In the vacuum of space, the one whom the renegade Geth called Nazar slowly floated. He had many names: Sovereign, Arbiter, Judge... but each did not reflect his true essence and greatness. Even God did not convey all the power concentrated under his will, for only he decided when the pathetic races would know the full beauty and logic of the Harvest.
Another cycle was approaching its end, and the ancient Reaper could not call it ordinary. Organics, if only for a moment, managed to surprise him. Although he lost the ability to fully observe the USSR, even so, the gaze of his puppets was enough to assess the prospects of the future "instrument." The very fact that this Harvest will last seven hundred years and will require much more resources than the previous one speaks volumes.
The Union, as a pseudo-ordered association of organics, was not too strong or developed compared to the leaders of past cycles, but their mentality... If the Protheans resisted the inevitable for three hundred years, but were broken, even if they didn't admit it, by the fall of their empire's metropolis, then the workers' state, after the destruction of the capital, army, fleet, and all power structures, would become one large partisan gang...
A promising resource that will serve the inevitable...
"... on behalf of the Coordinating Council, I want to say... it is very regrettable that you, Comrade Sechenov, are leaving your post."
The intelligence coordinator expressed his regret with his entire demeanor. By duty, he was supposed to know how much effort the scientist had put in, who had once again led the country into war, and later skillfully navigated and defended the interests of the USSR in the galactic arena.
"I was asked to return during the crisis," the digital projection of the academician said, closing his eyelids. "The crisis has passed. Next will be peace and cold confrontation, I am not competent to lead it. Now the country needs not a scientist at the helm, but a qualified economist, since the confrontation has shifted to the economic level. Clinging to power in such a situation... Power corrupts. Absolute power corrupts even faster. I will be of greater benefit by engaging in science."
The virtual hall erupted in applause from thousands of sentient beings.
"You underestimate your merits. It is only thanks to you that our country has achieved another industrial revolution for the benefit of the working people, becoming an interstellar power in such a short time. But I, knowing how sentient beings sometimes cling to power, am pleased to hear that you have avoided the disease of all rulers," the secretary elected for this meeting once again expressed his opinion.
The one called the Wizard said with bitterness:
"Only I had to pay too high a price for it..."
Shep, leaning against the tank armor, watched another sunset on Pandora. After three years on the planet, it had become a ritual for him. The local star was too beautifully setting beyond the horizon, sparkling at the last moment off the orbital ring, which reflected its light for a long time. Or was it all due to the wildness of the planet itself, which even had a hint of madness in the air? Even the captain himself didn't know this, and he wasn't bothering his head with such high matters now. His thoughts were much closer to the ground.
Pandora with a repaired orbital ring.
This morning, Ferrion messaged him on the intercom. The human reread the message from the Turian three times. It seemed the letters formed words, but the meaning couldn't fit in his head. For the captain, their voyage was very recent, when in reality years had passed. "I have a son..." - it seemed like an ordinary phrase, but it carried so much. Not only did this sarcastic, secretly cursing, bony creature manage to find a girl, get married, and have a child somewhere, but he also managed to be born! That's what struck Shep.
Later, he contacted his commander. Nechaev, who was better acquainted with Ferrion, had even managed to call him, congratulating not only the new father but also his wife, and sending a gift "for the little one." And he got talking with the commander... It turned out that his youngest daughter was already working, the middle one was building a career and had also managed to get married, while the eldest was already commanding a squadron. Only after this did the captain realize how much time had actually passed. Not months, but years.
"We live for hundreds of years and are used to everyone around us living just as long. People got used to a long lifespan too quickly, forgetting what it's like to live and fade quickly. Perhaps in the eyes of unconnected ascetics, we are too insensitive. For us, it's a business trip, but for them, it's a whole life. Realizing this makes one want to be sad," Artem mused, while his body with captain's epaulets automatically smoked.
Suddenly, he thought. A hundred years will pass, and his friend, who was just rejoicing in fatherhood, will die. And unlike Shep, not even a memory archive will remain of him. He will die completely, just as he would have died earlier, and everyone around him. Artem suddenly realized that he had recently crossed the threshold set by evolution, and if he was lucky, he would live for hundreds more years. The bodies of some of his friends would decay in their graves, and he would live, but... "And who will leave more behind?" Shep asked himself a good question.
As if that wasn't enough, the commander hinted between the lines, and an hour ago, he sent an order, certified by none other than Marshal CERBERUS...
"May I?" Miranda asked quietly, whose presence he had already felt for fifteen minutes.
Extinguishing his cigarette on his armor and flicking the butt off the cliff, Shep nodded, patting the stone, heated by the day, next to him, inviting her to enjoy the view as well.
"Beautiful," she said after a few minutes of silence.
She winced slightly. She didn't like the smell of tobacco, and Shep didn't smoke in her presence, although at the beginning of their acquaintance, he smoked like a chimney, deliberately.
"I agree. But relaxing on this ball is like death. The natives are like that... Crazy, but they kill for real, managing to multiply like rabbits. A crazy world, but beautiful. Only here a gang war can start because a couple of tomato greenhouses were blown up."
The captain chuckled, not very cheerfully, continuing to look into the distance where dusk was gathering.
"I received an order..." Miranda said after a few more minutes of silence.
"Me too..." Shep stated the obvious.
"And what next?" she asked him.
"And next, you can pack your things and stop vegetating on this dusty ball," Artem said calmly. "You are an excellent investigator. They've even cleared a spot for you in the central department."
"Are you happy?" she asked without changing her voice.
"If you're asking if I'm happy for a friend, oh yes, I'm happy!" the captain said a little sharply. "If you're asking if I'm happy that I'm no longer guarding you... If this order had come then, I would have been drinking from joy. If someone had shot you then, I would have been more upset about the failed mission, but not after you saved my life, and I wasn't right then. It's hard to judge a book by its cover if they tried hard to make the cover look similar. Intellectually, you understand that the content is different, but something in your head expects the opposite. And now I'm just glad that someone has appreciated you and your merits properly."
He said the last part with warmth in his voice.
"But I will miss your company. I don't call just anyone a friend. I would send an image, but there's such a mess in my head..."
"That's how I feel too," the girl interrupted, for the first time in his memory. "But... thank you. Even at the beginning, you tried to see me, not the one I was made from. I'm only sure of one thing, I don't want to leave anywhere."
This, to put it mildly, surprised Artem, who knew well how important recognition was to her after her childhood in the laboratory.
"And the position?" he formulated, creating a simple image. He couldn't read the girl in "The Collective," and he didn't try. Miranda always closed her emotions from those around her, unlike him, at least. He was radiating such a cascade now that it rippled in his eyes.
"There I will be one of many, but here my skills will be appreciated by friends, and the service will be more significant. To chase epaulets... If it were otherwise, neither you nor I would be here. Everyone here doesn't care about an extra star."
"They taught you badly, and you were an absolutely office worker," Shep chuckled.
"I had good teachers, commander," she remarked. "What's next?"
"One more day of searching for the Vault," the captain replied, shrugging. "But I'm glad you stayed..."
Sighing, sinking more comfortably into the armor, he told her what was on his soul. Honesty for honesty.
"I never thought about it..." Miranda said honestly. "I wanted more not to live in the shadow... of expectations."
Artem looked at her too eloquently, tearing himself away from admiring the stars.
"Okay, in the shadow of Faith," the girl agreed. "It's difficult, I even have her DNA, and everyone expects something similar from me... That's why I don't dwell on it, but live and do what I have to."
"That's what I do too..." the captain remarked. "People like us are carried out of service only feet first.
Miranda just giggled nervously at these words and smiled timidly. Seeing the captain raise an eyebrow expressively, she explained:
"In Risa's favorite movies, after these words, the next shot is of crazy lovemaking, and then a monster kills the lovers."
"Fortunately, we are just friends, and we'll stuff this monster beforehand," Artem reinforced his words with a mental image. Although he was a soldier, he was by no means dull, so he understood what Miranda was afraid of, and what she would never ask or say. He knew how to be friends and not pry into other people's underwear. Therefore, he valued her as a friend and a specialist, and only last as a beautiful woman.
"Yes, one would have to be a fool, knowing how much she simply dislikes the touch of strangers..." a thought flashed in his mind, but somewhere deep down, doubt arose, how much of it was a joke. "We'll see in the future. You don't know what tomorrow holds here... In any case, I won't be the first to cross this line. I need to figure myself out first, before I go into someone else's thicket."
The galaxy does not stand still. The noise of the USSR's entry into the galactic arena had long since subsided. Ships with red stars had become commonplace for Citadel Space.
The ordinary person just shrugged. For him, little had changed. Were there goods from the Hegemony, and now from the Union? Did the price change much? Did they become cheaper and better quality? That's good! Ordinary sentient beings were hardly concerned about what was happening in the distant USSR, and the people's country itself was in no hurry to flaunt its political processes, engaging in science and trade.
Although it cannot be said that galactic life has not changed. At the initiative of the Union, such a phenomenon as galactic sports appeared. There were sporting events before, but most often they did not go beyond one planet, and here an unusual word appeared - the Olympics.
The Turians got hooked on boxing and football, while the Asari on all types of swimming and gymnastics. The Salarians, with their fast metabolism and sharp vision, found themselves in fast-paced and tactical sports: squash, table tennis, and fencing became their favorites, where not strength, but reaction and calculation were important. The Krogans, whose physical power knew no equal, preferred power confrontations: arm wrestling, throwing shot puts, and especially a power equivalent of rugby with minimal rules, which more often resembled small combat operations. The Volus, valuing reliability and predictability, created a betting league, turning every event into a grand financial enterprise... for themselves.
As if by magic, sports allowed the pressure from the galactic cauldron to be released so that it wouldn't explode prematurely. Politicians understood that the explosion was inevitable and wanted it themselves. War with the USSR was too convenient in their eyes to multiply their wealth and write off debts. The most banal way out of overproduction crisis is to burn all surpluses in war.
If earlier the status quo was achieved by resources and "unfit" disappearing and being redistributed in the Hegemony, then when the red roller passed over it, the process stalled. This exposed the internal contradiction of the system: stock exchange indicators stopped growing, and for megacorporations, this is death. A chain reaction arose: a manager cannot make a beautiful report and justify his value, while the board of directors begins to demand answers from top managers. The system, deprived of external resources for absorption, begins to devour itself. Inefficiency could no longer be hidden by redistributing others' assets.
If to this we add that the products of the working people's country were of higher quality and much cheaper, then the situation worsened fundamentally. Market mechanisms began to fail: the consumer chose the best for a lower price, not the ideologically correct product from factories of centuries-old brands. As a result, many who were inadvertently pushed aside from the feeding trough by the workers (shareholders, top managers, beneficiaries) realized a direct threat to their position. Their desire to return to their original state was not nostalgia, but an economic necessity to preserve power and capital.
Even the source of raw materials from the USSR, which they replenished the market with, could not solve the problem. This was the depth of the tragedy. Although there was a lot of it, the Union sold it not for credits, not for those ephemeral numbers that could be printed on a machine as much as you want, despite all their carefully maintained illusion of value and linkage to the zero element.
No, they demanded payment exclusively in real products. Machine tools, equipment, high-tech goods – everything that had tangible value and contributed to real, not virtual, development. It was an economic dead end. Even the introduction of prohibitive duties, quotas, and moratoriums did not help. The communists continued, in essence, barter, demonstrating a complete, humiliating disregard for the very foundation of their power – money – for financial magnates. Their economy existed by other laws, incomprehensible to stockbrokers, and this nullified all instruments of economic pressure, exposing the fragility and artificiality of a system built on loans and empty promises.
The panic of the elite was not shared by their electorate. They were content. Even public discontent decreased, and the power of politicians strengthened. Having gained access to cheap and good food, purchased in the Union, the inhabitants of the Citadel began to spend more credits on other goods. This stimulated industry, but for the most part, businesses could not take advantage of the opportunity, which again led to a radical solution to the problem.
Now it was almost imperceptible, but in about two hundred years, the economy of Space would choke. By starting to pump credits into the military industry, they managed to stabilize the situation to survive until the moment when it would be possible to crush the new player with one blow, without harming themselves…
Another six months passed. Four dozen "Pioneer"-class stations were redeployed to Pandora. The USSR accelerated the development of the border sector, creating outpost systems for which these stations were created. Pandora, as originally conceived, was to become the capital of the new sector, while simultaneously becoming an industrial center, hiding the Union's secret activities in this region of the galaxy from prying eyes, and securing the border. A powerful defensive hub was to become an insurmountable barrier for large pirate gangs, who were already eyeing the Union's worlds, even after the punitive operation, and the stations would serve as excellent staging bases for the fleet to suppress raids by small groups.
A "Pioneer"-type station. It serves as both an outpost and a small warp gate. Sturdy, reliable, autonomous, and foolproof, like a Kalashnikov rifle.
At this moment, the legendary Vault was finally found…