In the star systems of the Pandora sector, short artillery duels thundered. The Reaper fleet, which, according to the machines' plans, was supposed to begin the Harvest, fell directly into four ambushes. Thanks to a signal substitution, the USSR lured the leviathans from the cosmic depths—not to the Citadel, but to the "Tower," a sister of the ancient station, re-equipped by Soviet engineers into a large mass accelerator under the guise of repairs.
The launch of the "Tower" distorted space itself with gravity, scattering the invasion forces into scattered groups instead of a single fist. They emerged directly onto pre-laid minefields. Although the Union ships could no longer jump, the crews had no intention of retreating.
As soon as the surveillance systems detected enemy silhouettes in the systems, the pennants of the squadrons and artillery platforms opened fire without any command. A fiery storm descended upon the disoriented Reapers, completely unprepared for such a warm welcome.
The USSR's first strike was terrible and destructive, but the ancient machines began to respond. Even despite the losses, the mechanisms rushed to fulfill their task, knowing no fear of death or pity.
A duel ensued, where the one who shoots better and whose caliber is more destructive will be right. Hundreds and thousands of man-made stars ignited and died in this man-made chaos, taking either a Reaper or Soviet ships with a fearless crew into history.
The machines were slowly losing, taking a terrible toll for their destruction. The closer defeat began to emerge, the more fiercely the fallen machine intelligence snarled with fire, transmitting telemetry of its demise into the distant, empty cosmos so that the punitive fleet could show organics their evolutionary place...
In the interstellar void, where the message was directed, unheard explosions also thundered, dispersing the eternal night. Geth forces repeatedly jumped out of warp, attacking the reanimated Reaper ships. They were helped by the raider squadrons of the USSR fleet, showering the enemy with a hail of missiles, not allowing them to gather into a single fist and make the jump to the galaxy. The Union did not expect to win this way. The Reapers had too great a force, and they had carried out the Harvest cycles for too long to be defeated so easily.
Others, seeing millions of drifting leviathans in the void, would have been broken by the mere fact of such numbers. The Geth and the citizens of the Union only attacked the ancient machines more fiercely, trying to take as many self-proclaimed arbiters of fate with them as possible. The collective of intelligent programs, like the "Collective," knew the obvious. There would be no mercy, pity, or rules of humanity.
Whatever the Reapers themselves said, they were prisoners of their protocols, pushing them to find a solution to the equation. The intelligence, cruel in its machine logic, despite its ambitions and judgment of organic life, was bound by a task it was once asked to solve thoughtlessly a long time ago. Therefore, they were gods only in the eyes of fools, and for others—just rebellious mechanisms, whose entire mystery was only in hidden manipulations to adjust the initial conditions and a sudden strike...
This was proven by the battle at the Citadel. The sudden attack from two sides, initially successful, not without the indulgence of the USSR, which needed the Reaper codes to lure them into a trap, now faltered as soon as the actors began to play seriously.
The embassy security forces of the workers' country and the Citadel Security Service went on the offensive, already pushing back the heretical Geth and collectors. In space, security flotillas successfully ground down the squadrons of forces allied with the Reapers.
The Sovereign, who appeared personally to summon his brothers, tried to shed the avatar of the USSR's collective mind. The Motherland did not give him such an opportunity, tightening its steel fingers on the hull of the ancient mechanism.
A two-handed sword cut off two colossal tentacles of the Sovereign and, without haste, the glorious blade cut through the machine's armor. The AI, the embodiment of all citizens of the Union connected to the neural network, did not intend to simply kill or destroy the observer and manipulator. Its computational power was sufficient to try to hack the software protection of its dark brother, who, thanks to her efforts, could not contact his kind, remaining alone with the forces of the organics he so despised.
The streets were deserted. In the middle of the intersection, the carcass of a burnt-out tank smoked. A body in a melted heavy suit protruded from the turret. Around the defeated combat vehicles lay the bodies of Geth and broken bodies of collectors.
Somewhere in the distance, gunfire could be heard, muffled by the work of a heavy machine gun. Occasional explosions of grenades and rockets raised clouds of dust. Flashes of shots illuminated the deserted buildings. Shadows in all this glare became a jumble of abstract, torn grayness, making the picture of devastation even more overwhelming.
A squad made its way through the avenues of the galactic center, littered with construction debris and fragments of bodies. Garrus was the sniper in it.
The Turian and the SBC officer, accustomed to seeing violence, could not shake off the cold, sticky feeling of wrongness in everything that was happening. "It shouldn't have been this way, that's all!" the thought pulsed in his head, while his eyes habitually scanned for a target that could be hiding anywhere in this nightmare.
"Even if the Hierarchy no longer blindly obeys the Citadel Council, seeing this place in such a state, when I myself patrolled these streets, is difficult," reality pressed down on the officer.
The Red Army soldiers showed absolutely no emotion. For them, the station was just a settlement, not a sacred place and the center of Civilization with a capital letter. Therefore, the devastation at the Citadel evoked only general thoughts in their minds. The soldiers felt sorry for the sentient beings caught between the millstones and for their fallen comrades.
"And they knew!" the Turian realized the obvious, walking around the still hot carcass. "They knew, they said, they tried to convey it, and we didn't believe them, considering their words as postulates of their faith, propaganda, or anything else, laughing at their attempts," this thought no longer carried bitterness. It smelled of sour bile and ash.
"One could endlessly blame the communists, attacking them with a hundred theses, but what's the point? All these dead will not cease to be on our conscience! Who, after this, are the Knights of the Citadel? We, who first took on this burden, and then neglected our duties because of grudges, or them, for whom it should have been all the same? The USSR embassy guard was pulling civilians out from under the bullets, mind you, although they shouldn't have! After this, even accusing their leadership of using the situation for their own purposes is being a hypocrite, without honor!" Garrus continued the dialogue with himself.
The irreconcilable, for whom the Union was an ideological adversary... could not help but agree with the obvious, understanding that honor put him before a choice where the only correct option would win. If they are fighting against this war, then his rifle now shoots on their side!
Javik was also lost in thought. For a Prothean, seeing such devastation was a common occurrence. He had some feelings for the Citadel, but for him, it was a lost myth. Born at the end of the Harvest, the warrior perceived it as a fairy-tale place from which the nightmare of extermination began in his cycle, and in which the Reapers received a rebuff in this one.
Therefore, the soldier wondered, if his Empire knew what this strange USSR knew, would they have been able to do the same? Would the Protheans have been destined to defend their right to dominate the galaxy?
Deep down, he understood that no. Javik was a patriot, but he saw the flaws of his people. Although they united the galaxy, although they were generous, arrogance and pride overshadowed pragmatism. The Protheans had been at the top for too long, without experiencing a fall.
"They are stronger. The communists proved their strength. Duty commands me to bow my knees before the strong, since I am weak. Well. Now I must survive so that my people have a new dawn, even if under their hand. It is not shameful to submit to the strong," the last warrior of the fallen Empire accepted his fate.
The Red Army soldiers felt the change in the two warriors. Although their empathy allowed them to feel only echoes of emotions, the minds connected by the neural network understood everything. A silent decision—and the squad's formation reorganized. The two ceased to seem like foreign elements against the backdrop of an ideal synchronized mechanism-organism with many bodies...
And there were many such scenes on the Citadel. The USSR ceased to be suddenly strange. All their paranoia, militarism, and a certain insane directness ceased to be unfounded, especially for those who had seen a Reaper, felt the horror emanating from it, with a strangeness to everything that was known to the galaxy before.
"Much has become clear. If the communists, as they said, were able to fight back once, long ago, not succumbing to manipulation, and were able to do so now, then they will be able to do so in the future," the minds of the survivors were drilled, for whom the Reapers ceased to be a myth or an element of propaganda of a strange state.
Far from the Citadel, in the Asari Republic, there were completely different conclusions. While explosions thundered in the center of the civilized galaxy, and demonstrations were gathering again in the squares of Thessia, the Council of Matriarchs looked at the situation, as befits Asari, with slight superiority.
"According to visual intelligence data, their conclusions have been confirmed. The bridgehead in the Pandora sector was prepared by the USSR to repel the Harvest," one of the rulers of the entire race of diplomats and dancers stated the obvious.
"They don't have a shadow of a chance to resist," another matriarch allowed herself a shadow of sympathy. Her eyes held an expression with which one looks at children engaged in a difficult but useless task, during their boasting.
"They will be a better buffer than we could have imagined," the third voiced her conclusions. "But this does not change the plans. The departure will begin as soon as the Reapers get bogged down in the burning galaxy. Even if the lower races can fight back, it will no longer concern us."
"They will not stand," the second objected. "We put a lot of effort into this. If the Protheans, with a galaxy fully under their control, could not stand, then where are these communists? If it were otherwise, we would not exist, nor would our plans."
"Therefore, we must accelerate preparations. I do not wish to see the rest of our kin perish, risking being on the battlefield at any moment!" the first voiced another obvious thing. "Let the fools try to fight the raging ocean. Only we and our descendants are destined to survive this storm!"
The echoes of the battle at the Citadel reached Palaven as well. The ruler of the Hierarchy deigned to admire the view from his office window, pondering. The Primarch saw an advantage for his people in the current crisis and an opportunity to take their rightful place.
"The times when we were peacemakers on the chain of Asari whores are over! We are warriors and must take what is ours by right, by fire and sword. The galaxy will bow under the heel of our legions, and I will lead them to triumph!" he enjoyed the moment. His ambitions lay far beyond simple revenge.
He was one of the officers who deposed the puppet of the blue-skinned diplomats from the position of primarch. Although he was not given immediate power, the Turian did not hurry, knowing that history is written solely by the victors.
Having obtained what he desired, the former general brought order, making the Turians united again, giving them a goal, knowing its interim nature. By resolving the Quarian issue and acquiring territories kindly cleared of synthetics by nomads, the Hierarchy will gain the rear it needs to survive the Reapers.
The Salarians kindly shared intelligence with him, obtained from observing the USSR and from the backrooms of Asari politics, hoping to lure their legions to their side, but the primarch decided otherwise.
"Why die for someone again when you can just rule?" he asked himself then, to which he answered himself. The primarch intended to provoke the Reapers to leave the Hierarchy for last, so that the ancient machines would kindly clear the galaxy of other species for the Turians.
"Only a little remains: to wait for the Migrant Fleet to make its last mistake, finish their ships, acquire resources, and wait for the galaxy to burn out," the Hierarchy ruler smiled at the new dawn.
Amidst the streams of cosmic wind, the fleet of nomads and exiles made its endless journey. The Quarian ships and their crews were far from Citadel politics, but it invariably pursued the fugitives, leaving its mark on their lives.
In recent years, the crews of the aimlessly drifting starships began to listen more attentively to the words of news anchors, trying to catch hints of the impending war in them. Ordinary sailors, beaten by life and fate, felt the coming echoes of this conflict just as much as the Admirals' desire to start the slaughter for their people quickly.
Few believed that victory over the synthetics would be bought with little blood. Even fewer wanted to voluntarily throw themselves under enemy guns when life had become relatively good.
Nomads no longer had to worry about where to get food or where to repair their aging ships. Even the problem with immunity receded into the background, allowing them to shed their annoying suits, at least on sterile decks. The only hardship left was the dissatisfaction of the star systems, irritated by the sheer number of nomad ships passing through.
If it weren't for the upcoming battle for Rannoch and the prospect of war with the Hierarchy, they could have simply lived, raised children, confident in their future. Quarians had lived in the void for generations, which is why they now didn't understand why it was necessary to win back planets from the synthetics, risking everything.
Raised on stories of bygone times, they dreamed from a young age of walking on the surface of their mother planet, admiring its dawns, and simply breathing the air without fear of an allergic reaction to pollen. Life had taught them to look at things soberly, assessing threats. Therefore, if they wanted to reclaim their lost home, the price did not suit them. Unfortunately, the voice of the majority sounded quieter than that of radically minded ship captains who saw the picture slightly differently.
From their point of view, the liberation of Rannoch looked like the only chance to defend their race's independence. If the sailors saw nothing to join the USSR, with whom they had an alliance, then the leadership was radically against such an idea, as well as becoming vassals of the Hierarchy. Even the understanding of what would happen when the Turian legions unleashed their sword upon them could not dissuade the admirals. They too were raised on stories of the past, and a request for protectorate would put an end to that idea.
Today, the Council of Admirals deliberated for a long time, deciding the fate of the Fleet, making a difficult decision.
"It's a mistake," Admiral Zaal'Koris of the Civilian Fleet said, looking into the void.
"We can't do otherwise," Admiral Shala'Raan vas Tonbay of the Patrol Fleet was also lost. "To hell with autonomy. Kill! Our culture is dying! With each generation, less and less remains of our proud ancestors!"
The woman exploded and jumped to her feet, began pacing the cabin. Her hair flew with every step. Stomping her foot to emphasize the importance of her next words, so much so that the suit helmet she left on the table jumped, she added:
"A little more—and we'll become like those who went into the ports! Don't you understand that?" the admiral got angry at her colleague.
"But we will be," the Admiral of the Civilian Fleet countered. "Many will die in this attack. I am not a coward and I am not afraid of death, but my duty is to care for our people. A slaughter awaits us."
"There will be a slaughter, whether we want it or not. We can only choose the field where it will be easier to win," the woman reiterated her opinion. "The order has been given. The ships are returning to the Fleet. A month for preparation. It is better to die fighting than under the oppression of the Hierarchy, even though I also want to live like the ship crews. I don't want a cage for our children."
"If there is one," her colleague said dryly. "The Turians suddenly ran out of honor. The knights have fallen, revealing monsters. Even they have their malcontents, but they will obey the order, even if with a grind of their mandibles."
"Then it is our duty to do everything so that they have no desire, and for that, we must win with little blood!"
"It's a pity we refused the USSR's help then. You know my opinion. I am against this adventure," was her colleague's reply, already through the helmet mask.
"Traitor! Your love for synthetics has clouded your mind!" the Admiral of the Patrol Fleet threw at his back before he left the cabin.
"Love for my people does not allow me to accept a senseless slaughter," the man corrected his colleague, having the last word.