The alarm hit the colony like a slap.
Three days. He'd had three days. Seventy-two hours of regeneration at two MP per hour — 144 points generated, 75 spent on guard posts. Two of them, placed at the mining sector chokepoint and the spaceport approach. Prefab housings with integrated mass accelerator turrets and targeting VIs, manifesting overnight in locations he'd pre-selected using the territorial overlay.
Kowalski had stood in front of the first one for six minutes that morning, running his fingers along the housing seams, checking the mounting bolts, examining the power coupling with the expression of a man watching his religion get disproven.
"Rush-assembled prefabs," he'd said. The words tasted like ash in his mouth and they both knew it.
"Rush-assembled prefabs," Webb had confirmed.
Now the alarm was screaming and the guard posts were the only things between Haven's Point and the shuttle descending through the atmosphere like a dropped blade.
"Single vessel," Garrus reported from his position on the comm tower roof — the highest point in the colony, three hundred meters of elevation with clear sightlines to every approach vector. The Mantis was deployed, scope calibrated, and the turian's voice carried the flat calm of someone who'd found the place where fear became math. "Shuttle-class. Modified — armor plating on the underside, weapon hardpoints port and starboard. Carrying twelve to sixteen personnel based on thermal signatures."
"Twelve to sixteen." Webb stood in the operations center, the territorial overlay painting the colony in real-time threat data. The incoming shuttle was a red icon descending through concentric range rings. Vasquez stood beside him, arms folded, watching the colony's sensors confirm what Garrus was seeing.
[INCOMING THREAT: ARMED SHUTTLE — ESTIMATED 12-16 HOSTILES]
[COLONY DEFENSE RATING: 28/100]
[GUARD POST ALPHA: ONLINE — MINING SECTOR CHOKEPOINT]
[GUARD POST BETA: ONLINE — SPACEPORT APPROACH]
[MILITIA AVAILABLE: 23 ARMED COLONISTS (TRAINING: MINIMAL)]
"They'll come through the mining sector," Garrus continued. "The spaceport approach is too exposed — my rifle covers five hundred meters of open ground. They know that, or they should."
"Unless they split."
"Possible. But twelve isn't enough to split effectively against prepared positions. They'll want concentrated force."
"Callback: the Distant Fortune. Those pirates had two frigates and I had to build a turret on the hull to survive. Now I've got guard posts, a sniper, and twenty-three colonists who've never fired a weapon in anger. Progress. Ugly, insufficient progress."
"Vasquez, get the civilian population into the admin bunker. Everyone who isn't militia."
"Already moving." She was on her comm, voice sharp and practiced. "Marcos, bunker protocol. Women and children first, then everyone else. Luis, lock down the Rusty Claim — I don't care if people are still drinking, get them out."
The shuttle touched down three kilometers east, behind a ridge line that blocked visual contact. Smart. They'd approach on foot, using the mining sector's abandoned infrastructure as cover.
He switched to militia channel.
"All militia positions, this is Webb. Enemy force, twelve to sixteen, approaching from the east through the mining sector. Hold your positions. Do not engage until Guard Post Alpha opens fire. Repeat — wait for the turret."
Twenty-three voices acknowledged. Some steady. Some shaking. These were miners and merchants who'd volunteered because someone asked, holding weapons they'd learned to use from a training program Garrus had run in three days of compressed instruction. They knew which end the bullets came from. Beyond that, he was asking for faith.
---
[Haven's Point — Mining Sector, 1140]
Garrus's voice. Low. Controlled.
"Contact. Eight — no, ten. Moving through the abandoned processing plant. Two-man fire teams, leapfrogging. Professional spacing. They've done this before."
The territorial overlay tracked them as orange icons, moving east to west through the mining sector's industrial ruins. The same territory he'd walked during his first day here — decommissioned smelters, collapsed roofs, the infrastructure of a boom that had gone bust. Now it was a battlefield.
"Two more contacts. Southern approach — flanking element. They're trying to come around Guard Post Alpha's firing arc."
Twelve confirmed. The flankers changed things.
"Garrus, can you reach the southern pair?"
"Six hundred and twenty meters. Crosswind. I can reach them."
"Do it. When Alpha engages the main group, drop the flankers."
"Copy."
Silence. The colony held its breath.
The main group reached the chokepoint at 1147. Guard Post Alpha's targeting VI acquired the lead element — two figures in dark armor crossing a gap between ore processors — and opened fire.
The sound was different from the dig site turret. Heavier. Sustained. Mass accelerator rounds hammering into the industrial debris at thirty rounds per minute, chewing through cover that had never been designed to stop weapons fire. The lead figure's barriers flared blue and held for three rounds before collapsing. The fourth round put him down.
His partner dove behind a concrete support pillar. Return fire — concentrated, accurate, punching into Alpha's housing. The turret's barrier shimmered but held. The housing was rated for small arms; anything heavier would be a problem.
"Flankers are down." Garrus. Two shots, seven seconds apart. The Mantis spoke in a language that didn't require translation.
The main assault group adapted. They weren't idiots — within thirty seconds of Alpha engaging, they'd identified the turret's firing arc, its rate of fire, and its barrier strength. Two of them laid suppressive fire while three others moved to flank from a direction Alpha couldn't cover.
"Militia team two, they're coming around Alpha's left. Hold position and wait for them to cross the open ground."
"Copy, Advisor." The militia team leader's voice was steadier than he'd expected. Adrenaline or training or both.
The flanking group crossed a loading bay — forty meters of open ferrocrete with no cover. Militia team two opened fire. Not clean, not surgical. Half the rounds went wide. But volume compensated for accuracy, and the flankers dove for cover that didn't quite protect them from three different angles.
One of them took a hit. Leg. He went down screaming — a sound that carried through the mining sector's acoustic landscape and bounced off every hard surface.
"Garrus, main group status?"
"Pinned behind the processing plant. Alpha's turret has them locked. Two trying to find a route around — I've got eyes on them."
Two more shots. One kill. One miss — the target had moved at the exact wrong moment, a half-step that turned a headshot into a spark off concrete.
"Missed." Garrus's voice carried irritation that was almost personal. "He moved. I hate it when they move."
"There it is. The dry humor, right in the middle of a firefight. That's the Garrus I know."
The assault stalled. Alpha's turret dominated the primary approach, and every alternative route was covered by militia positions or Garrus's rifle. The attackers had expected a soft target — a mining colony with no defenses, no training, no capability to resist. They'd found guard posts, a sniper nest, and a militia that might not be accurate but was definitely motivated.
At the twenty-minute mark, the assault leader made a decision. Webb saw it in the territorial overlay — the remaining hostiles shifting from offensive to defensive posture, pulling back toward the processing plant. Consolidating.
"They're regrouping," Garrus confirmed. "Seven still mobile. Two wounded. Three down permanently."
"They'll try to extract."
"Let them?"
He considered. Seven hostiles with professional training, falling back toward their shuttle. Chasing them risked militia casualties in unfamiliar terrain against desperate opponents. Letting them go meant they'd report back, and the next assault would be larger.
But four of their people were down — three dead, one wounded and screaming. That was a message in itself. Haven's Point wasn't a soft target anymore.
"Let them extract. But Garrus — put a round into their shuttle engine. Something that grounds them for a while."
A pause. He could almost hear the mandibles shifting.
"That's a fourteen-hundred-meter shot through atmospheric interference with crosswind and engine shielding."
"Can you make it?"
"I'm offended you have to ask."
Thirty seconds later, the Mantis cracked once. The shuttle's starboard engine nacelle sparked, shuddered, and vented coolant in a plume that was visible from the operations center.
"Engine disabled. They're not leaving in that."
"Which means they're stuck in the mining sector with a broken shuttle and seven angry professionals."
"Six. The one I grazed just stopped moving."
---
[Haven's Point — Operations Center, 1300]
The aftermath was quieter than the fight.
Six hostiles dead. Four captured — including the one with the leg wound, who was receiving medical treatment in the colony's clinic under militia guard. Two had disappeared into the mining sector's maze of tunnels and ruins, but with no shuttle and no extraction, they weren't going anywhere.
Zero colonist casualties. Three militia members with minor injuries — a broken wrist from a bad firing stance, a laceration from flying debris, and a case of shock that the colony doctor was treating with strong tea and a blanket.
The colonists gathered in the main square as the militia walked back from the perimeter. Nobody cheered at first — the sound of gunfire had been too close, too real, the kind of thing that reminds you mortality isn't theoretical. But then someone clapped. And someone else. And the sound built like a wave until the militia team leader — a former mine supervisor named Hanson with a beer gut and a borrowed rifle — was being hugged by a woman who might have been his wife or might have been a stranger who needed to hold onto something solid.
[TERRITORY UPDATE: HAVEN'S POINT]
[DEFENSE EVENT: SUCCESSFUL — HOSTILE FORCE REPELLED]
[LOYALTY: 43 → 53 (+10 SUCCESSFUL DEFENSE BONUS, 30-DAY DURATION)]
[DEFENSE RATING: 28/100 (UNCHANGED — GUARD POSTS INTACT)]
[NP EARNED: +50 (THREAT ELIMINATION — SETTLEMENT DEFENSE)]
Fifty points. The system rewarded territorial defense. And the loyalty jump meant the colony was moving from Neutral toward Supportive — people who would volunteer, invest, and fight because they believed the colony was worth defending.
He found Garrus on the comm tower roof. The turian sat with his back against the antenna mount, Mantis across his knees, staring at the mining sector where the assault had broken. The visor was powered down. Without it, his face was open in a way that turian faces rarely showed to humans.
"Four captured," Webb said.
"I counted."
"One of them is turian."
Garrus's mandibles tightened. Just slightly. A micro-expression that carried years of meaning.
"I know. I saw him through the scope." He turned the Mantis in his hands. The thermal clip ejected — spent — and he replaced it with a fresh one. Mechanical. Automatic. "He was C-Sec auxiliary six months ago. Auxiliary Division, Citadel Security. I recognized his face from the personnel database."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. He made his choice. I'm making mine." He looked up. "Your colony fought today, Webb. Twenty-three people with three days of training and second-hand weapons, and they held."
"Your training. Your positioning."
"Your defenses. Those guard posts." The mandible shift again — the one that carried dry amusement. "The ones that appeared overnight from nowhere, with no manufacturing stamps and no supply chain."
"Rush-assembled—"
"Prefabs. Yes. I'm sure."
Silence. The colony's celebration filtered up from below — voices, scattered laughter, the particular noise of people who'd been afraid and weren't anymore. Or were less afraid, at least.
"I need to finish the investigation," Garrus said. "The data we pulled — there are names, routes, contacts. If I can compile enough evidence, I can bypass C-Sec entirely. Go to the Council. To the Hierarchy's internal affairs. Burn the whole network from the top."
"That sounds like it needs a base of operations. Somewhere with communications infrastructure, a population that can provide cover, and a security advisor who owes you a favor."
The turian studied him. The assessment was familiar now — Webb had seen it from Harlow, from Okonkwo, from Vasquez, from Kowalski. Everyone trying to figure out what he was. But Garrus's assessment had something the others didn't. Recognition. Not of the system, not of the transmigration — recognition of intent. The look of someone who'd found another person fighting the same fight.
"After I finish the investigation." Garrus stood. The Mantis settled against his back with a magnetic click. "I'll need a few weeks to compile the evidence, trace the remaining connections, build a case that can't be buried."
"Take the time you need. The colony isn't going anywhere."
"No. It isn't."
He extended his hand. The grip was firm — talons controlled, strength measured. Not the testing handshake from the bar. Something more deliberate. A commitment wearing the shape of a gesture.
He walked the perimeter afterward, checking the guard posts, talking to militia members who were riding the adrenaline crash. Guard Post Alpha had taken surface damage — scoring on the housing, one targeting sensor cracked — but remained operational. Guard Post Beta hadn't fired a shot; the assault had come from the predicted direction. Garrus's assessment had been flawless.
Colonists stopped him as he walked. Handshakes. Nods. A woman pressed a bottle of something into his hand — homebrew, from the smell, strong enough to strip paint. He thanked her and kept walking.
Kowalski found him at the spaceport perimeter. The engineer stood beside Guard Post Beta, arms folded, staring at the construction with the intensity of a man trying to see through steel.
"These mounting bolts," Kowalski said. "They're bonded to the foundation at the molecular level. No welding marks. No adhesive residue. It's like the metal grew here."
"Is there a question?"
"I abstained from the vote because I don't trust you. Today, you proved me wrong about the defense part. The colony's alive because of these posts." He tapped the housing with one scarred knuckle. "But these aren't rush-assembled prefabs. And you know that. And I know that."
"What do you want, Kowalski?"
The engineer uncrossed his arms. For the first time since they'd met, his expression wasn't suspicious. It was something closer to professional curiosity — the look of an engineer confronted with technology he couldn't explain and wanted to understand.
"I want to know how they work. Not where they came from — I've given up on that. How. What are the power requirements. What's the targeting algorithm. What's the maintenance schedule." He paused. "If I'm going to keep them running, I need to understand them."
It was the first olive branch Kowalski had extended. Not trust — pragmatism. The colony needed these defenses, and Kowalski was the man who kept the colony's machinery alive.
"Walk me through the targeting system, and I'll answer what I can."
They spent two hours at the guard post. Kowalski asked precise, technical questions. Webb answered the ones the system's construction logs provided and deflected the ones that would expose the construction's origin. By the end, Kowalski had a maintenance checklist, a power consumption profile, and a deeper suspicion that he'd chosen to file under useful mystery rather than dangerous unknown.
Progress. The ugly, slow, insufficient kind.
---
[Haven's Point — Detention Area, 1930]
The captured turian's name was Rolan. Former C-Sec auxiliary. Current weapons trafficking operative. He sat in a detention cell that had been a storage closet that morning, with a militia guard who didn't take her eyes off him and a medical drip feeding antibiotics into a graze wound on his arm.
Garrus stood outside the cell. Webb stood beside him. Neither had spoken for two minutes.
"The warehouse was a waypoint," Rolan said. His voice was flat. Defeated. The specific resignation of a soldier who'd been captured and was calculating which cooperation would keep him alive. "We didn't run the operation. We received shipments, repackaged them, and sent them to distribution points across the Terminus."
"Who runs the operation?" Garrus asked.
"A human. Goes by Razor. Never met him — everything comes through encrypted comms and dead drops. But the people who work for him don't just deal weapons. They run protection, extortion, piracy. The whole pipeline from C-Sec to the Terminus — Razor's the distribution end."
"And the C-Sec end?"
Rolan's mandibles pressed flat.
"Above my clearance. But the authorization codes come from the Citadel. That's all I know."
Garrus turned to Webb. In the dim light of the corridor, his expression was carved from the same stone as the maintenance tunnels.
"Razor. The pipeline isn't just corruption — it's organized crime. C-Sec provides the inventory, Razor provides the infrastructure, and every pirate in the Terminus benefits."
Webb looked at the territorial overlay pulsing in his peripheral vision. The colony's loyalty sat at 53. Its defense rating at 28. Six building slots, two occupied. A population that had just tasted what protection felt like and wanted more.
"Then we find Razor," he said. "And we dismantle him."
Garrus's mandibles shifted. The expression that was almost a smile, on a face built for precision rather than warmth.
"Now you're speaking my language."
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