Khaela. Earth.
For the next two hours, the avatar was under the full control of the social module. The living block was filled with cadets, and I was left virtually alone with them. No, adults were present in the background, but they didn't approach. I don't know whose idea this was or if they all have clearance—likely not. I had to severely limit myself in the transmission of information.
I'd give it an eighty percent chance that this is a provocation. An attempt to reveal classified information, elicit incorrect behavior, or test reactions in a crowd of people. I see a sufficient number of listening devices. Active ones. Perhaps they hope that in the process of communicating with people of a similar age to the avatar, I will say something compromising.
It might have worked with an ordinary person, but there was no objective to conflict with these people from the start, so the social module simply conversed on the suggested topics, blurring information as much as possible whenever the cadets approached anything classified. Which was constantly.
The reaction of the people can be divided into two large groups. The instructors, keeping at the edge of visibility, look anywhere from suspicious to hostile and do not engage. The presence of the ONI patch on my shoulder acts on them like an injection of capsaicin. Only without the screams of pain.
The cadets react quite differently. At first, they steered clear of my massive armored figure (I honestly turned the hammer into the armory), but once the bravest ones were found and started asking questions, contact was established. I don't give them operational or classified information, but I can tell a little about combat experience. Within the framework of the legend, of course.
The area of interest was expected: battles. Those who saw the hammer asked if it was a trophy. Of course, it became one, and its capture was accompanied by an epic duel with a Brute Chieftain. Given that I emulated the story using core resources, the details were recreated with extreme precision, indicating the enemy's strengths and weaknesses, how best to attack, and how to act. The cadets liked it; I see no reactions of disbelief.
There were a few more stories of the same type—emulations that could help these people survive in the future. Considering the demonstration of trust from these people, giving them a chance at survival through this method of instruction is rational.
Toward the end, even Sergeant 'Don't Like' joined in. Perhaps he found the method of information delivery sufficiently authentic and provided several of his own neutral comments, pointing out other superior tactics without contradicting what I had said.
It seems the fact of my armor itself, recognizable as a Spartan, plays in my favor. From the cadets' perspective, the type of armor is a symbol of authority. This isn't certain, but it's my assumption. The instructors, however, have combat experience and pay attention to the non-human traits, even if one decided to participate in the conversation.
Or, if this is a provocation, they were given a specific persona and behavioral norms in advance. No data.
The reaction among the cadets is interesting. They are curious about the implants, the avatar's appearance (I see a hormonal reaction in five of different genders), and two asked to touch the tail and ears, marveling at their detail. Several stood aside but listened.
The cadets successfully noticed that the avatar's surname and that of the Vice Admiral visiting the academy were the same and drew parallels. I had to remind them that Margaret Parangosky is a Vice Admiral with a certain reputation. And she didn't get it for nothing.
Such a woman (were I her daughter in reality) simply wouldn't allow one to exist idly. Which means training, implants, and preparing for a military career under supervision, but in rather hot spots. Margaret Parangosky wouldn't allow her daughter to be second. Only the best. No other way—that's not the Vice Admiral's character.
For a demonstration, we moved to the training range, where the avatar showed results about ten percent worse than a Spartan. Sparring, shooting—including snap-firing—and the obstacle course. Confidently high results across all parameters.
"As you can see: training, implants, and a ton of effort, sciences, and standards. Screaming sergeants, sparring, and they all expect you to be the best. Second place is a defeat. This isn't a hereditary aristocracy where, by being pretty, you can be fully supported by a husband and serve as his beautiful accessory. Yes, hereditary military families have advantages, but humanity is not in a position where incompetence is forgiven."
And also, my entire origin is a pure lie; the avatar is a synthetic with pre-set parameters. But excluding that, I didn't lie, as Spartan training can be described exactly like that, as can the top of the fleet. There are no bought positions there; they have a tendency to die quickly in battles with The Covenant.
One of the girls, shaven according to regulations (short red hair, shaved at the temples, clearly athletic build making her body quite shapely), asked:
"And what about your, ahem, appearance? Sorry."
The avatar flicked its ears and tails as carelessly as possible. And demonstratively, even though the tails were hidden under flexible, segmented armor.
"About the same way your sergeants are squinting. But there's one rule here: what is permitted to Jupiter is not permitted to the ox. And I'm not talking about my mother the Vice Admiral," laughter broke out, "just be the best. Don't believe me? I've talked to plenty of Spartans. Big guys in heavy armor, you've heard of them. Well, I know a female Spartan who walks around in pink armor with cat ears. I'm not joking, look!"
The photo from the tablet immediately spread among the cadets. There, the specified individual is simply standing in a cruiser block. And yes, the ears are detachable, and Spartans don't wear colors on missions, preferring camouflage. But the fact is, she can walk through the UNSC Apollo in pink armor with cat ears. And it will be considered simply a manifestation of her individuality.
"That's... strange," said the girl who had asked the question earlier.
The girl herself looks strictly regulation. When such cadets march in formation, picking out one specific person without precise data, just by individual traits, is difficult. Same uniform, same color scheme, hairstyles, and height-based alignment make their formation uniform. And how Spartans manage to stand out against this background looks interesting.
It turns out to be a curious process where individuality is forcefully beaten out of the cadets, but at the place of service, it begins to manifest again. Through drawings on equipment, armor color schemes, various trinkets. On the UNSC Apollo, the avatar stands out, but like a Spartan relative to a human.
Yellow has a couple of long-barreled pistols in his cabin. Chromed, with inscriptions and patterns in Latin. To my question "Why?", Yellow simply shrugged; he likes it. The head of technical services has a cyborg cat capable of tearing metal with its claws; the techs are generally very decorated. The marines' things are more modest. The number of decorated Pelicans exceeds the number of simply painted ones.
So the avatar smiled politely at the cadet.
"But this is reality. You'll soon notice that it's precisely such individuals who can afford eccentricity. Want to stand out? Be the best, and your behavior is no longer showing off, but just the quirks of a genius that must be accepted and lived with. You're effective, so you're needed. Be the best, Jane," the girl opened her mouth in surprise, which I clicked shut with a flick of a tail.
Yes, it was cheating; I used my access to find her in the database and call her by name. But it turned out well; now she knows that I know her. And the others are looking at us in surprise, clearly trying to figure out from where exactly. But they don't dare ask me. It was amusing.
In the workshop aboard the UNSC Apollo, Ajax's hologram appeared.
"What are you teaching the children? Individuality is exactly what's being beaten out of the cadets. And you?"
My hologram smirked, watching as bots charged the plasma sword. I had gear hauled in from the workshops. Primarily by Yellow; Spartans love Covenant energy weapons.
"I told the pure truth. Strength brings freedom. Win, and you'll become a star. Or maybe you'll find peace. However it turns out depends on you."
Ajax's hologram performed a facepalm.
"It's a good thing the Vice Admiral doesn't hear you."
I waved it off.
Meanwhile, the sergeant gathered and led the cadets away, and I was left alone in the block. I have about half an hour to adjust my appearance while the cadets march in neat rows of four toward the parade ground. Another portion of drill awaits them. So, is everything okay with the appearance?
Coal-black power armor, essentially a copy of MJOLNIR Armor, but with armor plates where the tails are hidden. And a pack on the back where the beacon is installed. A mask instead of a helmet, so as not to interfere with the ears.
Well, the method of connecting to the armor is different; I didn't have time to remake the suit so that the quantum beacon and plasma battery were built into the back block, but that will come. The fact is that MJOLNIR Armor is faster than the avatar, and while I'm in it, I control the armor's actuators primarily; the avatar only "plays along." The avatar's durability allows it to avoid tearing synthetic muscles, and the armor's speed makes me much more survivable. An excellent thing, in general, putting the avatar on par with Spartans. Now, wash the dust off the body and it's time. There will be plenty of officers there, and they'll squint at a dusty Spartan. Margaret Parangosky will be displeased.
When the familiar sergeant arrived for me, apparently having handed the cadets over to someone else, I was ready. Along the track past the "boxes" of marching cadets, he drove me to the academy building. Nothing had changed—the same neat rows of standard Homo Sapiens units.
I took the hammer. And as a set, I added a couple of training SMGs and a dozen training grenades. I don't intend to give up the hammer; it's now part of the gear. SMG in hands, one tail for grenades, two holding the hammer, coiling around it. Balance suffers, but not critically.
The academy building is imposing. Essentially a huge palace, around which a military base is built in sectors, spanning tens of square kilometers of space. Blade-towers of white stone serve as sector dividers. Depending on the location in the sector, one can easily understand what a cadet is studying for.
The North is given to the school and college at the academy, for hereditary military. The West is for full-fledged cadets receiving military specialties. The South is for pilots, mechanics-drivers, and technicians. And the East is for everyone else.
All four streams move back and forth by running, walking, or on buses, depending on the situation. Identical uniforms, identical hairstyles, identical colors, and synchronous steps with stomping merging into single beats create a certain sense of mechanicalness to what is happening. And the passing equipment doesn't spoil the image at all.
I won't meet Javik here for obvious reasons. His ability to read emotions doesn't work very well in a crowd of hormonally unstable youth. And questions about his nature would arise.
Both humans will be here. First thing is to find the Vice Admiral and the delegation. There we will find and take Suslikov with us. How to find a specific person in a huge complex without hacking the network and convincing the AI not to interfere? Ask. I went to the desk at the checkpoint. The cadets parted, letting me—walking with the hammer like a staff, tapping on the floor—pass forward. They also squinted at the blade of the gravity hammer, which cuts unarmored flesh quite well.
"I'm looking for the ONI delegation. I was summoned."
An older woman, elderly and stout, in a sergeant's uniform, sitting at the pass control, looked up at my two-plus meters in armor from bottom to top. At the hammer. At me. And asked:
"Pass."
The expressions on the faces of a couple of cadets in line revealed a breakdown of expectations. Well, yeah, a little old lady barely five feet tall even standing, and a Spartan in full armor with a gravity hammer. And yet, the woman didn't show a single hint of agitation; it's like I'm looking at a robot. She looks, the cadets look. And I simply handed her the access card. Silently, as if that's how it should be. She looked at the card, inserted it into the terminal. Nodded to herself.
"Go through. Block seven, range five. You'll find it on the map."
I took the key card and walked on under surprised gazes. By the way, I didn't notice any negativity toward me from the old woman at all. It seems she doesn't care. Or just has vision problems.
The academy itself from the inside is the same combination of white stone walls, very bright corridors, and a large amount of greenery. At the same time, the entourage is diluted by those same typical cadets and rare military personnel in full uniform, sometimes with weapons. The same typical faces in typical uniforms. Part of the future armies of humanity. To me, the crew of the UNSC Apollo feels much more diverse.
They squinted at the obvious Spartan in my person, but asked no questions. With the territory map downloaded from the nearest terminal, getting to the place turned out to be easy.
Range five is an obstacle course simulating rural buildings, enclosed by a fence. Considering the original purpose of the Spartan program (a universal weapon against insurgents, essentially nearly unkillable soldiers against peasants with three-hundred-year-old rifles and ancient gunpowder cartridges), it turns out ironic.
Ten test subjects of the Spartan-IV-P (Prototype) program are going through the obstacle course, dividing into teams and exchanging fire, passing standards, while the officer corps watches from the balcony. Among the standards is throwing purple magical orbs with various effects for accuracy.
I approached the Vice Admiral and stood behind her shoulder. The woman saw me, recognized me, and nodded.
"How do you like Earth?" the Vice Admiral asked quietly.
"The military base is cute," I replied just as quietly. And already via the communication implant built into my ear, I added, "No direct provocations, but they left me among a bunch of cadets and officers who were nearly spitting. I loaded the social module."
The Vice Admiral nodded and asked more loudly, pointing down.
"Spartan-IVs. What do you think?" and via the implant added, "Check them. Now. For nanites and capabilities; I don't want to drag a source of infection onto the UNSC Apollo. Regardless of all your and Ajax's scanning systems."
I watched for a bit, analyzing speed, movements, decisions. In the end, the conclusion, loudly enough for the others to hear. An order.
"I don't understand why they were called Spartans at all, Vice Admiral. UNSC cyber-infantry, yes. But Spartans? Any graduate of the second or third series would wipe the floor with a team of these Spartans. More than humans, that's a fact; there's potential, speed too. But Spartans? Where are they? I don't see them, with all due respect, ma'am."
Margaret Parangosky nodded, barely indicating the gesture.
As my monologue progressed, more and more officers looked at me and the hammer. And back at me. There are quite different personalities here. Lord Terrence Hood, a commodore, Vice Admirals Margaret Parangosky, Preston Cole, and Jack Harper. An interesting group has gathered. And Colonel James Ackerson, creator of the Spartan-III and IV programs. A controversial figure. James Ackerson didn't start protesting; he was beaten to it.
"So you think you can handle them?" Vice Admiral Jack Harper asked.
The avatar nodded.
"Quite, Vice Admiral. Give me a minute. Or even forty seconds."
This moment hadn't been discussed with Margaret Parangosky, but the requirement to appear in person, in full gear and with the hammer, clearly hinted at why. Besides, all the senior officers present had already met me as an AI, have access to the personnel file, and clearly recognized me—at least Jack Harper did. He's smirking, as if asking: what are you doing here?
Testing, of course. Maybe I can't properly create something new, but I can study what exists and make predictions without problems.
So far, my prediction: promising, but very dependent on the soldier's original skills. Less time for training, for adjustment, for activation. Spartans are prepared for a decade; the full complex for these takes from one to two years. Plus, geniuses were originally chosen as candidates for Spartans, whereas here it's intended to take loyal soldiers who have lost combat effectiveness for various reasons.
Extensive cybernetics, high reaction speed, and strength will make them dangerous, elite infantry. But no more. They won't reach the level of Spartans, even with the powers of sorcerers. That's my prediction. Now we'll check how accurate it is. Jack Harper met eyes with Margaret Parangosky, asking permission with gestures. And receiving a nod from her, pointed down.
I didn't wait for a verbal command and jumped, using the arena recording for analysis. The arena, aka the obstacle course, consists of three parts. The drop zone, the walls, and the "village." A settlement of potential insurgents, even if that's not being discussed now. I fall from the balcony into the "walls" zone.
The enemy, numbering ten units, has split into two groups and is simulating a storming of fortifications. Two are standing on the wall with carbines, and a fox is about to fall on their heads.
"Sudden change of situation. You are under attack," I announced over the loudspeaker, simultaneously sending a "click" at one and jumping with hammer at the ready at two more.
Spartans would have dodged, simply jumping off and leaving a grenade as a gift. A falling target has a very predictable trajectory; I would have had to use the hammer as a pole to avoid a blast in the very first seconds. But these aren't Spartans.
"Minus three. Slow."
Spartans would have already started changing positions looking for the enemy and at least wouldn't have been hit by the click or the hammer at the moment of "change of situation." These began to react virtually at the moment of attack and took losses.
"Who the hell are you?" one of the cadets exclaimed in surprise, trying to hide from a burst from a submachine gun to the helmet. Training rounds, with paint. Unsuccessful, minus four. Answer?
"Foxy!" the avatar barked in the face of the fallen one, rolling.
Finally, they oriented themselves. Three began to spread out, firing at me, but they aren't throwing grenades, fearing they'll hit their own. Two more went into melee, helping themselves with orbs. The last one is throwing grenades, trying to prevent me from retreating. Not bad, but not enough.
Interestingly, their orb isn't offensive, but anti-gravity. Which means it can be used to one's advantage if you give yourself acceleration in the right direction. So I braced the hammer against the floor and pushed off with it to the side, throwing myself behind cover and sending a "click" at the grenadier.
They don't have energy shields; they have nothing to counter the "click." Minus five. And while I'm levitating, the melee fighters are trying to catch up to me, interfering with the line of fire of those in the rear; I can shoot accurately and at point-blank range. Another mistake in haste.
I took some hits too; the shields dropped. But an SMG at point-blank range shreds a shield in an instant, and I have two. Minus two, I'm behind cover. Three left.
Nothing personal; a Spartan-II would have rolled them just as easily; I'm now brazenly copying our Yellow's tactics. He has a name, but he's Yellow since I'm Shpala. Where's the enemy? Two took the high ground, on the walls. The third is below, but behind cover, moving along the wall to flush me out from behind the partition. Won't help; I can move into the buildings. I pulled out a couple of decoys to check their accuracy. They shot the poked-out knife quite accurately and quickly. Quite fast, a third faster than a human.
Immediately had to change position; an anti-gravity orb arrived. I replied with a "Click," but the enemy was good enough and jumped off the wall, avoiding the explosion. Didn't count as a target destruction. And I have seven grenades. These three aren't rushing into an attack, preferring to hit with orbs and shoot at any movement. Good, I like it; they can't be broken in a head-on. Only if...
Tear out a metal plate-door and use it as a riot shield. Of course, both SMGs to the belt. Now, when an orb hit the shield and it became sharply weightless, launch it at the enemy, me behind it, simultaneously a "click" at the bottom one. They try to hit the shield, but the orb's effect allows me to move it where needed—it's weightless—using my own body's inertia for maneuvers.
And now, catch! The soldier is forced to dodge the armored door flying at him and fell under SMG fire. The bottom one caught a grenade.
"Last one. Hammer time!"
Yes, I just threw the gravity hammer in his face. Deactivated, I'm not a monster. Brutes make them insanely durable so that a creature with a Brute's strength won't break it. And added a grenade, simply, without a click. And a burst. The client dodged the hammer, fell on the grenade, and instead of trying to get up, just cursed.
"Round! I won!"
The whole thing took twenty-six seconds from the moment of jumping into the arena. A Spartan would have handled it no worse. And had there been two of them, they would have scattered them in ten to fifteen seconds.
"Something like that, gentlemen Admirals," I did a curtsy and went to find the hammer.
Intact—they really are insanely reliable. Jack Harper allowed himself some applause; the cadets are squinting resentfully. James Ackerson is as calm as a boa constrictor.
"That was sudden, you!"
I went into a roll from a burst to the back, behind cover to get the hammer and just toss a grenade overhand, leisurely. Cadet Suslikov saw the grenade, jumped out from cover, only to receive a burst from an SMG into the helmet visor. I didn't take offense.
The avatar, shaking sand off the hammer, remarked:
"That's the difference between you and Spartans, kids. A Spartan, upon hearing about a change in the situation, would have already started changing position, acted differently. Plenty of mistakes. You still have a lot to learn. Suslikov, I'll set Yellow on you; he'll show you the difference between you and a human. For now, you're not even a ground squirrel; you're a jerboa. Or a mouse. Yes, now you're Mysh. I'll tell Yellow."
Margaret Parangosky inquired from the balcony:
"Verdict?"
The avatar slung the hammer over its shoulder. Ultimately, I was called here for exactly this.
"The kids are severely lacking experience. Otherwise? Reaction is about a third above normal, strength, speed. If there are no side effects, you'll get good elite infantry. These ones still need to learn. They react slower than they can. Mistakes, inaccuracies. They were pulled out of training too early."
One of the "kids," judging by the tag our Suslikov, snorted to himself. So only I heard him with enhanced hearing.
"In my opinion, they just wiped the floor with us. And it was unexpected. This magic of ours didn't help at all."
I turned around, looked at the guy. He had taken off his helmet; the visor was covered in paint. He held the gaze; no negativity visible. I think I can answer.
"Experience, Cadet Suslikov. For you, sorcerers and countering them is something new and unexpected. Operatives have experience. Considering you're coming with us, Cadet, you'll get experience. As well as training with those who have such experience. Get ready."
He just silently turned away and threw back:
"Yes, ma'am."
I didn't feel like being rude in return; I'll just leave a note for them to work with him. This reaction to a defeat in a training match is not normal. Let them fix the oversight.
They let me go quickly. I confirmed that the nanomaterial isn't spreading and isn't interfering, conducted a few more sparring sessions, and was sent to receive the scientist, and then return to the ship with him and Javik.
Javik will be in the Pelican; there's no reason for a xeno to wander around a human military academy without supervision. They might attack, just in case, and then there will be casualties. Do I need that? No.
Jacob Reyes was found in the laboratory.
Actually, he's here on my recommendation. As a corporate who saw too much, he had already earned himself trouble. But I looked at the personnel file...
The chief engineer of the Fresh Wind turned out to have a scientific paper on creating and working with neutron-saturated atoms and creating weapons based on them. He calculated everything well, but the project promised to be not expensive, but astronomically expensive. Plus, storage and processing of such a substance requires very specific conditions and containers. Which didn't exist at the time.
The technological base in his youth simply wasn't there. A gravitational storage facility that would keep the substance from instantaneous destabilization only appeared now.
In short, the boy grew up and took up more down-to-earth things: earning money in the service of corporates, reproduced a daughter. The daughter followed in her grandfather's footsteps, not her father's, and successfully quarreled with him. In the end, he is 57 years old, single and lonely. Married to his work, but with a decent sum in his accounts and cybernetics.
I stopped at the entrance to the lab. A typical white room with a projector and a powerful computing complex. For theoretical research, exactly what you need. The man was working with a model of a Shaw-Fujikawa drive, trying to improve the existing one by 20 light-years on his own. His train of thought... isn't wrong. I can show him blueprints of more advanced versions when he's ready.
The man only noticed me when I spoke; he seemed preoccupied. Missing a two-meter Spartan takes some doing.
"Mr. Reyes?" the man turned around, "The time has come. Pack up."
He nodded, packing his laptop and turning off the equipment.
"They sent a whole Spartan for me. I'm a star."
I snorted. He apparently didn't recognize me; I was without armor and a helmet then. Now I'm in them.
"Don't flatter yourself. I'm interested in your work with super-saturated neutron matter. Otherwise, you'll perform the usual duties of senior technical personnel."
The man actually stopped.
"You're joking. That was twenty years ago, a youthful folly," he continued to peer into the mask's shield, gradually turning pale, "You're joking? No, seriously. There are a whole bunch of unsolvable problems there. And sorry, you are interested? You're a soldier, a Spartan."
I snorted, causing a hiss in the speakers.
"Maybe you have the necessary clearance, but the others here don't. Pack up immediately; the ship is waiting for us. All questions later. Otherwise, I'll carry you with whatever you have in your hands. Move!"
The man does have some training and packed quickly. He was silent, but squinting. Finally, he couldn't stand it:
"It won't work, whatever you think. We tried; it's impossible."
I snorted; space naturally forms around us anyway. Cadets and teachers prefer not to stand in the way of a superhuman and the one accompanying them.
"I'm amused by your faith in corporations in a society where those corporations are held by the throat by intelligence. Now be quiet."
The man fell silent, but he clearly doesn't believe it. So we walked silently to the Pelican.
Watching the middle-aged man's face when he saw Javik was amusing. We headed for the UNSC Apollo. Unfortunately, I didn't get to meet Miranda, but work awaits us. And the girl isn't going anywhere.
***
Liara T'Sonni, Shadow Throne
The situation is turning unpleasant, but Liara found a little time to be with Joker and Jalim, her mother's commando and the intermediary between her and the Matriarchs.
The dining room on the Shadow Broker's ship is quite modest. After all, the owner, while valuing comfort, assumed food would be taken during work, so we settled in the crew mess. One of them, the emptiest one, which Liara took for herself.
The food is modest, mostly long-shelf-life products. After all, the Shadow Throne is in human space and cannot leave. We have to use up the supplies.
"I don't like how the Council is behaving regarding the glassed worlds. And not just them."
Jeff snorted.
"In my opinion, the Council behaves with all information like a pack of rats. They drag what they can to their burrows and hide it. Ilos, again."
Ilos and the Mu Relay were tracked through the SSV Normandy's databases, following a trail of breadcrumbs and Liara's own memory, who worked with John, the Thorian, and the Rachni Queen. The Matriarchs immediately sent an expedition there, effectively expropriating the world as payment for her status as the Shadow Broker.
No, they didn't know exactly what the Asari maiden had done, but Benezia explained the situation exactly that way. The Matriarch was securing freedom of action for her daughter, making deals. And something substantial had to be offered in payment. A Prothean lab-world with a functioning Prothean VI was just the thing. The Matriarchs of Benezia's faction are extremely pleased with their acquisition and have no further claims; their investment paid off. Liara wasn't recognized as an independent player, at least due to her age, but was recorded as a valuable and profitable asset. And they sent a proposal for mutually beneficial cooperation if anything else is found.
Jalim clarified:
"And more specifically? Such general complaints are just populism. The Matriarchs will expect more specific questions and proposals."
Liara sighed and explained for her companions:
"Effectively, both the Salarians and the Asari know about the glassed worlds and The Covenant. We know from that strange agent, a separate problem. The Salarians found a glassed world first. And only the Turians, the main army of the Council, have no idea who destroyed their fleet and why. This makes the situation worse. Especially since they are sending fleets there. Sooner or later there will be problems, and everyone will have to pay."
And then there's this agent. To be honest, Liara was taken aback when she saw her. It might seem like a modified human (Cerberus Husks came to mind), but she just behaves differently. Moves differently. As if such fluid movement, turning into instantaneous lunges, is natural for her. And those eyes... Looking into the camera was frightening, like looking into the eyes of a predator. A wild beast, but smart, dangerous.
Wrex had a similar look when he wanted to be more imposing, and Javik, for whom all current races are "primitives." And when he talked about cooking a Salarian, the maiden shuddered. For a long time, she had nightmares about Javik cooking Mordin, like in the extranet show she used to learn cooking.
The agent was clearly on a direct line with a superior. At the same time, the signal couldn't be detected at all. A quantum transmitter? But they should be quite expensive. Which means, if she's right, the agent has funding or even a patron.
Could humans have found a young race, similar to a human or Asari, and made pets and fighters out of them? She remembered the Yahg, the failed Shadow Broker. They could, of course. Perhaps that beast-girl is a beast on a leash, or her loyalty is secured some other way. But that will be for later; the question needs thought. Now it's lunch and Jalim and Jeff.
"What do you suggest, Liara?" Jalim asked calmly, "I'll pass it on."
A difficult question. But she had thought about it.
"The Turians need to find out about The Covenant. They are advancing on the humans, and it's only a matter of time before a fleet appears on the border of the Turian Hierarchy, dragging us into new wars. We'll have to ask the humans for help."
The older Asari smirked.
"But you were for this yourself."
Liara smiled too, but sadly.
"I don't want anyone glassing worlds. At all. I saw how the Reapers did it to Thessia. That's why I want to force them to look, but if possible without leading to a massacre. I know my wish is a bit naive, but if we don't do this, there will be another massacre."
Jeff nodded.
"Well, if anyone can handle this, it's you. You turned out to be a great Po—"
medium, Liara.
I nodded warmly.
"Thank you, Jeff. I needed that. Now it's time; I have an idea. But Jalim, pass it on to them."
She saluted.
"I'll do it as quickly as possible, Shadow Broker. You do what you must as well. You're right—if the turians drag this Covenant down on our heads, there will be trouble. It will get through to the Matriarchs, I promise."
Liara nodded and left the mess hall. It was time to work; the moment of weakness had passed.
***
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