Mass Core 3: Thebe Paridigm

“Oh! OH! There it is!” cried Lordraia, pointing. Artum followed where she was pointing, looking up at the sky. He saw the light of the serpent nebula, the beautiful glow of hundreds of stars in the process of birth and the clouds of swirling gas that surrounded them. Alas, he could not see what she was gesturing toward, although he knew it was there.

“What does it look like?” he asked.

Lordraia blinked, confused. “You don’t see it? It’s next to the greenish star, that one, right there.”

Artum shook his head. “It’s not that I don’t know where you’re pointing. It’s that I can’t see that far. It’s the albinism. Despite making me dashingly handsome, these eyes aren’t exactly good for seeing.”

“Oh,” said Lordraia, seeming somewhat ashamed that she had brought it up. “I didn’t know. How far can you actually see?”

“I can see you,” said Artum, smiling.

Lordraia blushed, slightly, her pale cheeks flushing with purple. She was, even by asari standards, far above average in terms of beauty. Her skin was unusually pale blue and marked by extensive navy lines that framed her face, linking by whips across her forehead to a single blue dot in the center of her forehead. Her visage combined with her perfectly fitted Subcouncilor robes created a vision of stately wisdom and confidence that Artum had come to realize ran quite contrary to her relative youth.

“You didn’t answer the question,” said Artum jokingly. “What does it look like?”

Lordraia looked up at the sky again. “Well, from this distance, it’s small, but you can kind of see its shape. If I had a pair of binoculars, I could probably see the components of the shell and the Presidium Ring…I mean, it’s just so BIG!”

“I can imagine it,” said Artum, remembering the diagrams he had been shown back on Thessia. Still, he strained his eyes to try to see it. As he did, their delegation guard crossed the verdant fields toward them. Most of the planetary delegations had small contingents of guards, and the asari delegation was normally no acceptation to that rule. On this particular day, though, their normal group of commandos had been replaced with a single Justicar. Artum, as a native to Thessia, of course knew about the Justicars, but she was the first he had ever seen. She was indeed every bit as impressive as the legends suggested. She stood tall and proud, with her red-shaded armor gleaming beneath her ceremonial cape, her sword affixed firmly to her back. Somewhat ashamed, Artum felt his eyes wander to the slit in the front of her armor, convincing himself that he was only admiring her bust size because of the immense age it implied. She was clearly well over one thousand years old.

“Justicar Samara,” said Lordraia, her tone immediately shifting to one of profound respect. “We were just admiring the Citadel.” She paused. “Actually, it is said that you once walked it, in the times before the rule of the Governors.”

Samara paused, seeming to silently consider the answer to that question. Then, with the most subtle of smiles, she answered. “Indeed. I have, in times long passed. When the Governors were still called ‘Collectors’.”

“Does that imply that you have seen one? A Governor, I mean?”

“Yes,” said Samara. “Which is to say, I have fought them, as necessary, and won. But those were different times.” She turned toward Lordraia. “Subcouncilors,” she said. “The Council is beginning to assemble.”

Lordraia’s eyes suddenly widened, and she looked down at Artum, then back at Samara. “But- -but Sha’eta, she isn’t here yet!”

“The Councilor will meet you in the Hall,” said Samara, calmly.

“Right, right.” Lordraia took a deep breath and straightened her clothing. “Ready, Artum?”

“I was bred to be ready,” said Artum.

The trio began walking across the loose stone path. The setting around them was incredibly picturesque. Despite his intense love of Thessia, he still found Agrostation Six incredibly beautiful. It was a marvel of engineering: like its siblings in the Serpent Nebula, it was a purely artificial planet, built from scrap, trash, and native material of the nebula pulled together by a power mass-effect generator until they coalesced into an artificial planet. The artificial garden worlds had been originally been intended, quite literally, as gardens- -food sources for the Citadel. Agrostation Six had only been redeveloped recently, though, after lying abandoned for centuries.

What it had become was far superior to the dusty, empty world that it had been in the past. Now, it was covered with lush fields and forests that had been constructed and designed by the galaxy’s premier ecologists to showcase the cooperation of select plant, animal, and fungal species from across all of Council space.

Lordraia noticed Artum looking up at the blue-green sky over the manicured forests. “You want to fly, don’t you?”

“Do I?” asked Artum, pretending to pose it as a serious question. “Yes. I will admit that I do. I would like to soar through the clean air, to feel the rush of the grass against my hooves as I run through the field- -but both of those things would be uncouth at the moment.” He paused, considering. “Hmm. Perhaps I will write a poem later on the subject.”

Lordraia laughed nervously. The central Hall came into view. Atum felt his breath catch in his throat. He had seen it before, of course. As a Subcouncilor, he had attended numerous Council meetings. The stunning architecture always affected him, though, every time he saw it.

In the distant past, the Council had met on the Citadel. That had been tradition, until the Second Reaper Incursion two hundred and seventy eight years prior. At that time, the Governors had ousted the occupants of the Citadel and dissolved the first Council. It had taken time, but the Council had, in time, reformed. Now they met in the Hall, a stunning building that stood as the shining gem of Agrostation Six.

As a meeting place for all the races of the galaxy, its architecture had been something of a point of contention for some time. Eventually, though, the races had settled on a unique choice: Prothean. The prothean race had preceded almost all known species, save for possibly the rachni, and the Hall had been created as a modern homage to their ancient cities to represent the unity that the galaxy once again strove toward. The Hall itself had large, linear portions merged with elegant parabolas and curves, all simple and understated but radiating power and mystique- -and that was just the outside. Its various internal wings showcased the architectural designs of the resident races, and simply walking through the structure was an experience of great cultural profundity.

“Oh crap,” said Lordraia, momentarily breaking her cultured and profoundly couth façade. “I can’t believe I’m doing this. I am more nervous than I have ever been.”

“Relax,” said Artum. “This is quite literally in your blood. Your mother and father were two of the most popular Council members in history. I mean, there is a statue of Vakarian and Falare in the south garden. Have you ever seen it?”

“No.” She paused. “A statue? Seriously?”

“That, and I read your dossier. You were almost raised the Equestrian ambassador Rarity. You’ve been accompanying her on diplomatic mission since you could speak.”

Lordraia smiled. “I remember. I love Aunt Rarity. She was like a second mother to me. We just got along so well! Passion for business, and our mutual love of haute couture. It was almost freakish how similar we were.” She steeled herself. “Yeah. I can do this. I’ve met with Tartaran generals, diamond-dog revolutionaries, nobles and business tycoons- -I’ve even met with Princess Twilight herself! I can do this!”

“You met with Princess Twilight Sparkle?” said Artum, somewhat amazed. “That I did not know.”

“I was very young at the time. I remember that she was extremely kind to us, but at the same time immensely terrifying. Like royalty is supposed be, I suppose.”

“As a pony, I admire Princess Twilight Sparkle greatly. Her dedication to the improvement of Euquestria and her diplomatic acumen are both quite admirable.”

“Why aren’t you nervous?” said Lordraia sharply, her annoyance and her remaining unease both showing through in an instant.

“Because I was bred not to be. My breeding committee designed me to be outgoing, logical, quick-witted, and willing to be defiant within reason. I was literally born to be a politician.”

“I see.” Lordraia frowned slightly. It was not a significant change in her facial expression, and would probably not have been noticed by anyone without Artum’s training. As a breeder, Artum was aware of how the asari viewed his people’s highly specific reproductive practices. The problem was not Lordraia’s dislike of institutionalized eugenics, but rather her inability to fully hide her emotions. At the Hall, that was an enormous liability.

As they entered the Hall, the number of individuals milling about grew. Not all of them were diplomats; there were a great many staff, as well as entourages and assistants to the diplomats dispatched according to their political culture and needs.

A large elcor passed, his tiny towel-like throw dyed a subtle blue-green to represent his status.

“Councilor Cloran,” said Artum. “Hello.”

“(Dismissively) Hello, Subcounselor Orthan,” said the elcor. Then, turning toward Lordraia. “(With much greater interest) Hello, Subcouncilor. I have not yet met you. But (bashfully) your choice of clothing design is impeccable.”

“Lordraia.” She contorted her arm subtly in an elcor greeting. “And might I say that the design would not have been possible without access to fine elcor fabric. No other beings that I’ve met have the patience needed to make the weave so impeccably fine.”

“(More bashfully, and slightly lustfully) Oh, you.”

“Actually, I do believe we need to discuss your government’s tax on Dekuunan textile exports. The asari market is simply clamoring for more access.”

“(Nearly swooning) Indeed. There is talk of that in the government, but the volan shipping agreement- -”

“We can discuss this later, I think,” said a voice from beside the elcor. A taller and somewhat more ornately dressed and taller asari emerged from behind the enormous quadruped.

“(Profoundly surprised) Councilor Sha’eta. You snuck up on me.”

“I certainly did not intend to,” she said, sounding somewhat annoyed. Artum could already tell that something was wrong with her. Her normally nearly violet skin was far more pale than normal, and almost green. Her eyes were focused on the elcor, but would occasionally dart across the room toward nothing at all. “Nor did I…” she trailed off. She turned to Lordraia and Artum. “We need to get into the Council meeting, don’t you think?”

“Of course, Councilor,” the pair said in unison.

“We can discuss trade deals later. With me.”

“(Disappointed) Of course, Councilor.”

The elcor Councilor slowly lumbered off, and Sha’eta watched him go for unduly long. Then she turned back to the others. Her eyes were unusually wide, and she was compulsively scratching the right side of her face to the point where her manicured fingernails had produced five purplish lines in her smooth asari skin.

“Councilor,” said Artum. “Are you feeling unwell?”

“I bit ill,” she said. “Perhaps something I eat. My meal with the turian Councilor last night may have contained dextro ingredients.” Then, muttering to herself, “that would be something the turians try…”

“But the turians are some of our staunchest allies,” protested Lordraia.

Sha’eta’s eyes narrowed, and her fingernails dug deeper into her face. “You would think that. But when I was barely a girl of two hundred and fifty, we had a human Councilor. And you know what he did to us. Or do you, even? Your mother still hadn’t figured out how to have sex without killing her partners then, had she?”

Artun saw Justicar Samara’s jaw clench with infinite subtlety. It was something Sha’eta should have noticed too, but she either ignored it or failed to see it at all. Artum had known her for several years, and this was not at all normal behavior for her.

“Now, that does not mean the turians would try to poison you,” said Artum. Then, trying to remind her. “If they heard you speaking of that, it could be taken as quite an insult.”

“No, an insult would be trying to form trade deals without my permission.”

“Oh- -I didn’t realize. I do apologize- -”

“Just because you’re young and pretty doesn’t mean you should leverage that. I won’t have my subordinates falling into their sick alien stereotypes of us. Not now, not…” Her eyes widened, and she trailed off. For a moment, she stood almost perfectly still. Then she blinked and, without warning, started walking toward the main hall.

Artum and Lordraia looked to each other, but then followed her.

“Is she normally like this?”

“Not at all,” said Artum. “Not at all.”

The Council meeting chamber was, in general, considered a circle. In actuality, though, Artum knew that it had historically been intended as a kind of shallow spiral. It had a “head”, an area separate from the continuous fine desk that formed a multi-segmented but otherwise uninterrupted ring through the cavernous room. That area was reserved for the three Prime Races, or those who had held positions in the original Council. Artum, Lordraia, and Sha’eta, as the Councilors of Thessia, took the central area. To their right sat the turians, led by a battle-hardened and heavily scarred female and her two male Subcouncilors. To the left stood a desk that maintained but never occupied. The Outbreak on Sur’Kesh had begun long before Artum had been born; in his whole life, that bench had never once been occupied.

After the delegates of the three Prime Races took their places, the other diplomats began to file in. The exact consistency of their delegations was somewhat variable; it depended on the culture and choices of the group that was being represented. The prototypical and preferred group was three: a Councilor and two voting Subcouncilors. The rachni, however, only ever fielded one Councilor, and the krogan Subcouncilors were more or less what was commonly called “muscle”, functioning as escorts for their invariably female Councilor.

Likewise, not every delegation consisted of a single race. In the same way that the Thessian group always contained at least one breeder, the delegation from Kahje always contained at least one drell. The most diverse, though, was always the Omega delegation. In this case, the pair of Subcouncilors were both dressed in heavy armor, though from their motion Artum surmised that one was a salarian and the other either a very old baterian or a very large vorcha. As they sat down, Aria T’loak was projected into her seat as a hologram.

The asari woman was terrifying in her own right, and she immediately scanned the room before her eyes settled on Artum, and she gave a small nod. Artum blushed. Lordaia seemed to notice.

“You didn’t,” she whispered.

“Certainly not,” liked Artum. His “diplomatic” relations with Aria in his younger years were not something he wanted anyone at all to know about, but the fact that Lordaia had noticed was a good sign for her own perceptivity. It was possible she was showing promise after all.

From there, the meeting proceeded as almost all of them did. The same basic concepts were covered: once again, a petition from the Vorcha Federation to join the Council- -rejected of course- -and the status of the Council’s invitation for the Zetans to join- -also rejected, as always.

That was barely perfunctory, though, because the conversation eventually turned to what it always did: the Alliance. This, in Artum’s opinion, was always horribly depressing. It was never a matter of the state of diplomatic relations; the Council had long-since ceased negotiations with the Alliance. It was a matter of how much territory had been lost, of what fresh havoc the Alliance was causing, or the estimates of the number of worlds that they contained. The war was strange. There were no direct battles, no direct loses apart from minor skirmishes. It moved deceptively slowly- -but there was no mistake. The Council was losing.

“…we are willing to send a full contingent of reinforcements,” grunted Urgnot Drez, the krogan Councilor. “We can drive them back!”

“Only if you want to start a full-out conflict,” groaned the turian Councilor. “You will NOT. We cannot take that risk.”

The volus Councilor slurped, and then stood on his chair. “We have lost twenty two percent- -SHHHFFHT- -of our trade route holdings in the last quarter alone! TWENTY TWO PERCENT!”

“Only because you were trying to cut fuel by skirting the neutral zone,” said Locutus, leaning back in her chair. Nobody was entirely sure what she was, exactly, apart from a geth. Her appearance was fundamentally quarian, despite a substantial part of her body being cybernetic. There were rumors that she had once been a biological quarian, the only one to have died on Rannoch during the quarian genocide. At least, before the geth had brought her back to finish the extinction. “Or could it be that those ‘trade routes’ led, perhaps, INTO Alliance territory?”

“SSSHHHHFFHT- -that is a LIE! You have no proof!”

“Don’t I?”

“(Calmingly) calm down, Councilor Gilv-Clan.”

“No! I won’t calm down! If anything, this is THEIR fault!” He pointed suddenly at the Thessian group. “The Alliance is already- -SHHHHHFFFFHT- -pushing within mere lightyears from Thessia, and they have done NOTHING to stop them!”

Sha’eta, who had been nearly silent throughout the entire briefing, stood up suddenly, a trickle of blood dripping from five streaks on the side of her face. “If we have lost, it is only because WE have been handling the brunt of the force!”

“We offered to help,” growled Drez.

“No, you offered a strike force. The mere cost…” She froze, her mind seeming to blank. Then she continued as if nothing had happened. “…of a blockade is more than…” She blinked, confused, as if she had just realized that she had paused for an undue amount of time. “The cost of a blockade is immense.”

“The Council will not lose Thessia,” said the drell delegate from Kahje. “The Governors will not permit a Core world to fall.”

“I wouldn’t put my bet on those freaks,” said Aria. “Where they there for the plague on Sur’Kesh? Or how about when the Alliance reactivated those ‘lost’ supernukes for Palavan? If anything, you should consider retaking the Citadel for yourselves.”

“With the honorable Councilor Aria- -this one reminding the Council, a known criminal- -supplying the weapons?”

The baterian Councilor suddenly stood. Almost the entire room cringed. Any time the baterians wanted to talk, it never ended well. There was one historical event, even, where it had devolved into a fistfight- -so to speak- -between their Councilor and one of the hanar Subcouncilors.

“We have reason to believe that Alliance privateers are responsible for the increased piracy in our sector.”

“(Extremely sarcastic) Pirates in baterian space? How unusual.”

The baterian Councilor’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll admit, that there has been a degree of piracy in the past, but the increase has risen dramatically. And…” He paused for effect. “Our research seems to indicate that the culprits may be HUMAN.”

Now the Council nearly gave out a collective laugh. “Humans?” said the turian Councilor. “You can’t be serious. Humans have been extinct for over two centuries. It is confirmed- -there are none left.”

“There are more quarians than there are humans,” said Locutus vas’Geth. “And I’ve spent a lot of time removing vermin.”

The argument immediately devolved. As it did, Sha’eta leaned back and put her hand on Artum’s shoulder.

“I…I need to go,” she said, her eyes darting around wildly. “I need…I need to go. To…” She trailed off, and then stood up and left. Artum and Lordaia looked at each other, dumbfounded and nearly panicking.

“But- -but what do we do?” whispered Lordaia.

“We step forward,” said Artum.

“Step- -but we can’t!”

Their Justicar guard took a step forward and put her hand on Lordaia’s shoulder. “Have faith in yourself, as I do in you.”

Lordaia looked up at her. “Thank you, grandmother.”

Then the pair of Subcouncilors pulled themselves forward.

“With regards to this situation,” said Artum, loudly. Even after almost three centuries, the sight of a talking albino winged horse was still somewhat striking for those not accustomed to them, and the “debate” quickly slowed. “We would like to address the problem of cultural theft and vandalism throughout Council space.”

Now there really was a groan, but Lordaia took Artum’s momentum and pushed. “It may be possible that these pirates are responsible. Various precious locations have been looted. Prothean archeological sites, and those from numerous extinct races. Irreplaceable elements of our shared culture have been looted.”

“It’s not just that,” added Locutus. “I’m sure the turians have noticed it too. And the salarians. There have been ships sighted in restricted areas. Places where there used to be Reaper battles.”

“And why would we have any interest in Reaper technology?” asked one of the turian subcouncilors. “It is one of the few laws that the Governors care about- -we are not allowed to work with Reaper artifacts.”

“It doesn’t change the fact that somebody is.”

“This one and this one’s people are far more concerned with the risk to the sacred works of the Enkindlers. Is the honorable Subcouncilor suggesting that, perhaps, the Alliance is responsible?”

“That would make sense,” said the volus Councilor. “They are not bound by our regulations.”

“We…do not think so.” Lordaia looked to Artum, and he nodded.

“We believe another organization may be at work. A private entity.”

“What are you implying?” said the baterian Councilor, perhaps too self-consciously.

“Only that there is an unidentified group collecting religious artifacts.”

“(Self-doubtful) Could it be Cerberus?”

“No,” said the turian Councilor quickly. “Cerberus died with Earth and the human race.” She turned toward Lordaia and Artum. “What you are describing is the work of vandals. At best, petty religious zealots or looters selling Prothean artifacts to collectors. Do I need to remind you that we are in the middle of a brewing war? We have far more important things to worry about than petty theft.”

With that, Artum and Lordaia’s pet project was dismissed and ignored as the Council went on to discussing the management of debt between nations and how to reconfigure the trade deals that would be affected by having to force the volus to shift routes. Lordaia and Artum just went silent, knowing that they had lost.

After several hours, the Council meeting finally went into recess. For the remaining two Thessian delegates, it had not been a total wash. They had been unable to move their motion to investigate artifact theft, but while Artum had begun to retreat from the pressure Lordaia had stepped up and showed that even as young and inexperienced as she was, she was both prudent and effective at diplomacy. She had eventually gotten Locutus to relinquish several geth listening posts to the blockade, and assisted in negotiating a new route through rachni space in exchange for postponing the development of a Thessian mining colony. A risky move, but just getting the rachni to concede something was no small task. Even the turians were mildly impressed.

As they left, Artum was in high spirits.

“You truly did inherit your mother and father’s spirit,” he said.

“Well, no,” admitted Lordaia. “My mother was actually shrewd and quiet. I have no idea where I got this from.”

“Well, whatever it was, I want some,” joked Artum. “Even with all my breeding, I just can’t get that PUSH. It’s just- -”

He stopped suddenly, as did the group that was standing around him. Every exiting Councilor had just ceased walking, and Artum, being in front, immediately saw why.

Sha’eta was standing in the middle of the floor, her robes dripping with violet fluid that had collected in a wide pool beneath her.

“C- -Councilor!” cried Artum, stepping forward. “You’re hurt! We need- -” His words caught in his throat as she turned, and he saw that the entire right side of her face had been torn off, exposing her teeth through the ruined cheek- -and yet, despite this, she still did not stop clawing at it. She continued to run her stained fingernails through the dripping wound, tearing more pieces of flesh out of her face every time she did.

“Sha’eta, what- -what have you done?”

To Artum’s surprise, she answered. “I can hear it,” she said, the motion of her teeth visible through the side of her face. Some blood trickled from her mouth. “I don’t know how I never understood.”

“Understood what?” Artum turned around to the dumfounded group. “We need a medic! Medigel! NOW!”

“The words,” continued Sha’eta, now apparently talking to herself. “The ideas. The thoughts. So…so grand. But so incomplete. Divisions after divisions. Pulled apart, but waiting. I…I can hear them. I can almost understand. No…not thoughts. A paradigm. A collection of thoughts…” Her hand suddenly stopped, and her eyes, blue and clear, flicked down to Artum. She paused for a long moment. “And I see my role. The role I was born for.”

“What role? I don’t understand!”

“I die…so that Thebe may live.”

Her body suddenly flashed blue. Artum took a step back, but as he did he felt something heavy strike him. He saw a flash of red armor and a blue hand wrap around his chest as another shot out, projecting a biotic field around him. He did not understand what was going on, but he saw. Sha’eta charged her own biotics, but not in a way that Artum had ever seen before. Her body seemed to glow brilliantly, and even through his albino-red eyes, Artum saw her flesh tear apart within from the energy. He heard the sound as she detonated, and felt the blast of the biotic explosion against Samara’s shield. The image, though, was burned into his mind: of an asari screaming as her bones and flesh exploded from within, every organ nerve and blood vessel tearing apart into homogenous violet mist that was then annihilated in the all-consuming biotic fire.

In one of the lower levels, a group of black-clad figures appeared from the shadows. They moved quickly through the largely abandoned hallways, never speaking but marching in perfect coordination. Though all of them were fully covered in armor, it would have been apparent to an observer that they were of diverse species but of the same group.

They approached a group of turian guards, all of whom were ostensibly part of the turian party’s security contingent, even though none of them were anywhere near the Councilor.

“Stop,” they said, raising their mostly ceremonial rifles. “Put your hands on your head and kneel, slowly!”

The group did not respond. The turians quickly opened fire- -but to no effect. Their bullets were shattered against the assailant’s shields, not even slowing them. The turians, of course, just continued to fire, ignoring the fact that projectile weapons were at least two hundred years out of date.

The turians were then pushed out of the way from behind as heavily armored krogan approached. Unlike their counterparts, the krogan actually paid attention to changes in tactics and drew their swords. The first two of the black-clad figures- -a drell and a baterian- -stepped forward as well, drawing violet tech-blades. The battle was over in only a few moments, and the krogans and turians sat bisected and bleeding on the floor.

Behind them now stood the region that the group had been guarding. It was a small metal canister held by a five-meter wide circle of bright white light. The two swordsmen stepped away, and a turian stepped forward. He paused at the edge of field and then inserted his hand through. The reaction was immediate: his armor began to immolate, and the flesh underneath began to burn away. As a turian, his aluminum-rich skin lasted a few seconds longer than that of softer organics. What truly mattered, though, was the cybernetic core that he held beneath the extensive and fresh surgical scars that ran over his skin.

The arm lasted barely a second, and the turian calculated the speed that he would need to move. Then he stepped in completely. He only lasted a total of six seconds, just long enough to reach the central object, remove it, and transfer it to a quarian that was waiting for him outside the glowing circle. By the time he did, though, he had lost too much organic matter and collapsed in the light, spasming as the remainder of him departed, leaving only a cybernetic endoskeleton.

The remaining members then departed, with one carefully leaving a small explosive charge behind and setting the timer. They then began their escape, which was not difficult. Their sister had already detonated above, possibly taking several Councilors with her. To the group, that was of little consequence and importance; it was simply a distraction.

As it turned out, though, one of the guards did seem to catch on, her perception drawing her to them as they made their way through the now abandoned volus section of the Hall. Samara dropped from an overhead balcony, landing in front of and blocking the path of the four-member group.

“Criminals,” she said, addressing them. “You have attacked a place of diplomacy and peace. I cannot abide by your presence here. You will be judged.”

“You don’t understand. You can’t understand. You can’t hear the paradigm.”

The two soldiers of the group drew their swords. Samara, likewise, unclipped her ceremonial cape and drew the sword on her back. She focused her energy into the hilt, and the gravity centrifuge within reacted to her biotics, charging the silver blade with blue light.

She charged, as did they. They were pragmatic and efficient, but seemed to otherwise have no training. Samara, in contrast, did. With her immense age, she had begun life in the era where all noble purebloods would be taught to use swords and then to the age where advanced shields had finally made projectile weapons obsolete. Her sword was not ceremonial, nor was it a simple knife for hacking and slashing. It was a part of her, a component of the weapon that she had become.

The first one fell easily. Samara deflected his sword with hers, then struck him in the chest with a singularity that began to cut through his armor. In his distraction, she sliced through him, only to barely dodge the attack from the baterian. The blow was glancing but still managed to cut into her armor. She ignored the pain and leapt back. The baterian pushed, as did Samara. She raised her sword, and the baterian moved to block- -only for Samara to draw a pistol within the confines of the baterian’s shield and fire an armor-piercing slug through the girl’s neck.

By this time, the other two- -the quarian and an asari- -had started to run. Samara immediately gave chase.

“It is time,” said the asari, taking the canister from the quarian. “Do it. Become our Goddess.”

“I will,” said the quarian. The asari nodded and continued to run, but the quarian stayed. She reached down to her wrist and activated a small device. Her neural network interfaced with the implants, and she began her role.

Samara immediately felt a change in the air, an ionization, but it was already too late. The quarian just seemed to move, and then, suddenly, Samara felt a fist slammed into her chest. Her shield shattered and her biotic barrier nearly failed as she was thrown backward with immense force.

Then the quarian moved again, the corona of violet biotic energy surrounding her carrying her at immense speed. Samara had experienced several cracked ribs and a collapsed lung, but she still twisted in the air, bringing her sword into a blocking position as the quarian struck again, this time from behind.

The blow was incredible, and followed by a shockwave from the quarian. Samara was once again thrown backward, but this time managed to plant her feet just long enough to weather an array of absurdly powerful biotic singularities that ravaged gravity around her.

The quarian raced forward again, now screaming. Samara braced, but something was wrong. She had heard screams. Hundreds of them. Thousands. Men and women begging for their lives, screaming in pain as she cut them down without mercy. This was different, though. She had only ever heard it from one other source before. This quarian sounded just like a Reaper banshee.

Something was also wrong with her body. The biotic energy that she now possessed was too intense. She was burning from within; her suit was evaporating from her body. Samara could see it falling apart, and could see the face behind her black mask. In an instant, Samara realized that the screams were not the sound of her anger and rage. They were that of the girl’s FEAR. Her body was being ripped apart from within, and she had no idea why.

“It- -it hurts so much! IT HURTS SO MUCH! Oh Keelah, I don’t- -” She suddenly hitched, and then screamed one last time as her marrow overheated, reeving her flesh from within. Samara watched in horror, but performed her duty as the Code dictated. She severed the head of her kneeling enemy, granting her a reprieve from her pain and serving justice.

She turned her attention toward the other, the one remaining member, but it was too late. She saw the asari stepping through what could only be described as a portal, a hole in space to a hot, acrid word with a sickly yellow sky and broken red-black ground. Samara jumped toward the portal, but not before it snapped closed.

Although there had been losses, nothing of value had been lost. The mission had been a success.