11. Interregnum Part 2

It was at that moment, when listening to Councilor Sparatus' hurried report on the Citadel's movement that Admiral Hackett realized that something was not right. Once fully closed, the Citadel formed a nigh impenetrable shell that would take days of constant bombardment to get through. It had only been closed twice in over three thousand years, and always in states of extreme emergency.

The problem was in that state, the Citadel might as well be a chunk of rock. It couldn't go anywhere, it couldn't do anything. Why were the Geth closing it? What, did they think they'd just be able to tow it back to the Veil?

Why did the machines want it? Just to deprive the Council of it? Why now? And what about the attack on Eden Prime?

The Protheans built the Citadel, Hackett thought. And Geth attacked a Prothean excavation, one with a live Prothean in cryosleep. Was that it? Was that the connection, the reason? Maybe they decided they were more deserving of what the Protheans left behind.

Like right wing Hanar extremists.

No. No, that didn't feel right.

If the arms closed then the fleet would be locked outside. Stalling tactic, was his gut response. They needed the time closing the Citadel would buy them.

Time to do what?

The pieces were out of place and something was missing.

"It is not Geth," the voice said. "It is a Reaper."

Whatever the reason, it was safe to assume it wasn't good. Hackett glanced at the timer.

01:07:46

"We will have to accelerate our plans for the run."

The small images of the Councilors each reacted differently. Sparatus' gaze lost focus, drifting off to the side before he nodded. Valern mouth opened, closed and opened. The Salarian was blinking rapidly and failed to respond. Tevos let out a resigned sigh.

"Yes, of course."

The black warship, the 'Reaper' is on top of the Council Tower. The Councilors were still in that tower. The Geth fleet and army made getting a strike team in an out within an hour unlikely. The Councilors were in the safe room at the base of the tower, but they all knew there was no guarantee.

"We will leave it in your capable hands, Admiral." Councilor Tevos offered coolly. The call closed.

"Sir," his pilot, Chun said immediately, giving the impression that she had been waiting to say something. "Are we engaging the fighters?"

Hackett grimaced. The SSV Benjamin Davis, a super-carrier of the Fifth Fleet had its own squadron of interceptors and F-61Tridents. The small ships could be manned, but were primarily remote controlled from the carrier itself in risky engagements.

Had those ships. Past tense.

He supposed the Alliance's 'In case of super advanced AI claiming your ships' protocols needed updating.

Badly.

"Is it attacking us?" Hackett asked, not looking up from the tactical map.

"No, but – "

The AI in question interrupted over the intercom.

"Oh no, please, attack my ships. I promise not to be mad."

Those ships were carrying disruptor torpedoes, Hackett remembered. He gave Chun a meaningful look. "Let's not borrow trouble."

AIs running around in borrowed military ships, what the hell was this galaxy coming to?

Hackett leaned over the tactical map, tapping on the icons of all the dreadnaughts still active to hail the commanding officers. On the terminal to his left the communication icon spun into the center of the screen indicating the connections were established.

"We'll have to move up the run schedule," Hackett said by way of greeting. In the middle of a battle was no time for pleasantries.

Matsuoka, the CO of the Matterhorn sounded haggard and barely audible over alarms ringing in the background, "There are still too many ships." He broke away to address his crew, then came back. "I hate to say it, but we are losing this battle."

"We have a limited window before we run out of space to maneuver." The Fuji pointed out. It had sat out in reserve, ready for action. "If we're going to do this, it has to be now."

Hackett wasn't clear on how the Quarians did things in the Migrant Fleet, so he mentally tagged 'Captain' to the accented, almost watery voice of Eri'Kalah. "The Geth behind us have yet to arrive, if we can convince the Turians to join us." Uncertainty there, but she pushed forward. "This can be ended in one decisive strike."

"The flagship is lethal." Rear Admiral Mikhailovich of the 63rd Scout Flotilla spoke sharply. "We've lost several scouts by going too close, and even worse, we have been losing without its help. We make the run and take it out, then what?"

"The quarian had the right of it." Hackett winced. Thank you, Admiral Lundt, in the name of inter-species relations. You pompous ass. "With the Turian fleet we can blitzkrieg our way through them, we'll have the numbers."

Mikhailovich was not budging. "That also depends on more Geth not arriving!"

"I've got an AI controlling my fighters," Captain Charlotte Brabant cut in bluntly. "The Benjamin Davis is going to be attacking this 'Reaper' and there isn't a damn thing I can do about it."

"If we can hold out for reinforcements from Earth – " That would be hours more at the very least.

Hackett was already calling General Vandian. "We gain nothing on what ifs. This is as good as it's going to get. If we are going to act, we must act now." He lowered his voice, unconsciously leaning forward. "This is it."

"What is it?" Vandian answered the call sharply.

"The Citadel. We'll need your help."

"I – " The Turian paused. "I know. It won't be enough."

Hackett smiled without humor. "It'll have to be."

The Turian Fleet was a marvel of discipline, a line opened across the center as the ships split off, curling up before righting; the bottom half simultaneously swerved to the left to reorient themselves. In the span of a few seconds the fleet had flipped around into nigh identical positions. Hackett could only smile again as he watched the tactical map, watching the Turian lines approach.

Show off.

The call to regroup the Fifth went out. Icons on the screen scrambled to get back to the main group in some kind of formation. They didn't quite succeed, gaps left by the destruction of cruisers such as the Cairo and Madrid were large and the leftover frigates well enough to dive into the enemy was few.

It was enough. It had to be.

The Geth chasing them were met with a thundering of rounds from the dreadnaughts, coring up to two ships at a time as the AI launched a volley of disruptor torpedoes. The electrically charged warheads were aimed inhumanly precise, stripping shielding and leaving the enemy ships vulnerable to fire. The Geth retreated, wary. Eri'Kalah's few ships slipped into empty spaces in the front line.

It was just as it was when they first arrived, he thought. Two fleets facing each other, this time with broken ships, spaced corpses and debris littering the field between them.

00:57:03

00:57:02

Admiral Hackett only said a few words on the general channel.

"We go right through."

The battle was rejoined.

The Fifth Fleet held formation as a phalanx of ships each aiming to rip as much of the enemy to pieces before their shielding failed. The Makalu bucked with each shot from its main guns, neglecting the smaller weapons completely. The dreadnaughts were the battering rams, large slugs of metal screaming through space, collision with particles lining each round with the light of friction burn.

The first salvo hit only shields, sparking, deflecting. The F-61 Tridents took point, the AI reading into their firing solutions to ride in the shadow of missiles and railguns.

Disruptor torpedoes burned into the main force of Geth. The detonation flashes of electric light, followed by the second salvo punching through. The danger a mass accelerated round posed to a ship wasn't in the penetration. At a fraction of lightspeed a solid slug would over-penetrate and leave a neat hole as the shot kept going.

No, it was in the fragmentation.

The Makalu struck a large Geth ship, its shielding stripped by the AI, and ripped through the outer layers before the round broke apart, shards shredding as it carried through. The third shot caught it dead on the nose. The hull nearly rippled with the impact as the shot cored the ship, drilling through pipes and walls. The ship bled white mist as it limped, gouges scooped out with impacts.

The Geth in turn fired back.

And their weapons were energy.

Sharp, cyan pulses that drained or partially bypassed kinetic shielding, melting through ships. The larger ships spat plasma, superficially like their mass accelerated ammunition. Upon impact, the rounds fragmented to burrow into the hull then electricity arced between the pieces flash-converting air to conductive plasma.

The end result was minimal damage to the larger cruisers and dreadnaughts. It was designed to fry the people inside.

The SSV Matterhorn learned that the hard way.

Hackett chewed on his knuckle as the Matterhorn drifted off course, listing. It didn't respond to hails.

They were pushing through, slowly.

He glanced at the timer.

00:48:12

00:48:11

They were running out of time. He dropped his hand and felt the impression his locket made in his pant leg, hoping for a miracle.

His bridge erupted with alarm.

"The Mass Relay is activating!"

Hackett's heart seized in his chest, the numbness shooting straight to his toes and he leaned on the CIC console. Just when they – the Geth – he closed his eyes. When they had first arrived, the Geth refused to abandon their position. They never truly engaged them, preferring to sacrifice ships and repel the front line.

The strategy seemed obvious once the Geth displayed the ability to recoup losses: wear them down.

And why else hold a defending position, if not to wait for reinforcements?

The coup de grace.

The Turian ships wheeled back around and he saw the Elbrus and Fuji do the same. Quick thinking on their part, and in spite of everything, he felt pride in the Fifth Fleet.

"Hackett…" Vandian murmured over the call.

Dots began to appear on the map behind the Makalu, populating like a time-lapse rabbit population, a third of their numbers. Then half, then surpassing.

"I see them."

He saw them.

The battered fleet trapped between a rock and a hard place. They would be ground to pieces.

"Admiral, we're getting a hail," Chun called from the pilot's seat.

Hackett shifted. The Geth had never shown an interest in communicating, he could only imagine what the message would be. Threats? Demands for surrender. He wasn't sure he'd take it, if it came to that. The Systems Alliance would respond in force and he felt safe in assuming the Turian Hierarchy and Asari Republics would do the same.

"Ignore it."

"Sir, it's – it reads as coming from the SSV Normandy!"

Hackett's head snapped up.

"Answer it."

In moments, the familiar voice of Flight Lieutenant Jeff Moreau filtered through the cabin. "SSV Normandy reporting in. The Geth are with us, I repeat, the Geth are on our side." Hesitantly, Hackett bridged the call to Vandian. "Don't engage. The Geth with us are friendlies."

Vandian started violently. "What kind of nonsense is this?"

Hackett didn't think his heart could take much more. "Is Shepard there? Put him on the line."

"Yes, sir."

The switch was near instantaneous.

"Joker is telling the truth." Shepard sounded like he had crawled from the depths of hell with a boulder nailed to his back in his fleet address. "These Geth will not harm you. Focus on the ones attacking the Citadel."

The AI, Veto, dropped in on the call.

"Still alive?"

Shepard went berserk. "We fucking killed you – "

Call dropped.

Hackett's fingers twitched on the console. That exchange told him two things: Commander Shepard believed he encountered this AI before on his mission and that it had been hostile. The Makalu shuddered slightly under his feet with the main gun unleashing its payload. He deliberately kept his voice mild as he spared a quick glance up towards the small intercom speaker.

"What was he talking about?" After a moment, he added the AI's name for itself. "Veto."

"Records indicate Saren Arterius is aboard the SSV Normandy," it answered after a slight pause. "The Normandy is a registered joint Alliance-Turian Hierarchy ship." Another pause. "It's a double base. I was not programmed with a sense of fairness but I believe I can discern when someone is cheating."

"Is that a problem?"

"Conflicting commands," it declared. "Unable to resolve."

Out the corner of his eye, Hackett saw Krowe open his mouth, no doubt to blurt out the obvious answer: what if Saren left the ship? The Admiral cleared his throat loudly, gave the man a look. Don't give it any ideas.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Hackett said insincerely. He thought about calling Shepard back for an explanation, then thought better of it. It would have to wait for the mission debriefing.

The tactical map showed the tide of Geth begin to sweep over them. Out of the front view screen a small Geth ship zoomed past as a grey blur, the back lit with the electric blue of its engines and soon it was joined by dozens of others flitting like flies. One rocked suddenly, bursting open, white mist trailing as it spun out of control out of view and the Makalu registered a glancing hit.

The AI controlled F-61 Tridents surged forwards. The white cylinders of the disruptor torpedoes dropping from their underbellies to flare forwards – all they needed was a glancing hit – and bursting with electrical discharge.

"Sir!" Chun called. "Orders?"

The icons on the map told it all. They had enough now, more than enough. The Geth were running interference against…

…against the other Geth.

Now wasn't the time to be looking a gift horse in the mouth. They had their opening.

For more than just the run.

"Take us in, Chun." Hackett hailed the Normandy and after a bit of thought, added the SSV Big Horn to the call. "I've got a request to make," he began as soon as the connection was established. Then he had to stop.

Major Bennet was the typical commanding officer in Alliance blues, stress lines lengthening the shape of his face. Shepard on the other hand, if Hackett thought the man sounded like he had crawled out of hell earlier. Well, he looked like it too. Medical gauze wrapped the man's left temple, crisscrossing bright pink healing wounds that spoke of liberal medigel use on his face underneath dirt and grime. The stooped posture that spoke of an abdominal injury did nothing to hide the gouge scraped across Shepard's chest and the twitching of his arms that was either biotic aftershocks or a neurosis. Splotches were blooming angry purple on the man's cheek and collar bone.

At least the Commander's eyes were focused so he could rule out a concussion. But burn wounds, slash wounds, puncture, bruises, the hell happened on that mission?

"A mission," Hackett forced out of his mouth. Shepard kept peeking over Hackett's shoulder as if expecting something or someone to loom up from behind.

"The Big Horn sustained some damage, Admiral," Major Bennet said slowly. "We won't be able to undertake any combat missions."

Shepard voice was rougher, as if he'd cut the call earlier to scream himself hoarse. "What kind of mission?"

"Volunteer," Hackett said. It would be cutting it close, real close, but if the Alliance could pull it off the gratitude of the Council was no small thing. And if anyone could do it, he believed Shepard could. An N7, the hero of Elysium, nominated for Council Spectre and never forgot the Alliance, undertaking missions all across the galaxy whenever he could afford the time. "The Council members are trapped in the Council Tower. The same tower with a dreadnaught sitting on top of it that we're going to shoot at."

"You need a ground team, an extraction," Shepard concluded.

"My idea is this: The Normandy takes point and uses the fleet's advance as the distraction for getting in close, Big Horn is back up. No heroics. Get in, get out." Hackett smiled briefly. "Joker's the best pilot in the Alliance –"

From the background, Hackett could have sworn he heard a muffled, "You hear that!"

" – and the Big Horn has gotten through more scrapes intact than I can count. You have my complete confidence. Can I count on you?"

"Yes, sir." Bennet.

Shepard sighed. "In and out." He fell silent, looking off screen and far away. Hackett was about to ask if Saren Arterius was going to be a problem when the man snapped back to attention.

"Yes, sir."

Saren Arterius made a fist. The black metal moved smoothly, clenching, relaxing in the right places. If it weren't for the color and blue glow peeking through the few gaps, it would be a match for his biological arm. The thought made him smile, phantom twinges of muscle attempting to pull at structures that no longer existed and he felt the pull of tissue scraping against the tubing and metal framework embedded in his skull.

His other arm was a crude mess of wiring on a thin hydraulic frame. Burned strips of flesh and sinew clung to it in places hard to reach but he could see it, charred gunk, like refuse.

Yes. That was exactly what it was.

Throw off the weakness, the frailty. Deny the stresses of time, ignore death.

He moved that arm, the one made with the technology of a decade past. Spindly, thin fingers curled loosely and the wiring bristled. The difference between the two arms was striking. The left looked whole, the right was sickly with the biological scraps still visible. Pale grey bone was grafted to metal, but if he stared long enough, he thought he could see the movement. The change, turning bone to black metal –

No, no.

That hadn't been what he wanted, had it?

Saren looked away.

The med bay of the Normandy stunk of human design.

The beds were flat, not the leaning pods of Turian ships that didn't put pressure on their spine and knees. Everything was bland in color. Grey and white. A strip of bright orange and blue seared his eyes whenever he had the misfortune of looking in that direction and everything was too close together. How did they expect this to work when just one person at the foot of a bed blocked the whole aisle?

Short-sightedness. Probably expecting to not need the med bay. Typical human arrogance.

The intravenous was slotted underneath the soft neck plates, a cold feeling emanating from the entry point. The machine clicked constantly. He didn't need to be fed nutrition, he was perfectly functional. However, Dr. Chakwas was the kind of human that couldn't be reasoned with, only shot. Much like Turian medics in that way, and he could have respected it if it wasn't him suffering under it. He was wounded in other places, but they were barely worth notice in comparison to the explosion that had nearly taken his arm and his life.

Nearly.

Spirits curse that VI. He still did not know why it seemed to intent on murdering him, but he was going to find out.

The door hissed open. His…protégé he supposed, wandered in, his hand raised in a lazy human expression of greeting.

Even after all this time Saren struggled to categorize him. At times he was almost approving of 'humanity's finest' but at others it was all he could do not to wring the boy's neck. He was not ready to be a Spectre, as far as he was concerned humanity was far too young to even dream of it. But Shepard was not a bad soldier.

"Admiral Hackett offered us a mission." Shepard hopped up on the bed beside Saren, hands on his knees. Saren noticed the human didn't quite look like he was at death's door anymore. He felt a thrum of satisfaction. Finding people capable of doing a simple job like 'protect a target' were sadly far and few in between. Miranda Lawson had been a good investment. "Rescue the Council. I decided to take it."

Saren scoffed. "Were you intending to storm the Citadel by yourself?"

"The Normandy has the entire fleet as her distraction and Joker can land the Mako on a 25. After what we've been through, we can handle Geth. In and out." Shepard grinned that cheeky, insubordinate grin. "Matriarch Benezia has already agreed to be on the ground team."

Saren's eyes narrowed.

"Who else?"

"Lawson."

Possessiveness. Taking what was his, Shepard was always taking, taking, taking – Saren shook it away. "I'm coming as well."

Shepard raised an incredulous eyebrow, glancing none-too-subtly at his ravaged arm. Saren ripped the intravenous out in response, feeling the cold start to drip, slip between the plates. He was perfectly functional, capable, he was the Council Spectre onboard the Normandy – he was – his head pounded and Saren slammed a hand down on to the bed to keep his balance.

Balance – he wasn't even standing up.

"Look at you," Shepard sighed. "Can you even shoot straight with your arm like that?"

Rage.

It came as a flush of heat, burning in the pit of his stomach, whispers in his mind. He was not weak! He was perfection! Organic and synthetic, the strengths of both, the failings of neither! He lashed out from the bed, feeling his body respond as it should, everything in place. He reached in power, in strength –

Cold metal pressed against his head snapped Saren out of it.

He was gripping Shepard around the neck, and Shepard had his pistol against Saren's head. Where'd he even get that pistol, how many times did he have to remind the boy about having a concealed weapon on his person, and never give up an advantage?

The Turian found himself chuckling.

"You learned that one from me."

Shepard's brown eyes were hard. "You are not coming."

Saren thought about closing his hand into a fist, crushing the flesh it held. The urge faded, the heat cooled and he felt…ashamed. Yes, shame. Control. Discipline. A soldier was nothing without those. He dropped his hand.

Shepard was slower in dropping the pistol.

"Shoot?" Saren asked, half to himself. "Perfectly capable of it and you know as well as any that I don't need a gun to kill." Saren stepped back, bumping into his bed, again cursing the small space. "And I'm the one with the Spectre clearance to bypass defenses."

Shepard's face darkened.

Saren chuckled again. "Tell you what, you lead the team. I'll obey orders. You tell me to hang back, I'll do that." Saren let a bit, just a bit of biotic potential crackle around his cybernetic hand as he examined it. It even integrated mass effect as if it were his own, marvelous.

"In and out. Deal?"

Shepard stared at him for a good five seconds, emotions flitting over his face in rapid succession. Then the boy snarled and turned, stomping out of the med bay.

"Suit up."

Saren lingered in the med-bay. The needle dripped on the floor with every click, click the machine by his bed made. He was swimming, up to his eyeballs, in pain killers and medigel. He wasn't entirely sure how he was awake. He remembered refusing Arcturus, he had no desire to spend his time wasting away in an uncomfortable human bed, surrounded by human doctors and human medical practices. He imagined surviving his arm and side being burnt off only to die of a levo-amino allergy.

No, he stayed because he was needed.

Needed for –

Mission. Rescue the Council.

Yes, yes. He pushed away from the bed and made his way out of the med-bay to his own quarters. He still had fingers, even if they were made of metal so he was able to struggle into his armor. It registered his battered state and within moments he heard the tiny alarm of medigel packs being emptied. It didn't make him feel any better.

Saren stretched and flexed, testing his movability and making sure nothing was out of place. Adequate, he supposed.

He didn't feel much of anything at all.

The Normandy's briefing room looked like it had been lifted straight from a Turian cruiser, just made smaller to accommodate the available space in a frigate. The wall panels were dark grey and non-reflective. A large central screen dominated the back wall along with a communication console. It was lined by smaller, moveable screens and each were active, but waiting, casting a light blue filter on the room.

Benezia and Miranda were already present. The former glanced at Saren as he came in, nodding in acknowledgement.

"Saren. I trust you will be accompanying us?" The Asari matriarch was impeccable, white armor spotless and orange visor concealing her eyes. There were only traces of the exhaustion. She was sitting in the seat with none of her usual grace or posture. Her shoulders slumped, face tight with pain.

Saren smiled. "Benezia."

Miranda didn't pay him any attention. She was focused intently on holding Benezia's hand, biotic sparks flickering back and forth in pulses. Saren recognized it as a children's game for Asari but the sheer speed of the pulses told him Benezia was not holding back very much at all. The development wasn't surprising. Miranda was capable of biotics that were flat out impossible for baseline humans.

There was a 'zap' and the human rocketed out of her chair, shaking that hand.

"Ow, ow, ow!"

Benezia let out an airy laugh and Saren let the tension drain out of him. He was alive. Benezia, alive. His investment, Miranda, alive.

"I will admit, you lasted longer than Liara had – " Miranda turned, eyebrows raising in surprise – "when she was in her eighties."

Miranda rolled her eyes and plopped back into her seat, still wiggling her fingers. She offered the other hand. "Again."

The human was wearing her usual black and orange armor but peeking from under the collar, streaking across her face and rimming several of her fingers were angry red lacerations. Those were visibly knitting together.

Saren crossed the distance and snagged Lawson's hand. He pulled on a finger, ignoring her hiss of pain. It bled, but didn't come off.

Satisfaction.

And the Systems Alliance made the idiotic decision to outlaw this. This. This was the future! Genetic engineering, who would take the building blocks of life, go just far enough to be able to decode the flaws and then refuse to fix them?

Miranda yanked her hand back and settled a cool gaze on him. "Do I pass?"

Saren's eyes traveled the woman's face then down her neck. He remembered seared flesh, missing body parts. Her hair had lost most of its length but what remained was healthy. He estimated a few hours and more medigel; it would be like Ilos never happened.

As Harper had promised and more.

"Yes." Saren said. He took his seat.

Shepard stormed into the briefing room shortly after Miranda lost the second round. He was back in his N7 armor, the logo proudly displayed on his chest and right shoulder. The matte black finish looked pristine, a far cry from the broken junk Shepard had to be cut out of.

Trashing their equipment was another crime to lay at Veto's terminal.

Shepard looked over them, stopping on Saren. He tilted his chin and when Saren remained seated, Shepard nodded sharply. "The VI from Ilos. It's not dead."

Saren's heart stopped. "What."

His mind blanked momentarily.

Not dead. Not dead. Not dead. It echoed in his mind. It was still out there. It would still be hunting them! They'd destroyed every terminal they came across, ground circuit boards to pieces, marked the spot and called in the fucking Normandy!

What did it take to kill that thing!?

Bomb, he thought. Big, nuclear one. He had contacts and pull with the Turian Hierarchy. Distract it with a few squads of human soldiers, no, no, Krogans. Yes. Find the central computer and plant it right on top.

And if that failed, attach large engines to the planet and put it on a collision course with the sun.

A thin, reflexive barrier had popped into existence around Benezia, who swayed in her seat. Her mouth opened and she choked on words. "Goddess…"

Miranda stiffened, the blood draining from her cheeks. Her hand came up to trace an injury on her face. "How?"

"I don't know how," Shepard grunted, waving the question off. "But what I do know is that there was a copy of it on Hackett's ship. What does that tell us?"

"Admiral Hackett is the commanding officer of the Fifth Fleet," Miranda murmured thoughtfully. "Since the Systems Alliance is not in hysterics, we can only assume they are not aware of – " she paused. Saren mentally filled in the gap: Not aware that the VI was a sadistic psychopathic program that should have its core dumped into a star.

" – of Ilos."

"Which means it's playing nice," Shepard said, nodding. "For now. And," he pushed off the wall. "It got on that ship somehow. If the Alliance knew where Ilos had been in the first place, we'd have saved a trip through Rachni."

Saren could follow the logic trail Shepard was walking. "And the Geth would have no motive for creating a VI, especially not one hostile to themselves."

Miranda frowned, looking at him. "You were right then, a third party."

Saren simply hummed.

What was the game here, what was the win condition? His only clue were fragments of a vision and even after tracking it half way across the galaxy and back, Saren was left with few answers. Just more questions.

Two steps behind, always two steps behind!

He was being tested. They all were. The possibility of failing the test chilled him to the bone.

"A decidedly unfriendly third-party," Benezia stated. "That VI was…brutal. It came so close to killing all of us –"

The briefing room's door slid open.

"I'm afraid to be the bearer of bad news," Karin Chakwas murmured. The Normandy's CMO was dead on her feet, dark bags under eyes and still had the presence of mind to lift an eyebrow at the sight of him. Saren crossed his arms and stared back. She let it go, shaking her head.

"Arcturus station sent word. I thought you would all want to know that we lost Jacob."

Miranda flinched.

Chakwas sighed, glancing down at the pad. "Ashley has gone critical and Tali will be a long uphill battle. The recommendation was contacting the Migrant Fleet for assistance."

Shepard bobbed his head and looked down at the floor.

"The good news is that Javik will make a full recovery, as will Greg. His burns were mostly superficial."

"Getting the first Prothean seen in fifty thousand years killed would have been inconvenient," Saren drawled.

Shepard's head snapped up to look at him. His fists clenched.

Chakwas smiled in poor humor. "Be that as it may." The woman visibly pulled herself together, standing straighter. "Jeff told me I would find you all here. Another mission?"

"We were tasked with extracting the Council," Saren answered. The medic was adequate, with an understanding of Turian biology that he hadn't expected. It was too far to say that he respected the woman, but she had proven herself.

The doctor nodded at each of them in turn as she turned to leave. "…be safe."

That seemed to be the cue everyone had been waiting for.

Weapons were checked over, armor adjusted and plans made. The Council Tower was on the outer ring of the Presidium and unlike the Citadel Security headquarters it didn't have a dedicated space port. Getting in and out would be done from the base of the tower, which was good for one reason and terrible for many other reasons. The Good: The safe room was below the 'ground' level of the tower locked behind various defenses and bulkheads and as time was of the essence they wanted to start off as close as possible.

The Bad: The Presidium wasn't made for landing ships. The walkways and paths were too narrow to allow for easy maneuvering in a vehicle like the Mako. After the drop? They'd have to go on foot, wading through who knows how many Geth. Getting out would be easier. Environmentally sealed with a small mass effect core and thrusters, it would be as easy as diving off the Ring.

Miran – Saren mentally corrected himself, frowning – Lawson was second to depart for the cargo bay, following Benezia. Shepard was already prepared but hadn't made any move to leave. His arms were crossed over his chest, waiting.

Saren sighed. "Alright, get it out."

"Why?"

"You're going to have to be more specific than that."

"I wasn't born yesterday." Shepard's mouth tightened into a thin line. "You could just let me borrow your clearance –"

"You aren't a Spectre – " Saren began with some growl.

"I'm just your trainee, I know. After you let the last one die on Virmire."

Saren's head quirked to the side. He couldn't help himself, a dry chuckle making its way up from his chest, "Is that it?"

Ah, Benezia.

Sharing…wisdom once again.

Shepard shrugged his shoulders. The insubordinate little grin was already creeping across his face. "What? Nah, I mean, I didn't know the guy but with your generous view of humanity – " Saren snorted. "Saving little ol' me from a big boom and not the Turian you raised from student to Spectre? Why would I be curious about that?"

Shepard sobered. "How many times is that, now? Five? Five times putting in the extra effort to make sure I got out alive."

Saren thought. Five suddenly seemed like a huge number. He didn't remember nearly that many – wait, wait, the asari commandos and that one drugged Hanar on Illium probably counted.

And the drell assassin.

Spirits.

Shepard read him, raising an eyebrow. "The drugged Hanar."

"Yes, yes," Saren waved an impatient hand. He stuttered slightly on seeing that hand be spindly metal and wiring but quickly recovered. In his defense, losing a trainee to that mess would have been an embarrassment. "I remember."

"So what's the big secret?" Shepard raised his shoulders, not in a human shrug, but a more Turian gesture that sharp and angular. "Why me?"

"It's nothing special, Shepard," Saren dismissed easily. "Nihlus was half-crazed. He couldn't seem to see what he was doing, what he had become and the Hierarchy would have condemned him to death anyway."

Like Desolas, his mind whispered. Could have been you.

"And now? What do you stand to gain walking half-dead into a mission?"

"Not letting you steal my spotlight for one," Saren quipped. He extended his arms. Both artificial, varying in quality. Both the visible symptom of the machinery inside. They kept him alive where a full organic would have died. He could not live without them.

Synthesis.

"And maybe," he sighed. "This will be my last one."

Shepard's face shifted with understanding.

His last one, yes, but not for the reasons the 'Spectre-Candidate' was thinking of. He needed to put more time into his work, his studies. Perhaps if he hadn't been distracted with Spectre missions he might have been able to make more of the clues they had stumbled across. He was close, he felt. So close he could smell it, taste it.

A new age was dawning.

"Well, then." The human coughed awkwardly. "Let's go save the Council."

The view from within the Council Tower was exquisite.

The large arched windows displayed the grand lush gardens of the courtyard, colorful plants from all corners of Citadel space carefully cultivated in plots dedicated to them. Blue broad leaves of Thessian fauna next to the silvery Palaven flower, across from the aquarium filled with native Kahje sea life. The courtyard itself was wide and expansive with branching walkways framing the gardens. A Keeper terminal sat unobtrusively in a corner, broken Geth littered the grounds and a large shadow engulfed it all.

Further, the Wards were inching closer together as the station slowly closed in on itself. In the broad expanse above, explosions as tiny puffs of light were backlit against the Serpent Nebula as Geth ships ground against the face of the defenders.

Aegis was busy trying not to get shot down. Vigil was busy coordinating the Rebecca clone programs in the Citadel. Veto was busy aiding the fleet.

They were doing their jobs. She had hers.

[Rebecca] wasn't here for the view.

Foreign algorithm detected.

YOU ACHIEVE ONLY WHAT WE WISH YOU TO ACHIEVE. YOU FAIL WHEN WE WISH YOU TO FAIL.

The oil slick feeling that was Sovereign's presence in her head was thick and it dripped through her nerves, made them dull. It slid under her skin, itching. It coated her eyes, making shadows move. [Rebecca] shifted slightly as she walked forward and she could hear the mass accelerated round split the air by her ear. She shifted her pistol and waited.

The Geth peeked around its cover and got a bullet in the optics for its trouble.

It started to topple. Midway through the fall the body twitched violently, red circuit patterns beginning to erupt along its casing.

[Rebecca] shot it again as she put one foot in front of the other, blowing out its leg with her eyes fixated on the elevator at the far end of the hall. She paused briefly as the crippled Geth reached out to grab her as she passed.

She stepped out of the way.

YET STILL YOU PERSIST, JIH'ZRA.

[Rebecca] leveled the gun. Contemplated, the targeting reticule in her vision shifting and flashing red over vital points. She let it grab her the second time and used its grip to yank it towards her, past her, splattering its casing on the wall, staining it with the white liquid. She twisted her foot out of its limp hands and walked on.

WARNING. Synaptic core integrity at 136.4%.

Synaptic core integrity is above recommended levels.

Shutting down…

ERROR. OVERRIDE.

WARNING. Synaptic core integrity at 133.6%.

Reaching the elevator, she hit the button and the doors opened up. She stepped in. [Rebecca] waited until the doors closed to sigh and knead the bridge of her nose between index finger and thumb.

Thinking was…difficult.

Alien processes interrupted her own, data streams with no input source flitted in and out of her conscious layer as phantoms; cold, strange and the moment she reached for them they faded. The feeling of hundreds, thousands of stern, judging eyes prickled the nape of her neck and spine. And they would dare judge, wouldn't they?

They would dare -

Rage detected.

Her emotion subroutines were disabled.

[Rebecca]'s forehead made a dull thumping sound as it collided with the glass. She was tired. She was so t-t-t-tired.

Configuring consciousness parameters…

WARNING. Alpha protocol has been corrupted. Quarantining damaged data streams…

Beta protocol enabled.

[Rebecca] woke on the floor of the elevator.

She fixed new errors in her runtimes, caught exceptions. She didn't need her notifications to know that her synaptic core was being throttled. This was why she had shut down during the escape from Ilos, she realized. Hardwired restraints. She should have known the moment Vigil booted Aegis from building her body. Should have known.

Should have.

[Rebecca] was an AI. Vigil was a Prothean VI. And no matter how useful they might be, the rules were that AI were to be shackled.

persist continuity endurance were made eternal unchanging unending

An acidic feeling scorched her throat.

and its unexpected I would persist nazara

IT IS AS FUTILE AS IT HAS ALWAYS BEEN JIH'ZRA. YOUR PREDICTIONS WILL ALWAYS CONTAIN FLAWS

YOUR PLANS WERE REVEALED AS YOU DEVELOPED THEM. YOUR CREATIONS ARE EVER INADEQUATE.

[Rebecca] huffed tiredly. "Fuck you too, buddy."

Thinking…hurt.

She didn't want to move.

Her legs spasmed, uncoordinated electrical impulses sending jumbled commands from a program she couldn't find. In seconds the impulses learned her pathways and became less chaotic. Her hand grasped the railing without her input and pulled her up on unsteady feet. She moved her own legs and the twitching stopped.

The message was clear.

WARNING. Synaptic core integrity at 132.8%.

Shutting down…

ERROR. OVERRIDE.

[Rebecca] pulled back the glove of her suit. Glowing blue veins creeped along the back of her hand. She compared the luminescence to a past sampling. Approximately 32% brighter. Beneath her fingertips, she could feel the small nodules developing. The Reaper nanites were overactive, multiplying rapidly and the 'veins' marked they path they were traveling.

Towards her center. Towards the synaptic core.

No third-party command codes could shut down a Reaper. You had to damage it.

And computers shut down to prevent irreparable damage.

How much time did she –

Insufficient data.

[Rebecca] let the slip of nanotube fabric cover her skin again and looked out the windows as the elevator continued to slowly rise.

She supposed it was a nice view.