Rebirth: The Mass Effect. Book 1

Anderson was silent for a few moments, pacing the infirmary, lost in unpleasant thoughts. The situation is really far from rosy, and the real Saren Arterius can cause much more problems than the canonical Saren. Still, this is the real world.

"Saren is a Spectr, and one of the best." The captain finally said. "A living legend. But if he got involved with the Geth, it means he decided to go his own way." Anderson turned around, staring at me intently. "A spectrum that refuses to obey the Council is a problem. Saren is dangerous. And he hates people."

Yes, Saren is dangerous. Damn dangerous! How dangerous can a practical and ruthless specialist with unlimited rights be? The question is different. His true motives. To what extent are his actions controlled by the Lord? How much does he do of his own volition, and how much is he forced to do? We need to find out as soon as possible. And this will be crucial in my future actions.

All my future actions and plans for the future depend, funnily enough, on the Spectr of Arterius. Is he subordinate or acting of his own free will? If subdued, he will be an extremely valuable ally if he can be freed. If he's working on his own... he's the enemy. There are no options or doubts, and it should be destroyed as quickly and accurately as possible. Unless, of course, I decide on my own that I should make a Harvest and throw this Cycle to the demons. And I haven't given up on this idea yet. Knowing myself, I seriously fear that serving in the army will only strengthen this idea in me.

I don't like military service! I can hardly stand the barracks and their crowding. I'm angry at the number of strangers in my personal space. Always, in all my lives, I have done everything to avoid the army. I've been anything from a mercenary, bounty hunter, or monster hunter, to a black archaeologist, to an artifact miner, but never a regular army soldier. The single life in which I was reborn into a man and entered active service caused me to have an unshakable dislike for the army, its laws and way of life. Perhaps it was influenced by the surge of Chaos that I had fallen under before. He changed me, my soul, my worldview and my attitude to reality. Perhaps it was my unstable psyche and the habit of loneliness, but a rigidly planned life, strict routine and complete subordination without the right to a personal opinion, coupled with a hidden mess, ubiquitous hazing and double standards caused aggression and instinctive hostility. So far, formations, drill have raised a wave of anger. I'm a loner. I'm used to relying ONLY on myself. No one will help in the darkness of the ancient catacombs, where there is only you and your weapons against an endless crowd of monsters. I never make a lot of friends and acquaintances. I try not to take responsibility for someone else's life. I always act alone, even if it's the right way to die. Death is familiar to me and does not cause fear or dislike, but the presence of a large number of intelligent people is very much so. I don't need someone else's company at all for an adequate existence.

Estus was right. Pupation has already begun. I closed my eyes, watching the nervous captain. Maybe this is my chance to change something about myself? A little more, and I will finally turn to the path of isolation. From life to life, it's getting harder and harder for me to tolerate the presence of other intelligent people. This is not good. This is the path to degradation and decline.

"Why does Saren hate people?" I asked an almost canonical question.

The answer came immediately:

"He thinks we're growing too fast and occupying the galaxy."

I couldn't agree more. The Alliance is rapidly colonizing planets, unable to protect them or develop a colony properly, and many of them remain at the village level of modular houses, unable to survive on their own. What am I talking about? Here, there was a simple example recently. Eden Prime is one of the oldest colonies, and one rebellious Spectrum and a handful of Geth have actually taken it. And without much hassle. The Lord didn't show up there at all. So, I gave my pet a ride and hung in the sky to pick it up later. And he made sure that Saren didn't get off the hook.

"And do many people think so, like Saren?"

"Many. But most of them don't do anything about it. And Saren contacted the Geth. I don't know how. I don't know why. All I know is that it has something to do with the lighthouse."

He knows... He doesn't know shit! These are just assumptions, although they are somewhat correct. Saren really came for the lighthouse, and he got the information he needed from it. But the lighthouse is just a tool, nothing more. Moreover, it is useless.

"You were there, Commander, before the lighthouse self-destructed. Did you see anything? Any hint of what Saren was looking for?"

"Before I lost consciousness, I had visions."

"Visions? What?"

"Wars. I can't say for sure, they're too fragmented and torn. Just flashes that appear for a moment in the image."

"This should be reported to the Council."

"Report what? That I had a bad dream?" I asked, frowning at the floor. "They'll think I'm completely crazy."

The psychological state of my recipient after the ill-fated Torfan was... not too stable and rosy. The captain was slightly embarrassed, apparently remembering this interesting fact, but he did not give up on his idea:

"It is unknown what kind of information was stored in the lighthouse. Lost prothean technologies? Blueprints for some ancient weapon of mass destruction? Whatever it was, Saren has it now."

There was nothing valuable in this lighthouse. The usual warning of an impending galactic Apocalypse and a call for revenge, nothing more. You'd better look for the blueprints in your Archives on Mars, not in my head!

An extraneous thought flashed across my mind: I wonder if Sagep's head is falling apart from the pain right now, just like mine?

However, I didn't say anything to Anderson. Firstly, he just won't believe it, and secondly, there's no point. Why do I need extra problems? I'd like to get Spectr status and get the hell out of this poorhouse.

"I know Saren." the captain continued to broadcast. "I know his reputation and methods! He believes that humans are parasites of the cosmos! This attack was an act of war!"

Uh-huh, wars. How so... Saren didn't give a damn about the Alliance or humanity as a whole!Uh-huh, wars. How so... Saren didn't give a damn about the Alliance or humanity as a whole! If his motives are even slightly similar to the canonical ones, he only cares about his native race and Hierarchy. I wonder what the brave captain would say if he knew that I share the opinion of this Turian in some way? I don't like people. Sometimes I hate it. Sincerely. Clear. Uncluttered. It is so sincere that the idea of genocide does not cause rejection and hostility.

"He's got the secrets of the lighthouse. He has an army of Geth at his disposal. And he won't stop until he wipes humanity off the face of the galaxy!"

Should I help him? In memory of my recipient's happy childhood? I wonder how many people wonder what happened in the past of this beautiful red-haired girl, who was often called a `Soulless Bitch' behind her back?

"Sir, he must be stopped!" I said pathetically, devoutly looking into the man's eyes.

Absolutely necessary. At least to have a heart-to-heart conversation with him.

"It's not that simple." the captain replied. "He's a Spectr. He can fly wherever he wants and do whatever he wants. That's why we need the Council on our side."

"If we prove that Saren is out of control, the Council will strip him of his status." I said listlessly.

"I will contact the Ambassador and try to arrange an audience with the Council." The captain glanced at the partition behind me.

An interesting thought occurred to me, and I said to the man's back as he left:

"Captain."

"Anderson turned around."

"Commander?"

"Have you already sent a report to the Citadel?"

"Yes."

It's annoying.

"Have you reported on the state of the Spectr of Kriyk?"

"No."

Oh, that's good.

"Do not tell the Council that he has survived."

Surprise stabbed at his nerves.

"What's the point?"

"Saren must not find out that his former student managed to survive this shot. If Nihlus is taken to the Citadel Hospital, I won't give a spent thermoclip for his life." The captain was silent, considering my words. Roughly speaking, I suggested that he conceal the information. Important information.

"Commander Shepard has some truth in her words, Captain." Dr. Chakwas said softly, coming up to us. "His life is already in danger. This is compounded by the fact that we don't have a single drug on board for creatures with dextro organisms. Do you understand what will happen if he dies in the Normandy infirmary after you report that he is alive? We could be charged with premeditated murder."

"I understood you." Anderson said after a short silence.

Already at the door, the captain turned and said:

"I'll do as you suggested. As soon as Dr. Chakwas releases you, I'm waiting for your report."

"That's right, sir."

The captain turned around and left the infirmary.

"Thank you for your support, Doctor."

"It wasn't my idea, Commander." She replied calmly, pressing an inconspicuous button.

The partition was lowered, giving me the opportunity to see Nihlus lying on the bed, staring at me with bright green eyes. Op-pa...

Karin glanced at the instruments, frowned, went to the table and picked up a portable medical scanner.

"Commander, come here."

They put me next to some devices and scanned me quickly. The doctor carefully read the information on the scanner, cast a thoughtful glance at the instrument screens located near Spektr's bed, and frowned. Nihlus and I watched this extremely expressive pantomime in silence.

"Commander Shepard. Your indicators are completely normal. And here are the indicators of the Kryk Spectr... they would be normal if he were human."

The green eyes widened slightly and narrowed sharply, the heavy gaze fixed on me. The doctor noticed this and said:

"With such indicators, even a completely healthy Turian should have lost consciousness long ago. I would like to understand what a prolonged stay in such a state can mean for the Spectr." And on that cheerful note, Dr. Chakwas looked at me with a demanding expression.

Oh...

Nihlus raised his hand, gesturing for me to get closer. I came over, cocked my head questioningly, leaning over, and he croaked faintly:

"In my cabin. The Special Corps box."

I nodded briefly and looked questioningly at the doctor.

"Commander, maybe you have a first aid kit with you. It would be appropriate now."

Nihlus nodded slightly, making it clear that he really had the first-aid kit he was looking for.

"I understand you, Doctor."

"And don't forget to come back for an examination before you start writing the report."

I moaned softly, barely restraining myself. Report! And I've already lost the habit of bureaucracy in recent years. What kind of bureaucracy is there in a world consumed by a zombie apocalypse? Or in the catacombs of ancient underground cities full of traps and monstrous creatures, from which I stole rare and valuable artifacts?

I hate it!

But I'll have to write. Damn it... Okay, I'll use the recipient's memories and set it up, since I haven't completely lost the ability to compose hard-to-read dry texts in official language.

Chapter 4.1: The ritual of binding Nihlus.

Kraik's cabin was in perfect order: things were neatly folded and put away in a closet, on a narrow table there was a single datapad lying absolutely flat and clearly at the edge of the table, and a weapon box against the wall. That's all. The bed is carefully made.

Strange. I didn't think Nihlus was so pedantic. Or is he like that on board an alien ship? Quite possibly, considering how merrily he was received in Normandy.

I suppose I'll still have the opportunity to find out his real character, because I sincerely doubt that the Spectrum will just leave me unattended. He had seen too many interesting things. There are too many strange things.

Should I worry about this? I don't think so. Nihlus Kraik is my supervisor. If... No, WHEN I am accepted into the Special Corps, he will be responsible for ALL my misdeeds, these are the rules of his race. It's in his best interest to make me a worthy addition to the elite of the Citadel Space intelligence service.

I could barely contain my laughter.

No, well, wow! I have a mentor again! The last one, a pretentious jerk from the academy, was eaten by ghouls when he showed me how to kill them properly. He showed it. I watched this, sitting on a four-meter-high fragment of a column, and then for two days I thought about how to get off my perch so that the undead wouldn't grab me.

This reality is definitely starting to make me happy.

The surge of emotions subsided as quickly as it had appeared. Mental instability, what can you do? I opened the locker. How lovely, I'm basically stealing clothes at the request of their owner!

The box I needed lay on the shelf and the silver emblem of the Special Corps sparkled invitingly. Next to it was a first-aid kit with the same logo on the side, and a stack of datapads of a model unknown to me. The most curious thing was that their touch screen was the size of the entire body and not that disgusting orange color like humans, but a dark blue pleasant to the eye. Is there a difference in the models? Or something more substantial?

I took the box and the first-aid kit, without touching anything superfluous, and carefully closed the locker door. And the box is too heavy! The first-aid kit weighed at least three kilograms, while the three times smaller box weighed one and a half times more.

Unlike the game prototype, on the real Normandy, the crew cabins were located in place of the game recreation area. Instead, there was only a narrow corridor, and where the eight capsule models were ostentatiously hanging, there was a dining room. The captain's cabin and the infirmary have not changed their location. Now I would not run into Captain Anderson: it would be difficult for me to explain what I was doing in the cabin of a barely alive Spectre, and even with his things in my hands.

Fortunately, luck was on my side, and Captain Anderson was on the bridge at that slippery moment and did not loom in front of my eyes. But I was met with a puzzled look by Darg, who was wiping tables in the cafeteria with a sour face, and Dylan, who was scrubbing the floor. Manually. Cleaning was usually done during the ship's night using a silent hybrid of a vacuum cleaner and a washing machine. It took very little time and effort, unlike the perversion that the gloomy Dare was engaged in.