Massive Disaster 4 - Interlude VII

Interlude 7

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

The silence in the Council chambers carried the weight of procedure, that which preceded decisions already processed but yet to be acted on. It was the sort of structure any Turian worth their marks would nod firmly at upon witnessing, order and power united for strict and severe purposeful action. 

Yet, it was wrong.

This whole meeting was wrong.

Holographic projections, all three of them, massive forms that loomed over the empty platform central to the Council chamber. Ghosts of a power that had just been openly challenged, order that had just been flouted, a structure at risk of crumbling.

No aides present. No guards stationed. No audience to witness. This conversation would have no official record, a deviation from protocol that set his mandibles bristling in a manner he couldn't quite suppress.

The three of them served as all the power the galaxy would ever need, a collection of three that served to shift the path of entire systems with simple words. Messana Tevos; all six-hundred-and-ninety-nine years of Asari serenity, a carefully constructed performance he'd never trusted in all his five orbital cycles of Council service.

And then, of course, the newest of them all; Rannadril Bibsos Tembin Lesti Bensin Valern, the Salarian (barely two Palaven cycles in the seat), all theoreticals and twitching intellect, a mind that had never seen a battlefield.

And him.

Sparatus’ holographic form was a statue of Turian fury, perfectly still as he maintained the control expected of Hierarchy officers, and the focus only a fleet admiral could bring. Yet, the barely perceptible twitch of his mandibles and the rigid set of his fringe betrayed a pressure building nearly past the containment. 

The Batarians knew this pressure as kreth, a blatant and contemptuous discontent that raged like a burning fire. The humans would call this rage, a roaring explosion that consumed them like emotion. Yet, there was a reason both races were lesser and weaker for it.

They lacked the Turian armor.

A Turian’s discontent was always purposeful, guidied and governed by discipline; a weapon sharpened to a point that had served his people well.

And it was that weapon he would wield today.

“This is an act of war.” Sparatus’ voice came out low and dangerous, as the Turian councillor finally chose to break the silence. 

The response came as expected; a narrowing of the eyes from Valern, and a soft, carefully put-upon sigh from Tevos. Measured inquisitiveness and patient exasperation, the classic Salarian and Asari techniques to present superiority.

He was far too old and far too principled to allow such things to dismay him by this point. "Do not mistake it for anything less,” the Turian clicked his mandibles as his eyes met the holographic forms of his fellow Councillors. “Not just an assassination. A declaration. The human Victors spitting in our faces, in Council authority. Structural breach in the galactic order we maintain."

Tevos didn’t bother to sigh again, gaze turned his way with the slightest of frowns on her face as if this entire debacle could not be laid to rest on her unsanctioned action. "The proof, Sparatus. The proof." Her tone stayed measured, diplomatic, hypocritical, the Asari folding her hands in front of herself on the hologram of her desk. "Inconclusive evidence leads us nowhere. With Batarians claiming all the knowledge they usually do, which is nothing, the trail is even colder than the day of discovery."

"Proof?" The word left him with all the contempt of a Batarian, a rough ugly sound in one syllable. "When have we ever needed proof for simple threats like this? Your actio-”

Tevos clicked her tongue, the sound sharper than the Asari rarely allowed herself. “My action was based on the reports and advisory of the Special Task Groups, an action you condoned if I recall correctly.”

“Condoned under the expectation of standard discretion.” He began pacing, feet carrying him as his holographic form strode across empty space. His irritation was a matter any would understand; the mess they had been forced to handle after the escalation of last year a growing irritation. “Genetically modified operatives with experimental technologies engaging openly under guise of entertainment, human colonies coming together under an economic ‘coalition’,” his digits formed quotes in the air, all four syllables sliding free with barely concealed annoyance, “An undeniable army further aligning said colonies together as he plies them with favor and technologies still not understood.” 

A greater irritation, the simple and undeniable fact that all they had seen so far was relatively small-scale or civil technologies. But Sparatus was no fool; simply because no media of the Spectre’s planned razing of that colony remained, there was no doubt that the military and weapons tech of that company was as formidable as everything else.

Speaking of formidable…

“And now one of our best, a Spectre of all things, is found disassembled. Drained of blood and spinal fluid like some trophy from a hunt." His mandibles flared, discontent rising the more he voiced. "What more proof do you require? Signed confession notarized in triplicate and filed through proper channels?"

Valern cleared his throat, a dry papery sound that itched at Sparatus’ fringe plates. "The logic chain is compelling. The assasination is within the known capabilities of Victors' top operative, Kai Leng. Swift execution, total elimination, minimal forensic residue. Motive is clear enough; retaliation for the attempt on Victors' own life.” Those large black eyes blinked slowly, gaze turned the Turian’s way. "However, to act now given the potential leverage Victors holds in both knowledge and public opinion would simply be illogical."

"Illogical?" Sparatus felt his voice rise, hackles just as high as the words tore themselves out of his throat. "What is illogical is sitting here debating procedural minutiae while a human terrorist builds a rogue stateon the back of stolen technology and murdered agents! Order requires correction, not endless deliberation!"

"Stolen?" Valern interjected, those large Salarian eyes turning his direction. "Sparatus, we've already processed this concern. His technologies bear no Prothean markers in nature, and they certainly share no similarity to..." the Salarian almost laughed (a rare and unsettling thing when it happened), "any Hierarchy secrets."

The response building in his throat was swallowed back with a noise just short of a growl. "Look at us, the Citadel Council,” his mandibles clipped together in a tut of sound, distaste and discontent clear and unhidden. “We sit, and we talk, and we ponder, while a rogue element stockpiles technology we still fail to replicate. A rogue element that has demonstrated with brutal efficiency that he is willing and able to eliminate a Spectre with impunity." 

Tevos leaned forward in her holographic projection, that serene mask of hers tightening to show the matriarch beneath the diplomat. It was surprising that anyone who had been around them long enough would ever trust any Asari above a maiden. Shame for short lifespans. 

"And how would you have us act, Sparatus? Declare war on the entire Victory Cooperative Accord?” The matriarch’s voice was quiet but there was as much steel beneath it as any worthwhile Turian. “The entire force of the Council against a collection of backwater human colonies? We would turn a rogue industrialist into a martyr for colonial independence, and unite every disparate squabbling human faction against us under a single banner. Be serious, Sparatus. It would be a political catastrophe."

Political catastrophe. As if they were not already facing one, showing open unarmored bellies to predators that measured strength only in terms of action, power only in terms of violence. "So we do nothing?" The heat in his tone was barely restrained, control threatening to slip from his talons as they flexed atop the table. "Signal submission to the rest of the galaxy? Such a direct  admission of weakness would send an open message to every pirate, every warlord, every ambitious entity that the Council's authority is nothing but words and credits."

It was simple as that; enough for even a child to understand. 

The strong acted. The weak deliberated.

Until action became impossible.

Another sigh left his Asari co-Councillor, this one at least not simple theatre. "I am not suggesting we do nothing. It was my consideration that we remove him before he could serve as a greater destabilzing factor. All I suggest is that we be smart about this, Sparatus; fight him on his terms. He is a simple human barely more than a child even by his own race’s standard. He knows nothing of larger battles, so we present him with a battle he cannot handle. With bureaucracy, with law, with the order we maintain." 

Tevos paused, her words echoing in the chamber. "The boy will drown in procedure."

Valern’s head shifted to the side, attention darting between both his compatriots as quickly as his mind moved. "Containment, then it is. An apt strategy," the Salarian hummed, words coming fast-paced as they always did. "Isolate politically. Cripple economically. Attack supply lines through systemic pressure rather than direct engagement."

"Precisely," The thin predatory smile touched her lips as the Asari slowly tilted her head to the side. "We cannot compete with his results and what he represents to the human colonies, not in the short term. So, we do what needs must."

Sparatus stopped pacing, as he pondered this campaign. A different kind, one fought not with fleets or soldiers but with sanctions and procedural barriers.

Elegant in its deviousness, it was clearly an Asari solution through and through, all soft power and indirect pressure.

Spirits, he hated even the thought of it.

And he knew, with the certainty that came from a storied lifetime in service of the Hierarchy’s needs, that it was undoubtedly the correct approach. "You want to brand him a terrorist."

"Not particularly. A risk, more than a terrorist…" Tevos corrected, voice smooth as polished glass. "A risk to galactic stability. Who knows the dangers of his technology? The inexperience of his leadership? The violence he revels in, that follows in his wake wherever he goes. It’s in the galaxy’s best interest to make sure the people are informed of his… proclivities."

Sparatus narrowed his eyes. “...his alignments.”

“I’ve even heard mention of open hatred spouted towards other races,” Tevos continued, smile still present.

"The Alliance," Valern interjected, those large eyes turning between them both. “Their quiet adoption of his Medigel-V… you know very well they will resist any move that threatens their supply of it."

A short sharp exhale left Sparatus, a laugh on its own. "They will fall in line. Undisciplined as the humans are, they understand hierarchy when it is properly enforced. They seek Turian favor and alliances as it is. A few generations from now, they’ll be a client race in all but name.” He knew that well enough, the Hierarchy keeping him updated on their headways with the Alliance polity. “Stability will always be the guiding force. Udina will make sure of it. He is a creature of ambition dressed in diplomatic robes. We will give him the political capital he needs to bring his people to heel."

Tevos leaned back in her projection, holographic form seeming to relax as the serene diplomat's mask settled back into place. "Then we are in agreement. I will draft the initial directives. Valern, I'll need your office to begin compiling a comprehensive list of all corporations and colonies with ties to Victory Innovations. Sparatus..." 

Her gaze turned his way. "I trust you will be invested in Terminus anti-piracy efforts. A few more patrols along the Traverse might send a subtle message to any who would make trouble."

This… this he could tolerate. "Of course, keeping the peace is what we do best."

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

“-e wake of the tragic death of Spectre Matron Tireya Leneis, the Citadel Council has just announced a series of sweeping new security measures. Citing concerns over ‘the growing threat of unregulated paramilitary and corporate entities operating in the Terminus Systems,’ they have issued a directive placing severe economic sanctions on any organization found to be developing or distributing technology outside of established Citadel safety protocols. While no specific companies were named, sources indicate that the primary target of these new regulations is the controversial human-centric corporation, Victory Innovations, and its enigmatic founder, Zedd Victors, who has been increasingly associated with human-supremacist and anti-Council terrorist organizations…”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

03 - 02 - 2182 

The sound of shardfire and explosions was never easy to handle, especially because it never came alone and without company. The wall of noise was met with civilian screams, the percussive thump-thump-thump of heavy cannons, all of it surrounded by the high-pitched whine of pirate skiffs strafing a colony. Prefab structures, synth-plas composites and fabricated metals cheaper than even that, exploded as if they were nothing but paper; shrapnel flying far and fast as much a threat as the actual weapons. 

Both humans and aliens scrambled for cover, faces masks of terror as the shock troopers landed with weapons ready and firing with no restraint. The local militia of the colony, their armor mismatched plating useless as their training, returned fire with weapons that might as well have been antiques.

A pirate heavy-hauler descended toward the plaza, all rust-streaked bulk and weapon-scarred surface blocking out the sun as it dropped quickly in a roar of thruster engines. The rear ramp dropped, Batarian shock troops disgorging en masse as another squadron of four-eyed faces surged out, rifles up and aimed.

Before more shardfire could join the chaos, a clean, powerful roar cut through everything with a noise clean and keening, almost like an eagle’s screech.

Three dropships shot down, almost vertically, each one moving at speeds that looked impossible in-atmosphere, blue-and-white hulls cutting through the gray clouded sky. Logos on each hull, bright white VI emblems visible, bright and unmistakable even through all the smoke and fire.

Side doors slid open before the ships reached anything even close to ground level; soldiers immediately dropping out dozens of feet in the air. No ropes or pulleys attached to them, each one descended rapidly to the ground on pillars of soft blue light; pillars nearly the same color as the armor they wore. 

Said armor was distinctive, VEST Model 1 Mk 3 in sky blue that caught the light, each one form-fitting rather than bulky. Not the rugged look of the industrial Model 1 Mk 1s or the heavy-combat grated Model 2s, the aesthetic was Victory Innovation’s sleek but standard powered armor.

This was streamlined armor, built for speed and mobility above all else.

Each one moved with a discipline that was terrifying as they hit the ground with surprising gentleness, pillars cutting out the second they were no longer in the air. Within seconds, they immediately formed into fire teams and sharp, precise cracks sounded out, blue pulses of powerful kinetic force from their VI-make pulse rifles. 

Blue-white tracers lanced out, each shot punching through pirate shields and armor.

The battle turned in seconds, the screams becoming all Batarian raiders rather than civilian terror as the pirates broke against the cliff wall that was well-armed and armored professional paramilitary force. A pirate dropship made it all the way to the skyline, turning to flee into space, only to be met with a missile launched from ground-level. The explosion blossomed orange and bright, wreckage tumbling into the now-empty marketplace in silence

The final combat shot: a Blueguard soldier, their blue-and-white armor a symbol of sudden, overwhelming salvation, lifting a civilian child from the rubble.

A Blueguard soldier in that distinctive blue-and-white armor, lifting a small child from rubble, tiny arms wrapped around the armored neck.

Music swelled, triumphant and powerful, as a young man appeared on-screen; the setting entirely different as he stood ther in civilian clothes both dusty and functional. His face was streaked with grime and blood, clearly someone who’d barely survived the attack.

He looked nineteen at most, possibly younger, lowering an omni-tool to chest-level as rough footage from the battle that had just taken place played in front of his eyes.

The shot pulled back, the young man one of many in a long line outside a colonial spaceport, all prefab gray structures and utilitarian design, dust hanging in the air. Other young civilians were visible around him, all their focused and determined faces turned toward the station entrance.

As he reached the front of the line, he stood in front of a woman behind a portable desk with a gleaming synthetic arm and a scar cutting through her left eyebrow. She glanced up from her datapad, expression unbothered and unflinching.

“Name?”

"...Leo Kass." 

At the last syllable left his lips, the shot spun around him in a rapid blur, the spaceport dissolving and other faces melting away. As the spin finally stopped, Leo stood in the polished bright-white interior of a training facility, brightly lit and clearly well-designed.

His civilian clothes had vanished, replaced entirely by a crisp new dress uniform in baby blue and white, colors matching the armor the soldiers had worn. Others were visible behind him, young faces all out of focus, but wearing the exact same thing he wore. 

With a firm nod and a salute as crisp as his uniform, the young man stared straight into the camera and raised his chin. "I'm Leo Kass, and I support the VCA."

White text faded onto the screen over his face, letters bold and sharp: 

JOIN THE BLUEGUARD. PROTECT HUMANITY.

VICTORY SECURES.