Shepard felt his shoulders flex soundlessly under his uniform jacket. How the muscles tense up. How the shoulder blades try to converge, pinching the spine in a vice. How the neck stiffens, straightening up to a strict vertical ninety degrees. How the chin takes the position of a bulldozer knife, which does not bode well for what will be in front of it. How the facial muscles barely relax, allowing the jaws to leave a few millimeters of free space between the teeth. Several. Millimeters.

The heels of the boots clattered together. The toes of the shoes have habitually assumed their statutory position. The legs straightened completely, lifting the torso to the maximum height. His stomach tightened as usual, and his chest straightened, allowing his lungs to pump in some more air. The arms fell along the body, catching the conventional "lines" of the side seams and becoming one with them.

A beacon blinked far away in the corner of his mind, flashing only one code: "Not human." "Not human." "Not human." And Shepard, who straightened up like a string in front of the observation window, was in no hurry. I was in no hurry to enter into exhausting, unnecessary, harmful discussions with this beacon. He knew. He knew one thing: "For that. To. Win. The robot. Need. Give it your all. Completely. As soon as possible."

If only one of the Normans could see John Shepard, twenty-eight years old, an orphan who joined the Alliance immediately after his eighteenth birthday.... He would have been amazed. The figure standing in front of the wide-open salon porthole did not look like the former commander of the frigate's landing crew. She exuded the force of a hurricane and the power of a mudflow, the unstoppability of a storm and the sepulchral darkness of a crypt. And the scariest thing came from the commander's face, motionless and frozen like a shamanic mask. The whites of the man's eyes glowed, sparkling with thousands of sparks, and the pupils, in their blackness and bottomlessness, easily left behind the eyes of Asari and Drell.

It was impossible to resist the force that emanated from the eyes and spread over several meters. One could only obey. With maximum accuracy, speed, and completeness.

The captain's face didn't need to unclench his tightly compressed lips right now. No words were needed. The turn of John's head at that moment was already capable of collapsing the walls of a shipping container far below in the frigate's hold into dust. What if eye movement were added to the head movement... The container would simply cease to exist as a material body. Instantly. With any content. With all the contents. It was in this container that it was planned to enclose what the frigate Normandy was sent to Eden Prime for.

A screen flashed and unfolded in Shepard's mind. The condition of the ship. The condition of the armament. The condition of the crew. Course and range. The location of the ship is in the space of the Milky Way and in this star system. An avalanche of data. The captain stood motionless, absorbing it, processing it, sorting it. Ten percent, you say?! Twenty?! Thirty?! Forty percent of the brain's power, you say, works for an average reasonable person?! Ten percent, you say?! Twenty?! Thirty?! Forty percent of the brain's power, you say, works for an average reasonable person?! And you don't want eighty?! And a hundred?! And the multiplicity?!

To him, the commander of the landing crew. "n-seven". To the captain of the MSF. Some sleek colonel from the division headquarters handed over not an order on a blank reader in full form, but a scribble. A reader with three lines of text. A sample of clerical detachment from real life. Accept the senior position. The assistant. The captain. The frigate Normandy.

This colonel. He didn't even understand it Hemself. What he passed on. In what form. And with what consequences. Such disregard for the rules of execution of command orders is permissible only during the war. And since this neglect is allowed. It means that the war is already underway. And he, John Shepard, is not just serving in the Alliance of Systems MSF. He is. Located. On. The war.

"Corporal Jenkins report to the left side Saloon. To Captain Shepard," the lips of the commander of the landing crew spat out, slightly opening. The head did not turn. Only the lips were moving. And that, in the human body, which was supposed to form a voice order that was subject to instant execution.

The speaker did not disappoint. The microphone was activated during. The system, obeying automation, picked up the sound vibrations, cleaned them from interference and transmitted them to the contours of the translator, which reset it to the transmitter. Just like that. Almost instantly. For a human. Not for the vending machine.

In his mind's eye, on the screen of his mind, Shepard saw Jenkins freeze, who had been having a nice conversation with the frigate's doctor, Major Karin Chakvas. When he suddenly straightened up, abruptly stopped speaking, cut off his speech in mid-sentence, adjusted his beret, gave a military salute to the ship's senior medical officer, turned sharply to the right and, past the Sergeant of police who had not even changed his relaxed stance, marched up the stairs leading to the living deck.

The footsteps of Jenkins, who was diligently typing a step, approached, almost breaking into a run as they approached their destination. Finally, the corporal froze on the threshold of the salon.

"Corporal Jenkins, sir! Arrived on your orders, sir!" the newcomer rapped out and only then realized that something had changed a lot in the the newcomer rapped out and only then realized that something had changed a lot in the Saloon. And the center of this change is right in front of him. Captain John Shepard. Commander of the frigate's landing crew. His immediate commander.

Shepard did not even turn around, did not change his stance, did not respond to the report of the junior officer.

"Where were you born, Cor-poral?" — the officer's lips spat out.

"On Eden Prime, sir! The frigate is heading there, sir!" Jenkins did not even try to go beyond the requirements of the charter and directly ask what had happened and what was the reason for the call.

"Do you want to fight, Cor-poral?" There was a threat in Shepard's voice. Jenkins caught it.

"That's right, sir! We've been in space for two weeks now, sir! And I'm assigned to the landing party, sir! I'm not a flier, sir!" Jenkins was desperately trying to figure out what this captain wanted from him. He already knew that Captain John Shepard, who had been appointed to the post of senior assistant commander of the Normandy, was the hero of Akusa, that he was a survivor, that he was the "n-seven". He knew a lot about Shepard now. What his superiors in rank and position allowed him to find out. But now there was another Shepard standing in front of him. Jenkins had never seen a paratrooper captain like this before. And now he was ready to pray to God, yes, that there was only one God — all imaginable and inconceivable Gods. To pray that he would never see him again.

"Assigned?! That's exactly what you said, Cor-poral. Assigned. And I, your commander, need you not only to be assigned, but also to be a paratrooper. What task was assigned to you by your former commander?" There was a note in Shepard's voice that didn't give Jenkins any opportunity to delay the report.

"To board the amphibious frigate Cape Town, sir! At fifteen thirty three weeks ago, sir! At the disposal of Lieutenant Welland, sir!"

"And why am I, commander of the amphibious crew of the frigate Normandie, finding you aboard another ship a week after the Cape Town sailed, Cor-poral?" While Shepard was talking about it, Jenkins had the feeling that right now, this second, the captain would turn around and this would be the last thing Richard would see in his life.

"I'm late, sir!"

"Are you late?! Are you a corporal of the airborne forces MSF of the Alliance of Systems?! Are you late?!" There was no note of surprise or amazement in Shepard's voice-the tone was even and clear.

"That's right, sir!" Jenkins positively did not know what else he should answer to the officer's question. The semi-darkness of the cabin began to frighten the corporal frankly. The blackness of space, barely illuminated by the stars, was eerily depressing.

"The main motto of the amphibious forces of planet Earth. Quickly. Clearly. Separately" Shepard ordered.

"At any time! Anywhere! Any task! Do it! Precisely! Completely! On time! And in no way! Otherwise!" With every word he literally shouted, Jenkins felt like something was happening to him. Bravado is disappearing somewhere, bragging has subsided somewhere, lightness and carelessness of perception have disappeared somewhere. The corporal saw that Shepard did not turn around, did not react in any way to the words he knew well.

"It's you now, Cor-poral. You'll go to the hold and work there in the two hours left before lunch. With all diligence. A complex of high-speed work with weapons. To per-form" The captain spat out without changing his posture.

"Yes, sir!" — Jenkins "automatically" turned around "on the spot" and quickly "swept out" of the Saloon.

Shepard didn't turn around, knowing that Jenkins had even forgotten to close the door to the salon as he ran away. He knew what would happen to the corporal during those two hours of work at the limit of his current capabilities. He will be different. And he will live.

If everything was simple with Jenkins, then with Lieutenant Alenko... It was much more complicated. Kayden was a biotic, burdened with artificial specialized implants. It's not a very good model. "Elle is the second." It consisted of several interconnected parts. Kayden flatly refused to change these biotic implants to a more advanced model, the El Trety, and now Shepard, standing in the same position at the porthole window, was examining Lieutenant Alenko's implant on the consciousness screen. The standard, now outdated model, without any "bells and whistles". Which gave rise to terrible migraines in Kayden, as the bearer of this model.

Next to the image of the implant, in a separate field of the consciousness screen, there were lines of recommendations for extinguishing migraines, a sign of incompatibility between the implant and the carrier. Shepard read these lines, turning the implant this way and that in his mind. Now he did not think about why this screen appeared in his mind, why he, a paratrooper, an n-seven, was suddenly provided by unknown forces with such detailed and complete information about this implant and its carrier, accessible only to the most highly specialized doctors and technicians. If necessary, then it is necessary, and this information is now available to him. To make a decision. Shepard felt that he had calmed down a little, the sharpness of his sensations had dulled a little, and there was no longer such string-like tension in his body and soul. A string? Why not? Maybe if this state suddenly returns, it can be called a String. It is typical for a person, and now, as it turns out, and not only for a person, to immediately "label". Often, in order not to get lost in the abundance of information about the world around us. But now the XO felt that he would always have plenty of this information from a recent moment. Much more than the average level of development of a reasonable organic. That's what's changed about him. And if it has changed so significantly... This means that the world around him has changed no less significantly for him. Only because the Edge had come closer not only to him, an Earthling, a human, a special forces officer. She came close to all intelligent organics. And if now he has received such significant opportunities, he is still not able to help all other intelligent organics — they themselves must strain not to die, then he may well help some intelligent organics significantly. And first of all, to the crew of the prototype frigate Normandy.

He knew that Lieutenant Alenko felt someone else's gaze on him, but he couldn't identify who that gaze belonged to. Apart from him, formally the co-pilot and the professional first pilot sitting next to him, there are no other people in the wheelhouse of the frigate. The only non-human aboard the ship is the Spectre Turian Naylus Kraik, but he hasn't been in the cockpit in the last few hours. Right now, Shepard wasn't interested in where this birdface was. He didn't want to use either standard or new features for this.

Officer Alenko is in the cockpit seat. According to the combat schedule, he is the second pilot of the ship. Although he doesn't have any special rights, he doesn't have any special qualifications. Shepard knew that for sure. John was already able to recall everything he had ever read from the documents describing this lieutenant. The careerist. The staff officer. The formalist. He is not capable of combat work at the limit of his capabilities. He cannot effectively lead anyone, not even himself. A biotic who does not know what combat biotics are in real full combat use. Quickly exhausted, unable to dose blows with machine precision, achieving maximum results. All this is a consequence of using an ancient, low-quality, outdated model of a biotic implant.

If he, Captain Shepard, was given these two subordinates, then he would force this lieutenant to change. For the better. At least so that this kid officer could just survive what's coming in two days. In less than two days. It is unlikely that the pre-war period will last longer. As far as Shepard was concerned, there were only two days left. Forty-eight Earth hours.

Shepard reads the recommendations displayed on the screen of consciousness. He reads, no longer paying any attention to the fact that he, even having the rank of "n-seven", these recommendations should not be available in principle, since they are the lot of a team of extremely narrow specialists, to whom he, a paratrooper officer, does not belong in any way. He reads, at the same time mentally meticulously, carefully examining the implant and its connections with the body of a particular person. Reads, forming a command sequence.

Finally, the captain makes a decision. The command sequence is running. Now Alenko knows that an outsider's gaze is not an accident.

It's too late to figure it out, looking for the source. Late. Lieutenant Alenko's hands, which had been lying quietly on the armrests of the pilot's seat until the sequence was activated, dig into their covering with all their fingers, taking on the terrible nervous tension that bound the young officer's body with something like stasis.

Everything was happening too fast. It was too fast for even Jeff Moreau, who was sitting in the first pilot's seat and was in fact the only sane, professionally trained pilot of the frigate, to notice that something unusual was happening in his cockpit.