by Cole Price
“Wonderful. Send us your results. This is a true breakthrough, Liara, and we have you to thank for it.”
“Not me alone, Alene. Please don’t build me up to be something I am not.”
She snorted. “What, no interest in priority? Liara, we really must work on your political skills, if you ever decide to return to academia.”
After a moment’s disbelief, I let that one pass without a response.
“Where will you go next?” she asked.
“I’m not sure. Probably Kahje, to examine the Prothean archives there. I will let you know as soon as I’ve decided.”
She wished me luck and cut the connection.
I hesitated before making the next call, not wanting to disturb a number of personal complications. Then I shook my head and attacked the comm controls once more.
“Vara? It’s me, Liara.”
Vara T’Rathis was about a century older than I, petite but very quick and strong, with extensive commando training. While I built and managed T’Soni Analytics, she rose to become my chief of operations and intelligence collection. She even became my first sworn acolyte, a development to scandalize more than a few of the Matriarchs. I relied on her absolutely.
She had also made it clear, at a time when she believed Shepard to be dead, that she was in love with me. She had never been awkward or obtrusive about it, especially after Shepard returned and I had bonded with him instead, but the issue still lay between us even if neither of us spoke of it.
Now she looked out of the holographic window at me, her smoky silver eyes full of concern. “Liara. I’m sorry to interrupt your work, but there’s been a very serious development.”
“What’s wrong?”
“We’ve lost Cerberus.”
I blinked in surprise and felt my gut go hollow with apprehension. “What do you mean, we’ve lost Cerberus?”
“In the past forty hours, all of our informants placed inside Cerberus have gone dark. All of our technical implants inside their networks have dropped off-line. We are receiving zero raw intelligence from within their organization.”
“How in the name of the Goddess did that happen? Do we have a mole?”
Vara shrugged. “That’s always possible. Remember how hard we had to work to find the yahg’s mole inside T’Soni Analytics? But there aren’t many people who know the identities of all our informants inside Cerberus. You, me, and Feron.”
Feron did once serve as a double agent for Cerberus . . . but no. I’m sure of his loyalty now. Just as I’m sure of Vara’s.
“Then they’ve found some other way to locate our informants,” I concluded.
“It appears so.”
I sighed. “Do you need me to come in? I’m in the middle of something urgent.”
“Liara, everything is urgent right now, but I’m afraid this may be more important. Cerberus is very dangerous to begin with. If they’re stepping up their campaign against the rest of the galaxy, just as they know the Reapers are almost here . . .”
“All right, I concur. Where are you now?”
“Aboard Sheguntai, with Feron. In the Caleston Rift.”
“Meet me on Illium in forty hours. We can consult with Aspasia and Matriarch Pytho, and then decide what to do from there.”
* * *
23 March 2186, Hyriane/Kahje
It took me over two weeks to return to my scientific quest. Too many things required my personal attention. First we struggled to learn just how the Illusive Man had purged his entire organization so quickly and thoroughly. We spent days ensuring that Cerberus hadn’t penetrated the Shadow Broker network by some unknown means.
Then we mounted an investigation into Cerberus activities on Omega, Aria T’Loak’s interference making our task much more difficult. Finally we had to intervene in the tragic affair of the human girl, Gillian Grayson. In the end we failed to save her from Cerberus assassins. We barely managed to prevent Admiral Anderson and his associate, Kahlee Sanders, from being killed.
Suddenly Cerberus showed a number of unexpected capabilities, and a willingness to act much more openly and violently than before. I still fretted over those developments while Themis approached Kahje.
I sensed that time might be getting away from me. While I engaged in the fight against Cerberus, I could sense the Reapers approaching inexorably closer to their goals. Less than three weeks to go, by my count. Every day, I anxiously watched for news of anything unusual occurring in batarian space, but so far I had heard nothing.
Fortunately I didn’t have to spend days working my way through hanar society, trying to find the one individual with the knowledge I needed. I knew of a working Prothean archive, in ocean-bottom ruins not far from the drell city-dome of Hyriane. The problem lay in gaining access. The hanar treated all Prothean sites and artifacts as sacred, and permit aliens to approach with great reluctance. For their part, the drell enforced hanar preferences with grim intensity.
At least the city-dome seemed an agreeable place to visit. I walked out onto the main concourse, craning my neck to look up at the airy structure of the dome overhead, enjoying sunlight and clean air. Glancing around me, I saw more drell than I had ever encountered in one place before, all going about their normal business and paying no attention to me. I also saw a dozen or more hanar, and a few off-worlders such as myself.
I wonder why Feron never tried to come back here. It looks like a very pleasant place to live.
“Dr. T’Soni?” A hanar drifted in my direction, bioluminescence flashing, greeting me with its mellifluously artificial voice. Two meters behind strode a burly male drell, folding his arms and staring at me with silent mistrust once the hanar stopped.
“This one would accept that designation,” I said politely, bowing.
“This is an agreeable encounter,” said the hanar. “This one would accept the designation of Aranylos.”
“This one is honored to be entrusted with the face-name of its new acquaintance. Is Aranylos aware of the substance of this one’s request?”
“Dr. T’Soni wishes to visit the Pylanid Shrine on the ocean floor.” Aranylos bobbed slightly, its tentacles weaving in the air. “This one does not wish to appear rude, but it is unfortunately unable to comply with such a request. The location you seek is not open to public examination.”
“With respect, this one is not here to satisfy idle curiosity. The scientific group I represent . . .”
The drell shook his head silently, his body language suggesting discouragement.
“This one regrets that it is even less able to support a scientific examination of the site in question. Alien scientists generally do not treat the relics of the Enkindlers with sufficient respect.” Three of its tentacles made an unmistakable fending-off gesture. “If Dr. T’Soni wishes to commune with such relics, this one may be able to suggest several other, more pleasant alternatives.”
I had made a misstep. Thinking quickly, I glanced at the drell once more. He caught my gaze for just a moment and made a tiny gesture, rubbing the first two fingers of one hand against the ball of his thumb.
Of course.
“This one apologizes for any misunderstanding. Of course it has no intention of treating the relics of the Enkindlers with anything but the most profound respect.” Pause. “Did this one not mention the sizeable contribution its organization wishes to offer toward this year’s Cresting Bloom celebrations?”
“Yes . . . well, Dr. T’Soni’s request is still somewhat unorthodox . . .”
I kept my facial expression under strict control.
The drell felt no such obligation, and gave me a cynical grin. “Generosity is an Enkindler virtue, isn’t it? Depending on just how generous the asari’s organization intended to be, I’m sure we could allow just a small peek at whatever she wishes to see. In fact, if she’ll cover the costs, I’ll escort her personally.”
I decided to try method acting: big gestures, a wide-eyed expression, and a lilting voice worthy of my friend Aspasia. “Oh,
but this one can hardly imagine an amount large enough to be a fair exchange for even a glimpse of such ancient and magnificent wisdom.”
The hanar drifted slightly, as if lost in thought.
“In that case, let this one assist Dr. T’Soni in imagining that number . . .”
* * *
An hour later, the Shadow Broker stood in the cabin of a fast submersible, poorer by about a million credits, but making rapid progress toward the ocean floor.
“You have to forgive Aranylos,” said my drell guide. “The hanar mean well. It’s just that they’re very insular. A lot of them have never learned to trust outsiders very much. The name’s Quoyle, by the way.”
“Call me Liara.” I looked out through the canopy at the ocean depths, already nearly pitch-black except where the submersible’s headlights shone. “So how do you know the hanar are wrong? Maybe I shouldn’t be trusted.”
“Hah. I trust that asari haven’t learned to breathe underwater since the last time I saw one. I’ve also heard of you personally. You’re smart enough to know that I’m your only ride to and from an enclosed shrine on the bottom of the ocean. Besides, try anything funny while we’re down there and I’ll shoot you myself.”
I smiled. “That sounds fair . . .”
Wham!
The submersible bucked, shaken by some collision or nearby explosion. I lost my footing and went flying across the tiny cabin.
“The shrine’s defensive systems are firing on us!” shouted Quoyle.
WHAM!
I felt cold around my ankles, looked down to see seawater pouring into the cabin. “We’ve lost hull integrity!”
Quoyle stabbed at the comm controls with one finger. “Temple control, this is vessel Simo-Two-Two. We are not hostile! I repeat, we are not hostile! Hold your fire!”
Within moments, the water rose up to my knees, surging higher. “Goddess!”
“The controls are seizing up. We’re dropping like a stone.”
“Where are the escape pods?” I demanded.
“All the way in the back. We’ll have to swim for them, and then pray they’re still working.”
I shook my head.
We’ll never make it that far.
“Give me some room,” I told the drell.
I raised my hands, called up dark energy in a corona around my arms, my shoulders, down my spine. Then, with a shout, I threw my hands out to the sides and pushed.
Goddess, it was hard. I pushed against the whole weight of Kahje’s ocean, dozens of atmospheres of pressure trying to force more water into our cracked hull. Static discharges wreathed my entire body as I struggled to make my barrier as solid as hardened steel. I felt a sharp pain in the back of my skull, warning me that I was doing something extraordinarily dangerous and unlikely.
I couldn’t see Quoyle through the blaze of my corona, but I could hear his voice. “You get us out of this, I’ll refund every credit.”
The water rose to my thighs, my hips, my waist . . . and then it stopped. It still surged and swirled around the cabin, I could feel the whole ocean pressing down on my barrier, but I held.
“See if you can get those engines back online,” I told Quoyle, strain and a little fear in my voice. “I can’t keep this up for very long.”
“Aye-aye.” He grinned as he passed me, wading through the water that had already found its way into the cabin, climbing back into his control chair. A few moments later he grunted in triumph. I could hear the engines start up again.
* * *
Our submersible rose hesitantly into the shrine’s docking bay, so much water sloshing about inside the hull that it barely broke the surface. As soon as the bay doors closed and pumps began to remove the seawater, I released my barrier with a gasp of relief.
“That was incredible,” said Quoyle as he rose from his chair. He stepped around me, reached up and popped the submersible’s overhead hatch. The two of us climbed out of the vehicle, soaked to the skin but alive.
“Whoever fired those torpedoes at us, I’d like to have a word.” I checked my sidearm. The status light showed green. Immersion in water hadn’t harmed its mechanisms.
Quoyle nodded in agreement, producing and arming a pistol of his own. “I wonder what happened to the staff on duty?”
I pointed. The drell swore.
By the main door of the docking bay, a rather pathetic figure huddled, tossed aside like discarded refuse.
Quoyle hurried over, turned the body to face upwards. A female drell lay in a great pool of her own blood. “Damn. I know her. She’s one of the security staff here.”
I frowned. “That’s odd. She wasn’t shot.”
“No.” Quoyle searched her clothes. “Look. Stab wound. Gutted.”
“Any idea who might have done it?”
“No hanar or drell, that’s for certain. Has to be an off-worlder.” Quoyle looked up into my face. “The Illuminated Primacy is going to explode over this.”
“Come on. Maybe whoever did this is still here.”
He stood. “You think they’re after the same thing you are?”
“Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised in the least.”
He opened the door. Behind it I saw a darkened corridor, its shape and size clearly indicative of Prothean architecture. Despite the circumstances, my eyes widened and I tried to look in every direction at once as we made our cautious way.
“This is one of the most well-preserved Prothean structures I’ve ever seen,” I remarked. “I don’t think anything but the ruins on Ilos would compare.”
“Look.” Quoyle pointed. More drell bodies, a male and another female.
Then I saw a rush of movement in the darkness.
I shoved Quoyle to one side, and almost certainly saved his life as a result. The vicious sword-slash intended to spill his guts on the floor only sliced open the superficial layers of his stomach.
I spun in place and tried to bring my Shuriken to bear.
I had a momentary impression of a feminine figure clad in light armor, black and white and gold, a face-concealing helmet and a long bright blade. Then the sword slashed out and cut my sidearm into useless trash.
Quoyle fell away, striking the corridor wall and rebounding, falling to his knees as he pressed his arms against the great wound in his stomach.
I ignited, a bright blue-white corona springing up around my body.
Our attacker shifted her weight, a perfect back-flip carrying her a few meters down the corridor away from me. Then two grenades flew in my direction. The blast flung me like a rag-doll and I lost track of things for a few seconds.
Just as I regained my senses, a boot landed in the center of my chest and pinned me to the floor. I saw the bright blade move to the ready-position for a vicious stab through my heart.
Oh no. Not yet.
From nothing, my corona leaped into blinding white light. I gestured, and one of the strongest telekinetic throws I had ever mustered lashed out to hurl my foe away.
With a flash of light, my biotic flare struck a sudden barrier and vanished in a great surge of static electricity.
“End of the line, asari,” the woman said. I just had time to notice something off about the voice, as if a machine generated it instead of a living being’s throat.
Something caught my eye, lying on the floor of the corridor a few meters away. The grip half of my ruined Shuriken, carved to a sharp point by my enemy’s blade.
Quick as thought, I reached out with my mind, seized the fragment, and guided it through the air. The point, bitter metal and ceramic, turned to meet its target: the back of the woman’s helmet.
I heard a small, horrible crunch.
Her back arched in a final agony. Her arms spread wide, the sword falling from suddenly nerveless fingers. Then she toppled away to my left.
I pushed myself to my feet, my chest heaving as if I couldn’t get enough air. I looked down at the dead swordswoman, and saw the insigne I had expected to see: against a white field, a black hexag
onal oval with two gold side-bars.
Cerberus.
“It’s over, Quoyle. You can . . . oh.”
He leaned hard against the corridor wall, still pressing one forearm hard into his stomach to stanch the bleeding. “Go on ahead without me,” he gasped. “I’ve seen all this Prothean stuff before. Right now I think I’d rather find a medi-gel dispenser and a soft chair.”
* * *
The “shrine” wasn’t all that large. Even without Quoyle’s help, I didn’t have any difficulty finding the Prothean archive: a sheaf of vertical sheets of metal, aglow with strange energies, sealed behind an impenetrable crystal barrier. For a moment, I stood in awe at the sheer volume of information that might be stored inside the device. Far too much for any one researcher to process, even with an asari lifetime at her disposal.
Fortunately I didn’t need to assimilate the entire archive. I found an interface terminal, opened my omni-tool, and began to search for a single term.
The Crucible.
Ten minutes later, I knew my search would be in vain. The Kahje archive was too old, established during the Third Age, while the Protheans still believed themselves masters of the cosmos. It contained no explicit details about the counsels of their desperate final years.
On the other hand, it did contain update pointers, referring to late Fourth Age data stored in other archives elsewhere in the galaxy. Three encryption keys implied the Crucible data. With a little work, I determined where those keys could be used.
Three other archives. One on an unknown world, probably behind a mass relay the Citadel races had never managed to open. A second on a planet I knew as Fehl Prime, although I also knew a Collector attack had destroyed the Prothean archive there. The third . . .
A flicker of light appeared and grew, sketching out an image between me and the archive. A male human, wearing a fashionable business suit and smoking a cigarette. His eyes glowed an unnatural blue.
“Dr. T’Soni. I think it’s time you and I had a chat.”
