Coming

The emcee, Azari, cast a warm smile at the audience and began to chat casually:

— Greetings, dear listeners! The Voice of the Citadel is here for you! This morning's most important news!

Our broadcast continues from the Citadel, where there is an unscheduled meeting taking place between the Citadel Council, ambassadors from the Alliance, and the ambassador from the Helgan Empire.

Helgan, a planet that has recently emerged in our galaxy, has garnered significant attention. One of the key topics of discussion is undoubtedly the technology of so-called "warp jumps".

Despite the fact that the Empire's legislation often conflicts with the fundamental principles of the Citadel races, the galactic community has welcomed the Empire as a member. The Empire enjoys the privileges of being part of the Alliance, engages in military cooperation, and has agreed to assume responsibility for space patrols in sectors closest to Scilian Limit, near Helgan.

The rationale behind this encounter was a confrontation between an Imperial warship and a Batarian light freighter, which, to quote the sources, «approached the cruiser 'Greiten' at a close range and commenced optical reconnaissance.»

In response, the cruiser initiated «warning fire along the vessel's course», according to Imperial military records. As a consequence, the light freighter sustained damage, resulting in the loss of four crew members due to decompression. Subsequently, the freighter was towed to the Alliance planet Nocturne, where surviving Batarian personnel received assistance from the Alliance military.

Visual imagery was presented sequentially, depicting the Batarian vessel «X'ra' Vilet», a typical freighter designed for four-eyed humanoid species, with its hull breached from one side to another. The surviving Batarians appeared like mummies, wrapped in bandages imbued with medical substances. The Batarian race faced two of the most dreadful nightmares for any spacefarer: decompression and fire in a confined environment.

Beside the bundled and swathed Batarian, a physician in the guise of an Alliance representative smiles with a most emphatic cordiality.

"I would like to remind you that the Scylla Limit is a vast region of Alliance space, over which the Batarian Hegemony claims sovereignty. Frequent skirmishes between soldiers of the Alliance and pirates sponsored by the Hegemony have become a common occurrence, as have clashes between ships, yet this incident marks the first time that the Imperial fleet has engaged in battle.

Of particular concern to the Citadel is the extreme level of secrecy surrounding Helghan. There is a dearth of reliable information regarding the size of their military, their technological capabilities, and their armaments, but the mere fact that their vessels do not require Repeaters already alters the balance of power on the military-political stage, and in an entirely unforeseeable manner..."

***

His eyes were struggling to open, but they eventually parted — a welcome sight, indeed. One might exclaim, "Oh, what a delightful evening it was last night!" But such a statement would be an exaggeration.

The entire evening was spent in the company of a can of beer and a cup of coffee, accompanied by the viewing of the fan's favorite anime pornography, meticulously crafted by enthusiasts based on renowned Japanese masterpieces from the early 21st century. Thus, it was not pornography in the traditional sense, but rather a retro-style production.

"Not perverse, but aesthetically pleasing," he mused.

For a few moments longer, the girl lay there with her eyes fixed on the ceiling. "The Unknown Ceiling," she thought, recalling the name of the fan film from the previous day, featuring a black-haired and gray-eyed protagonist.

She assumed an erect posture and proceeded to engage in her morning rituals. Each visit to the bathroom inevitably evoked unpleasant recollections of when, at the tender age of fourteen, she had managed to slip and split her legs, simultaneously pressing all five toes of her left foot against the wall. She had fractured all five fingers… Ever since then, her visits to the shower have been confined to wearing slippers that adhere firmly to the floor, with krogan-like faces.

Following a ten-minute sojourn beneath the shower, during which she apathetically "buffed her tusks," the young woman continued to listen to news reports from a terminal corner. In essence, she was indifferent to politics — it did not interfere with her flights. However, the prospect of one day acquiring a vessel equipped with a warp drive and breaking free from reliance on repeaters had become, for her, a cherished aspiration akin to a distant dream for all pilots within the Alliance. Despite her elevation to the position of pilot on the Normandy, which surpassed many others, there remained a multitude of candidates.

You should have seen the expressions on their faces when Morose's sardonic obscenity managed to outdo everyone in the final flight trials! In a fit of exuberance, she even administered a slap to the posterior of Lieutenant Brooks, one of the examiners who, incidentally, had conducted the trials.

Morose pretended that it was customary for an extraordinary aviator to extract his frigate from the fray during the Sicilian Blitz.

After emerging from the shower, Morose dried herself with a coarse towel (a rarity in this era of ennui, by the way), and proceeded to the kitchen unconcerned about her attire. It was still early. Her damp hair stood upright, adding a dozen points to Morose's "untamed" allure.

The scars from old open fractures adorned his arms, legs, and chest, decorating his body like trophies of a bygone battle. They could have been surgically removed, but my father discouraged such a course of action, insisting that they were the marks of his victory. At times, she felt as if her father had once been a Krogan, a race known for their ferocity and strength. However, the military man who spent twenty-five years serving in an assault unit bore a striking resemblance to a Krogan — at least in terms of his penchant for heavy weaponry and his cool demeanor.

Those who advance first against the enemy are granted certain privileges.

The emergence of each new species has sparked interest in its culture, history, political and religious aspects, among others. Following the War of First Contact, human culture emerged as the focal point of attention.

Now, the Galactic Community is captivated by a new discovery — and a most intriguing one at that. The Helgasts' concealment of their history, coupled with the recent revelation regarding their origins and their relationship with humanity, has fueled curiosity.

Even the Joker felt a pang of sympathy for the red-eyed individuals — in their desire for obscurity, they resembled a masked figure adorned with a New Year's garland, for what could be more captivating than a mystery? The young woman attempted to delay the inevitable, but alas, she approached the bedside table and retrieved a syringe, inserting an ampoule within it.

The injection was administered, as instructed, into a vein in the left arm. Thanks to the advanced electronic control of the needle, there was no need to fear missing the vein, as a system of three micro-motors guided the needle precisely in the desired direction.

The mixture of substances, designed to have a beneficial impact on her fragile bones, was now circulating throughout her body. A minute later, a familiar sensation returned: a tingling sensation in every bone, an itch that could not be scratched. The young woman collapsed back onto the bed, drawing her knees up towards her chest and assuming the fetal position — this allowed her to control her movements without the risk of damaging her joints due to the unpleasant sensations or attempts to scratch herself.

Ten minutes seemed to drag on for an eternity.

Twenty minutes later, having taken a second shower to rinse away the perspiration, the young woman donned her pilot's uniform and her ubiquitous cap. She left her apartment, locking the door behind her, and for a moment gazed at her keycard before tucking it into her pocket.

The dice carved from glass on the keycard trembled, their edges clinking in mockery.

***

The citadel.

The Embassy of Helgan.

Vitaly Kurtz, a civil servant, was attending to the mail. Strictly speaking, this task should have been performed by his secretary, but at the moment, he was occupied with other duties, so Kurtz had to sort out his correspondence himself.

«...We invite you to join the talk show «Political Mosaic»...», he read. Delete.

"...the finest ladies of various races will attend to..." — what impudence, indeed! If anyone had attempted to send advertising to the official email address of a ministry on Helghan, the police would arrive without further ado, counting the unfortunate advertiser's ribs before prosecuting them for hooliganism. Delete.

"...are you afraid of hearing "Honey, I'm leaving you for that krogan"? With our cream for...". Kurtz removed the last message with an icy expression on his face.

"Commander!" the communication module affixed to his ear came to life, "an ambassador from the Hierarchy has arrived to see you."

The voices of the bodyguards were as calm, deliberate, and deceptively unhurried as ever. Alexander Linkov hailed from the Firka settlement, and the peculiarly slow and measured cadence of his speech betrayed his origins, eliciting a faint smile from those unfamiliar with the Firkovsky dialect of the Helgan tongue.

Nevertheless, his demeanor was in stark contrast to his combat prowess, for Linkov boasted an impressive record of twenty-five verified kills, including three in hand-to-hand engagements in the claustrophobic depths of Pyrrhus' subterranean corridors.

"Skip it," Kurtz responded, adjusting the collar of his uniform with a mechanical motion, smoothing his sparse locks, and adjusting the rack containing his information tablets. "Something interesting is about to transpire..."

***

Ranus observed the exemplary training of the sentries at the Helgan embassy: they stood at ease, their demeanor calm, with only the visors of their helmets emitting a faint glow as they subtly adjusted their gaze, maintaining vigilance around the embassy grounds.

In the early days of the Turian presence on the Citadel, there was a similar arrangement at the Hierarchy's embassy, which resembled more of a military outpost. The Turians harbored distrust towards the extraterrestrials, and the memories of the Unification War were still fresh in their minds.

However, over time, this approach evolved, driven by both diplomatic considerations and economic necessities. With soldiers needed elsewhere, the Helgans now hold the advantage.

The Turian had come to the diplomatic mission of the Empire with a specific purpose. Up until a certain point, the Hierarchy had been more interested in the planet itself than in its origins. The Empire itself was viewed more as an anomaly: a group of people who considered themselves a distinct race simply because they lived on a different planet! Even those who were most opposed to unification with the Hierarchy could not have imagined such a thing.

But things soon changed. Specifically, when the initial reports from agents on Earth reached the attention of the MOUNTAINS, they were relayed to the Council and then to the Hierarchy itself.

Genetic modification was deemed illegal, and even the Salarian race, gritting its teeth, signed a corresponding agreement. All such research was conducted either in utmost secrecy or on designated planets. This was no mere whim — the balance of power allowed us to maintain comparative stability in the galaxy.

The Azari are cunning and intelligent, the Turians are disciplined and strong, and the Salarians are the scientific avant-garde of the Citadel, renowned for their intellect. Should any race decide to gain an advantage by tampering with the genome, long-term cooperation, treaties, and obligations would be placed at risk, along with the lives of countless intelligent beings.

Nevertheless, Helghan openly declared its refusal to sign such an agreement. Moreover, aside from establishing a legal precedent, there was a concern regarding large corporations that had begun to explore the possibility of establishing laboratories on Helghan.

Ranus stood transfixed before a massive, heavy door, which appeared out of place amidst the realm of plastics and metals. The door remained stationary, refusing to slide aside or upward.

Finally, a mechanical clanking and clicking came from within, and the door — surprising Ranus with its unexpected thickness — slowly and grandly ascended.

"Greetings, Ambassador Ranus," Kurtz greeted, his voice hospitable. "Would you care to join me for a cup of coffee? My secretary has been absent, but he had already taught me the art of making dextro beverages."

You are most gracious. The Turian was aware that the office of the Helgan Ambassador had previously been the domain of the Alliance Embassy. He had only visited this place on a few occasions, but he preferred to conduct negotiations in the Presidium Building. However, Ranus recalled vividly how this room had appeared in the past — his professional memory as a scout served him well.

Indeed, much had changed since then. Firstly, the ambiance of the office had become significantly more sombre, with the walls painted in a dark gray hue. The standard lighting panels had been replaced by gleaming fixtures that emitted a copper sheen under the reddish glow of the lamps. Secondly, it seemed as though the walls of the office had slightly diminished in size. It was not simply a case of claustrophobic apprehension — the Helgasts had chosen to reinforce the walls of their office, and this was hardly merely an additional layer of reinforced concrete.

"Thus, these are the armoured panels that were recently declared at customs for use in this office," Ranus mused.

"Please," Ranus conceded, giving the dextro coffee brewed by Helgast a grade of seven out of ten — not bad, he thought.

Helgast took a seat across from him, also with a cup in hand.

"I would like to discuss the Citadel Act 17-4889, 'The Law on Genetic Modifications,'" he said.

Ranus, with his diplomatic experience, had learned to read human expressions well, and he could see that Helgast's face had immediately taken on an expression of boredom.

"The Empire has already weighed in on this matter, and I have little to add," he replied.

"Nonetheless, the Hierarchy may have a point," Ranus said, shaking his head in admonition. "Listen, your vessels are engineering marvels. I am aware of at least two salarian scientists who have, quite literally, gone insane from the stress. But consider this — your defiant conduct sets a dangerous precedent."

Kurtz scoffed. "A precedent, you say? An entire race that has defied the Council for so long and continues to traffic in slaves is not precedent enough for you? What, exactly, do you want? For the Helgast to stop genetically enhancing themselves and return to a time when life expectancies rarely exceeded thirty years and three in five children were crippled?"

The Helgast practically snarled at the end of his tirade. Ranus reflected on how the Helgast reminded him so much of the early Turian diplomats.

Helgast, I understand that there is no alternative to survival on Helgan, and the Council is aware of this and dare not demand such measures. However, some foolish individuals from public organizations may raise a commotion. The Turian made a conciliatory gesture towards Helgast with his three-fingered hands.

Nevertheless, that is not the crux of the matter. We are discussing large corporations, such as pharmaceutical companies. Helgast raised his eyebrows in surprise.

Yes, you have an entire planet filled with illegal laboratories doing everything! He responded.

Indeed, there are such places, but they are located quite far away, so it would not be worth the effort to contain an outbreak of any infection. The Turian attempted to elucidate the entire issue to Helgast.

Secondly, the novelty has little practical value. Consequently, its population is relatively small, and in case of an emergency, casualties would be limited. Thirdly, Helgan is owned by a development corporation, and corporate planets are a special case.

Helgan also belongs to the Scylla Limit, which in turn is part of the Alliance. However, Helgan has not entered into any agreements with the Citadel, while the Alliance has recently signed a treaty recognizing the Helgan Empire as an independent, uncontrolled state. Thus, we are allies of the Alliance but not its subordinates.

In legal terms, the situation is highly ambiguous. Therefore, if this is the case, Helgan can legally benefit from these operations. Regarding security measures, I can assure you that Scholar Vizari is well aware of the risks and therefore requires the companies to report to the army and security council regarding security services provided by companies.

«I was not aware of that fact», confessed the Turian.

"Few people were aware of it", Kurtz frowned. "That's why, out of all the companies, only Tai Yun Medical agreed to set up a laboratory for the research of civilian prosthetics, where the potential danger is minimal. The others are trying to bribe and coax our officials. They take the money and even receive a small commission from them."

"Have you decided to turn to bribery?" I asked. "However, it's risky…"

"It's risky to cross the Imperial Security Bureau. So, the officials take the money, deposit it in the treasury and receive the commission, but they also regularly report 'who, when, how much and for what'."

The SIB takes note of any company that accepts bribes and starts to investigate why such respectable companies want to hide their activities on Helghan. We have already identified several companies that purchase test subjects from different races from the Batarian…

"I had heard of it, but I was not aware that the Helgast were involved in the investigation in any way," Ranus said, his Turian eyes narrowing in suspicion.

"We are doing business, not attempting to improve our public image," the Helgast replied. "We did not mention that these companies are affiliated with the Alliance. How exactly we kept quiet about how much the Alliance is paying so that nobody finds out about this is of no concern to you."

Of course, Kurtz was lying about Helgan's indifference to its image: unlike most other species, the Imperials had launched a "PR campaign" among their intelligence services, whose opinions mattered more than those of ordinary citizens.

Ranus appreciated the irony: two intelligent individuals blatantly lying to each other, each fully aware of the other's deception, while washing down another lie with a few sips of coffee.

Helgast and the Turian engaged in conversation for another thirty minutes, discussing the latest political rumours that were common knowledge, as is appropriate for two serious diplomats and intelligence agents.

***

Earth, Alliance training ground, London neighborhood.

"Jenkins... damn it..." Rynych was on the verge of spitting out a curse, but he remembered in time that he was wearing a gas mask. Matyukov had already fled, and Zmeigo thought it would be a great tragedy if Jenkins stumbled on the training ground and, say, broke his neck.

Unfortunately, such an outcome was out of the question — Anderson and Shepard were too concerned about their team. Even during training, they monitored everything carefully so that, heavens forbid, there were no sprains or injuries. Although such incidents were not uncommon at Helgan Academy, it was customary to take pride in the scars received during training.

"With such an approach to war, what are they thinking..."

However, the reality did not allow the Helgast to dwell on this thought:

— A MACHINE GUN! FOR TWO HOURS! — Rynych swiftly dropped to the ground and rolled to the side behind the shelter he had spotted ahead of time. Jenkins followed suit.

The holographic bullets whizzed through the air, striking the boulder, which served as both Helgast and the man's salvation. The satisfied cackle of Shepard's automatic turret control echoed over the open radio channel, perhaps the only one to relish in the moment.

"Jenkins… such an infection!"

"Hiss louder, Red-eye. I can't hear a damn thing."

"I'm saying…" Rynych stammered, looking indignantly at his ally. He then snorted in response, "Spy stuff doesn't work against machine guns. So you might as well not even bother with an exploding fountain pen."

What the fountain pen had to do with anything, nor why it should explode, was beyond the second lieutenant. It even crossed Helgast's mind that Jenkins, in his well-justified espionage efforts, had perhaps lost a little bit of his sanity. "What on earth is he hiding in that bowler hat of his? Dirty footcloths?!"

Nevertheless, he was correct.

The experience of operational and intelligence work in the current situation was of no use. However, there was a prop grenade at hand…

"No problem. I have a plan," said Jenkins, looking at Helgast with a skeptical expression.

Helgast raised an eyebrow inquisitively.

"Well?"

"Now you will heroically leap out from behind the boulder, after which you will collapse, struck down by simulated machine gun fire. However, through your sacrifice, you will buy me time to make my way to that ravine over there," explained Jenkins.

Jenkins, who had initially listened with interest, ended up looking as red as a tomato. "Fuck you!" he exclaimed.

Helgast sighed. "Well, then. Shall I remind you of who it was who brought us here, firstly to the training ground and, secondly, paired us up? And thirdly — behind this rock? I had suggested we go around that hill on the right, as it was more convenient for avoiding an ambush, but no-o-o… How could you turn back when a girl is watching?" Helgast attempted to inject so much sarcasm into his words that it could have felled a Krogan.

«Shut up!» the bullets continued to rattle against the stone, but neither of the combatants paid any heed to them. «Shepard is my commanding officer, understand? And some muddy-looking fellow is getting all up in her business, from some filthy planet…»

«Who climbed onto the Alliance's most advanced vessel, I wonder?»

«A thimble-sized shell, rigidly coupled to repeaters, with a bare minimum of weaponry, all armour replaced by the ability to haul its arse out of trouble…» Jenkins ground his teeth in frustration.

Rynych, however, paid him no heed. Before his tirade of anger, he had «accidentally» switched on the general communication helmet, and as a consequence, Helgast's reprimand was heard by Captain Shepard, at the controls of the machine gun. Naturally, curiosity got the better of her, and the machine gun ceased firing.

Later, back on the Normandy, Jenkins reported that Rynych had simply taken off, as if catapulted by some giant spring, or as if he possessed his own miniature anti-gravity device.

Whether this was a deliberate act on Rynych's part or not, he responded to all inquiries with a polite smile.

In the midst of the chaos, a helgast soared over the shelter like a basketball player executing an acrobatic move, hurling a grenade with remarkable precision. The trajectory of the grenade was calculated with such accuracy that it landed precisely beside the machine gun position.

The grenade's slow descent allowed the protective field to disregard it as non-threatening to the turret, allowing it to pass unimpeded. As it exploded, releasing a holographic wave, it triggered a reaction within the turret's sensors...

The sophisticated electronics emitted a mournful beep, acknowledging defeat. In the aftermath, Rynych crumpled to the ground with a resounding thud, leaving behind a pool of muddy water.

"Captain, what do you think of the display?"

At the checkpoint, Commander Shepard observed the slow-motion replay of Lieutenant Helgast's leap with her jaw agape. The spectacle was awe-inspiring, akin to the flight of a swan — albeit not as poetic but far more epic in its grandeur.

Helgast, recovering from the ordeal, emitted a hoarse laugh. "What do you think? Did I have to hack off the machine gun?"

Shepard replied, "I suspect you may have strained the ligaments in your leg, taken a hard hit to your lower back, and twisted your knee... The price of boosting your self-confidence, I suppose."

Rynych, still conscious, narrowed her vivid green eyes at Shepard. "You're playing with fire! What if I hadn't been curious?"

"Curiosity won't help you, but astonishment might. I'd strip Jenkins and have him run around the field... What? Don't tell me there are still people who remember that movie?"

After a few more laps on maps three and five, you can call it a day.

Rynych and Jenkins eventually emerged from the simulator an hour later. Shepard let out a whistle at the sight of Helgast, who was wearing his ever-present "light" coat (actually, it was a bulletproof raincoat) stained with mud.

"Is the weather particularly nasty near Verdun today?"

Helgast paused for a moment, seemingly caught off guard.

"Um… probably. The equator is always the same, you know."

Shepard, accustomed to the parallels between Helgan and Earth cultures, occasionally found herself stunned by coincidences.

"Rynych, may I ask – does Helgan also have its own Verdun?"

Helgast brushed himself off, carefully balancing the submachine gun and wiping the visor of his gas mask at the same time. "I've been there a few times. It's a miserable place – damp and cool, with strong winds."

Jenkins had just emerged from the simulator and, quite by accident, overheard a conversation. So casual was it that Helgast even considered turning to the marine, activating his voice modulator at maximum volume, and explaining in detail where he had seen all the suspicions of the hapless intelligence officer.

The military man continued on his way to the locker room, listening along the way to Helgast's story:

"Well, quarries with convicts don't add to the pleasantness of the situation either…"

Shepard hesitated for a moment. "Don't you produce nearly all mining equipment?"

"Not exactly, but that's about it," the red-eyed man replied proudly.

"Then why do you need quarries?" Shepard asked. "And why use prisoners for that? It seems rather unethical to me… and not cost-effective either!"

Helgast was taken aback. "What kind of question is that?" he asked. "Our buildings are mostly made of concrete, with stones used for decoration. Although, the SIB building was made of marble…"

Quarries with convict laborers are essential, much like convict quarries. In a sense, they serve as a pedagogical tool for society at large and the younger generation in particular.

"Do not tell me that…" Jenkins's countenance grew sombre.

— Yes, they organise educational excursions there every six months, — Helgast removed his mask, cracking his neck with a pop. — Well, what of it? It's a useful idea.

Leaving the members of the Alliance to ponder the information, Rynych briskly made his way to the locker room.

Five minutes later, Rynych stood under the scalding jets of the shower, where the water temperature would be unbearable for an ordinary person. However, Helgast's skin was capable of withstanding much harsher external conditions.

It must be admitted: in terms of amenities, the Alliance still has room for improvement.

Helgast, immersed in his own thoughts, failed to notice Jenkins, whose eyes were bulging at the sight of the temperature gauge, which indicated that Helgast was standing in a space heated to eighty degrees Celsius…