Shepard's voice grew harsher.
"We don't have fear. We have a desire to win. In many of our planet's armies, warriors of any rank have a tradition: take the enemy into the grave along with you. And we ask you aliens for nothing. It was you, turians, who asked us to curb our belligerence. It was you who pushed Farixen limits through the Citadel Council. It was you who stood in front of our exploration fleet unprepared for first contact. It was you who tried to saddle us with not-quite-frigates, not-quite-battleships, not-quite-dreadnoughts, knowing that very soon we humans could seed Hierarchy space with our ships—ships you, the Council's main military force, would not have an adequate answer for. And you, Nihlus Kryik, came in here flashing your badge? Your Spectre badge? Your Council operative badge? A chained dog's badge? Yes, Nihlus, I didn't misspeak, and I won't take it back. A chained. Dog. Of the Citadel. Council," Shepard spat through clenched teeth, watching fear and helplessness grow in the turian's eyes.
"You think that if you, your Turian Hierarchy, gave us this ship, you can play the lord here?" Shepard's gaze drilled into the turian's eyes like an auger and Nihlus recoiled. "What an honor for us, the plebs! What an honor! The lord deigns to be aboard the not-quite-frigate together with the serfs! A monstrous risk for a higher being! Familiar, Nihlus?! Familiar, I can see it! For decades you've gotten used to every sentient organic of any race snapping to attention before Spectres and serving them just because a specific sentient happens to carry a Citadel Spectre ID. But we humans have a different tradition. A different one, Spectre Nihlus Kryik."
Shepard returned to the hammerblow cadence.
"Any authority, any reverence, any worship has to be earned. With actions. With real risk. With real strain. Captain Anderson is a professional. And that title, that level, isn't in our Earthborn qualification manuals. It's something we humans feel deeper than skin. Deeper than sight, deeper than reason. You wanted to humiliate him, crush him, grind him into the dirt by pushing Anderson onto command of this reconnaissance not-frigate? Didn't work, Nihlus. Didn't work. For our professionals, working the most problematic ships is normal. Working the most problematic crews is normal. Working the most dangerous directions is normal. We humans, for the most part, don't boast about ranks and posts. We just work."
For several seconds Shepard fell silent, fixing a heavy, unblinking stare on the turian standing before the table.
"The commander of the Normandy has earned not only authority but genuine respect from hundreds, thousands of humans. Yes—people in different posts, different jobs. But people who clearly understand that David Anderson is a professional. Note that he—the commander of the frigate you turians forced on him—didn't show any negative attitude toward you, a Special Corps representative. Even though he has every conceivable reason. And since all of us here are aware, Nihlus, I believe you need to understand immediately and deeply that here you are a passenger, a civilian. Not an all-powerful sultan, shah, maharaja, or emperor."
Shepard paused briefly, savoring the sight of Kryik weakening.
"We humans have our own powerful legal framework. You, as an operative of the Special Corps, know it—but you frivolously assume that a wave of the Spectre credential leaves everything behind. No, Nihlus," the XO emphasized. "Not everything. We humans have been seeking recognition from the Council for a decade now. And you turians—the Turian Hierarchy in the person of your Councilors," Shepard tapped a few sensors on his wrist omni-tool and brought up data on the Turian Hierarchy's councilors on the wall screens, "are desperately trying to resist our desire, our drive, our right. The right to take a proper place among the other Milky Way races. You are afraid, turian Nihlus. Afraid of humans. Afraid of us."
"In my function…" Kryik began, but Shepard didn't let him finish.
"Oh, yes—your function includes checking where your investments went. The Turian Hierarchy's investments became a noose around humanity's neck, Nihlus," Shepard spat, as if hammering eight-inch nails into the turian's body. "We humans spent two weeks on a protocol 'presentation' addressed personally to you—and through you, to the Citadel Council. And you were satisfied."
Shepard brought up the texts of reports Nihlus had sent.
"As you can see, even on an undermanned not-frigate we humans have enough specialists capable of cracking a 'Spectre' cipher quickly—and well. Your function, Nihlus, according to secret instructions, includes what in our human language is called betrayal, a knife in the back. And sabotage."
New data flooded the lit screens.
Additional displays flared, showing new texts and tables with graphs.
Anderson, staring at them, frankly didn't understand where Shepard had gotten such information, but he didn't rush to ask yet, watching the two-meter turian fidget before a table where two Earthborn officers sat.
Fidget—and begin to understand that his lordly status had come to an окончательный end.
"You still haven't understood who you turians and the Citadel Council ran into, Nihlus. You haven't understood," Shepard said. "Do you know what a catalyst is?"
"A substance capable of steering a chemical reaction in a certain direction and helping to achieve certain precomputed results," Nihlus rasped.
"Limited—but correct. So, Nihlus: you ran into humanity as a catalyst for processes outside your control, leadership, and understanding. We humans will not play by your rules, Nihlus, after the humiliations you turians inflicted on us. We won't," Shepard emphasized. "Don't hope for it. And we will start by reducing the status of alien Spectres on our military and civilian ships to the status of a civilian with no authority beyond basic physiology. Since by my data there aren't that many Spectres in Sol right now, we've already identified them all and placed them under observation. And you, Nihlus Kryik, we have deprived of the main thing—communications."
"I have…" the turian began.
"Oh yes—there's a Citadel Council order." Without moving, Shepard raised a different gaze at Nihlus. A completely different one. "An order to take from us humans the Prothean beacon found on a planet that belongs to us, to humanity."
The XO watched with satisfaction as the arrogant turian jerked hard.
"Take it, because someone there on the Citadel—or maybe somewhere farther and higher—decided we humans haven't matured enough to have such information repositories on our territory. Because you—the Turian Hierarchy and the other Council members—are tremblingly afraid you won't be able to control how we use that information." The special forces captain paused. "Yes, Nihlus. We Earthborn needed a lot of time to activate the relay and 'break through' to you, the Old Races. We humans have a saying: 'Even an unloaded gun can fire.' At the worst moment. Put simply: a closed relay can be opened. And you weren't ready for its activation. Not ready at all, Nihlus Kryik. Want names—those who decided humans don't deserve to possess the rarest Prothean artifact?" Shepard rested the fingers of his right hand on his wrist omni-tool keys. "We don't have only names. We have direct, indisputable proof. Well?!"
"Don't. Need to," the turian forced out.
"And it started so well," Shepard said with a sneer. "A lord-Spectre-turian comes to the ship's Navy-Army Earthborn serfs to demand a report and information about near and not-so-near plans. And he's more than sure. No—convinced—that the serfs will give him that information. Of course, because he, Nihlus Kryik, is a Spectre—a heavenly being. Not subject to law. With one swing, he smites all the dumb little humans. Note, Nihlus: I'm not even making it personal yet. My commander is already guessing I have plenty interesting there too. Things I can voice specifically about you, Nihlus Kryik." Shepard hardened, drew himself in. "So—keep playing the heavenly being? Or do you now quietly and quickly return to your cabin and never again try to exceed the status of a rightless civilian on a military ship?"
"Cabin," Kryik said after a few seconds.
"You may go, Nihlus." Shepard lowered his gaze and felt the turian slowly, reluctantly, turn his back on the two Earthborn officers at the table. "Remember: any attempt to harm us humans will be punished. With full cruelty."
After waiting until the turian left the deck, Shepard relaxed.
"Sorry, Commander. But there was a direct need to drive that subject into safe bounds," he said without looking at Anderson. "We have less than fifteen minutes before combat activation. Having that slime behind us means exposing everything that's important, valuable, and necessary to us humans to unjustified risk." He entered a code on his omni-tool. "His cabin is already cut off from any comm and information lines. There's a head in there—if he plays soldier, let him endure the hardships of military service. If needed, I'll drop him with an energy pulse into a coma."
Anderson's omni-tool came to life.
"Captain, the ship is on station," Jeff Moreau reported. "Engines are ready for a sprint to the relay. Chief Engineer Adams guarantees we can push peak power in sustained mode and handle Eden Prime without problems."
"Good." Anderson switched channels and activated shipwide comm. "Attention all hands. Ship is on station. Engage long-range reconnaissance equipment in combat passive mode. Begin passive scanning. This is not training use. This is not training work. Activate the 'Forecast' suite in combat mode."
After hearing the few short reports, Anderson leaned back. Then, tensing, he stood abruptly and walked around the desk.
"Shepard, to my cabin. We'll watch the passive feed there. We need to exclude negative influence of shock information," he said, stopping by the chair where the XO still sat.
"Aye, Captain." Shepard rose and stepped away from the table.
The two officers entered the captain's cabin just as the first passive long-range scan data appeared on the large wall displays. The mark of the giant ship glowed as a red diamond.
"Damn, it's by the reserve spaceport," Anderson said, checking the coordinate grid. "Judging by ground sensor data, it's holding position. Planetary comms are jammed. It really is filtering traffic completely. Weapons are not active."
"It doesn't need weapons. That two-kilometer 'shrimp' is a pretty good psychological weapon all by itself. The spaceport is empty. Just corpses," Shepard said, increasing passive scan resolution. "And by the way, here are the consequences of indoctrination." He indicated certain lines in the table. "Brain activity in many who fell within the 'sphere' has external-control characteristics. With suppression elements."
"Let's see." Anderson brought up additional displays. "The 'Forecast' suite confirms your conclusions, Shepard. Jeff," the commander glanced toward the cabin ceiling, "engage stealth. Standard operating mode."
"Aye, sir," the pilot replied.
Indicators confirming system activation lit on the cabin instrument panels.
"It's stupid, I know, but I'm really hoping those few sentients aboard that ship," Anderson said, "don't have access to optics or portholes. At that distance, standard non-optical means will have trouble spotting us. What's your plan, Shepard?"
"We approach Eden Prime, Commander. Then we strike the 'shrimp' with a coordinated hit from the planet's climate-system emitters, the energy storage of the spaceport nearest the 'shrimp's' landing site, and the frigate's weapons. Then, if necessary, the frigate landing team assaults the 'shrimp' and takes it under our control while it's unable, under that pressure, to resist actively. I believe our attack will guarantee the 'shrimp' at least a couple of big hull breaches," Shepard added. "At speed. The main thing is speed and momentum. I know there will be new major destruction and casualties among the population on Eden. But we need either to capture this ship—or destroy it," the XO gave his concise scenario.
Anderson thought for several minutes, then stood.
"Let's go, Captain. Our place is on the Normandy's bridge. We'll get the latest data there and begin our combat run."
"Agreed, Commander." Shepard let Anderson go first, left the cabin, followed the head of the crew into the CIC, and took position behind the ship's commander on the dais by the map. "Ready."
"Attention shipwide. This is the commanding officer." Anderson activated shipwide comm again. "You've all seen our primary target. We have two choices: capture this ship or destroy it. We cannot let it take off. We cannot let it open fire. We cannot let it get away. This is a scout. It is alone. And it must remain alone. We cannot let it transmit any information outward. We must do all of this. We are reconnaissance. We understand better than anyone how to counter reconnaissance. And we will do it." Anderson cut the broadcast, switched the map to tactical operations mode, and pulled the Utopia region into the three-dimensional projection. "Jeff, under stealth, in the shadow of the freighter Letran bound for the Citadel. Hide the ship in the shadow of the planet Xanadu. Be ready for a sprint to Nirvana—or a direct sprint to Eden Prime. Execute!"
"Aye, Commander," the pilot replied.
The frigate left its holding position, slipped behind the broad stern of the freighter, drifted off the carrier to the required distance so the relay, during the "throw," would not fuse the two ships into one.
A minute later, Normandy entered the corridor punched open by the activating relay.
"Three minutes, sir," Moreau pointed out over the command headset channel. "Letran is already preparing to exit. Decision, Commander. Straight in, or we break to Xanadu?"
"Straight in, Jeff. Straight in," Anderson said, double-checking the data coming from the 'Forecast' suite on side displays.
"Aye, Commander," the pilot cut the channel.
"Ingvar, Bill." Anderson added the electronic warfare specialist and the senior gunner to a conference channel. "All weapon systems to combat ready. Ingvar, you're first violin. Make that ship drop and shut down! I repeat: drop and shut down! Do anything you want to the planet's infrastructure and weather, but the ship must be immobilized and disarmed! All data we gathered on its capabilities has been forwarded to you."
"Understood, Commander. Ready." Ingvar, now in "combat mode," spoke in clipped phrases. "Data entered. Ready for coordinated strike. Bill?"
"All weapons are ready, Commander," the senior gunner reported. "The creature's main emitter is in the main caliber's sights."
"Jeff." Anderson called the pilot.
"Ready, Commander. While we run full speed to the planet, Ingvar will do enough to keep the shrimp from getting away. And Bill will tame its attempts to resist."
"Begin!" Anderson snapped.