The Reaper War

by Cole Price

  I opened my eyes and saw blue-white force arching over us in a great dome, solid as granite. Cerberus gunfire suddenly lost more than half its effectiveness, most of it deflected to scream over and past us in every direction.

  “Marines, we have cover,” Shepard snapped, new confidence in his voice. “Return fire!”

  The Marines began to take risks, exposing themselves to line up their shots, and the gambles paid off.

  The iron mathematics of small-unit battles: the side who can deliver the most effective weapons fire is likely to win. Cerberus had more guns, but they lacked Shepard’s tactical instincts, the Alliance’s weapons discipline, our biotic barriers. Suddenly we outnumbered them, by the only measure that counted.

  Sergeant Tanaka was killed by a sniper’s headshot. Corporal Randolph went down, shot through both lungs, but another soldier leaped in with medi-gel to seal the terrible wounds and save his life. Tyrus Skavros took a gunshot through one shoulder, but he growled, switched to his assault rifle, and continued to fight.

  “By the numbers, advance!” ordered Shepard.

  “Okay, here’s where it gets interesting,” Jack told her charges, her voice firm but glacially calm. “The Marines are going to move forward. So are we, by the numbers! That barrier stays up, and it stays in front of the guys with the guns!”

  The barrier shook slightly as the young biotics understood the challenge before them. Jack shifted slightly and took up the load, keeping them all in synchrony without my help.

  “Even numbers!” shouted Shepard.

  “Moving!”

  The first rank of Marines moved forward, throwing themselves prone on the bridge where no cover could be found. That much closer to the Cerberus lines, their fire proved even more effective.

  Jack and the first biotics moved up as well.

  The barrier wavered for just a moment as it slid into its new position. I stood ready to take control once more, but then I saw no need. It held firm. If anything, it grew stronger as the second rank of biotics moved up into cover the Marines had just abandoned.

  I slowly eased away from the barrier, letting Jack take up more and more of the load. Before long, only humans kept our protection in place. I switched to Shepard’s private channel. “I’m free for action, love. Let’s pick some targets.”

  I couldn’t see Shepard’s face, but I could hear a sharp grin in his voice as he called up blue-white power around his right fist. “Oh, those sorry bastards are fucked now . . .”

  That turned out to be prophecy.

  * * *

  Cerberus continued to probe at our defenses, but once we occupied the lab facility and dug in, we found we had little to fear. Cerberus forces came at us a few squads at a time, piecemeal, as if they had no way to coordinate an assault. Our surviving Marines, and the biotic students, kept the enemy at bay for well over an hour.

  We had no direct communication with the Eden Prime resistance, but Normandy reported that they pressed Cerberus hard on all sides of New Providence. No doubt that accounted for the desultory nature of the attacks on us. Meanwhile, Kahlee Sanders got access to Cerberus networks, mining them for all manner of useful intelligence on the occupying force. We forwarded all of that through Normandy channels to the resistance leaders, who responded with enthusiasm.

  Shepard, EDI, and I worked on the problem of getting the Prothean out of his life pod alive. Only Shepard and I understood the Prothean language. Apparently the Cipher had not survived the recording process that gave Cerberus access to most of my conscious memories, so EDI did not have it and neither had the Cerberus scientific team. On the other hand, EDI could interface directly with the Prothean life pod and Cerberus networks, extracting data for Shepard and me to interpret.

  We saw personal logs, apparently first recorded by the occupant of the life pod fifty thousand years before.

  Eden Prime, the world once called Takenu, under attack. The Reapers overwhelming every defense.

  Figures in armor, wielding beam weapons, vaguely resembling Collectors but not warped or twisted, moving with agility and dignified strength. Prothean soldiers, fighting back against the Reapers and their servants.

  A project to preserve hundreds of thousands of Protheans. Soldiers, engineers, scientists, everyone needed to rebuild a Prothean civilization after the long night of the Reapers. All under the leadership of one individual.

  Explosions. A breach in security. Distorted parodies of the Prothean form, the proto-Collectors, swarming into the sealed facility.

  Life pods destroyed, the lives within ended, the last hope of civilization lost.

  The leader, despairing and alone, fighting with mad ferocity, all to no avail.

  A last desperate measure, neutron bombardment to kill the enemy, giving the facility a chance to seal itself shut at last.

  The leader alone in his life pod. Consciousness slipping away. Knowing that the plan had failed. Knowing that he might not awaken for tens of thousands of years. If he ever awakened at all.

  * * *

  Cerberus scientists had placed the life pod on a wide balcony, just outside the labs where they had tried and failed to read the Prothean records. Shepard and I stood by the pod, hesitating for a moment before we did anything irreversible. Gunfire had sounded a few minutes before, some Cerberus probe being repelled by the Marines below us. For the moment all was silent.

  “No sense waiting, Liara. Open it.”

  I bent over the pod, opening the control panel and touching three controls in rapid sequence. The pattern of lights and icons on the panel changed, and then changed again. Panels snapped open on the side, permitting gas under pressure to vent.

  The clamshell doors on top of the pod opened with a decisive click, folding to either side.

  The Prothean lay inside, still covered with a fine layer of ice that began at once to melt in the sunlight.

  “Goddess,” I breathed, overcome by that first sight of him. “It may take him some time to fully regain consciousness.”

  At first he remained motionless, but then I saw his fingers twitch, his eyes start to flutter. They opened, four strange yellow orbs with doubled irises, fighting to focus on the world.

  He saw me first, then Shepard.

  He shouted, a deep roar, expelling fifty-thousand-year-old air from his lungs.

  Green fire lashed out at us, picking us both up and flinging us backward. A biotic surge, not quite like any other I had ever experienced. I had to grab at a computer console to avoid hitting the balcony rail.

  The Prothean hauled himself out of his life pod, turning to scan all of us as he staggered away. Suddenly his broad, flat head froze in place, no longer twisting as if to see everything, all of his eyes focusing on one of us alone.

  EDI.

  I had no experience reading Prothean expression, but for an instant even I could read his emotions. Terror and rage.

  Then his feet tangled and he went down, sprawling on his back, rolling to crawl away from us if he could not run.

  Shepard rose to his feet once more, turning to follow the Prothean.

  “Be careful, Shepard!” I called. “He’s confused.”

  The alien reached the balcony railing, pulled himself partway up, and then froze once more. While he leaned on the rail, his eyes turned to take in the entire horizon: the green hills, the human settlement, the pit containing the last few pitiful remnants of his entire civilization.

  Shepard reached to help him back to his feet.

  “Remember, for him it’s only been a few minutes!”

  Shepard grasped the Prothean’s arm. His fingers touched the alien’s skin, for just a moment. At once he recoiled, his eyes and mouth wide with shock, staggering backward.

  “Rrrh,” said the Prothean. “How long?”

  I didn’t stop to think, I only opened my mouth and the syllables flowed out. “About fifty thousand years.”

  “The rest of my people?”

  Shepard shook his head, recovering his wits. He answered
, also in fluent Prothean Fourth Age dialect. “Your life pod was the only one still active.”

  The Prothean leaned hard against the balcony rail, looking around at all of us. “Humans. Asari. Turians. I am surrounded by primitives.”

  “We may have made some progress since your time,” I said mildly.

  “Doubtful.” He turned, steadier now on his feet, and glared at EDI. “And that . . . machine?”

  “An ally,” I said firmly.

  “You are fools. It is nothing but an abomination.” He shook himself, looked more closely at Shepard and me. “Rrrh. I hear weapons fire. What is happening?”

  I gasped. The last two sentences had been in clear English, albeit with a noticeable accent.

  “We recovered your life pod in the middle of a battle against renegade humans,” said Shepard in his native language. “You can understand me?”

  “Yes. Now that I have read your physiology, your nervous system. Enough to understand your language.”

  “So you were reading me, while I was seeing . . .”

  “Our last moments,” said the Prothean heavily. “Our failure.”

  Shepard moved to stand before the alien. “I saw what happened to your people. I know you must be grieving. But they died fifty thousand years ago. My people are dying right now. So will everyone in the galaxy if we don’t act. We need your help.”

  The Prothean frowned, considering what Shepard had said.

  “The cycle continues,” I said in Prothean, to give the words added weight. “The Reapers have returned. We struggle for our survival, just as you once did.”

  “Will you join us?” asked Shepard.

  “You fight the Reapers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then we will see.”

  Shepard nodded, extending a hand for the Prothean to take.

  The alien ignored the overture, turning to walk back to his life pod and recover the rest of his gear.

  Chapter 13 : Encounters

  22 April 2186, Interstellar Space

  As soon as we reached Normandy, I led a party of three Marines to escort the Prothean to his assigned quarters on the engineering deck. He stalked through the corridors, utterly silent, ignoring the stares of the human crew. Once he arrived at his destination, he set his ancient weapon aside, dropped his gear on the floor, and knelt on the deck plating. His gaze fell to the deck a meter or so in front of him, and he appeared to sink into a fierce meditative state. He refused to speak or answer questions.

  At first the Marines wanted to place him under armed guard, multiple assault rifles trained on him, as for a dangerous prisoner. I called Shepard to complain about this treatment, and convinced him to issue a countermanding order. Instead, we placed a single guard outside the compartment, armed only with a heavy pistol, to prevent idle visitors and provide a polite escort should the Prothean wish to explore the ship.

  I recalled what little I knew of Prothean living arrangements, and had the crew bring furnishings and equipment: fabric hangings for the walls, two standing trays that could be filled with pure water, a computer console, a storage rack for his weapons and gear, an austere cot in one corner. The alien did not voice any approval, but neither did he raise any objections. He seemed to take no notice of our efforts at all.

  By the time Shepard arrived, I had taken a position at the far end of the compartment, my arms folded, simply watching the Prothean. He had moved hardly a muscle. Only with Shepard’s appearance did he shift slightly, raising his head and opening his eyes to glare at us both.

  “How is our guest?” Shepard asked.

  “I can hardly tell. He hasn’t said a word since he boarded the ship. I’ve tried to make the room more accommodating, but I don’t know whether it’s done any good.”

  “He hasn’t made any hostile moves?”

  “He hasn’t made any moves at all, hostile or otherwise.”

  Shepard crossed the deck, looking down at the Prothean. “I don’t think we need to worry. Our guest isn’t going to be a problem.”

  The Prothean rose to his feet, staring at Shepard intensely with all four eyes.

  “Is he?” Shepard prodded.

  “That depends on you,” growled the alien. Quick as a striking serpent, he stepped forward and seized Shepard, his bare hands on Shepard’s skin.

  I suppressed the urge to jump to Shepard’s defense. The Prothean didn’t seem to intend any harm, and I could guess what he was attempting to do.

  “I can sense fear in you. Anxiety and distress. The Reapers are winning.”

  He released Shepard, turning to one of his pools of clean water. He began to wash his hands.

  Shepard asked, “What do you mean, you sense?”

  “All life provides clues for those who can read them. It is in your cells, your DNA. Experience is a biological marker.”

  “Then what did I experience back on Eden Prime? That was one hell of a flashback.”

  “Our final battle left its mark on me. I communicated this to you. It can work both ways.”

  “Like your beacons?” I suggested.

  “Yes. Which . . .” Once more the Prothean reached out to touch Shepard, this time more gently. Almost at once he recoiled, giving my bondmate a hot yellow-eyed stare, his voice rising to a shout. “You found one. You saw it all, our destruction, our warnings! Why weren’t they heeded? Why didn’t you prepare for the Reapers, human?”

  “The name is Shepard, my rank is Commander, and nobody could understand your warnings. I was the one who interacted with the beacon, and it nearly killed me.”

  “Rrrh. Then communication is still primitive in this cycle.”

  “We pieced together what we could, and used it to stop a Reaper invasion three years ago. After that our leaders thought the threat was over. We didn’t have enough clear evidence to convince them otherwise.”

  “Yet the extinction was delayed?”

  Shepard nodded.

  I stepped forward, activated the computer console I had set up for the alien’s use. The Crucible schematics appeared. “Now we have your plans for the device. We’re going to build it.”

  “Device?”

  “The Crucible. Yes. The weapon your people were working on. We don’t have complete blueprints. Perhaps you can tell us how to finish it.”

  The Prothean examined the schematics closely for a long moment, and I permitted myself to hope. Then he bowed his head, his eyes closed in dejection. “We never finished it. It was too late.”

  “Then I take it you don’t know anything about the Catalyst,” Shepard said wearily.

  “No.” The alien leaned hard against the console, his back still turned to us. “I was a soldier, not a scientist or engineer. Skilled in one art: killing.”

  “Then what was your mission?” I asked.

  “Rrrh. Among my people there were avatars of many traits. Bravery, strength, cunning. A single exemplar for each. We hoped to preserve as many as possible, conceal them from the Reapers. Prepare them to rebuild our Empire once the darkness had passed.”

  “Which avatar were you?” asked Shepard.

  “What I was no longer matters. Now I am the embodiment of Vengeance. The anger of a dead people, demanding blood spilled for the blood we lost. Only when the last Reaper has been destroyed will my purpose be fulfilled.” His hands balled into fists. “I no longer have any other reason to exist. Those who share my purpose become allies. Those who do not become casualties.”

  Shepard shook his head in rejection. “Nothing in our fight against the Reapers has been that cut-and-dried.”

  “That is because you still have hope this war will end with your honor intact.” The Prothean turned to stare at us, pleading for us to understand.

  “I know it will.”

  “Stand in the ashes of a trillion dead souls, and ask the ghosts if honor matters!” He paused, his eyes burning with passion. “The silence is your answer.”

  Shepard said nothing, his expression thoughtful.

  I turne
d to a side table, where a small Prothean artifact hovered in its own mass-effect field. I recognized it somewhat. It had the look of a small data-storage device. “You were very concerned to recover this from your life pod. What is it?”

  “It is a memory shard.”

  “Could it help us with the device?”

  “No. It contains only pain.” He turned back to Shepard. “But I will help you fight. And the last thing the Reapers hear before they die will be the last voice of the Protheans sending them to their grave!”

  I glanced at Shepard, a quick unspoken exchange that told me he had no more concerns.

  “If you don’t mind, then I have a few more questions I’d like to ask.”

  Shepard smiled gently. “Here it comes.”

  “I’ve written many papers and studies on your species. I’m published in several journals that . . .”

  “Amusing,” said the Prothean, his voice thick with scorn. “The asari have finally mastered writing.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Never mind.” He leaned back against his computer console. “What do you wish to know?”

  I stared at the alien, cool blue against furnace-hot yellow, and found myself shaking my head. “I apologize. I have no questions at the moment.”

  Shepard stared at me with disbelief. “Liara?”

  “Shepard, he’s still living the worst day of his entire life. He’s got to be physically sick and exhausted. Not to mention the shock of waking up and finding his entire species thousands of years gone. My scientific curiosity can wait.”

  “Rrrh,” said the Prothean, a growl I didn’t care to interpret.

  I turned to him, a determined expression on my face. “Of course, you need to realize that I’m not simply a scientist. I’m also an intelligence officer, and you are the most important intelligence asset in the galaxy right now. There’s no telling what small detail out of your memory might prove critical. So I will be interviewing you, and at considerable length. Just not until you’ve had time to rest and recover.”