Like all terrible things, the incident at Shanxi began mundanely. A series of stupidity, arrogance, and betrayal, multiplied by chance, launched a chain of events that almost became a prelude to galactic war. If even one of the components had been missing from the chain, such an effect would not have occurred, but history does not like the subjunctive mood...
After the defeat inflicted by the Hierarchy, the Theocracy needed resources to strengthen its precarious position. Considering the destruction of all heavy industry in the conflict with the USSR, and the subsequent civil war in the Hegemony itself, the fanatics had few options.
The only thing they could offer was agricultural products, but this niche was occupied by the Union, and it was not for the Theocracy to compete with the production volume of Soviet collective and state farms.
On the other hand, the communists' logistics were quite complex, as their convoys had to bypass the territory of the former Hegemony.
In theory, if the fanatics found a new route, bypassing the Hierarchy's blockades from its border, then paths to the Salarian and Asari colonies, far from the metropolises, would open up, from which it was difficult to import food products from the communists. Wild regions were full of dangers and required the assembly of large, well-armed caravans, otherwise, the goods simply would not reach their destination. Such was the specificity of the Terminus systems and any other border area, everywhere except for the USSR's space.
Only new paths remained to be found... The whole problem was that the territory of the former Hegemony was very well studied, and there were no active relays leading to civilized places there, bypassing the Union or the Hierarchy. Only inactive ones remained, and activating them was forbidden by the laws of the Citadel. The war with the Rachni was remembered, and they feared a repeat of such an event.
Only the poor, ruined country had no other choice but to quickly improve its financial situation – it had none. Should they trade drugs right next to the USSR? Every Batarian born in the new era remembered the lesson taught once, and absorbed it even before birth from their mother's genetic code. Such was the strong fear of a punitive raid by the communists...
Fear drove the once arrogant people into the dark distances. Fear was their wings, honed by faith in new gods whose whispers came in the night. They chose to break the law of a foreign state, which they once despised, but not to return to their old ways. What desire for revenge? The people's army showed what happens to those who have such desires. Such fools would be pursued forever, until at one moment a punisher in gray armor or a special liquidator would end their life, full of fear of every shadow. Even fanatical faith could not overcome the imposed horror.
But all efforts were in vain. All relays within their territory were connected to each other, and those on the outskirts were regularly inspected by Turian patrols. It was despair and the desire for glory that pushed several captains of the Theocracy's fleet to commit an openly foolish act – to activate one of these relays, located directly on the route of one of the patrols.
If they had been better educated and read more than pulp comic book entries, a brilliant idea would have occurred to them: to try to overcome their fear and ask the USSR for help, and surprisingly, as subsequent events showed, this request would have been accepted and fulfilled. Only the civil war had first taken the smartest and most worthy representatives of this people. Some fell on the fields of their homeland, some fled, but the conflict did its dark work, conducting negative natural selection. Not the best remained, but those who were lucky enough to survive and pass on their genes, which did not always guarantee the quality of the latter.
If the Prophet had the thought of trying to establish relations with the Union, he was in no hurry to voice it, fearing the reaction of his flock, but his followers didn't even bother with such things. It was easier for them to activate the relay, thereby provoking a punitive raid by the Hierarchy, which was just waiting for an excuse to send ships to this region of space, than to allow a shadow of thought to seek help from a country shrouded in myths, where the people ruled.
The punitive action of the communists at the time was too effective, which was superimposed on the general sluggishness of this part of the Batarian people in the future. The same Lasat Confederacy, created from former colonies of the Hegemony, was an example of overcoming this fear, but completely different leaders ruled there, and it suffered many times less...
The reconnaissance squadron of the Hierarchy's fleet was completing its patrol of the area under its responsibility. The only incident during the entire duty was the arrival of the new commander of this group of ships, General Desolas Arterius, about whom the armed forces spoke exclusively well, both their own and the military of other countries belonging to the Citadel Space.
Having served his mandatory term for the good of his homeland, the Turian, driven by duty, brilliantly graduated from the officer academy, subsequently taking the bridge of a frigate immediately after graduation, donning command insignia. Initially, his subordinates even thought that such a rapid career growth was due to his relatives, or rather his great-grandfather, Ferion, but the officer dispelled this misconception. His extraordinary mind, good education, loyalty to his homeland, and ability to communicate respectfully with his subordinates, without descending into familiarity, spoke for themselves.
Years passed. Desolas further proved himself as a magnificent soldier, brilliantly serving and not compromising the dignity of a Hierarchy officer during peacekeeping missions. Now the young general was preparing to change his path, immersing himself in the world of politics. He was almost slated for the post of Primarch, if not next in line, then certainly in the future. A bold leader, not afraid to take risks when necessary, was needed by the Hierarchy more than ever...
Politics, focused on internal problems, finally paid off. By developing its industry and mastering a number of star systems rich in zero element, and thanks to trade with the USSR, the Hierarchy was able to get off the fuel needle imposed on it centuries ago by the Asari. This sharply affected the rhetoric declared by the Turians, putting the blue-skinned maidens themselves in a difficult position. Surprisingly, the born militarists directly stated that they would not participate in the Citadel's plans aimed at war with the Union. After a series of political upheavals, Palaven simply needed stability, even without loud military victories.
Undoubtedly, this affected the Hierarchy's relations with the entire bloc of states subordinate to the Council, but they could afford it, forcing them to be reckoned with, leaving the Asari without their usual cannon fodder in the form of legionaries, and also suffering from an overproduction crisis in their economy, initiating a confrontation with the Salarians and Quarians. So far, only in the field of industrial and scientific superiority, but this is only for now...
That is why the Hierarchy needed not a calcified mind, which Desolas had. The only thing preventing him from starting a new career right now was a lack of combat experience to enter the council of officers under the Primarch. And he was only a couple of months short. This is how the general ended up on board the squadron's flagship, transferring from the fleet covering the center to a conditionally combat zone...
The combat alert caught him during a meal. Regretfully pushing aside the meat in tomato sauce, the general rushed to the bridge, drinking his tomato juice on the go, which was a delicacy for any Turian. Adjusting his uniform so that it sat perfectly, he entered the room, demanding a report from the watch officers.
"Open fire to destroy, upon reaching the firing line," the general calmly commanded as soon as he grasped the operational situation. If there had been someone else in place of the Batarian fanatics, he might have given the order for a warning shot, but tenderness with these outcasts would simply not be understood by the crews of his ships. Moreover, at maximum range, the salvo of his squadron's guns would only slightly load the fields of the four Theocracy ships.
And so it happened. Desolas's keen eye saw a faint glow from hits against the darkness of space and the mass of the relay. But instead of retreating, the fanatics remained in place, continuing the activation process.
"Closing in," the officer reacted to this, giving the corresponding order, "Destroy the enemy squadron!"
His pennants accelerated, flanking the violators to increase the area of fire contact, so as to equalize the range. This was not enough to penetrate even mediocre shields, but each hit reduced the resource of the generators, facilitating the work when reaching an effective firing range.
Again, the effect was the opposite. The Batarians did not respond at all, only switching the power supply of all energy to defense, even removing it from life support systems. The fanatics didn't care about their lives. Activation was more important to them than their lives. The Turian squadron simply wouldn't have time to shoot them all down...
The Hierarchy ships approached closer. The legionaries fired more accurately, working as if in training, ironing out the immobile targets. The first ship of the violators disappeared in a flash of fire, the second...
"Relay activated!" one of the duty officers warned the general, but Desolas himself saw it, and how the two remaining, battered vessels immediately jumped away, leaving him with a choice: stay or pursue?
A moment later, the EMP warhead left by the fleeing ships exploded. An old pirate trick, just for such cases, to discourage pursuit and give them a chance to escape.
"Adjutant, what is the presumed destination of this relay?" the squadron commander asked the officer.
"Unknown, General," the latter replied, according to regulations, keeping the assumptions of scouts and cartographers to himself, deliberately concealing the information.
The older military man felt an open dislike for the upstart, so he decided to slightly put him in his place, omitting the cartographers' conclusions, which had been told to him in private. Moreover, the regulations required him to refrain from doing so, so that unverified information would not influence the judgment of his superior.
There was no one to correct him. Only he and his friend, the former squadron commander, who was removed from his post and given a partial service record to appoint a new general, knew about the conclusions of that group. Therefore, revenge was safe for him.
At most, it would only be a diplomatic scandal with a stain on the upstart's reputation. The squadron wouldn't attack a whole fleet, would it?
"We're going after them," he commanded after a second's hesitation.
"But..."
"No talking!" the general raised his voice slightly, but decided to explain. "With the activation of this node, four planets have come under threat of raids. We must finish off the fugitives or engage their forces on the other side in combat, if they exist, while Headquarters redeploys fleet forces to cover the breach in defense."
Moreover, the ballistic computer had captured the signature of the violators' engines, which allowed them to try to attack them immediately upon exiting on the other side. It was enough to give the command to the squadron's ships' weapon systems before the jump, performing the practiced maneuver "Varen's Bite" – from which the supposed attack on the USSR's trade systems was to begin in case of war. Of course, missiles fired "by eye" were unlikely to hit anyone. Given the spread upon exit, albeit minimal, the squadron might miss the fleet as well, unless it was right next to the relay, which was also unlikely...
There was a crowd in the Shanxi system today. For a week now, the Migrant Fleet had been leaving its borders, beginning a new cycle of endless travel through the galaxy after technical maintenance of the ships that needed it.
Although, thanks to the treaty, many ancient ships had been put in order, and the ranks of the nomads' flotilla had even been replenished with specially built new ships, some void wanderers needed frequent care, and others, like farm ships, needed replenishment of consumables. Therefore, the wanderers lingered for months in the systems specified in the treaties, occupying the berths of the shipyards located there, which created certain logistical problems. For the dispatch service, it was pure hell.
In the USSR's trading systems, such situations were somewhat easier. The relay was used exclusively by the Migrant Fleet. The Union, relying on its interstellar travel technology, left these devices only in trading systems, of which there were few, additionally informing traders which of them had nomadic vessels, so as not to create conflicts out of nowhere.
The Quarians themselves preferred to visit the communists' systems, not because of this, but because the workers treated them as equals, charging a fair price, and sometimes even doing some work for free. This time, they helped to perfect a new farm ship, establishing the production of food suitable for Quarian biology, which was important, meat, which they occasionally had problems with. The ship, converted for fishing, would allow them to get a stable supply of animal protein, freeing up resources to purchase new ships, already combat-built. After all, the exiles had not forgotten their desire to reclaim their lost home, tearing it from the hands of the machines! And this day was approaching by leaps and bounds...
In the dispatch center, located at the orbital shipyards, there was an emergency. Dispatchers worked in four shifts, coordinating the passage of the Fleet. The workers did not complain, doing their job, knowing that it was not for their own good that the Quarians traveled as a whole people. Moreover, if they were to show altruism, it was only to allies, and these nomads were similar in mentality to Soviet citizens...
Nothing foreshadowed disaster when the relay refused to send another group of ships out of the system. Before the control service could request information from the ship captains, events began to unfold...
Two battered Batarian ships emerged into the finish zone, instantly activating the alarm throughout the system, pulling ships from three USSR fleets away from their berths. One of them, by a tragic coincidence, completely losing control, rammed a Quarian hospital ship, exploding with it in a blinding flash. As if that were not enough, two minutes later, the relay again brought visitors into real space, now in the form of a full Turian squadron, which, as if mocking, immediately fired a salvo of small ship missiles.
To the credit of the Hierarchy warriors, as soon as they understood where they were and where they were shooting, the command was given to self-destruct the projectiles, but it was too late. Some of the missiles reached their target, hitting an old passenger liner of Salarian construction, incidentally hitting a pair of frigates, but worst of all, hitting a farm ship...
Although most of the Heavy Fleet had already passed through the relay, all the nomads' ships had cannons on board, which is why an immediate return salvo followed, now aimed and full of fury.
The Turians no longer tolerated it and retaliated with fire, while trying to reach someone in the pandemonium that had risen on the airwaves. Perhaps everything could have been smoothed over if not for the last ship of the fanatics, which the legionaries finally got, disabling its engines.
Making a beautiful arc, it flew at full afterburner into a hastily trying to escape cargo barge full of aggressive fertilizers. It was at this note that the first ships of the red fleet emerged from warp into the system. Seeing the explosion at their shipyards and their allies fighting, it was not difficult to guess the further actions of the military ship commanders. They immediately attacked the squadron's forces, and a dispatch about the attack went to Moscow...
Exactly three minutes were needed for the Union's chief coordinator to understand the situation and request immediate communication with the Primarch and the Citadel Council...
Desolas sat handcuffed to a metal chair, grimly looking at the "Argentum" operative who froze, processing his read memory. The right side of the general's face was swollen from a bruise, which the USSR paratrooper had given him with the sole of his steel boots with all his heart's generosity.
"You're screwed, Desolas," the operative stated. "Even setting aside what's there..."
The sentient cat raised its eyes to the ceiling, hinting at the superiors, and continued: "There are no claims against you, and you acted according to your regulations... You understand yourself, the Quarians want to string you and yours up on a drum and dance a jig-dreega to its rhythm. Moreover, telemetry from your flagship went to Palaven, where they are currently mixing you personally with select guano. They won't care that we read your memory, having learned the inside story. Facts in the form of an attack on the Migrant Fleet and one snapped neck of a scumbag are stubborn things, especially since this is proof for us, not for you... You're in shit up to your eyeballs."
"Say that I don't know," the Turian said, cautiously moving his jaw.
"That three sides want your ass immediately," the cat grinned. "The suits, the blue bitches, on behalf of the Council, and the Primarch who craves your blood. I repeat, we have no personal claims against you. According to our analysts' calculations, such shit was bound to happen sooner or later... you shouldn't have snapped that jerk's head off... you could have asked for political asylum as a result. But that's already been discarded. You have up to four options. Since you're smart, we'll skip the three obvious ones where your ass is being made the scapegoat. Don't you dare tell me you don't want to live and will die for the Hierarchy. I've seen your memory... Only dying is a preferable option for you. We only have demands from the dead, and we'll say we shot you while trying to escape..."
"Why such generosity, and why are you talking so much?" Desolas asked, like any Turian, directly.
"It would be easier by image," the cat noted. "But that's not the point. Thank your great-grandfather, that's one. Two... thanks to you, and the shit that happened, we can finally resolve this whole damn situation in the galaxy. Three, I sent your memory to the fleet, they stuck their nose in, and it grew. Most would have done the same in your place. And you're ours... From the order. You know about the future bullshit. Consider that when it starts, you'll work it off. And now, my friend, let's remember you. You're a proper Turian and you love tomato juice, right?"