Chapter Text
“Hold it,” the comms analyst spits out. “I’ve got something.”
The bridge of the Moreh stiffens, sliding into alert with practiced efficiency. Daro’Xen vas Moreh, Admiral of the noble vessel, takes her position at the head of the room. “What are we looking at?”
“Shortwave radio beam. It’s coming from a libration point in orbit above the garden world in this system.”
“A probe?”
“Unknown. This isn’t like any official signal I’ve seen. Totally unique communication pattern. Definitely encrypted; I've never heard anything like it, Admiral.” The analyst loops it into the bridge's speakers. The sound of it is alien to its core. A three-burst ascending signal. A language unlike anything she's ever heard, listing out commands in a clipped monotone.
Smugglers, Daro’Xen guesses. Bold of them to operate here, considering the current occupants of the system. “Hail the source. Let them know the Migrant Fleet currently maintains jurisdiction of this system and that they are to submit for customs inspection. Ready a platoon of marines; we’ll board and search whoever they are.”
“Wiring the command across,” the comms analyst responds. A moment of silence. “No response.”
"Again. Emphasise force of response if not complied with."
Silence. That signal loops around once more.
“A distress signal, then,” Daro’Xen replies. “Have we got visual ident yet?”
“Coming into camera view now.”
A hologram of the object appears in the middle of the bridge, and everyone gasps. The design is unlike anything anyone has ever seen before. A thin, tubular craft; quite possibly one of the smallest ships the Migrant Fleet has ever come across in all its long years of operation, with comparatively massive, flaring engines. Some unknown, strange symbol. Seven characters, a dash, and three more dot the side of the vessel; an identifier? Vessel name?
Questions can come later. “Get the rest of the Admiralty Board on the line, now,” Daro’Xen snaps.
One by one, Han’Garrel, Shala’Raan, Rael’Zorah, and Zaal’Koris appear on the central display.
“What’s the matter, Daro’Xen,” Shala’Raan complains.
“I’m declaring first contact protocols active, effective immediate,” Daro’Xen commands, brushing aside her colleague’s concerns. Rael’Zorah leans in with interest.
“What are we looking at, here?”
“The smallest spacecraft we’ve ever seen. And it’s sitting in orbit, not moving a damn muscle.”
“Fascinating.”
“Picking up the signal on the Quib Quib now,” Zaal’Koris interjects. “It’s not looking nice. Ship’s dead. Engine’s leaking radiation like a sieve.”
“They built a ship powered by fission?!”
“We’d need to send in some drones first to tidy up the situation, plug the leaks in the reactor, before we can investigate further. The whole vessel's gone, aside from some long-term batteries powering two separate units away from the rest of the ship, as well as the emergency broadcast."
“Possible life support? Cryostasis?”
“I’d be amazed if they figured that one out,” Han’Garrel mutters, “considering the state of the ship. That thing looks like it’s held together by tape and prayer.”
“Give them some credit, Han’,” Shala’Raan replies, “they got this far.”
“Yes, and what do they have to show for it?”
“Let’s discuss this once we’ve investigated the matter, please,” Daro’Xen interrupts. “I’m firing off scout drones now. Bring us in close, helmsman. Prepare to board.”
Ahead of the Migrant Fleet, framed in the vivid red light of the garden world, the unknown shuttle drifts lifelessly.
Six weeks later
“Spirits,” Spectre Garrus Vakarian croaks out. “I think we found our missing fleet.”
Ahead, through the viewing port of the Hierarchy frigate Menae, the Migrant Fleet drifts lifelessly.
The ships of that vast flotilla have been compacted, crushed together, like clay that has been squeezed out of the vice grip of a child. Armour plates and sensor nodes have run like melted wax. They blend almost seamlessly together in a giant, monstrous space station amalgam; it is impossible to tell where one ship ends, and another begins.
There are no hails. No SOS messages, no emergency beacons, no signs of lifepod activation. Absolutely nothing from the garden world below, either. The abomination in front of them shows zero signs of life.
He should call it in. Stand by and request the Council send in some biotic heavy hitters; some Matriarchs, some Volus savants. Spirits, he'd take some ardat-yakshi at this point; anything to reinforce the team he’s assembled for this mission. They’re the best of the best, and it’s not going to be enough. Garrus feels it in his gut, a deep slither of dread. If he boards that place, he won’t be coming back.
There is a memory that intrudes then, of when the Citadel burned-
-saren is laughing he won’t stop he can’t stop all he takes in is his the mirth of him shakes his body it is skinless and fractured with all the blessings of his lord anointing him and saren is howling with joy-
-nihlus is screaming-
-the king amongst kings circles overhead attended by his angels of steel and faith the geth with pale and vile flesh creeping over their frames like orchid vines and twisting them into new and unpleasant shapes-
-down down down screams tali and garrus hits the deck as the fury of civilisation forces its way onto the king amongst kings who does not blink does not hesitate he waves a forearm and the shells that mark his death simply never were nor ever will be-
- YOU KNOW ME the king amongst kings sings and turian marines jerk as their teeth grow long and claws catching and flesh stale and minds wild and hungry-
- YOU KNOW WHAT I AM -
- I AM ETERNAL AND YOU ARE NOTHING -
-and nihlus will never stop screaming-
Garrus stares, soundlessly, as the crumpled remains of an entire civilisation gently spins in the gravity of the libration point. The garden world’s atmosphere throws vivid red shadow over the nightmare, bathing it in light the colour of dried blood.
“We’re still going in, Spectre?” Wrex sidles up to him.
“Of course, Wrex,” Garrus replies, playing off his nerves with a smile, “I wouldn’t want to disappoint the Council.”
“I don’t mind disappointing them,” Wrex rumbles in response. “I’m telling you now, Vakarian, if we go in, we’re going to regret it.”
“Better us than anyone else, old friend. The galaxy owes it to us to figure out what did this.”
“It seems obvious to me.”
“Sovereign?”
“What else?”
If the Reapers were involved in this mess – and that had already been the assumed scenario, that Sovereign had gotten revenge under the galaxy's nostrils for their failure at the Citadel – then they really did have no choice. They were going in, regardless.
“Doesn’t sit right with me,” Garrus admits. “This doesn’t fit what we know about Sovereign’s modus operandi. It faced the fleets at the Citadel head-on, in open combat. It never did anything like this.”
“Are we certain it didn't do this?”
“If they did, why would it have held back a few weeks ago? The Citadel was Sovereign’s final goal; it was the Reapers’ endgame. If Sovereign assaulted the Migrant Fleet, it would have indoctrinated the quarians and set their Fleet to burn the Terminus, not…”
The Migrant Fleet spins on. “Not this,” Garrus finishes, unsteady. “But we have to look. We owe it to the quarians. To the galaxy.”
“I really don’t think there’s any quarians left to save.”
“Then we’ll avenge them,” Garrus snaps. “We’d do the same for anyone else.”
“Of course, Spectre, of course.” Wrex looks up at the ruin. “We’ll deliver vengeance, alright.”
Garrus’ comms unit crackles to life. “Spectre Vakarian,” Nyreen calls over the airwaves, “briefing room’s ready. Everyone’s here. Well, except…”
“Thanks, Nyreen. I’ll speak with Tali later,” Garrus responds, a bit curt. “We’re on our way.”
Wrex gives Garrus a sympathetic look. “Be gentle with her, ok? I can’t imagine how she’s feeling.”
“You don’t need to tell me twice, Wrex,” Garrus replies. “I’m going to do everything in my power to right this. I am going to right this.”
“Bold claim.”
“It’s not a claim. It’s the truth. No matter what happens, we’re fixing this.”
The briefing room is occupied by Garrus’ crack team of old friends, loose cannons, and misfits that he’s collected over the years of his escapades as the Council’s most pertinent headache. The usual camaraderie and banter that accompanies a briefing is gone. They take in the colossal mess made of the Migrant Fleet in solemn, stony silence.
“This is a foul deed,” Samara, Justiciar and exemplar of justice, frowns in disgust. “Whoever perpetrated this will be held to account.”
“Aye,” Thane, master assassin, agrees, “this is a travesty. Kalahira guide those gone to the sea.”
“Hypothesis,” Mordin, the ex-STG scientist, rattles off, “mass displacement patterns and structure's construction are indicative of highly potent bioresonant signal resolution.”
“You would be right, salarian,” Javik, the honest-to-all-spirits bioresonant Prothean that they pulled out of a hole in some no-name garden world back when this whole mess with Saren begun, barks. “I can feel it, even here on the precipice. Something is Dreaming at the heart of that blighted space.”
“This looks like Sovereign’s doing,” Liara, researcher and suspected agent of the Shadow Broker, replies. “It fits its mission.”
“There’s no way that Sovereign could have caused - caused that,” Garrus stutters out, the enormity of what is happening still weighing down on him. “They’re bioresonant, sure. One of only a few we know about in existence, begging your pardon, Javik.”
The prothean nods. “No offence taken, turian. Even in the old empire, Sovereign was a terror.”
“Justly so,” Thane replies. “Garrus is right. The Reaper has never done anything close to this. Why would it hold its strength back at the Citadel?”
“It hasn’t done anything like this yet,” Wrex responds. “Sovereign’s beyond strength. All of our people’s fleets combined could only wound it. Who knows what else is waiting out beyond the galactic rim? More Reapers? Stronger ones?”
“Many things, krogan.” Javik flares his nostrils. “All of them align against us. Certainly one of them is here. I can taste the sour note in the Dream. A Reaper lies Dreaming in there.”
“But it’s not the only thing you found, is it, Javik?” Nyreen, Cabal attache, tilts her head. “I might only be a biotic, but even I can hear the signal. So can Liara and Samara.”
The two asari nod. “The signal is strange,” Liara admits, “it’s like it's being...hindered. It can’t broadcast to its fullest potential. It’s being jammed by something powerful enough for biotics to hear it.”
“What does that mean?” Grunt snorts. “Is there a Reaper in there or what?”
“There’s something in there, alright,” Nyreen fills in for Liara. “But it’s being drowned out. The signal source is far more powerful than Sovereign’s ever was. If there is a Reaper in there, Garrus…I don't think it caused this.”
A brief moment of horrified, stunned quiet. “What does it sound like,” Garrus asks.
Nyreen looks him dead in the eyes. “ Music. ”
They are all silent for a long time after that, as the crumpled and bent remnants of the Migrant Fleet drift closer and closer into view.
He finds Tali facing the viewing port.
She’s curled up into a ball, arms locked around her knees. Her microphone has been muted for a while, and the violent hitching of her shoulders makes it obvious as to why. She was always one for stoicism in tight situations. Why would this be any different?
Wordlessly, Garrus offers a hand to her.
Tali’s grip is vice-tight, trembling in his palm. Garrus runs his thumb over her knuckles in soothing circles. He kneels to face her. This close, he can see the moisture fogging up the corners of her mask, the trails of tears down her cheek.
“We’ll fix this, Tali. I swear it,” he rumbles gently.
The suit microphone turns on. “How can you be so sure?” Tali replies, her voice shaking. “They’re all gone.”
“We don’t know that.”
“You haven’t been paying attention then,” she snaps, her voice breaking. “None of the emergency procedures were activated. No one got out. No one. My people were ambushed and brutalised and now there’s no one left and Sovereign, they, they- “
She trails off, making a small sound that breaks Garrus’ heart. He pulls her into a tight hug, squeezing as Tali clutches onto him for dear life, sobbing.
“It’s ok, Tali, it’s alright,” Garrus murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “We'll fix this. I promise.”