A healthy bustle reigned in the "Normandy's" barracks. The surviving fighters of the excavation security company were settling into their new location, occupying the empty rooms of the paratrooper unit. The boarders, as old crew members, had long since moved to the cubicles on the upper decks, trading the spacious but less cozy barracks for comfort. After the last ship modernization, it was possible to reduce the minimum watch, which Shep took advantage of, getting rid of unnecessary personnel and leaving only key specialists.
Therefore, the thinned-out company squeezed onto the ship with a whistle, and there was still plenty of space left. There was even room for an M-35 with a TSh-26, much to the delight of the local skaven community and a couple of dwarves who just wanted something to modernize and optimize. It was all the more surprising to see a young black Red Army soldier frozen in the middle of the doorway.
"Damn, why are you frozen?!" Petrovich delicately pushed him aside, walking to his locker. The veteran sank with pleasure onto the steel bench, designed to withstand the weight of even a dolok in armor, groaning with pleasure from simple army joy. Sometimes a soldier needs nothing more than to rest his backside on a flat surface after a battle.
"Why did he refuse?" the private asked a little jerkily, still trembling in the peaceful setting of the barracks, after the heat of the first battle had begun to slowly subside. The words spoken were reinforced by the bewilderment he radiated, flickering with a questioning spark in the "Collective."
"A-a-a-a," the paratrooper stretched, transmitting it to the wulfhednar he was talking about. Seeing the picture again of his comrade's brains being blown out by a shot, the private flinched, causing the gear, bearing the marks of the past battle, to jingle unmelodiously. "Well, that's understandable."
Seeing the bewilderment on the guy's dark face, the veteran asked him, reinforcing it with a very colorful and vivid image:
"Do you know why they don't fuck in the square?" he said, taking off his armor, and without waiting for an answer, he answered himself. "They'll torment you with advice, and it's not decent."
The guy blushed at the obscene image he received, but at the same time, a shadow of understanding appeared in his eyes. Seeing this, the paratrooper merely grunted meaningfully, radiating mischievous satisfaction in the neural network. The other soldiers in the barracks continued their business, listening attentively, transmitting restrained interest to the outside world.
"For some, letting another's mind into yours… it's like if you were shitting in the middle of a dense forest, and suddenly someone started fucking you, while also making awesome comments and annoying you with advice," Petrovich blurted out, again adding an indecent but very clear mental imprint as seasoning.
Silence fell over everyone as they processed the profound thought they had heard, finding not one or two meanings in the crude metaphor, conveyed with army simplicity and directness, multiplied by service experience. Petrovich openly enjoyed the atmosphere, completely satisfied with the effect he had produced. He liked attention and to shock his comrades to a reasonable extent.
"We have a collective mind, but we are not fucking ants," he added another deep thought, burdening the minds of the other servicemen even more. "Freedom of will, damn it, is a priority! Remember how many of you were put through the wringer in training… figuratively speaking?"
The private nodded in agreement, recalling how many times his senior comrades had connected with him, correcting or advising him in one situation or another, and how unusual it was to feel that you weren't alone in your body. Very specific sensations, very successfully overlaid on the illustrations of the cynical paratrooper, who disliked complicating things when he could simply explain with profanity.
"Wo-o-o-o! It's sinking in!" the veteran rejoiced. "This is one kind of bullshit. And there's another… See, 'Argent' clicked on a soldier to make him scurry away, and the guy goes and scurries in the wrong direction because his side is different. Both are bullshit, in terms of the result."
"Like everyone thinks for themselves?" the private asked uncertainly, which earned him another portion of satisfaction from Petrovich, who even mentally patted him on the head like a small child.
"You're starting to get it," the veteran nodded with satisfaction. "And there's also this kind of bullshit. Look here…"
And he shoved his paw, which could easily encompass a half-liter bottle with overlap, under the nose of the stunned youth. The soldier recoiled from surprise, but curiosity got the better of him, and he looked intently at the veteran's palm. Then he looked at his own. Then back at the veteran's. That's when it hit him.
"And now imagine what kind of bullshit it will be when I connect to you?" the paratrooper chuckled, transmitting the image of him doing it, freezing for a second to understand where he was, and simply to get used to and assess the parameters of another body. "We don't even have the same hands. If 'Argent' connects to us, we're damn slow for him. That's why the system tries to pick those who will actually help, not screw things up. It's hell to have hands and then operate with paws. And they train you, which doesn't guarantee protection from bullshit. If you get a strap under your tail, you'll swat it away and die like our intelligent dog. So think, is it worth giving the reins into someone else's hands? If professionals back each other up, then you greenhorns can kill each other. When you work together, why not?! Use it!"
The soldiers, quiet and thoughtful, just nodded, each pondering their own thoughts. Seeing this, Petrovich, having shed his armor and uniform, took a towel and headed for the shower, throwing back as he left:
"I wish I had your problems, you rookies. This isn't bullshit, but what we've gotten into, following orders, that's bullshit. It's interesting that it's a disaster, but scary. If there was such a disaster and chaos in the system, then what's going on upstairs… No, screw that, screw it! Let Shep sort it out. He's a good guy, an 'Argent,' damn it, let him worry about it, my ass is still dear to me. They'll tear it apart, without Vaseline…"
Shep walked purposefully along the deck towards the cabin assigned to academician Lebedev. Miranda followed him; as a CERBERUS officer, she wanted to clarify some points with the prominent scientist related to his peculiarities, so she accepted the invitation of the lieutenant colonel, who was eager to extract information from the man of science.
"Too much is becoming unclear if this comrade touches anything," Artem thought, deciding to extract information from this figure as soon as he left the ship's infirmary. Katya and Sergey were in a deep coma, caused by sensory shock from the excessive amount of information that had passed through their brains after contact with the Prothean beacon. When they would wake up, even the chief medic of the 'Normandy,' Gustov Sebastian the Fifth, could not say. The octopod simply spread his tentacles, explaining that everything depended on the cognitive characteristics of the patients' organisms and how quickly their brains processed the externally received information.
"And this is exactly what Lebedev wanted, for the commander and his wife to receive this information. The question is, why not simply ask them to put their hand to this device, but wait until we are attacked… Moreover, I have questions about the attack. Lebedev definitely knew we would be attacked, saying so, but not saying a word about the scale! As a result, a real Reaper did its job and left practically unpunished! CERBERUS, and the entire Aspect of Protection, now have a series of questions, as do I," Shep noted, almost knocking over a frightenedly squeaking quarian at the turn, managing to gently push her aside at the last moment, lifting her with one hand.
"And strangers are wandering around the ship. Getting underfoot. We need to disembark the delegation from the Citadel Space faster," the man made a mental note in his memory, finally reaching the desired cabin. No matter how much he wanted to conduct a still polite interrogation, disguised as a conversation, it wasn't the place to do it in the hangar, on a cruiser that was hastily leaving the system?
The quarian whom Shep pushed aside.
His hand persistently pressed the console sensor, almost breaking the glass of the touch screen. So, without getting rid of his armor, resting, or eating, Shep felt unwell, holding on by sheer willpower. If not for the necessity, he himself would have gladly been lying in the infirmary, soaking after the fight with the Ghost in a special chamber. Now it was simply difficult for him to control his superhuman strength.
Miranda gently touched his shoulder. She saw her friend's condition perfectly.
Nodding gratefully, Artem entered the opened door in the bulkhead, hearing a belated:
"Oh, young man?! Come in! Don't stand in the corridor!" the academician's voice was, as always, detachedly blissful, as if he lived in his own reality, and perceived the mundane from a monitor screen. This feeling was very unpleasant for Shep, who lived in the real world and was a realist to the bone. Otherwise, he would have long ago tried on a zinc suit, getting his place in the crematorium's furnace.
The scientist had managed to change from the worn field clothes of the scientific corps to a regular lab coat and a strict business suit of a popular cut in the highest scientific circles. Comrade Lebedev was a public figure, and he had to comply. Shep could even name the exact model of the suit, the workshop, and the master who sewed it. In the USSR, even banal consumables, such as clothing, were not only works of art, being the pride of the craftsman from whose hand the product came. Such a culture of labor and production made the presence of the creator's handwriting a mandatory feature.
What was characteristic, despite the gallant suit and the face radiating friendliness, he completely ignored Miranda, looking at her only once, casting a glance as if evaluating a thing or an interior item, not a living person, even one with a complex origin. Years had passed, but prejudice against Artem's friend still lingered among the people, sometimes manifesting in very peculiar ways. However, he had gotten used to it, no longer taking it seriously, until the investigator tried to kill her or point a gun at her. It was all the more surprising to encounter such a pointedly ignoring attitude from a prominent scientist, renowned for his freedom from prejudice.
"Apparently, popular rumor was wishful thinking. Not for the first time," the operative even thought with some disappointment, while they all sat down at the table, occupying different sides of it. The cabin's owner, sitting with his back to the imitation panoramic porthole (which was impossible on a military ship by definition, even in an officer's cabin like this one), extended his hand to the side, accepting a cup of tea from Terentiy, his personal and constant adjutant, who sported a slightly clumsy, old RAF-9 body. The machine, long recognized as sentient and granted the rights and documents of a citizen of the Union, invariably followed its creator, looking harmless. The lieutenant colonel, however, perfectly remembered how such dummies as himself could easily break a spine or juggle hundred-pound weights.
In a dark corner, the academician's protégé, a living dead man in a machine's body, Conflux, who took this name after his death, occupied a place like a motionless statue. "Who can understand these scientists, especially after the death of a biological body? However, this former employee of the Academy of Consequences is more dangerous than some. His shell was assembled based on the legendary Twins," Artem recalled everything he knew about this individual, sitting so that he could draw his pistol from its holster and fire without hitting his hand on the table.
The dead man gave him a cold glance in return, which Shep felt, even considering the fact that he had a mirrored mask instead of a face, though he quickly returned his gaze to the curves of Terentiy's body. It was a well-known fact in the Union that Conflux was quite the robot-sexual, despising organic bodies. Such was his psychological quirk after death. He even married a mechanical lady, which was looked upon rather askance, but tolerated.
"It's a pity our meeting happened under these circumstances, Artem," the scientist said with undisguised regret, taking a sip of the hot drink. The crystal glass was inserted into a silver cup holder with the emblem of Enterprise 3826, which glowed in the artificial light of the ship. Previously, such a mark of quality adorned most advanced Soviet goods; now, with the expansion, other productions creating scientific wonders had appeared.
The emblem of Enterprise 3826.
"Let's leave all talk of pagodas and nature and get down to business," Artem did not play the proposed game and follow the rules of etiquette, closing his emotions even tighter so that he could not be easily read, which was impolite in modern society. Miranda did the same, looking askance at Terentiy, who had also ignored her, not placing a teacup on a demonstratively empty saucer. According to the rules of the same etiquette, this translated as nothing less than: "You are not welcome here. Leave." In contrast, in front of the colonel was a glass in the same cup holder and a vase with cookies, his favorite хворост, by the way.
"Youth… Always in such a hurry," the scientist remarked, taking another sip of the aromatic drink.
"It's the job, and I'm not that much younger than you. Don't stray from the topic, Comrade Lebedev," Shep said, not even touching the tea or treats, showing solidarity with Miranda, and simply, despite the burning hunger, not wanting to eat anything from this man.
"I dare to disagree. What I saw in my position as head of the Academy of Consequences is enough for more than one life full of nightmares," the scientist remarked distantly.
"That's what interests us," Miranda took the floor, demonstratively activating the recording mode on her 'Mind.' The device's antennas immediately aimed at the academician, recording his emotional spectrum. "What did you see."
"Conflux, leave us. Stand outside. Terentiy, this concerns you too, my friend," Lebedev's tone suddenly changed, as if he had gathered himself. His voice became cold and ringing with the emanating ice of authority.
After waiting for the mechanisms to leave the cabin and close the door behind them, the scientist took a memetic symbol of the highest security access from his inner jacket pocket. The investigator and operative examined this symbol for exactly three seconds, placing a mental block on their memory that would prevent them from revealing the information heard, even under torture, to anyone without similar access. Having made sure the block was installed, the scientist nodded, putting away the symbol, which immediately sank into the memory of all present, erasing all traces behind it, he began to speak:
"I saw the end. The Harvest, if you will. A war we lost. I knew about everything years ago when I helped set up Katerina and Sergey's implants that fateful day… Then, seeing all this, waiting for an opportunity, I rushed to recheck all the data in the hope that what I saw would go away like other quirks of probability, of which there had already been many… But I was wrong. With every moment, it got worse. Devastation, defeat! Worse, several times the equipment showed data disappearance, which indicated the fragility of the hint received! I had to act to preserve the information."
The scientist took a sip of tea, halving the cup at once.
"The worst was when it all started to come true. You just didn't see that horror… It took me a long time to calculate all the bifurcation points and the pattern, and then even longer to calculate the optimal path. The only path by which I guided the entire USSR to save it. Today we have overcome the penultimate knot, giving ourselves hope. If Katya and Sergey hadn't worked with the beacon exactly like this, under these conditions, none of this would have happened… We would likely not be here anymore!"
A viscous silence fell over the cabin. A smile crept back onto the academician's face, but it was forced.
"So, you… That's why Argon suddenly broke loose and rushed into unexplored space?!" Artem restrained himself, feeling himself boiling. All the wounds inflicted by the Ghost simultaneously ached, becoming even more painful. The revived corpse of his mentor acquired an even greater sinister aura, completely unrelated to his person.
"He wanted to reach our common enemy. I helped him, warning him that he wouldn't return," the scientist answered dryly. "And with his actions, he almost broke probability."
"Because he realized that one detail, you, Comrade Lebedev, didn't tell him? What would happen after he found the Reapers? Knowing about them, you couldn't not know that Colonel Kuznetsov was walking into a trap," Miranda remarked. "This explains all the hints he left, and why they were fragmented."
"I'll just repeat, he was supposed to become their tool. The option he chose was not the worst," the academician's calmness was enviable. "And it wasn't only him I had to sacrifice for the USSR to live. Ideally, you, a moral error and a scientific crime, shouldn't be here now. Your life cost us a couple of hundred billion in the future. You are needed by the Reapers. I don't know for what. By obtaining you, they will be able to create the most terrible scenario. In your body lies the key to the heart of our country. The funniest thing is, the fanatics understood this and wanted not to kill you, but to capture you, handing you over to the puppet master. Live with it. I'm not the only one who has to suffer and live with this burden, even if not for long…"
"Vera's DNA…" Artem understood what the academician was talking about, feeling his hands grow cold. "But that's impossible! The AI of the collective mind and Vera are two different personalities, and of different natures."
"Facts are stubborn things. I don't know how they will do it or if they can do it, but one of the most terrible scenarios of our demise was tied to the Reapers turning our greatest achievement against us. Without it, we would have no chance at all. I had to help HRAZ at the time. To grant us this miracle…"
"You knew about this too…"
"And I didn't deny it, you just didn't ask for details, happy that he didn't take over the 'Collective.' Formally, I didn't even lie. So, Motherland?
"It is only for this reason that you are still alive, Comrade Lebedev," the hologram of the entire USSR's AI materialized from thin air, and its presence became distinctly felt in space, ceasing to be just a fleeting touch, familiar to all connected. "And you are wrong to hope that we will all follow your lead. So much effort to hide this…"
"You can kill me," Lebedev said calmly. "My death will change nothing. You are already on the path I chose. You will understand later…"
He was interrupted by a punch from Artem.
"You succumbed to your own fear, Comrade Lebedev. You yourself said that probabilities are just probabilities… The future is not predetermined. How many did you destroy to reach this point? Not hundreds of billions?"
"You are under arrest," Miranda said, lifting the scientist with telekinesis and taking out handcuffs. "Upon arrival at the Citadel, you will be handed over to a tribunal. Your fate will be decided by a people's court. Motherland is right. Enough dancing to your tune."
"Idiots… I was saving you!"
"You were saving your own skin, lost in your delirium!" Shep cut him off, ending this farce.