"From iron, strength is born. Will gives birth to faith, becoming honor. Honor my spirit turned into iron. Granting great strength to my hands," the lines boomed in Artyom's consciousness, facilitating entry into a meditative trance. A command code that initiated biochemical processes in military implants.
His mind fought his own body, forcing it to live and work despite the pain, while his subconscious monitored the space around him.
The man didn't know how much time had passed in the darkness. He only felt his wounded body being placed on a stretcher after hastily performed resuscitation measures. Only the familiar smell of Soviet ships told him he was among his own.
"Burn, ruins, let space ignite. Infinity shines brightly with fire. Their blood on the earth is Iron outside! Our blades will become Iron inside!"
Someone else's blood, burning and filled with anxiety, flowed like a snake into his veins, helping him fight the injuries. Almost half of his body signaled damage. Biomechanics had shut down one lung, which threatened to collapse from thermal damage. The vessels themselves delivered special supports that would clamp the severed veins and arteries.
"In the hour when darkness falls, and the galaxy tears itself apart, the cunning Enemy, under black banners, summons monsters, raised by him!"
The operative forcibly disables the attached reflexes. The body itself strove to strike.
"Cannot. Scalpel. Doctors. Operation," his will suppressed the animalistic essence of his instincts. Even in such a deplorable state, burned and having lost an arm, the "Argentum" fighter was still dangerous and quite capable of fighting. If only for a short while.
"The bourgeois pack will not bend us, their pathetic strength will not break us! Let them bring all the darkness! We will push them into the flame with our boots!"
Smell. Steel, confidence, and flame. Commander. Only now did the warrior, who walked into the darkness time and again, allow himself to relax and let go of the situation. Now everything would be fine.
The darkness crackles, tears like strings. Pain, not physical, but mental. A black wave brings understanding. Argon is no more. Not even a memory archive remained of him. Something terrible simply took him, tore him from the collective consciousness, leaving only scraps of associative chains. It was these that the hero's death struck.
"Motherland, turn your gaze! Darkness has no power over me forever! My armor is strong! I am Iron outside! And my spirit is strong! I am Iron inside!" the last syllables blazed in his soul.
Another person, a dear person, was gone. Kuznetsov had replaced Artyom's father, not fully, but the teenager had looked up to him. He took his departure hard, just like Sergei, who became not only his new commander but also his friend.
For both of them, Argon was a thread to the past, albeit with a different hue. And now this thread had snapped. The veteran who had gone into the darkness would never return. Worse, he wasn't just destroyed, but something far more terrible had been done. He was denied even a posthumous existence, and the country — an entire era of history…
He was pulled from oblivion, his mind literally thrown back into his body. Shep winced from the sudden awakening. The ringing in his ears and the light blinding his eyes were deafening. The touch of fabric against his skin caused phantom pain. The smell of medicine and someone's presence brought tears to his eyes.
With an effort of will, he forced his body to take a normal breath, not a panicked gasp. His body twitched slightly, waking up with him completely.
Without moving, he blinked a couple of times, moistening his eyes, and, ignoring the slight sting, began to look around.
Steel bulkheads. Relatively low gray ceilings. The quiet beep of equipment. A unique taste in the air. He was in the infirmary at the fleet base.
Shep listened. The artificial gravity generators hummed almost imperceptibly.
"Therefore, the base is not in orbit. More than a week has passed since the injury, since the base moved away from the besieged capital… The operation is over. Objectives achieved. Now it's time for negotiations," he concluded, focusing on himself.
He lay in a polymer bed, covered with an organic blanket up to his chin. Greenish solution of Panaceclin flowed through the transparent polymer. Synthetic skin, not yet fully replaced by grown native skin, stood out in purple patches.
Glancing sideways, Artyom made sure his senses weren't deceiving him. He had his right arm again. True, he couldn't move the limb now. Through the transparent polymer, which was still replacing flesh, he could see the open connectors of the nervous system.
"So, I've been here for two weeks. Bio-reconstruction hasn't been done yet. The cell mass hasn't matured for complete limb restoration," the operative sighed calmly…
***
It is rare to see a guest on the ships of the Migrant Fleet. After their exile, the Quarians were literally forced to arm all their ships. Otherwise, drifting through space, they would not have survived. This fact alone tempered the ardor of some fortune seekers. The profit was not worth the risks.
Moreover, all the ships of the Fleet adhered to strict instructions. If a ship that could not be identified approached the flotilla, it was immediately destroyed by coordinated fire from all the weapon systems of the nearest vessels of the nomadic people.
For this reason, young Quarians are given code phrases on their Pilgrimage to identify themselves upon their return, as they often return on ships they bought, repaired, or found abandoned.
One phrase signifies a successful Pilgrimage, and the Quarian fleet will allow them to rejoin the Flotilla, while another is a phrase of danger. It signifies that the Quarian is returning under duress, and his ship will be immediately destroyed, and the victim will never be forgotten.
Therefore, a ship broadcasting general diplomatic codes in a half-forgotten system aroused well-founded suspicions. They only grew when the ship's onboard scanners identified its affiliation.
The diplomatic ship belonged to the USSR, towards which the Quarians felt, to put it mildly, without sympathy. Although they are considered mere servers and marauders, their science, which was advanced, remained breakthrough, only the scale became smaller, and the goals — more practical and grounded.
The nomads were far from fools, and their analysts did not use their limited resources in vain. The analysis of the new power was constantly supplemented with new data, acquiring details.
"Excessive use of robotics. Possible use of AI," sounded almost like a death sentence for any attempt at dialogue.
However, the council of admirals decided otherwise, allowing the ship to deliver ambassadors. Fears are fears, irritation is irritation, but reason guided them. After a brief dispute, the admirals reached a consensus.
Even with skepticism, expecting negativity in advance, they were ready to listen to the envoys and nothing more. Life had taught them not to hope for anything good in advance.
The USSR delegation was escorted aboard, thoroughly searched, and, finding nothing objectionable, was allowed to see the admirals. In the dim light of the ship, which had seen better days, negotiations began.
"On behalf of all the peoples of the USSR, we welcome you," the ambassador said in the Quarian dialect, slightly mispronouncing the words.
"Allow me to introduce myself, I am Comrade Lebedev Alexey Vladimirovich, authorized by the Coordination Council to conduct negotiations with your people."
"I, Admiral of the Civil Fleet Velan'Vess Alarei, am listening to you," the Quarian said coldly, indicating his attitude to the matter with a single intonation.
"Our time is valuable, Ambassador. Therefore, let's get straight to the point."
The human did not react to the near insult. Nodding in agreement, he began to speak:
"The galaxy is a dangerous place. Who knows better than you about the treachery and horrors that lurk among the stars. If Batarian pirates had not attacked us, the galaxy would have learned of our existence only after decades, if not hundreds of years. Therefore, I am authorized to establish diplomatic relations with your people, and as a token of our goodwill, I will return part of what you have lost…"
Lebedev cautiously signaled his escort. Two tall wolfhednars carefully lifted a container from the deck, setting it upright. A few touches, and with a quiet rustle, it opened, revealing its contents to the world. The briefing room was illuminated by a greenish light that flickered in ragged flashes across the surroundings.
The admirals' guards sharply raised their weapons as soon as they saw the contents, while the admiral of the Scientific Fleet, losing all composure, jumped to his feet. His surprise, bordering on shock, could not be hidden by his spacesuit or the polarized visor of his helmet.
With a gesture, the admiral of the Heavy Fleet ordered his guards to lower their weapons. Though his first emotion was rage, reason prevailed over momentary weakness, replacing anger with curiosity. The USSR had already shown its unconventional approach, so the contents of the container, which at first glance seemed like an insult, only raised questions for him.
"These remains were found in our home system, in a long-abandoned laboratory of the Prothean race, where they conducted experiments on our ancestors and yours, studying the effect of the zero element on living flesh," the academician said, ignoring their reactions.
The man paused, allowing them to process what had been said.
"The body, as well as the results of the experiment..." the envoy continued. "We are handing them over to you. According to our scientists' estimates, the solution to your immunity problem may lie within the tissues of your compatriot," the former academician finished speaking calmly and with dignity.
"You know too much for those who have only just entered the galaxy," the admiral of the Civilian Fleet stated, showing self-control, although he certainly hadn't expected this. "But... you could have used all this to profit from our suffering. Your... generosity and motives are incomprehensible to us."
"The peoples of the USSR do not need what belongs to others," the scientist replied with a smile. "The remains are not worth quarreling with a neighbor over. Moreover, by returning them, we demonstrate our good intentions, but that does not mean we have not already benefited... Mutual cooperation, even if it does not bring significant dividends, will be better than open hostility."
"Agreed. Even neutrality would be preferable..." the Civilian Admiral accepted his arguments. "Only I am sure that this conversation was not only necessary for a 'friendly gesture,' as the Asari would say. Your country has shown a more business-like and straightforward approach, erasing the Hegemony from the maps without a fuss, while not committing total genocide, but only a targeted cleanup..."
"We believe in your friendly intentions after such an interesting demonstration," the admiral of the Patrol Fleet picked up the thread of the conversation from his colleague. "Only our entire history is an illustration of a business-like approach, especially in recent centuries. Behind grand gestures are quite prosaic goals. And most often, there are several layers hidden behind it."
"You are right," the academician did not deny. "Relics of the past are just an excuse. We understand perfectly well that due to our specifics, you are настроены towards us with suspicion and negativity. We are interested in your technologies. The USSR would even settle for a reduced pool, assembled at your discretion. We are more interested in your approach, but we understand perfectly well that we still need to reach the stage of exchanging specialists and specific knowledge."
"And again, you speak of particulars, albeit tempting ones," remarked the admiral of the Heavy Fleet.
"The time for a more substantive conversation has not yet come. Our peoples do not yet know each other properly, especially considering your attitude towards AI," Lebedev stated concisely.
The ambassador demonstratively took out a tablet slowly. Pressing the activation button, he summarized: "Then let's talk in a more substantive way. The USSR is ready to offer you raw materials, food products suitable for your species, even the zero element, albeit in a somewhat limited quantity, in exchange for your knowledge. Although it is not so strategically important for us, such valuable raw materials also find application in our industry. This is more than enough to start a favorable cooperation. This is in addition to the return of a number of patents that our troops seized from the Batarians."
"Everything is clear," the admiral of the Scientific Fleet said ironically. "With your established reputation, if someone saw the use of foreign patents... That's why you decided to return them to us, hoping for a number of licenses. Nothing prevented you from simply using them, but, I dare say, you want to enter the political arena fully? And we are the best option?"
"This, in addition to building cooperation," the man did not deny again. "The galaxy is too large to create enemies where friends can be found."
The admirals fell silent to the outside world, turning off their spacesuit speakers, and conferring among themselves. Judging by their gestures, the argument was heated.
"We are ready for cooperation and to share knowledge, but in return, we ask for a reciprocal gesture, in addition to the return of patents and resources. Of course, at your discretion," the admiral of the Civilian Fleet returned Lebedev's own phrase.
"This is acceptable," Lebedev smiled. "We will provide a list of technologies for exchange. And, concluding our friendly conversation for today, I inform you... the USSR will return one and a half million Quarians to the Fleet after the formalities with the Citadel are resolved. Some of your compatriots need medical assistance and rehabilitation. Earlier, alas, this was not possible. The only thing I can guarantee is the absence of communication obstacles."
A viscous silence ensued.
"Why didn't you start our conversation with this?" asked the Civilian Admiral.
The academician gave him a look full of irony before answering: "Because it would have looked like blackmail, especially considering that your daughter is with us... And, to preempt, she is fine. Moreover, she has provided us with invaluable service. Your daughter is almost a hero."
As soon as the last phrase of the negotiations was spoken, an encoded signal was sent from USSR space into the Perseus Veil.
"Phase one complete. Your move," the Geth programs deciphered the message. A vote. Eighty-three percent were for. Seventeen percent demonstratively left the collective.
Accepting this payment, the Geth responded with confirmation.
The game had begun.
"We are proceeding to phase two," boomed a cold synthesized voice, which evoked a whole range of emotions in the Wizard.
The Chief Coordinator was filled with pride, which streamed around his mind like gold. The history of the Quarians became a lesson for the USSR. A warning of how close the workers had come to the brink. Soviet science managed to find a way, threading the needle of progress through the eye of reality, while the nomads failed, falling almost into the annals of history.
"Only this does not mean we can get too big for our britches," Comrade Sechenov lowered himself to the ground, flashing with the emerald light of will. "Our mistakes are no less bitter."
Flashing with azure determination, the former academician, now once again responsible for billions of sentient beings, gave the command to create a new communication channel.
For a long seven minutes, nothing happened. The scientist, the head of the Coordination Council, had even allowed himself to think that he would not be answered, but at that very moment, the subscriber on the other end confirmed the request.
"Greetings..." the Primarch said dryly, studying Dmitry Sergeevich with his gaze. "Frankly, when my security service reported to me, I thought it was a provocation."
"On behalf of the USSR, I greet you. I am the chief coordinator of the Coordination Council, Dmitry Sergeevich Sechenov, authorized by the will of the collective to conduct negotiations," Sechenov recited the pre-selected replica as formally as possible.
"Have your diplomats not already agreed on a date with the Citadel Council?" the Turian asked directly.
"And we have not entered into an armed conflict with Citadel Space," Sechenov also stated directly. "Therefore, it was decided to resolve this misunderstanding privately."
"Is that so," the ruler of the Hierarchy sealed it. "That is commendable."
"You are warriors. To have acted otherwise would have been an insult to both yourself and us," the Wizard replied.
"You have studied us well," the Primarch stated the obvious, placing his palm on a carved casket, alien to the Spartan setting of his office. "Your hint was direct, although some in my circle doubted it."
"We do not run from battle and do not fear the consequences. However, this does not mean that we thoughtlessly create enemies," said what Sechenov was supposed to say. "Therefore, we hope that one day our warriors will fight side by side against a common enemy."
"If not for our obligations, this would have happened," the Turian replied with regret. "The Hierarchy will have no claims against you if you resolve the issues with the Citadel."
"We will talk to the Citadel later. I am glad that those with whom we clashed in battle have lived up to their reputation."
"I hope I can say that about you someday. Circumstances may turn out... differently than our desires," the Primarch had the last word.
Silence reigned in Sechenov's office, broken only by a metronome.
"And everyone thinks they are rigid and straightforward..." the Wizard muttered to himself. "I'm glad our analysts are free from stereotypes. Since the participants have no claims against each other, it remains to agree with those involved..."