The experts back on Earth weren’t completely unprepared for this particular revelation; the existence and purpose of mass relays had been mentioned in the data archives recovered from the Mars bunker. In simplest terms, the mass relays were a network of linked gates that could transport a ship from one relay to the next, instantaneously traversing thousands of light-years. The underlying scientific theory behind the creation of mass relays was still beyond the scope of humanity’s top experts. But even though they couldn’t construct one themselves, scientists were able to reactivate the dormant relay they had stumbled across.
The mass relay was a door that could open up the entire galaxy…or lead right into the heart of a burning star or black hole. Exploratory probes sent through immediately dropped out of contact—not unexpectedly, considering the notion that they were being instantly transported thousands of light-years away. In the end, the only way to truly know what was on the other side was to send somebody through; someone willing to brave the great unknown and face whatever dangers and challenges waited on the other side.
The Alliance handpicked a crew of brave men and women: soldiers willing to risk their own lives, individuals ready to make the ultimate sacrifice in the name of discovery and progress. And to lead this crew they chose a man of unique character and unquestioned strength, one they knew would not falter in the face of untold adversity. A man named Jon Grissom.
Upon their successful return through the mass relay, the entire crew had been hailed as heroes. But the media had chosen Grissom—the imposing, solemn commander of the mission—to become the flag-bearer of the Alliance as humanity forged ahead into a new age of unparalleled discovery and expansion.
“Whatever’s happened,” Eisennhorn said, still hoping he could pull Grissom from his dark state of mind, “you have to believe we can deal with it. You and I never could have imagined that we could accomplish all this in such a short time!”
Grissom gave a snort of derision. “We couldn’t have done a damn thing if it wasn’t for the Protheans.”
Eisennhorn shook his head. While it had been the discovery and adaptation of Prothean technology that had opened up these great possibilities, it was the actions of people like Grissom that had transformed possibility into reality.
“If I have seen farther, it is by standing on the shoulders of giants,” Eisennhorn countered. “Sir Isaac Newton said that, too.”
“Why the obsession with Newton? He a relative or something?”
“Actually, my grandfather was tracing our family’s genealogy and he—”
“I didn’t really want to know,” Grissom growled, cutting him off.
They were almost at their destination. The Arcturus space station dominated the entire window now, blocking out everything else. The docking bay loomed before them, a gaping hole in the gleaming hull of the station’s exterior.
“I should go,” Grissom said with a weary sigh. “They’ll want to see me come marching down the gangway as soon as we touch down.”
“Take it easy on those recruits,” Eisennhorn suggested, only half joking. “Remember, they’re barely more than kids.”
“I didn’t come here to meet with a bunch of kids,” Grissom replied. “I came here looking for soldiers.”
The first thing Grissom did when he arrived was request a private room. He was scheduled to address the entire graduating class at 14:00. In the four hours between then and now he planned to conduct private interviews with a handful of the recruits.
The brass at Arcturus weren’t expecting his request, but they did their best to accommodate it. They set him up in a small room furnished with a desk, computer workstation, and a single chair. Grissom was sitting behind the desk reviewing the personnel files on the monitor one last time. Competition to be accepted into the N7 specialist training program at Arcturus was fierce. Every recruit on the station had been handpicked from the best young men and women the Alliance had to offer. Yet the handful of names on Grissom’s list had distinguished themselves from the rest of the elite; even here they stood out from the crowd.
There was a knock at the door—two quick, firm raps.
“Come in,” the admiral called out.
The door slid open and Second Lieutenant David Edward Anderson, the first name on Grissom’s list, walked in. Fresh out of training, he had already been marked for the ranks of junior officers, and looking at his file it was easy to see why. Grissom’s list was arranged alphabetically, but based on Anderson’s marks at the Academy and the evaluations of his training officers, his name would probably have been right at the top regardless.
The lieutenant was a tall man, six foot three according to his file. At twenty years old he was just starting to fill out his large frame, still growing into his broad chest and wide, square shoulders. His skin was dark brown, his black hair cut high and tight in accordance with Alliance regulations. His features, like most citizens in the multicultural society of the late twenty-second century, were a mix of several different racial characteristics. Predominantly African, but Grissom thought he could see lingering traces of Central European and Native American ancestry as well.
Anderson marched smartly across the floor and stopped directly in front of the desk, standing at attention as he snapped off a formal salute.
“At ease, Lieutenant,” Grissom ordered, instinctively returning the salute.
The young man did as he was told, relaxing his stance so that he stood with his arms clasped behind his back and his legs spread wide.
“Sir?” he asked. “If I may?” Even though he was a junior officer making a request of a rear admiral he spoke with confidence; there was no hesitation in his voice.
Grissom scowled before nodding at him to continue. The file showed Anderson had been born and raised in London, but he had almost no discernible regional accent. His generic dialect was likely the product of cross-cultural exposure through e-schooling and the info nets combined with a steady barrage of pan-global entertainment vids and music.
“I just want to tell you what an honor it is meeting you in person, Admiral,” the young man informed him. He wasn’t gushing or fawning, for which Grissom was grateful; he simply stated it as a matter of fact. “I remember seeing you on the news after the Charon expedition when I was only twelve. That’s when I decided I wanted to join the Alliance.”
“Are you trying to make me feel old, son?”
Anderson started to smile, thinking it was a joke. But the smile withered under Grissom’s glare.
“No, sir,” he replied, his voice still sure and strong. “I only meant you’re an inspiration to us all.”
He’d expected the lieutenant to stutter and stammer out some kind of apology, but Anderson wasn’t so easily rattled. Grissom made a quick note in his file.
“I see it says here you’re married, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir. She’s a civilian. Lives back on Earth.”
“I was married to a civilian,” Grissom told him. “We had a daughter. I haven’t seen her in twelve years.”
Anderson was momentarily thrown off balance by the unexpected personal disclosure. “I…I’m sorry, sir.”
“It’s hell keeping a marriage together when you’re in the service,” Grissom warned him. “You don’t think worrying about a wife back on Earth is going to make it harder when you’re out on a six-month tour?”
“Might make it easier, sir,” Anderson countered. “It’s nice to know I’ve got someone back home waiting for me.”
There was no hint of anger in the young man’s voice, but it was clear he wasn’t going to be intimidated, even when speaking to a rear admiral. Grissom nodded and made another note in the file.
“Do you know why I scheduled this meeting, Lieutenant?” he asked.
After a moment of serious consideration Anderson simply shook his head. “No, sir.”
“Twelve days ago an expedition fleet left our outpost at Shanxi. They were heading through the Shanxi-Theta mass relay into an uncharted region
of space: two cargo vessels and three frigates.
“They made contact with an alien species out there. Some kind of patrol fleet, we think. Only one of our frigates made it back.”
Grissom had just dropped a bombshell in the young man’s lap, but Anderson’s expression barely changed. His only reaction was a momentary widening of his eyes.
“Protheans, sir?” he asked, driving right to the heart of the matter.
“We don’t think so,” Grissom told him. “Technologically, they seem to be on about the same level as us.”
“How do we know that, sir?”
“Because the ships Shanxi sent out to engage them the next day had enough firepower to wipe out their whole patrol.”
Anderson gasped, then took a deep breath to collect himself. Grissom didn’t blame him; so far he’d been impressed with how well the lieutenant had handled the whole situation.
“Any further retaliation from the aliens, sir?”
The kid was smart. His mind worked quickly, analyzing the situation and moving forward to the relevant questions after only a few seconds.
“They sent reinforcements,” Grissom informed him. “They captured Shanxi. We don’t have any other details yet. Comm satellites are down; we only got word because someone got off a message drone just before Shanxi fell.”
Anderson nodded to show he understood, but he didn’t say anything right away. Grissom was glad to see the young man had the patience to give himself time to process the information. It was a lot to wrap one’s head around.
“You’re sending us into action, aren’t you, sir?”
“Alliance Command makes that decision,” Grissom said. “All I can do is advise them. That’s why I’m here.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Admiral.”
“Every military engagement has only three options, Lieutenant: engage, retreat, or surrender.”
“We can’t just turn our backs on Shanxi! We have to engage!” Anderson exclaimed. “With all due respect, sir,” he added a second later, remembering who he was talking to.
“It’s not that simple,” Grissom explained. “This is completely unprecedented; we’ve never faced an enemy like this before. We know nothing about them.
“If we escalate this into a war against an alien species, we have no way to predict how it will end. They could have a fleet a thousand times the size of ours.
“We could be on the verge of starting a war that will culminate in the total annihilation of the human race.” Grissom paused for emphasis, letting his words sink in. “Do you honestly think we should take that risk, Lieutenant Anderson?”
“You’re asking me, sir?”
“Alliance Command wants my advice before they make their decision. But I’m not going to be on the front lines fighting the war, Lieutenant. You were a squad leader during your N7 training. I want to know what you think. Do you believe our troops are ready for this?”
Anderson frowned, thinking long and hard before he offered his answer.
“Sir, I don’t think we have any other choice,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “Retreat isn’t an option. Now that the aliens know about us they aren’t just going to sit at Shanxi and do nothing. Eventually we’ll have to either engage or surrender.”
“And you don’t think surrender is an option?”
“I don’t think humanity could survive being subjugated under alien rule,” Anderson replied. “Freedom is worth fighting for.”
“Even if we lose?” Grissom pressed. “This isn’t just about what you’re willing to sacrifice, soldier. We provoke them and this war could make its way to Earth. Think about your wife. Are you willing to risk her life for the sake of freedom?”
“I don’t know, sir” was Anderson’s solemn reply. “Are you willing to condemn your daughter to the life of a slave?”
“That’s the answer I was looking for,” Grissom said with a sharp nod. “With enough soldiers like you, Anderson, humanity just might be ready for this after all.”
ONE
Eight Years Later
Staff Lieutenant David Anderson, executive officer on the SSV Hastings, rolled out of his bunk at the first sound of the alarm. His body moved instinctively, conditioned by years of active service aboard Systems Alliance Space Vessels. By the time his feet hit the floor he was already awake and alert, his mind evaluating the situation.
The alarm rang again, echoing off the hull to rebound throughout the ship. Two short blasts, repeating over and over. A general call to stations. At least they weren’t under immediate attack.
As he pulled his uniform on, Anderson ran through the possible scenarios. The Hastings was a patrol vessel in the Skyllian Verge, an isolated region on the farthest fringes of Alliance space. Their primary purpose was to protect the dozens of human colonies and research outposts scattered across the sector. A general call to stations probably meant they’d spotted an unauthorized vessel in Alliance territory. Either that or they were responding to a distress call. Anderson hoped it was the former.
It wasn’t easy getting dressed in the tight confines of the sleeping quarters he shared with two other crewmen, but he’d had lots of practice. In less than a minute he had his uniform on, his boots secured, and was moving quickly through the narrow corridors toward the bridge, where Captain Belliard would be waiting for him. As the executive officer it fell to Anderson to relay the captain’s orders to the enlisted crew…and to make sure those orders were properly carried out.
Space was the most precious resource on any military vessel, and Anderson was constantly reminded of this as he encountered other crewmen heading in the opposite direction as they rushed to their assigned posts. Invariably, they would press themselves against the corridor walls in an effort to let Anderson by, snapping off awkward salutes to their superior as he squeezed past them. But despite the cramped conditions, the entire process was carried out with an efficiency and crisp precision that was the hallmark of every crew in the Alliance fleet.
Anderson was almost at his destination. He was passing navigation, where he noticed a pair of junior officers making rapid calculations and applying them to a three-dimensional star chart projected above their consoles. They each gave their XO a curt but respectful nod as he passed, too engrossed in their duties to be encumbered by the formality of a true salute. Anderson responded with a grim tilt of his head. He could see they were plotting a route through the nearest mass relay. That meant the Hastings was responding to a distress call. And the brutal truth was that more often than not their response came too late.
In the years following the First Contact War, humanity had spread out too far and too fast; they didn’t have enough ships to properly patrol a region the size of the Verge. Settlers who lived out here knew the threat of attacks and raids was all too real, and too often the Hastings touched down on a world only to find a small but thriving colony reduced to corpses, burned-out buildings, and a handful of shell-shocked survivors.
Anderson still hadn’t found a good way to cope with being a firsthand witness to that kind of death and destruction. He’d seen action during the war, but this was different. That had been primarily ship-to-ship warfare, killing enemy combatants from tens of thousands of kilometers away. It wasn’t the same as picking through the charred rubble and blackened bodies of civilians.
The First Contact War, despite its name, had been a short and relatively bloodless campaign. It began an Alliance patrol inadvertently trespassed on the territory of the Turian Empire. For humanity it had been their first encounter with another intelligent species; for the turians it was an invasion by an aggressive and previously unknown race. Misunderstanding and overreaction on both sides had led to several intense battles between patrols and scout fleets. But the conflict never erupted into full-scale planetary war. The escalating hostilities and sudden deployment of turian fleets had drawn the attention of the greater galactic community. Luckily for humanity.
It turned out the turians were only one species
among a dozen, each independent but voluntarily united beneath the rule of a governing body known as the Citadel Council. Eager to prevent interstellar war with the newly emerged humans, the Council had intervened, revealing itself to the Alliance and brokering a peaceful resolution between them and the turians. Less than two months after it had begun, the First Contact War was officially over.
Six hundred and twenty-three human lives had been lost. Most of the casualties were sustained in the first encounter and during the turian attack on Shanxi. Turian losses were slightly higher; the Alliance fleet sent to liberate the captured outpost had been ruthless, brutal, and very thorough. But on a galactic scale, the losses to both sides were minor. Humanity had been pulled back from the brink of a potentially devastating war, and instead became the newest member of a vast interstellar, pan-species society.
Anderson climbed the three steps separating the forward deck of the bridge from the main level of the ship. Captain Belliard was hunched over a small viewscreen, studying a stream of incoming transmissions. He stood up straight as Anderson approached, and returned his executive officer’s salute with one of his own.
“We’ve got trouble, Lieutenant. We picked up a distress call when we linked up to the com relays,” the captain explained by way of greeting.
“I was afraid of that, sir.”
“It came from Sidon.”
“Sidon?” Anderson recognized the name. “Don’t we have a research base there?”
Belliard nodded. “A small one. Fifteen security personnel, twelve researchers, six support staff.”
Anderson frowned. This was no ordinary attack. Raiders preferred to hit defenseless settlements and bug out before Alliance reinforcements arrived on the scene. A well-defended base like Sidon wasn’t their typical target. It felt more like an act of war.