The galaxy entered an era of change – deep and irreversible. Only seven days had passed since the signing of the peace treaty between the USSR, the Hegemony, and the Citadel Space, and the lives of ordinary citizens, ordinary sentient beings, had already changed.
The Asari Republic, which seemed like a pillar of stability in a world of chaos, was plunged into its depths. And only one thing served as the cause, which, like a stone thrown into a stained-glass window, shattered the faith, dreams, and pride of one race. No one could have imagined that a single sentient being, sleeping in an ancient capsule, could lead to such a thing. The Matriarch Council, which had hundreds of plans to counter external threats, was not prepared for internal ones, and on such a scale.
Riots swept across the Republic's worlds, engulfing Thessia, the pearl in the tiara of the Asari people, in a tidal wave. Unfortunately for the ill-wishers, the blue-skinned maidens did not descend into the madness of civil war for faith, but peaceful demonstrations quickly escalated into hysteria, resulting in clashes with hastily mobilized law enforcement forces. Hundreds of maidens and matrons tried to storm the monasteries where mutants and the shame of their race were languishing – as they had believed until recently – but the gift of the USSR turned everything upside down.
It reached the point where the Republic was forced to call for help from the Hierarchy, because its own forces were insufficient to suppress the unrest. Seeing this, the Primarch did not miss her chance. Only the fact that she ascended to her position just the week before, leaving the post of Citadel advisor, prevented her from playing this card to her maximum advantage. Even without that, the preferences obtained by Palaven were significant, to the displeasure of the matriarchs.
For their help, the Turians demanded the loosening of trade agreements – and received what they wanted. Moreover, the matriarchs later had to make concessions to the protesters, ceding some power to the parliament and making it not a decorative appendage, but a fully functioning organ of state power.
At the same time, the question of faith remained hanging in the air. Over time, radically minded Asari gathered into the Spiral cult, which proclaimed: "If the old faith was false, then we must find the true gods throughout the galaxy!" The cult got its name because its followers began to embroider a schematic image of the galaxy on their clothes.
The official priesthood immediately reacted negatively to the new faction. Having lost their positions and weakened, the priestesses began to lose followers, and the remaining ones became increasingly fanatical. As a result, the focus of the Republic's problems shifted from political to ideological.
Here, their love for consistent actions played against the matriarchs. After all, they had long promoted the idea of their people's exclusivity, and it was so enticingly refracted through the prism of religion...
Other races reacted to all this ambiguously, with a hint of malicious irony. The Krogan looked the most pleased. "Ha, they turned out to be just as genetically deformed as us! Only we bear our curse with honor, while they broke from such a trifle. What a thought, their whole race is the result of an experiment, and the Protheans turned out not to be sinless, but complete assholes! Just one man, and to get so upset? Well, no one had seen male Asari, they thought they were all one gender, but to get so upset? Funny! But it's pleasant to watch, especially with a drink."
The Turians reacted indifferently to the Asari's problems, because they also didn't see these problems. One gender, two genders, what's the difference? Why get upset if it doesn't interfere with service? Thank you, of course! Thanks to your hysteria, the Hierarchy benefited, but aren't you ashamed? Who shouted: "We are an example for all!"? So why are we breaking discipline?
But the Salarians reacted surprisingly vehemently to all this, although behind their activity lay purely scientific interest. The phrase "experiments and race" found an unhealthy resonance in their hearts, along with a desire to repeat the experiment of ancient geneticists and biologists somehow... purely for the acquisition of new knowledge, of course, to fill in the gaps in theory!
The Nomads didn't understand this performance at all. The opinion of the Asari as a people among the Quarians was already not high, and here the maidens hit rock bottom in their eyes, from which they only politely knocked. For a race that walked on the edge of a knife, fighting for its existence every minute of its life, such antics were completely beyond good and evil, evoking nothing but malicious joy. For the first time in a long time, someone got worse than them, even if only temporarily.
In the Hegemony, this event went completely unnoticed. The Batarians were busy slaughtering each other in a power struggle. As soon as the invading USSR forces left their territories devastated by punitive action, and the Turians went to restore order in the Republic, the four-eyed creatures grabbed each other by the throats, wanting to gain more power.
The USSR itself, the unwitting culprit of galactic changes, was simply executing the plan. The fleets returned home, the soldiers surrendered their weapons and went to their families... It was necessary to quickly restore the combat readiness of tired units, replenish supplies, and carry out rotations! And the slaves evacuated from the Hegemony? Each one needed to be rehabilitated. Not only to be healed but also to be given a profession so that upon their return, they could find work! This was already included in the plan. Execute!
However, altruism and the fight against slavery were only one of the reasons. A five-year plan was good, but the Union's plans covered a much longer period. The working peoples, who had gained a longer lifespan than nature granted, learned to act for hundreds of years ahead. A plan is a good thing if it is flexible and adjustable. Former slaves should serve not only as an advertisement of goodwill but also become something more on the galactic game board than just pawns... Free workers deserve more than just languishing under the heel of a capitalist.
Be that as it may, all the major players prepared to wait for the next move in the galactic game. Now a new player had started the game, relying on the element of surprise. But galactic megacorporations knew that luck was a fickle mistress. Today you are at the top, and tomorrow your corpse will be in the stinkiest ditch.
You just have to wait, let the upstart taste the flavor of "bank," and then strip them bare, taking both them and your own. It was, is, and will be. "Big capital" will not tolerate anything else. All that remained was to wait for the newcomer's move to prepare countermeasures for him... Only no one knew that the USSR had already made its new move, striking where no one expected. Therefore, while everyone was waiting for a response, among the slaves were hidden those Quarians who only pretended to be ordinary. They were distinguished by a small detail: they were born on Rannoch, that was all...
The diaphragm of the door retracted, and the commander of the special training group "CERBERUS" entered the room. In the reflection of several hundred screens, his khaki uniform seemed too dark. The colored spots broadcast by the training terminals barely changed its hue.
The officer surveyed the rows of motionless Quarians, whose gaze was fixed on what, at first glance, was an incomprehensible jumble of colors, shapes, and abstractions, which was the training memetic program. Bypassing consciousness, the training aid, compiled by psychologists and memeticists, with an extract of scanned memories of the Migrant Fleet representatives, was recorded directly into the subconscious. Tiny electrodes stimulated the muscles of the Rannoch natives, reinforcing the instilled skills and habits, making them as natural as breathing.
"They must look and behave like they were born in the void, on decaying ships, not like pampered creatures from the 'golden cage' of a Geth settlement!" the party decreed. "CERBERUS" merely responded with: "Yes, sir!"
The second part of the Geth-Union operation was in full swing. In just six months, three hundred and fifty-four Quarians, descendants of the survivors who supported the synthetics, would be ready for integration into the Fleet, eventually becoming another pair of eyes and ears for the proletarians and workers in the capitalist world! Along the way, the Union would fulfill its promise to the fraternal synthetic intelligence: to protect those of their creators who did not raise a hand against their creation in the coming storm.
That is why these Quarians must drink, sleep, make love, and even relieve themselves as those born on the Fleet do. Memetic training is only the first stage, lasting a month, and after that, the cadets will face five months of daily practice. Each will have their own program, as by the end of their training, they will be completely changed, even at the DNA level, becoming exact copies of the deceased pilgrims. Their DNA will be edited according to samples stolen from the Fleet and taken from corpses, so that even biometric scanners will not distinguish the forgery.
Alas, not all slaves could be freed during their lifetime, but they will serve a noble purpose for the sake of their people and the working class! Therefore, it is so important that everyone plays their role perfectly, becoming another person. Otherwise, the joint plan cannot be fulfilled. The Geth are already preparing the third stage. A few decades – and the scenery will be ready. Unbeknownst to them, the Turians will help the children of Rannoch get rid of their prejudices.
The Migrant Fleet will be freed from the obsessive ideas that prevent it from living, not just existing! The Hierarchy will learn what it's like to lose honor through stubbornness! Both of these peoples, in their attempt to achieve their desires, will go through blood, dirt, and the abyss, changing... or perishing. Survival requires a price, though each will pay a different one. But now, both peoples are not yet ready.
The Quarians, unknowingly, will return to Rannoch, whether they want to or not! But returning is not enough...
While CERBERUS was forging hope for an entire race to survive the coming horror from those who voluntarily underwent it, four squads of "Argentum" operatives, along with their support teams, were approaching the location whose coordinates were obtained from the "black box" homing signal of the "Normandy." It was time for the workers to look into the abyss, trying to discern once again what the mysterious enemy had prepared for them...
Shep checked his weapon again. Everything was perfect... As if!
The recent events had caused turmoil in the operative's soul. Miranda, saving a comrade from death at the last moment, the wound, Argon's death – all merged into one stream, overwhelming Artyom's mind. Although Argon's death was the last straw that broke the camel's back.
He felt it, even while in a post-anesthetic sleep. In a world where everyone is mentally connected to everyone else, death is felt especially acutely if it is final. Those who awaken feel almost alive; they simply change one state of existence for another, transferring to the digital world of dreams. As if a door opened and they stepped through.
If the dying person lacked the strength of will or their mind was not sufficiently ordered, then a flash would mark the demise of consciousness and the transformation of the sentient being into an archive of data. Not death, but close. But Argon died, as in the past, as if he were not connected to the neural network.
The moment of his death marked the severance of billions of connections. He was a hero from the pages of textbooks; it was not surprising that many knew who he was. When he was gone, all connections in the digital space abruptly collapsed, creating an information wave.
The system severed and preserved non-existent logical paths. It seemed simple, but in fact, severing so many connections and sequences generated a disturbance, as from the non-final death of millions. No magic, just algorithms at work.
This only intensified when the collective consciousness realized the loss, especially when the cause that led to the destruction of even memory was revealed. The Motherland decreed: "The mind's encryption protection worked during an attempted hack." Almost a piece of the Collective itself was lost. Small, the size of one person, but the very fact was frightening.
Someone not only caught the veteran but also penetrated his head, initiating a protocol that tore his mind into two parts. A secondary and a primary key. The memory itself became an algorithm, transforming associative chains into a cipher useless without the second part. Simple and terrifying. He was sentient, now he's a mess of zeros and ones...
The raider emerged from warp. Space was once again filled with colors. The blackness outside the porthole became just the darkness of space. Somewhere out there, a hundred kilometers below their ship, hung the mutilated cruiser "Normandy."
The sensors peered into the contours of the lifeless ship's hull, feeling every centimeter, trying to reconstruct the scene. CERBERUS could not request the crew's memory archive due to the fact that they were not dead. And, judging by the condition of the ship's hull, they were prisoners! It was just strange that none of them had sent a mental image yet. They all felt as if dissolved in something...
Convinced that the enemy was not present in the area, the raider slid towards the "Normandy's" side. Simultaneously, the pilot tried to contact the cruiser's AI, which should have been on staff. The machine intelligence did not respond, making the battered cruiser an even more lifeless piece of polymers and alloys than it looked.
"Deploy the drones," Shep ordered the pilot, who brought the raider to the depressurized bridge, which was now towering over the armor and had not been retracted. The five-meter panoramic viewport was completely gone. Only fragments of glass, a meter thick, indicated that it had once existed.
"This could only have happened from a fighter missile," the starship pilot stated authoritatively, maneuvering with thrusters. "But then the bridge would have been blown away, and it's relatively intact."
"What if it was from the inside?" Artyom asked.
"Only if it was a tank... It looks more like the work of pyrotechnic charges in the cockpits of small craft, but that's impossible on a cruiser," the fleet officer mused.
"What about boarding?" Shep asked another question.
"Whether in the cartridges or in your 'cords' – it's the same active substance. Only the explosion was from the inside, not the outside, which would be logical. I've seen enough of this in thirty years, comrade captain. After your assaults, it would look different."
"What do the drones say?" the captain took the information into account, making a mental note.
"The hangar on the port side is intact, just depressurized," the aviator replied, shrugging, focusing a little more on the reconnaissance machines for a moment. "But that's logical. The whole ship breathed vacuum."
"Then steer towards that hangar," Artyom ordered the pilot. Activating the transmitter, he addressed the operatives. "Green readiness. We're boarding the shuttle. Gear form three – vacuum. The tin cans go first under their own power."
Slapping the pilot on the shoulder, he added,
"If anything happens, abandon us and run..."
"Yeah, 'earthling'! You wish... I don't abandon my own!" the pilot snapped. "You'd better not shit yourselves in your diapers, and I'll decide what, where, and why... comrade captain."
"Your lip is crying for a beating," Shep said sarcastically, leaving the cockpit.
"Only my deputy political officer's mother's lip..." the fleet officer retorted.
The shuttle landed softly on the lifeless deck, securing itself with magnetic clamps. From the boarding ramp, soldiers in medium suits began to disembark in pairs. Twelve operatives, like gray shadows, dispersed throughout the room plunged in complete darkness, their magnetic boots clanking.
The robots had already gone ahead, opening the armored, tightly sealed, de-energized bulkhead.
"Clear," the captain commanded. "Support group – exit."
Sentient beings began to emerge from the shuttle's belly again. They were the cover for the "Argentum" operatives. After what happened to Argon, the command decided not to risk it, sending not only special forces fighters on the mission but also those with whom they were used to working as a team...
"Captain," one of the operatives addressed Artyom mentally. "Look."
His squad mate transmitted the image from his eyes. It looked like an ordinary paint spot, but the ripple emanating from it revealed it to be a memetic object, encoded specifically for the "Argentum" operatives.
The captain's brain felt a slight chill as he pulled a mental key from his subconscious, deciphering the code.
A new mental image filled his vision. A storm. A hill. A cedar... A cedar!!!
"Combat readiness!" he roared. "Protocol 'Cedar'!"