Rebirth: The Mass Effect. Book 1

I could barely contain my laughter.

A brutalized metamorph magician, who has only a desire for revenge, mixed with sincere, crystal-clear black hatred, is a terrible enemy. Mentalism, used with all its might, gave me an advantage: I KNEW what was going to happen and when, by reading information from the mentopol of the planet. Yes, I wouldn't have lived a year after that, but I didn't need this year. It took me a month to turn the world into ruins. Necromancy is not considered the most dangerous branch of ritual magic for nothing, even more dangerous than demonology. And there was a lot of death and a lot of necro-energy, generously given to me by my enemies. Reality got its chance to develop, as the notorious canon disappeared into the distance in the flames of global war and a mini-version of the zombie apocalypse. I was even killed. He was shot by a sniper. What's the use? She stood up. To just kill a necromancer in the middle of a battlefield? It's not even funny. A nuclear strike would have been launched, demilich or the supreme disembodied undead would have stood up. There's no difference.

That life taught me a lot of lessons. Cruel, painful, bloody. But — priceless. Never trust people and don't trust them without looking back. They'll betray you. Or they'll frame you. Never let them know that you are stronger, more talented, or at least in some way different from them. Someone else's power and incredible abilities cause only envy, hatred and the desire to destroy the owner of these abilities. Hit back. Indifference to hatred. Never forget: mercy is seen as weakness, honesty as stupidity, and generosity as a sign of a fool. Great lessons. You can't say anything.

Those who are the exception are priceless! For such reasonable people, you can bend reality over your knee and give your life without hesitation. But they don't occur very often.

Okay, the demons are with them, with the humans. To get involved with humanity is insanity in the highest degree of its development. At least there are other types of Mass Effects in reality. Maybe you can deal with them?

Who is there?

The Reapers? They don't give a damn about individual organics, except for favorites like Nazara's Saren.

The Asari? Fast-paced same-sex aunts with a bunch of secrets that they are in no hurry to share with others, even on the brink of the death of the galaxy. It's dangerous and unwise to mess with them. Who knows how the thought will turn in their head? Just look at their justiciar with their strange logic and Code.

The Salarians? Slippery, practical types. If the canon is at least a little bit close to reality, you have to expect setups and problems from these comrades no less than from Cerberus, or even more. I am guaranteed a comfortable laboratory table there. To their demons.

The Turians? Maybe. A military civilization based on personal honor and valor, in which lying about one's actions is the gravest crime. A strict code that has no exceptions, no matter who falls under it: an ordinary soldier or a Primarch. I wonder if they're really that painfully honest. If they really evaluate a reasonable person by personal qualities, and not by origin and potential danger, you can try to negotiate with them.

The Krogan? I remember the canonical Reeve and understand the Salarians with their genophage. Women in their culture, if we can even talk about culture and Krogan, are an object of bargaining or exchange. They are usually killed first when attacking another clan. If you want to fight and kill to your heart's content, this is not a bad option, but deal with them... Not an option.

The Quarians? I don't know. There is not much information about them, we need to find out. But from the point of view of practicality, a Migrating Fleet is useless. They are barely able to take care of themselves. I won't be able to rely on them.

The Drell? Absolutely devoted to the Hanars. Jellyfish have enough problems not to risk messing with them. They're too unpredictable.

Voluses? So they are part of the Hierarchy. Without batting an eye, they will sell me profitably to the Turians. They will also congratulate you on a successful deal. They'll congratulate me.

The Batarians? To contact a slave-owning state with a rigid caste society? Funny. The prospects: a control chip, a laboratory, and a slave collar. If you remove the slave collar, everything is like in the Alliance. Although not. The collar can be left on.

Who else is there?

The Elkors. No options or comments. They trade with pirates, on their own.

The Yagi? are guaranteed to try to kill. When they get punched in the face, they'll leave me alone. But the output is useless.

Vorcha? They'll try to eat them right away. They have brains like troglodytes, and they behave the same way. In fact, they are a primitive people with all the consequences.

The Geth? They have no points of contact with organics. A closed society.

The heretics? See point one. It's easier to fly straight to Vermaer to visit Saren.

Collectors? The same as heretics, only in a more perverted form with a real chance of ending up on the same laboratory table.

I don't think I've forgotten anyone.

Yeah. It's a choice, a choice... what a wealth: for every taste and color. I don't even know who to turn to.

Maybe I really shouldn't do anything?

And what? If Nihlus survives my receiving Spectr status, it will fall out of the interests of this reality and will have the opportunity to try to bring it out of the rut of the canon. He will be free in his destiny. After all, this is his home reality, not mine. I just don't want to set him up like that. I've already started to respect him.

Okay, I have time to take a closer look at Kraik while we fly to the Citadel. If the real Council turns out to be the same tight idiots as in the canon... I drop everything and fly to Vermaer. And may it all burn with a clear flame!

Chapter 5: Who are you?

Damn the report!

The captain almost shook the soul out of me, trying to find something that wasn't there. Well, there were NO drawings of weapons or super-technologies in the information buoy of the protean! THERE WASN'T! But Anderson didn't want to believe it. Here, take it to him and describe the visions in DETAIL. What kind of visions are there? A set of fragmentary images that have just begun to pass awareness!

I was saved by Dr. Chakwas' call for an `examination'. After getting permission to go, I rushed to the infirmary at a speed close to teleportation. But I'm about to be questioned thoughtfully...

In the infirmary, Dylan and Darg were found sitting sullenly on their beds and waiting for the end of the examination.

Dr. Chakvas practiced high-tech shamanism using laboratory equipment instead of a tambourine. At least for me, her actions were at about the same level of understanding. Judging by the faces of the fighters, it's the same for them.

"Commander Shepard," Karin said, momentarily distracted from her work. "Wait a minute."

I sat down on the edge of an empty bed, watching the doctor with interest. But as I approached the partition, I heard a thin squeak: Nihlus woke up as soon as the power source was nearby and the energy flow increased dramatically.

"Darg" The doctor approached the fighter and handed him a package of pills. "I really hope they don't end up in the recycling bin like the previous ones."

"They won't be." he answered gloomily.

"Good." Karin smiled slightly from the corners of her lips. "Dismissed."

The soldiers blew themselves up and moved towards the exit.

"For everyone on this ship, Spectre Kraike is dying." Chakwas added. "I'll expect you for an examination tomorrow at the same time."

"Understood." Dylan replied, and both fighters left the infirmary.

Nihlus took his eyes off my people only when the doors closed behind them. And the look was VERY thoughtful.

The situation turns out to be interesting. Dr. Chakwas has made it clear that Dylan and Darg are trustworthy people. I knew this myself: Imrir's fragmentary memory did not leave many memories of her past, but in all the fragments after Torfan, these two men were completely trustworthy.

"Time. Few." Nihlus said in a barely audible voice, lifting the metal prism with two fingers.

"How much?"

"Twenty minutes. A day later. It's charging. Long." He was silent for a couple of minutes, breathing heavily. "Imrir. Borrow it. Them. Let them think. Logic. It will help. Extinguishes anger. I know."

It didn't take much intelligence to figure out who Nihlus was trying to talk about. He saw the rage of the Derg. The question is: what did the Turian see in my fighters that made him react so sharply? There must be a reason forcing him to speak despite the intense pain. A VERY significant reason!

"The consequences?"

"Battle rage. They won't stop..." Nihlus stammered and gasped for breath.

"Will do." I rubbed my temples wearily. "Nihlus. When you can have a conversation without risking your health, I'll give you the answers to your questions. Is this acceptable?"

The green eyes stared hard and intently. Against the background of a jet-black white, the green iris seemed to glow from within, giving the Turian's gaze an unnatural expressiveness and sharpness. It's like looking into the eyes of a demon. Interesting visual effect. My recipient really disliked looking Nihlus in the eye: it seemed that the piercing gaze saw the very soul, turning it inside out. And the girl had something to hide.

A barely perceptible nod made it clear that Nihlus understood me and accepted the terms of our deal. He won't try to ask uncomfortable questions until he recovers, but then... then I have to give answers. Honest, sincere and without double interpretation. And I will give these answers: when the time comes for a conversation, I will go through the chain of events to its end, and the Turian's life will not be threatened by the truth.

Nihlus' death is a key factor that triggers a chain of events on Eden Prime, much more rigidly prescribed than the death of the same Jenkins, which does not affect anything at all. According to all the laws of this reality, regardless of the possible and acceptable scenarios for the development of history, Spectr Nihlus Kraik MUST die at the hands of Spectr Saren Arterius.

My intervention has stretched the chain of events, forcing reality to respond and change, and she is extremely reluctant to take such liberties: she always resists, tries to return history to normal, not wanting to break away from the egregore that gave her life. This chain of events culminates in obtaining the status of a Spectr, and until I become a Spectr, any, even the most insignificant attempt by Kraik to influence my actions or the circumstances of obtaining this ill-fated status is guaranteed death from a series of fatal accidents. Therefore, the Turian will remain on board the Normandy, and information about his condition will not leave the infirmary.

However, besides Kraik, there is another reasonable one who is very, very eager to ask me questions. And in this case, no excuses and attempts to delay time will help.

"Doctor, do you have any questions that you would like to know the answers to immediately?"

"There is." the gray eyes looked very hard. "Who are you?"

And here is this most sacramental question.

I sat down on the cot more comfortably, put my hands on my knees, studying the woman standing in front of me. I'll have to answer. Dr. Chakwas is too important to mess up with. And Imrir still has some kind of reverent attitude towards this woman, although I know FOR SURE: before 'Normandy', my recipient and the doctor had never crossed paths in person.

It just so happened that from life to life, I had truly loyal companions with enviable regularity, one of whom was ALWAYS a doctor or a murderer. Sometimes it's both. Can Karin Chakvas become such an associate? Maybe. If I can convince her. Besides, it's now. I can't lie, she won't forgive me for lying, even if she understands its necessity. She's not that kind of person.

I could barely contain my laughter. Life doesn't teach me anything! How many have already betrayed, but still the desire to trust has not died completely. Maybe it's for the best?

We'll see.

"Imrir Shepard."

"You are not Imrir. I know her well enough." Chakwas replied reasonably.

"Technically, I'm really Imrir."

"What do you mean, technically?"

"The body is the same. The memories were partially preserved." I answered honestly, watching with interest as the expression of the gray eyes changed. Nihlus listened in silence, with his eyes slightly closed. But you're not her.

"But you're not her."

"No. Do you remember that strange seizure a couple of days ago?"

The Doctor nodded.

"It was the agony of death. Mine and my recipient's. It was at that moment that clinical death occurred for a moment, and Imrir Shepard's soul went into rebirth, and I was thrust into her place. It should be noted that the girl's next life will be VERY successful and prosperous. Unlike this one. These are my compensation for the interrupted existence."

The doctor folded her arms over her chest, frowning at me. Well, yes, my words are the ravings of a drunken satyr. Believe me. But I'll have to do something.

"Are you saying that you took over the Commander's body after her death?"

"Borrowed it?" I chuckled. "They shoved me into it, completely uninterested in my opinion and desire."

"Who?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know?" the woman asked.

"I DO NOT KNOW the mechanism of rebirth." I replied calmly. "Who is launching it? Who chooses the recipient and the donor? How does this happen? There are assumptions, of course, but there is no EXACT knowledge. And those of my colleagues who know don't tell me." I grimaced. "The standard answer is: 'The time will come, and the truth will be revealed to you'."

"And you calmly tell me about it..." The doctor hesitated for a moment and corrected herself. "Us?"

"Dr. Chakwas." I sighed wearily. "Imrir trusted you. I do not know what caused this trust: her memories of her life are quite fragmentary, especially those related to studying at N7. I only remember my childhood and youth well. Not the most pleasant one, it should be noted." I replied calmly. "Few people think about WHAT life was like for a beautiful orphan girl who ran away from an orphanage to the streets of a megalopolis in her pajamas at the age of six. I'm completely amazed that this child managed to survive there alone. I couldn't help but let out a hard, cold laugh. Beautiful girls don't run away from a good life to join the army at eighteen, Doctor. I'm going to have leads and problems for a long time because of the recipient's disfigured psyche."