain and executive officer.
"We'll have to use the planet's infrastructure and its climate," he paused briefly so he wouldn't have to specify out loud the idea of "tickling" that super-dreadnought.
Deep down, of course, Shepard was counting not only on "tickling" it, but perhaps immobilizing the ship—making it unarmed and safe.
"You want to take a risk, Captain?" Anderson looked at his XO without surprise.
Shepard noted with satisfaction that the ship clearly meant something painful to Anderson—some memory. Otherwise the ship's captain wouldn't have hidden it in their earlier lounge conversation, when the archaeology images and the de-masked observational images had appeared on the displays.
The landing team commander didn't press Anderson—neither then nor now—to explain immediately why he'd held back. But there was a reason. And Shepard saw no other reason than Anderson's direct involvement in events connected to that ship.
"Yes. Today," the XO answered, "we still have time for all kinds of preparation. Less than twelve hours remain until midnight. Tomorrow we'll have to act to plan—and be ready for improvisation and active opposition, Commander."
"Good." Anderson called the officer of the watch. "Let's go to my cabin, Captain."
Shepard nodded and walked to the left and slightly behind the ship's commander, who was striding wide.