The story with Halo ended even somewhat mundanely. To the Monitor's delight, a human expedition on a stealth Frigate landed on the surface. Vorhess was picked up and taken to Omega to continue performing the functions of a mimic agent.
Not immediately, of course. First, I couldn't resist coming to that camp as a guest. All I had to do was tag along with a convoy returning from an "expedition" to a plasma weapon. To the question of how I survived, I replied:
"The ship split apart, I jumped into a pod and landed nearby. Ran from robots, ate what I found, and had some supplies, yes."
They didn't quite believe me, but they decided to take me to the camp, and there the administrator Gorm'Ez would decide my fate. No way—I will be the one deciding my fate, not a Salarian. But they don't need to know that. Especially since I arranged with the Monitor for teleportation on command.
My companions were not in the best of moods and were dragging two carts covered with tarps. Half the group was wounded in one way or another; as I was told, a third of the group was dead because of the robots. I had to fake a "I didn't expect everything to be like this here" reaction. But that's what was expected of me.
Arriving at the site, I went straight to the bar, the two-story building where Liara works. I need to give back the backpack with the transmitter. To the demand to show myself to Gorm'Ez, I said:
"I haven't eaten in three days. Wait, I'll eat something normal and then straight to the boss."
The patrolman nodded, pointing to a four-story block building.
"Don't be long. The administration is there."
And now I need to make an impression. One, two, three, and I threw open the door and announced:
"Innkeeper! Rum for everyone on my tab!"
Liara, standing behind the counter, flinched, and her eye began to twitch. Her blue face became practically purple.
"Beautiful, are you deaf or blind?" a four-eyed pirate asked as if mocking, after which he slammed his palm onto the tabletop with a swing, leaving some golden circles on it. "Rum for everyone on my tab!"
"On what occasion?" the Turian woman noted skeptically from her seat. "And who are you anyway?"
"I am someone it's profitable to be with," the Batarian grinned. "Because I have a ship. On which we are departing from this cursed harbor!"
"YES!" the crowd supported him thunderously.
"Fine," the legless woman nodded unusually phlegmatically. "One last question. What is 'rum'?"
The pirate suddenly turned gloomy.
"I didn't think things were so bad for you here," he muttered dejectedly but quickly regained his good mood. "You're talking about the best drink in the galaxy! In fact, the word 'rum' and the word 'happiness' mean the same thing to us!"
The crowd appreciated my speech, but the Asari did not. She lit up with magic and asked:
"What the hell are you doing here?"
I shrugged the Batarian's shoulders.
"Brought the backpack. You left the transmitter there, and the weapon too," I said, dropping the backpack right onto the counter.
It glowed purple and slid to the side, revealing a very angry Asari.
"Vorhess..." Liara hissed, burning my Batarian with her gaze. "You... You..."
"Captain Vorhess, if you please!" I interrupted her insolently. "And don't look at me like that! Sorry, but you're not my type. So where's our rum?!"
At that moment, I caught a strike to the stomach and flew out the door, giving the command for teleportation. My work here is done. And I even tried to apologize; no need to throw me around. Now—to work.
The captured expedition of the Council Races was placed in its entirety in the central camp, which was left under the protection of a combat platform and robots that stopped playing games and simply suppressed resistance. Well, it's time for me to go, and not just me.
The Shadow Broker bought out his sentients, so they went to Omega with Vorhess. No, we didn't cross paths; they traveled in cells, and I just set the avatar to maintenance and attended to other matters.
We have a project that needs to be solved as quickly as possible: a mass-module. Effectively, it's a Mass Effect Core plus a reactor, plus a frame for mounting to a ship. Why? To jump ships through the Mass Relay network wherever needed. Not just stealth Frigates, but any ships. With the discovery of Halo, this suddenly became relevant, as we're talking about distances of thousands of light-years, which even for Jupiter-class ships would mean months of travel one way. And that's considering that three such ships are ready at the moment.
The module, which one of the engineers called a "displacement ring," has obvious complexities in creation. Since it's external, there will be problems with protection. Moreover, a separate reactor also adds complexity, as does the frame that would allow the module to be reliably docked to different ship models. But all this is solvable when you have a simulator and AI power, as well as enthusiasts who see the goal but don't see the obstacles. They used a transport ship as a base, and then the docking system needed to be refined, and the prototype was ready.
The galaxy is restless, even if major clashes aren't happening right now. The Covenant retreated from Palaven but launched a series of quick strikes against the Council's outer colonies, and their activity is manifesting everywhere. Humans have somewhat reduced their activity, but we have Erinle and what is happening there and on Halo. Naturally, the locals are actively opposed, but after the battle with the Covenant, they are being cautious for now. And the war with the Covenant hasn't been canceled; another major battle ending in defeat, and the Jupiters simply wouldn't make it in time. We need more ships.
Right now, my point of interest is Omega. Vorhess is back in business, having changed his appearance once again. It's undesirable for the Captain to be seen now; the Shadow Broker will be looking for him. And Aria T'Loak's mercenaries on Omega have been getting active lately. So another change of appearance, this time to a Batarian worker. The original Batarian worker suddenly developed lung problems and will quietly die in a couple of weeks. A pity, of course, for the good fellow.
The Possessed, having received a small upgrade to bypass the bio-scanner (let the Shadow Broker search to his heart's content), headed to the streets of Omega. The trading district looks quite interesting: the towers of the residential block are enclosed with metal ramps and balconies, turning six multi-story buildings into shops, windows into counters, connected by dozens of platforms one above the other and turning the buildings into a single homemade multi-level trading block. Even on the outside, balconies are made to accommodate both trading points and passing customers. A huge market with thousands and thousands of trading points.
The Possessed stopped at the eighth-floor level, looking at the city below. For three weeks now, I, along with a couple of scouts, have been trying to understand the reasons for the activity, and the results are interesting. Out of the corner of my eye, I tracked a patrol of Aria T'Loak's mercenaries. In medium armor breastplates and respirators, with assault rifles, they are inspecting everyone. This didn't happen before.
"Tarkhar," a Quarian stopped nearby, "there you are."
Poor agent. While three fingers are still realistic to depict by folding fingers in pairs, when walking, Quarians constantly walk on their toes, and the foot is also two-toed. One has to constantly maintain balance while walking. Also, Quarians are generally shorter than humans, so the agent also slouches. But that's his job; you can't mask him as a Batarian.
"Hal'Riza," the Batarian-Possessed nodded, "did you bring it? Kha-kha."
He nodded and handed over a package.
"Good quality, worker. I checked it."
"What do you have there?" a voice rang out from behind.
We turned to Aria T'Loak's patrolmen, a pair of Turians.
"A pistol," I replied, "times are restless now. Vorcha are scurrying about. Three disappeared at our factory over the last month. Decided to arm myself; that's the norm on Omega, isn't it? Gave it, see, to an acquaintance for a check, to make sure the weapon definitely works."
The Turians nodded at this.
"Many of them have appeared in the corridors. But brandishing weapons in the inhabited part is forbidden. Is that clear?" We nodded. "Show us, what kind of weapon is it? Do you even know how to use it?"
It's no secret. An M-3 Predator, a Turian-pattern pistol. A classic pistol, powerful enough, but due to design features, of little use against shields. But within the Terminus Systems, where only large mercenary groups have shields (the patrolmen don't have them, for example, only a breastplate from armor that such a weapon will penetrate, though not on the first shot), it's a very useful and common commodity.
So I handed over the weapon, which the Turian checked and returned.
"I know how to use it, I have experience, kha-kha. It's here you have patrols, but a little further from the center, you can't do without a weapon."
The Turian grunted, and the patrol moved on. The agent, posing as a Quarian, noted:
"They're nervous for some reason. A month ago, they wouldn't have even flinched."
"Something's brewing, yes," I agreed. "Aria T'Loak is pulling in mercenaries. Blood Pack, Blue Tide, ERC, corporates. No wonder the guards jump at every barrel. These guys can do little against a mercenary in full gear. He has shields, experience, better weapons. So they pressure whoever they can."
And we silently looked into the distance. From an architectural standpoint, the interior spaces of Omega are a unique place. About four hundred meters of empty space, carved up by towers hanging from the ceiling, standing on the floor, or stretching from floor to ceiling. It's obvious that the upper and lower parts of the station were connected far from immediately. Such towers are also found on the outside of the station; inside is a classic labyrinth of corridors. And here it's specifically two forests of towers in a huge artificial cave. Or a hall. Instead of side walls, there are atmospheric shields of colossal size. Unique technology, unique place. I can appreciate the scale of whoever built this.
I set the cough on a timer, good. My current status allows me to walk freely through the inhabited blocks and visit the spacers. And things are truly complicated there. There are far more Vorcha and Krogan on the station than usual. Ships arrive regularly, bringing in more and more individuals.
Aria T'Loak tried to resist at first and even shot down several ships, but skirmishes with her mercenaries began, depriving her of territorial control on the border with the spacers. Outside the common zone. With the help of an assault bot, I managed to reach one of these battlefields. And two conclusions can be drawn. First—the main combat force is Vorcha and Krogan, especially Vorcha, who also dragged away the corpses. Second—they use Covenant weapons; without adequate armor, the spacers die in droves, but so do the mercenaries; their armor doesn't hold against plasma. Yes, we have problems.
And the Vice Admiral said not to get involved; it's not our problem. All that remains for me is to gather information and observe the unfolding tragedy. Obviously, there isn't much for Vorcha in such numbers to eat, which is why raids on places where there is food at all have begun.
Scouting territory occupied by Vorcha is difficult; they manage to crawl through ventilation, among other things, and they are very resilient, so killing them with one attack, unless it's a neck snap, won't work. These individuals can easily regenerate a slit throat if they eat in time. Or a torn-off arm, no problem at all. So only destroying the CNS works.
On the other hand, due to their fast metabolism, Vorcha are hungry almost always, so they never have enough food. Thus, entering another ruined bar where no one was left alive, I wasn't surprised that there wasn't a single corpse. They ate everything. An empty room, overturned tables, traces of blood. And not a gram of edible materials. On the wall is a Covenant symbol. "Greed."
"Who would have doubted it," at this I turned, raising the pistol and looking at a jellyfish-like Hanar floating toward me.
"Greetings. Is this one here to accept The Great Journey?"
Interesting.
"Perhaps. Tell me about The Great Journey. You're a preacher, aren't you?"
The Hanar stopped a meter away.
"This one is a Deacon, a preacher of The Great Journey. The Great Journey is the path to union with the gods, through unity and the path through the galaxy. The gods left us signs and relics so that we might know their wisdom and be able to follow their path to transcendence..."
I nodded, recording the Hanar's monologue. It will come in handy; later we'll study what ideas the Covenant is promoting. Until a Quarian looked into the room and waved his hand. I nodded.
"You know what I think, Deacon?"
The jellyfish asked:
"This one is interested in your position. I am ready to answer questions in the understanding of The Great Journey."
I brushed it off.
"That won't be necessary. I believe that the last stone should fall on the head of the last priest," and I drove a long knife into the creature's nerve cluster, then applied current. The Hanar trembled, only widening the wound and worsening its position, flooding the floor with lymph.
After the tentacles gave way and the Hanar fell, the Batarian (me) stepped over it and headed for the exit. And then through the corridors as far as possible. I don't want to be seen; everything we needed, we found out.
"Managed to find out anything interesting?" the agent asked.
"A lot of theory, but nothing concrete. It seems the Covies, while preparing the attack, have started gathering supporters from the locals. Vorcha, a Hanar preacher here. Hanar are religious anyway; I think there were no problems with them at all. To the side!"
We dove sharply around the corner, barely managing to hide from several of Aria T'Loak's mercenaries. The same as the patrolmen, essentially locals with weapons, whoever has what. Except breastplates and symbolism are present for everyone. There was no desire to pick a fight; we had to take a detour to avoid it. And from there, retreat to the ventilation, and through it to our containers, where we could normally discuss the situation without fear of eavesdropping.
Entering the room, I waved to the operator:
"What else do we have that's interesting?"
He, eyes darting across the monitors and fingers across the keyboard, said:
"Three more confirmed skirmishes between Vorcha and mercenaries. The mercenaries aren't encrypting their comms at all; I'm disappointed."
I shrugged the Possessed's shoulders:
"A bunch of armed militia, and everyone needs communication. What's there to be surprised about? And we met a Hanar."
"Whom you stabbed," the agent added, sitting down nearby, facing the exit, pistol lying close by. "A strike to the nerve cluster, electricity—it must have been very, very painful for him."
Such a trifle doesn't interest me. He's a Covenant preacher; nothing more needs to be said. An opponent.
With a few keystrokes, the operator showed a recording of one of the recent battles between Aria T'Loak's mercenaries and the Vorcha. Although Vorcha have regeneration, they have no armor and die when receiving large single-instance damage, so Aria T'Loak's subordinates were winning most of the fight. Until the Blood Pack mercenaries struck them in the back. After which the Vorcha leader and a Krogan spoke, and the Vorcha took the bodies.
"This happened while you were out walking," the operator said, "and it's not an isolated case. They aren't going after the corporates yet, but Aria T'Loak's infantry is taking hits. It'll start soon, I think. Whoever of the Covie agents is controlling them, he's unable to hold them back. Or thinks it's time, I don't know."
"How interesting," the agent agreed, "it seems a drama from the front row awaits us."
It will definitely be a drama.
***
Four days later, the Possessed was walking down the street of the capital when the operator contacted us:
"It seems they're starting. I see a crowd of Vorcha with Covenant weapons on the cameras. They're heading right past our hangar. Good thing we have those new robots; it's calmer with them. If I were you, I'd hide somewhere."
"Understood," the agent replied.
I smiled.
"Need to get higher up quickly. This will be a wonderful show. I want beer and chips."
The agent noted disapprovingly:
"There will be many corpses. There will be a massacre. And you don't need to drink and eat; it's a waste of products."
I just shrugged at that.
"Yeah, I know. But we can't prevent what's happening, so what choice is there? As I was told, if a problem is unavoidable, you can try to relax and enjoy it. There will be a chronicle from the best angles. So record everything; we'll edit it later. We'll film a documentary, become famous."
The agent snorted, and we went to our positions.
It all started with quite active firing. The Vorcha came in a continuous stream: from ventilations, from corridors, crawling through where usually no one crawls or walks, attacking everyone in sight. I positioned myself on a balcony at the top of one of the towers and saw the flashes of Covenant weapons, and over the comms, I heard screams and requests for help.
At a sound, I turned and fired two shots from the Predator into the head of a Vorcha climbing the building. He lost his brains and fell onto the roof. I had to take a moment to make sure he wouldn't fall off; too early to give away the position.
Here and there, more and more traces of firefights appeared. As expected, the Blood Pack mercenaries came out against everyone; Krogan squads attacked other mercenary groups and even tried to storm Afterlife. Aria T'Loak had to intervene. Unfortunately, it wasn't visible from my angle, but the flashes of Biotics clearly hint that someone who is definitely not an amateur or a weak sorcerer is working there. Cars were flying, as were enemies. But that's one point out of many.
I immediately released one of the robots to try and connect to Aria T'Loak's networks in the chaos of battle, using my core resources. Extremely useful machines, capable of cutting through metal partitions and floors using cutters. A plasma arc controlled by gravity is both a weapon and a tool.
And while the first fires began to break out in the city (fires on a space station—there will be many corpses), the robot raced through technical corridors toward Afterlife, destroying Vorcha and mercenaries passing by along the way. To prevent the robot from being damaged, I impaled three bodies on the blades, using them as a shield against plasma. It didn't turn out very pretty, but it was effective and very brutal. True, when the robot reached the desired location, the bodies weren't particularly identifiable, nor were they whole. But the robot is intact, so everything is fine. The server room was located in the basement of Afterlife, within walking distance of the mercenaries and their mistress. In normal conditions, they'd come running to the assault in two minutes, and you'd have to deal with a very angry Asari Matron. But not now; now Aria T'Loak is distracted by the battles, one can go visiting.
This place was guarded by mercenaries and turrets, competently placed to cover the personnel, but it didn't save them when the Vorcha attacked them. From the entire line of defense, only a door remained, everywhere holes...
The plasma hits had scorched the walls, and the turrets were burned and melted. A lone Quarian, leaning against a wall near the bodies of Aria's mercenaries and about a dozen Vorcha corpses, waved a hand.
"You know, I assumed the girls would work on the aesthetics. That installation on your robot is creepy."
The robot shook the bodies off its blades but remained covered in blood and scorch marks. I replied over the comms:
"At least it helped reduce damage. The enemy didn't know where to attack."
Gunfire echoed in the background. My Batarian self noted that Aria or other Asari were clearing the area around the club. We had to hurry before we drew attention.
"Open it up."
Attempts to breach the door showed that Aria had taken care of the security here. Five centimeters of door that was easier to cut out entirely than to pick. A complex lock based on the upper leaf of the door fitting into a groove of the two lower ones and locking into place, all supplemented by metal pins passed through the door. It couldn't be opened manually; it had to be cut. And there was no time to cut.
"Hacking attempts are ineffective. Need another plan."
The man gave the robot a nasty look.
"Radiation will destroy the tech. That's a bad idea. We can try to widen the ventilation."
A fact; the agent was right. It took a few minutes to find the ventilation and locate where it led into the sealed compartment. Then the robot magnetized itself to the wall and announced:
"To avoid damage to your vision, I recommend turning away. Five seconds."
With a hiss, it began cutting through the wall first, and then the ventilation. Shots rang out, but the armor plate at the base of the robot successfully withstood the pistol fire.
And then the slaughter began. The robot lunged at the nearest sentients, impaling them on its blades and using screaming Salarians as shields against bullets. Then it threw itself at the rest, shredding them with blades, peppering them with submachine gun fire, and using the cutter when necessary.
The robot raced through the structure, cutting, stabbing, hacking, and breaking, while the speakers blared:
"Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill!"
One of the technicians tried to escape through the hole and even climbed up, but fell back down, gaining a couple of new holes in his organism. There was nowhere to run; the machine didn't care about your survival. There were attempts at resistance, screams and protests, even pleas. Finally, everything went quiet.
"Area cleared. Number of escapees—one; intercept successful. No survivors."
The Quarian, with some difficulty—it was awkward for him, after all—climbed through the hole and looked around. The robot, despite its activity, had barely damaged the equipment, but it had staged a show in the style of "one leg here, another there, guts everywhere, even the ceiling is soaked in blood." The man sighed, cursed, nearly slipping on the blood (well, walking on tiptoes is an ordeal in itself, and here the floor was slippery), and grumbled.
"We need to work on the aesthetics of these machines. It makes me feel a bit sick, you know."
To which the robot indifferently replied, accompanied by my chuckle from the top of the tower, which the agent couldn't hear:
"The program provides for gaining an advantage through psychological effect."
The agent shuddered but began disconnecting the servers anyway. He asked the operator:
"What's the situation?"
No names, of course.
"The front hasn't really defined itself yet. Blood Pack and Vorcha against other mercenaries, Asari commandos, and Aria. Active fighting is going on all over the city. In my opinion, if the Vorcha looted less, they would have won by now. The area near Afterlife is more or less stable; otherwise, things aren't looking good for the defenders. They've lost half the docks, there's chaos in the residential sectors, it's hard to tell who is defending what."
I added from my vantage point:
"Confirmed. Right now, the attackers are mostly occupied with seizing, looting, and divvying up spoils rather than trying to finish the job. This is helping the defenders organize. I suggest finishing with the servers and conducting a couple of diversions. Whoa, whoa. Camera three, look at the top."
The operator whistled, watching a car flying heavily toward Afterlife. Any technician would have said the vehicle was overloaded. It descended slowly, almost leisurely, onto Aria's club and then exploded, shaking the nearby structures, and in the data center, which withstood the blast, the warning systems wailed. Fires, structural breaches, loss of signal from compartments. No, Afterlife wasn't destroyed. But it took significant damage, partially collapsing.
"Recording requests for situational clarification. Recommend accelerating."
The agent, wincing, nodded. He was slightly concussed when the room shook, causing some of the equipment to turn into shrapnel.
"That's it, let's go."
The robot helped the man in the Quarian suit pull the block through the hole and then jumped in itself. But before leaving, a blue beam struck the equipment, rapidly heating the room and making it uninhabitable, the equipment destroyed. Not exactly sabotage, but largely so. After that, the robot hurried to catch up with the "Quarian."
He carried the server block under his arm like he'd stolen it from somewhere. I think anyone they met would think exactly that. But right now, everyone was busy either with defense or looting. This included the attackers, the defenders, and the void-dwellers who had broken into the city and sensed opportunity. Or maybe they were fleeing from the proximity of the Vorcha army, as an alternative.
"Did you mutilate them like that just because they interfered with you being in the Omega system?"
The robot calmly replied:
"Confirmed. Make less noise; I will handle the enemy."
The robot dashed toward three Vorcha who had emerged from around the corner, and I noted with satisfaction that Aria's technical specialists, who had hindered me earlier and were quite good at their jobs, were dead.
It was the first day of the battle for Omega.
***
Read the story months before public release — early chapters are on my Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/Granulan