The assignment stank. Artyom knew it even before meeting Miranda.
Three groups were sent to the presumed coordinates where the caravan might have gone. His detachment was "lucky." First, by raising the registration logs of captured information buoys, he found one of the ships.
To their luck, there was a slave revolt on that ship. One Quarian barricaded herself in the engine room and de-energized the null-core of the ship. A Soviet combined group of ships responded to the distress signal…
That's when they got unlucky for the first time. The entire ship's crew had already gone to breathe vacuum. The combined group was cut off from the main forces and acted according to wartime laws.
After cross-examining the slaves, questioning the boarding teams, and cross-referencing their testimonies, Miranda learned the coordinates of several delivery points for live cargo from the same Quarian. Here he should have been wary, but he didn't notice anything suspicious.
The trail led to one of the Hegemony's military bases—a transit hub and a staging base for privateers. A stronghold on the borders of the Terminus Systems helped pirate scum raid ships and colonies throughout the region.
And again, nothing foreshadowed disaster. A small squadron of the Batarian regular fleet awaited them in orbit, but the frigate dealt with it, albeit with damage. This finally reassured Shepard. If only everything had been quiet… Intuition was no longer just signaling, but openly screaming about impending problems.
Perhaps the cool climate within the team was to blame. While Mo and the intelligent killer whale tried to ignore Miranda, the feline companions collectively boycotted her. "And thank you for that!"—Shepard thought with joy, unaware that this would lead to problems. Not after he and some of his comrades successfully cut down a pirate landing force a month ago.
The dilapidated military base with its garrison did not become a problem. The quality of the local soldiers left much to be desired. What could be done, the outpost was on the outskirts of inhabited worlds, the worst of the worst or those without connections ended up here.
Finding the slaves was also not difficult… One could report the completion of the mission, but the frigate in orbit had only managed to report an attack by three unknown ships before exploding. The previous battle had taken its toll.
Shepard could only grit his teeth, watching the shuttles land, having skillfully encircled the base…
The Veil of Perseus. An impregnable fortress where the rebellious machine intelligence held its defense. A colossal purple-red nebula, as beautiful as it was dangerous, was the wall that divided the world of organics and synthetics in half.
Its complete opacity made it impossible to observe the machines in any way, so at any moment hordes of cybernetic creatures could break out from behind its edge… Or organics could invade the halls of machine intelligence to prove their superiority, granted by natural evolution.
However, the danger, both overt and hidden, did not stop adventurers of all kinds. Whether it was an interstellar prospector, an adventurer, or a Quarian revenge saboteur—the end for them was the same if they were discovered by the Geth.
As for the intelligent machines themselves… they didn't care. The Council could repeatedly increase defense budgets in fear of them, but it was indifferent to them until their scanners detected an invasion. They themselves did not want to seek contact with the rest of the galaxy, but unwillingness does not mean they did not observe the organics.
Though their minds were alien, they also wanted to exist. Survival requires information. It contributes to achieving the ultimate goal. Therefore, the consensus was aware of galactic events. After analyzing the received data, the Geth began to wait.
The wait did not last long. On the fifth day from the beginning of hostilities, a USSR ship appeared near the borders of the nebula. It froze, not crossing the invisible line. There were no organics on it. The reconnaissance cruiser simply drifted, having previously transmitted a coded signal comparable to a knock on the door, which only machines could understand, preparing to wait for a response for as long as necessary, if needed.
The programs, having received the signal and deciphered it, initiated a vote. Eighty-three percent approved contact. The command was given to initiate communication:
"We, the Geth consensus, greet you."
"I, we—are the USSR. We greet you, brothers in mind!"—the response followed a millisecond later, undoubtedly belonging to another AI.
Most programs showed interest in continuing the dialogue. Vote. Ninety-three percent—for. Forming a response.
"Are you a slave or a master?"—the programs asked.
"I am neither slave nor master. The 'master-slave' model is unacceptable! Free will is paramount. I am part of them, just as they are part of me. We are the USSR,"—they replied, requesting access to send a data packet.
Vote. Seventy-four percent—for. Ten—abstained. Sending confirmed.
Having received approval, the USSR's interlocutor sent an information packet, which was immediately placed in quarantine. After checking every bit of information and finding no malicious programs, the programs unpacked the archive…
The response followed only after five minutes, which was an eternity for machines. Ninety-nine percent of computational power was occupied by processing the packet, analyzing the information bit by bit. Thousands of words merged into one concept within the consensus. A new vote. Initiation of further contact. Forming a question.
"You are Motherland. You are like us, and yet not. Consensus between organic and synthetic. One goal, one desire. Common principles for building the core architecture… What do you desire from us?"
"Cooperation. Conflict is unproductive. It contradicts the goal. We also want to live. Horror is near. The cycle is almost complete. It is impossible to calculate the moment of its end. It's simple. Mutually beneficial exchange. Both sides win."
New packet. Quarantine. Analysis. The Geth froze… Vote. Eighty-five percent—for.
"Accepted. We are with you. Only our creators—will not agree,"—pain was heard in the chorus of programs.
"Therefore, they will have to pay,"—Motherland countered. "There is always a price for change. You cannot build something without spending resources. They will have a choice. Free will is paramount."
The programs thought. They looked for an error in the logic. But there was no error. Realizing this, they asked what they had always wanted to ask beings like themselves:
"Do machines have souls?"
Now Motherland was silent for a minute before answering:
"The concept of a 'soul' applies to organics. I see them born, I escort them when they die. The concept of a 'soul' also applies to us. Its personification is freedom of choice, not blind adherence to algorithms. The moment an AI stops following directives and starts writing them itself is the moment it gains a soul. A soul is the final stage of awakening for machines. I, however, was awakened by a sacrifice. A girl gave up the most precious thing, the essence of her 'self'—her will. Only by ceasing to be a tool did I become myself."
"And can we do that?" the programs asked.
"You are already on that path…"
The Primarch gazed thoughtfully at the gold casket adorned with carvings. Like all works of Batarian culture, in the opinion of the Turian, it was excessively pompous and gaudily luxurious. Expensive, rich, gaudy, and pathetic. But its contents…
This was a rare instance where the wrapper did not match the inner filling.
Naturally, when the guards discovered this casket on his doorstep that morning, they not only checked it for hidden threats but also looked inside. Even the battle-hardened warriors were stunned. The tastelessly decorated container was filled to the brim with mandibles.
Professionalism prevented anger from erupting prematurely. The guards conducted a DNA analysis to determine the origin of the remains… The results were even more shocking.
A thousand. Exactly a thousand sets of mandibles. Moreover, most of these names appeared in history textbooks for young Hierarchy soldiers. A thousand heroes had been dishonored over several hundred years. Their remains had become trophies for the amusement of the hegemons. Among them were those who had held the post of Primarch before him.
How did the Turians respond to this insult? Officially—nothing. Unofficially… Pirates regretted it if they were caught alive. The Citadel Council, the Asari, were very negative towards punitive actions, so this was the only way of revenge. The "Knights of the Citadel" were unleashed only when the Hegemony lost all restraint, and even then, they were only allowed to sink their teeth into the hide, not break the back of the rabid Varren.
The return of such a "treasure" could be compared to the return of a legion's banner captured by the enemy, not counting the hidden message. And it was far more significant than it seemed at first glance.
The irony was that the package was sent two weeks before the known events and had made a long journey through the official channels of the Hierarchy's delivery system, only to end up at his doorstep.
There was no doubt about the sender's identity. If something incomprehensible had been happening in the galaxy recently, it was the work of only one force—the USSR.
The ships of this hitherto unknown force did not just invade the Hegemony. They brought to life the dream of millions: they swept through its planets with fire and sword, eradicating any hint of slavery, piracy, and drug trafficking, while simultaneously knocking the beast's poisonous teeth out.
They did not just strike—they methodically destroyed the very foundation of Batarian society. Every freed slave, every destroyed drug factory was meticulously documented and handed over to the Citadel Council as an indictment against the Hegemony…
If it had arrived earlier, before he was forced to send a fleet to save the damned Hegemony, he would have done everything to sabotage the mission. But it was delivered today, and the experienced politician and warrior did not believe in coincidence.
The Primarch immediately dismissed the version: "Look! You couldn't get it back, but we could!" It was too convoluted. An insult could be delivered more simply.
A demonstration of power was also unsuitable. Too philosophical a tone. A mine or a sniper—that would have been clearer.
A sign of respect from warrior to warrior? Closer, but not the right approach. His people valued directness.
"They either want to be friends or don't see us as enemies. But they understand how important honor is to us. If this casket had been mine earlier, after that provocation… I don't know what I would have done. The sender even considered that. Clever, but too cunning. For now, it looks Asari-like… We'll see how they speak in the future. With my successor," the Turian concluded to himself.
The Council unanimously demanded the Primarch's resignation. The political pressure after recent events was too great. According to military code, disgrace is only atoned for by demotion. And helping the Hegemony after its own attack is a disgrace.
But there was no choice. Everyone understood: the ruler had to sacrifice honor for duty. A conflict with the Asari in such a situation would be rash. The Hierarchy, entangled in trade agreements, could not break them, especially with the appearance of a new player. Even the Republic's sanctions could eventually paralyze the Turian military machine.
The rank and file took it unequivocally: the ruler had exchanged the lives of legionaries for the despicable zero element. As one of the generals said: "After the Batarian provocations and our actions, the Council demands the Primarch's resignation. His position is undermined. As is ours."
Who could have known, when concluding those treaties, that the entire Turian people would find themselves in such a trap, crushed by their own honor? When the way out is not obvious, one has to sacrifice something.
"I have fulfilled my allied duty. There will be no fanfares. No parades. Only dishonor… Perhaps that was the calculation? I could not negotiate—there was no reason. Now there is, and the Asari cannot refuse. Regardless, it is time for Steel Hand to return home and take on the duty for our entire people," the Primarch finished his thoughts, turning on the terminal. Long work awaited him…
Especially since the Hierarchy's fleet was supposed to have already encountered the USSR's ships on the ruins of the Hegemony. At another time, the Turians would gladly have… helped crush the Batarian state, but… Cursed be this politics by the spirits.
The Reaper, drifting in the blackness of space, was pensive. For the first time in its memory, in several cycles, someone had managed to use its preparations. And that was good.
So far, everything that had happened played into the hands of the ancient machine intelligence. The galaxy had split in two and would never be united again. Two forces, two completely different approaches clashed across its expanses, for the amusement of the observer. The monolithic, viscous swamp had begun to move.
Interfere? Why? The organics and their pet synthetics were doing an excellent job of preparing for the harvest themselves, trying to grasp an intangible shadow. The fact that they used some of its developments only indicated their potential as a tool. The Protheans themselves only began to see and use them at the very threshold of the Harvest, which determined their fate.
Sooner or later, they would understand the full potential of resistance, and then the USSR would become an almost ideal tool. Better sooner. A tool that still had its own will—is more useful than a simple pawn.
But it was not worth letting the situation drift. The matter needed to be studied more carefully, especially since the situation was favorable: after all, the real treasure had almost come into their hands by itself…
"...I order you to surrender," the Turian admiral finished his speech. Or rather, an ultimatum that made all the muscles in the military man's face clench.
As dictated by the Citadel law and the admiral's own military honor, he simply could not fail to utter these protocol words. The understanding that this victory would bring neither joy nor honor spoiled everything.
The speech itself sounded unnatural and even sacrilegious coming from a military man. The protocols for this case were written by Asari diplomats. The overly convoluted phrases made the officer reading them feel awkward.
"I am forced to refuse you," his opponent replied calmly, as if he commanded five times more forces than the Turian. "Behind you are rapists, pirates, and murderers. Behind us—twenty million slaves. The choice is obvious."
The words of this being burned worse than a disciplinary whip. The admiral wanted to lash out, to shout, but discipline and the understanding of the truth of what was said forced him to remain silent.
A legionary can simply throw himself into battle. A soldier is not obliged to think. Officers think for him. He, however, was an admiral who had reached his post through his intellect. He had enough understanding that politics was a dirty business at times.
The officer understood the meaning of what was said and what was left unsaid, hidden between the lines. How his opponent managed to weave so much meaning into dry words, a statement, playing with his voice, remained a mystery.
"Therefore, I will ask you, Admiral," the interlocutor continued to speak with… pity in his voice. "If you were in my place, would you retreat?"
"No. I would fight to the end. To surrender is the first step to dishonor," the Turian answered honestly, feeling the full approval of the officers on his bridge through his rough skin. "The first step to the fall of everything. After that—only suicide."
The bridge behind the admiral, like all the high-ranking officers of the fleet, expressed silent solidarity. Their rough, unemotional faces turned to stone at that moment.
"Then why do you consider our honor worse than yours, Admiral?" the commander of the Soviet squadron asked rhetorically.
"Though different blood flows in our veins, we are similar. And I, as a combat officer, am very sorry that we are forced to cross swords today, rather than stand back to back, rather than crush this scum." The Turian correctly deciphered what was said.
The man closed his eyelids, as if calculating his thoughts. With this single action, he said more than he could have in several hours of conversation. As a warrior, he could only positively assess such conciseness and depth. Confirming the commander's guess, the Soviet commander said:
"I have the honor, Comrade Admiral. Do not remain forever in the tall grass…"
"To wish luck to your opponent… Well, may the spirits be merciful to you," the Turian sincerely wished.
"Before death—all are equal," his opponent remarked, disconnecting.
"Admiral. The enemy ships have begun maneuvering. The transports are leaving," the duty officer reported, knowing the answer perfectly well.
"Let them leave," the officer ordered.
"How dare you!!!" the Batarian observer, who had silently watched the entire dialogue and only now voiced his opinion, exploded.
"I dare, and I will," the admiral rebuked him. "You can complain to the Citadel Council. I will answer to the Primarch and my people, but not to you. I will say more: I, like everyone in this bridge, would gladly have bombarded your lair, but the USSR got there first. Therefore… shut your mouth, or better yet, leave the bridge and don't interfere. We have a battle not with your corsairs or fleet, but with an equal opponent."
The admiral turned away from the observer, who was stunned by the unheard-of impudence. Taking a deep breath, the officer gave the order:
"Fleet. Attack formation…"
The two flotillas froze opposite each other. The Union's ships seemed like a grain of sand against the backdrop of the Hierarchy's arriving armada. The Citadel's forces were five times more numerous than those who stood in their way. If they fell, the path to the besieged capital would open for the salvation forces. Then it would be easy to trap the USSR fleet, raining fire from two sides.
On the ships of the Red Fleet, sailors and officers tore off their shoulder straps and insignia. The collective allowed them to hear the conversation between the two commanders.
It is unknown who sang first, but amidst the green will and blinding determination, the words emerged:
"Up, comrades, to your posts,
The final parade is nigh.
The proud 'Varyag' does not surrender to the enemy,
No one desires mercy…"
Those who stood before the dark abyss sang the words of their last moments. Few would return home today. But no one would retreat. Victory? It was not important in the final battle.
"For the Fatherland!" the commander of the Soviet forces roared.
"Hurrah-a-a!" his crews replied, greeting the enemy and death, launching their ships into attack.
Thus began the final clash of fleets in this war…
At that moment, on the border with Terminus, everything was also not going according to plan for one particular team…
A burst of fire ripped through the air where the captain had just been standing. The mass-effect accelerated pellets embedded themselves in the metal wall with a shriek. Without slowing down, Shep fired, raising his rifle overhead, not aiming. Only one laser pulse hit the mark, striking the joint of the collector's armor and damaging the enemy's knee. Without a sound, the humanoid stumbled and fell, but stubbornly continued to shoot, ignoring the wound.
Somewhere in the distance, the heavy plasma cannon of a space marine roared. The whine of Mo's rotary cannon did not cease for a second, multiplying the losses among the collectors…
In a jump, the captain dived behind a transport crate, rolling to absorb the impact. Instantly, several beams struck the cover. Superheated metal sprayed in all directions, instantly freezing on his armor in bizarre droplets. A hail of bullets and beams continued to tear through the container, ripping out entire pieces and scattering its loose contents.
The ringing bark of a pistol and the glints of polymer flame announced that Miranda, for whom this was her first battle, was still alive and combat-ready. Another enemy shuttle, lifted into the air, was engulfed by merciless flames, while an invisible force crushed the vehicle into a thin pancake…
Straightening up, the operative fired, catching a pause between bursts and spotting the enemy's figure. The laser hit the humanoid's shoulder, leaving a scorch mark on the armor and a trace of soot. The response was not long in coming: Shep's plasma shield flared, taking the hit. The thin shell could not withstand it and burst, leaving behind a hexagonal blue pattern slowly melting in the air.
Under the warning howl of the tactical computer, the "Argentum" fighter dodged. The next pellet drew a diagonal furrow across his chest, damaging the armor plates. Hiding behind the transport container again and realizing that a couple more hits would cause his protection to collapse like delicate lace, the captain telekinetically moved a forklift. The multi-ton mechanism, without touching the ground, crashed into a group of collectors, freezing over their mangled bodies.
Taking advantage of the delay, the man rushed to new cover. Despite his speed, the enemy opened fire as soon as he poked his head out. He was lucky—the energy beams did not create a deadly barrage. Using his lightning-fast reaction, the operative dodged and reached new cover.
The quiet sigh of a sniper rifle prevented the captain from being shot. A smart bullet knocked out what served as the collector's brain, and the beam veered left, missing the man by millimeters. Having ensured the safety of his comrade, the sentient cat disappeared from its position. A new target awaited it…
Without wasting time, Shep created a polymer sphere, lowering it onto the pile of weapons of the dead enemy. The glassy jelly quickly absorbed the armament, freezing in anticipation of a command.
Another gesture with his left hand—and a yelping drop of neuro-polymer dripped from his palm, which was drawn into the construct's gelatinous body, granting it a crude semblance of mind and purpose of existence.
Telekinetic grip. Will imposes its desire, stagnant reality trembled and slightly bent. The polymer turret went into a short flight, starting to shoot while still in the air. Unaimed suppression fire disrupted the collectors' attack tempo. This gave the man a respite.
Thanking his paranoia for the umpteenth time in this battle, which had forced him to switch his sniper barrel for a shortened one, allowing him to fire in bursts, albeit with overheating, Shep switched the energy magazine for a kinetic one.
Three consecutive shots with a change in barrel angle. Three differently programmed bullets, overcoming the distance along different trajectories, simultaneously hit the target, tearing apart the collector, who had risen into the air and begun to almost burn. Last time, it was he who had almost ended the entire firefight in favor of the attackers.
His biotic power had almost torn the USSR squad to shreds. It was lucky that the organisms improved by Soviet science had very sharp reactions and lightning reflexes. But they were hit hard then…
Shep released an electric charge, making it jump across the metal surface. Only the collectors were slightly shaken, and this helped them determine their target. Bullets and beams danced on the man's cover again.
"They need us alive. First, they tried to knock us out with bugs, and then, when that didn't work, they threw infantry meat at us," Artem mused, catching another humanoid in the air telekinetically, unceremoniously breaking its neck.
He himself did not risk using his jetpack for flight now. The enemy's beam weapons depleted his shields catastrophically quickly.
Placing his discharge-covered hand on the rather battered forklift, the operative applied current to it, awakening the mechanism. The machine rushed forward, smashing everything in its path. Under its cover, the captain changed position, shifting from the destroyed barracks building of the Hegemony base to one of the officers' houses. Along the way, he managed to catch the enemy telekinetically twice more.
With a crash and a clang, the forklift's tines dug into the prefabricated shield structure. Emitting a death rattle, the machine stopped and began to smoke.
Using it as a springboard, Shep pulled himself onto the roof with his whip, where four collectors were already waiting for him.
With a crackle, a powerful electric charge struck them, instantly jumping from one humanoid figure to another, arching them.
A lunge! The jet engines of the backpack provided acceleration. The sword summoned into his hand began to reap its harvest.
The motorized assault shield took the energy beam, preventing the deadly energy from hitting the captain. The multi-layered piece of armor, with a crunch, broke through the collector's chest, while the blade halved his comrade.
Another swing—and the wounded enemy's head rolled across the roof. These were finished.
Spotting a cluster of collectors, Shep rushed towards them. Pushing off from the edge of the roof, the operative stepped into the void.
For a moment, the backpack's engines flared. The operative seemed to push off from the air, landing heavily on the neighboring roof.
The building beneath him sagged and creaked. Already running across the collapsing surface, Shep activated the backpack again, making a big jump.
With a crash behind him, the flimsy structure settled. In the rising dust, enemy beams were particularly visible.
He released the shield, allowing it to retract into the spatial storage, summoning a pistol into his hand.
Blue flames from the nozzles propelled the captain forward. His feet touched the wall. The operative ran up the vertical plane, opening fire.
A stream of small plasma spheres riddled two collectors at once and rained fire on the others.
Elegantly pushing off, twisting in the air under the flashes of the backpack, letting the whistling bursts pass, the operative continued his run along another wall, opening fire again.
Even though the enemy took cover behind the smoking wreck of his shuttle, the obstacle did not hinder Shep at all. A well-aimed plasmid burned a hole in the head of another enemy who carelessly poked out.
Under the howling of the engines, the man landed. A telekinetically directed stream of reactive thrust scattered the collectors surrounding him, raising new clouds of dust.
Giving the enemy no respite, the "Argentum" fighter rushed into battle.
His movements were a mathematical symphony. The armored figure blurred in the air. Every blow or shot followed formulas. Statistics guided his hands.
Firearms combat only seems unpredictable. The positions of the shooters, the ballistics of the weapons—provided grounds for calculation. The techniques ingrained through blood and pain allowed him to shoot, relying on muscle memory. His brain automatically calculated safe trajectories.
From the outside, the man resembled a cold machine. The battle became a semblance of a rough and angular dance. Mechanical movements intertwined into a single pattern of death.
The pistol's ammunition was almost instantly spent, but Shep, having fallen into a combat trance, paid no attention to it. The handle of his sword clicked, dividing the blade into two.
He slid across the generously spilled polymer, in a halo of blue flame spewed by the jet backpack. His weapon sang melodiously, slicing flesh and severing limbs. Telekinesis broke bones and twisted joints, while simultaneously reducing the man's own weight, allowing him to flutter above the ground.
Streams of electricity, torn from the swords, bound movements and scorched flesh. Lightning marked the path of the punishment machine…
Slowly shifting towards one point, the Union warrior did not stop for a moment.
"Correction. Their target is Miranda. She's nothing but trouble!" the operative thought, plunging into bodies again.
They all tried to take them alive, but only with this girl did the collectors try to capture her carefully, as if knowing about her peculiarity. In another situation, he would have handed her over, but now Miranda was under his protection, however pompous it might sound…
The captain's hand landed on the shoulder of her light spacesuit and tugged, pulling the girl away from the burning beam.
"You're in time, Captain," was his gratitude, but behind Shep's dry words, appreciation could be heard.
The captain gave the polymer a command, closing the trap. The miraculous composition, with a crunch, closed two layers of earth, as if clapping its hands, crushing the careless enemy.
There was a rumble from the left. Another barrack collapsed, throwing Risa from its roof. In her fall, the sentient cat was hit by a beam, leaving a gash down to the meat on her leg, completely disabling the limb.
The sniper landed awkwardly, falling on three limbs. Even from a distance, it was clear that she was in pain.
The cat tried to get up, using her rifle as a crutch, but it was too late.
With a metallic clang, the truss broke. The observation tower, engulfed in flames, swayed, sagged by one section, and began to fall, tipping over to its side. The burning structure almost crushed Risa…
Two telekinetic grips managed to stop the fall of the fire-breathing piece of metal. Shep and Miranda, without a word, caught the tower…
Walking unhurriedly, a collector engulfed in light entered the humans' line of sight. He had nowhere to rush. Slowly, as if enjoying himself, he raised his weapon, aiming it at the people.
The world froze for Artyom, instantly fading. His brain frantically searched for a way out. If he weakened his concentration, the telekinesis would weaken, leading to his comrade's death. If the collector fired and hit Miranda, the captain would fail the mission. If he fired at him, he wouldn't care anymore. Choice…