If before Jeff Moreau had seen that figure—radiating lethal grave-cold—only on a console monitor, now it was real, tangible, and less than a meter and a half away.
"I need a pilot in your seat, Lieutenant Moreau. Not a voyeur. And I'll get one." Shepard didn't need shouting or exclamation points.
The captain stepped to the second pilot's chair and entered a short command at the console.
"I won't allow you to fill the ship's computer memory with porn," the XO watched Jeff pale slowly as he realized his lovingly assembled collection was being deleted—completely, with the freed space overwritten with wild nonsense symbols. "Because now that the CIC has a full complement of specialists, your task, Lieutenant Moreau, is not to monitor what's happening on the ship. It's to perform strictly pilot functions."
Shepard's fingers performed a complex dance on the keyboard of another console. Moreau watched as the auxiliary displays went dark.
"Plot the approach to the relay into the Utopia system so we hold off to the side in a safe zone and can conduct covert reconnaissance. I want your report on the course and planned approach maneuvers. Fifteen minutes. To my omni-tool." Shepard ground the words out through barely parted teeth. "Want to keep this chair, your rank, and your post? Then you'll work. To exhaustion. And effectively."
With that, Shepard turned toward the cockpit entry.
"And don't you dare gossip with anyone over the Extranet." The captain entered a complex command at the side console. "Consider your Extranet access—as you knew it—gone."
The XO stepped out of the cockpit.
The hatch sealed off the loud exhale from the pilot's chair.
Leaving, Shepard mentally thanked the instructors at the N7 Academy who had instilled in him a love of programming and all kinds of technology. Without that brutal training he'd been forced through in a single year, the conversation with the pilot could have dragged on.
"Erich Geben—to Captain Shepard," the landing team commander said quietly into his shoulder speaker.
A minute later, one of the MPs stood before the XO—the one who had confirmed to Captain Anderson that he held a destroyer pilot's diploma.
"Erich," the special forces officer addressed him. "You are ordered to take the second pilot's seat and monitor Lieutenant Jeff Moreau's actions. At all times he must be doing only his direct duties. I assigned him the course calculation to the relay and the approach maneuvers, to determine our hidden holding position, with a long-range reconnaissance condition in the Utopia system. From now on he is required to devote all working time to improving his professional skills and competence. You are yourself an outstanding pilot. So you can ride him hard. The second pilot position on the frigate Normandy is now assigned to you, Geben. If Lieutenant Moreau fails, the first pilot position will transfer to you. Moreau will be reassigned. Not related to piloting. In accordance with paragraph two hundred fifty-four of the Alliance Navy Combat Regulations, while you perform second pilot duties you are granted the rank of Alliance Navy lieutenant. Questions?"
"No, sir! Thank you, sir! Permission to carry out orders, sir?!" The newly minted lieutenant caught Shepard's approving nod and rushed into the cockpit.
Shepard's mouth twitched at the corners: it was well known that the imperturbable, pedantic Erich could neither be provoked by Joker nor swayed to his side. Besides, a pilot is always a pilot: even in "the second chair," Erich could show Joker what a combat pilot-practitioner really was.
Standing behind the electronic warfare specialist—a sergeant from the MPs named Ingvar Tempke—Shepard made sure the man had fully settled into his new duties and was openly enjoying doing what he loved.
The captain knew that the EW console had been unmanned since the beginning of the flight—few people then believed the frigate would have to enter combat, conduct real active reconnaissance, or counter an enemy's attempts to identify the watcher.
"Ingvar, quietly pull up all information we have on Eden Prime's technical and electronic infrastructure. Everything we can reach and use in our interests. Without entering the system—yet."
"Easy, Captain." Tempke, not turning around, tapped a few sensors. "First, the spaceports. Officially, there are three on Eden Prime. Plenty of electronics and technical systems there, plus transport infrastructure. Second, power substations scattered across the planet. Plenty of electronics there too, but the main thing is powerful energy storage. Third, the monorail, which also requires significant power and complex control systems. And finally, the tastiest thing, in my view—weather and climate control stations. Tons of electronics, powerful emitters and receivers, energy storage. It's a song."
Ingvar looked a little embarrassed but continued.
"Sorry, sir. The guys and I were discussing… climate wars using planetary infrastructure. I did some quick numbers: by open data the planet is agricultural. They watch the weather very, very seriously, because the slightest climate fluctuations mean huge losses. It's the off-season now; harvest is still a long way off. Even for quick-ripening varieties. By my calculations, sir, if necessary we could trigger a local or even global weather apocalypse in minutes. Thunder, lightning, a tropical-scale downpour with atmospheric electrification up to practically continuous breakdown."
Ingvar was clearly riding his hobbyhorse now and couldn't understand why this strange landing team commander wasn't cutting him off.
Then he suddenly remembered that Captain Shepard had recently become the ship's executive officer, and he broke himself off.
"Sorry, sir. Got carried away."
"You're talking interestingly, Ingvar. And most importantly—you're on point," Shepard said completely seriously, without a hint of a smile. "Run me a scenario for a local Apocalypse. Maximum height of the effect zone: six kilometers. Width: two kilometers. Maximum energy at six strike points. Assume you have to destroy an object that's eight to twelve times more protected than the Destiny Ascension. Condition: don't let that object take off or activate beam weapons. You need to try to disable or shut down all its electronics and gun systems for a time. Up to and including heavy weapons. Level: super-dreadnought. Also determine the points on the planet where the effectiveness of such an apocalypse would be maximal. Clear?"
"Yes, sir!" Tempke, forgetting even to nod, attacked the work with enthusiasm.
While talking to Ingvar, Shepard already knew for several dozen seconds that the ship's captain was standing nearby. So, stepping back, he looked questioningly at the frigate's senior officer.
Anderson only nodded silently and with a subtle gesture—one most officers around the CIC wouldn't notice—asked the XO to step farther away, toward other auxiliary consoles of the "necklace" that were not yet active. The primary stations—all of them—were already occupied and operating.
"Preparing?" Anderson asked quietly.
"Yes, sir," Shepard said softly. "Too many ears at the relay. But while we're en route—we have time."
"What's next?" the frigate captain asked.
"Main guns, sir," Shepard answered. "I know there are two MPs working there now. One at the primary console, one at the side. I think two gunners are enough for our capabilities. Fire control will be handled from the bridge—or from the cockpit."
"Agreed. Let's go see what we can do there." Anderson turned, and the two officers climbed to the second deck at an unhurried pace.
Two MPs paused for a second from working at their consoles, nodded a greeting, and looked questioningly at the senior officers entering the compartment.
Anderson, walking slightly ahead, made a short hand motion meaning: keep working, no report needed.
Shepard leaned over the primary console. Anderson moved to the secondary.
"What accuracy have you achieved with a two-round salvo?" Shepard asked the senior gunner quietly.
"Managed to improve from third class to second. I think," the sergeant sensed that the frigate XO was prepared to allow an informal tone, "in two hours Tom and I can provide first class as well. I take it you'll need accuracy and speed?"
"Yes, Bill." Shepard nodded. "We need to hit a target at the maximum first-class range—a circle a little over a meter and a half in diameter. Four rounds in the shortest possible interval. Two salvos. Before the target's laser charge chamber gets sealed by armored shutters. The target itself is low-mobility, but those shutters will close very fast. At the slightest suspicion of aggression from us. We'll need to extend the guns and strike exactly as I just said, in the shortest time. I'm afraid we won't get a second attempt, Bill," Shepard stated calmly. "If the target activates its main emitter or seals it behind shutters, the situation will get complicated for us very quickly."
"Firing from what distance?" the gunner asked.
"If we take the maximum—ninety to one hundred eighty kilometers. The frigate will be maneuvering anti-flak style; I expect we'll also be engaged by small lasers. Something like our own P.O.I.N.T."
"Hm. Small." Bill tensed. "Sorry, Captain, it slipped," the senior gunner's fingers quickly worked the console. "I think we'll need not first, but zero class accuracy. We'll only be able to reach that by five p.m. Interesting problem, Captain. Exactly the kind I like. But…"
"The ship's pilot will do everything you say," the XO replied. "I reinforced the pilot team with one more pilot specialist. Together—or one of them—either way, they'll handle it. But it would be best not to make the ship pull impossible pirouettes. In the immediate proximity of the target."
"Understood. We're reconnaissance, not an assault frigate," the senior gunner said.
"Yes, Bill," Shepard confirmed. "Run two variants. First: maximum damage in an attacking variant. Second: maximum damage in a finishing variant. Take into account that the target's charge chamber won't always be strictly vertical or strictly horizontal. The aiming node could also move erratically."
"Understood, Captain," the senior gunner said. "You expect the target to bite back?"
"I'm sure of it. And we need to do everything to make it unable to bite back. Strike—and the target must be disarmed," Shepard said. "Work. I want your results on my omni-tool. Deadline: seventeen ten."
"Aye, sir!" the gunner nodded, catching his junior colleague's agreeing nod—who had already spoken with Captain Anderson.
A minute later, both senior officers left the main gun compartment.
"Commander, sir," a cop with a chef's diploma approached them. "Here's the lunch menu. For the entire crew. Permission to offer you control samples for tasting?"
Anderson looked over the menu and signed with his coder on the screen of the sergeant's datapad.
"Let's go, Captain. We'll take samples directly from the pots." The frigate captain glanced at Shepard. "Lead the way, Sergeant." He turned to the chef.
"Aye, sir," the MP-chef nodded, stepped aside, and led the senior officers to the partitioned-off area now used as the galley. "Here," he offered a long ladle and plates.
One by one, Anderson drew servings from the pots and filled several plates. Leaning over the galley table, he took a measured sample of the first, second, and third dishes.
"Good." He looked at his XO. "You sample as well, John."
"Yes, sir." Shepard took the ladle, tried the first, second, and third, and gave a satisfied smile. "Good, Michael." He noted that Anderson was already signing the kitchen log lying on the counter.
"You may portion it out, Michael," Captain Anderson said. "Authorized to prepare up to three reserve portions."
"Aye, sir," the MP-chef nodded.
At that moment, Shepard's omni-tool chimed. The landing team commander opened the small display and reviewed the solution Jeff Moreau had proposed. Anderson was interested as well, and the officers stepped away from the chef to discuss the pilot's proposed solution in low voices.
"I think we can agree with Jeff's solution," Captain Anderson said. "I propose we go to my cabin and eat lunch. And discuss it."
"Captain. I agree we need to discuss the information that came in. But let's not ignore the need for you and me to be present among the crew," Shepard objected. "Sooner or later, officers, NCOs, and enlisted will have questions. Better to explain what's unclear to everyone right away. Especially since in three to four hours we'll be approaching the relay area. We have too much to do in that time to prepare for every possible surprise waiting for us on the far side of the relay."
"Agreed." Anderson checked the time. "It's two p.m. now." He looked at the chef. "Michael, call for the officers' mess."
"Aye, sir," the chef nodded, activated shipwide broadcast at his console, and announced the standard invitation for the officers' meal.
Over lunch, Captain Anderson and Captain Shepard briefly familiarized their fellow officers with the planned actions up to the moment of entering the relay to the Utopia system.
It was obvious how much the ship's officers livened up on hearing that what awaited them was not another round of tedious training, but real combat, reconnaissance, and sabotage work.
Neither Shepard nor Anderson revealed details, but the officers already understood: a great deal would depend on what they learned during active long-range search while holding at a concealed position near the relay.
"And one last thing, colleagues," Captain Anderson said. "After lunch, every single crew member without exception puts on light pressure suits, armor, and clips their helmets to their suit belts in full readiness for use. Medigel and pistols are mandatory. Lieutenant Alenko has drawn up the duty roster for the quick reaction team. I assume that toward evening we'll run two or three drills for the entire crew. Approximate time: seventeen thirty. Details will be given to personnel during the drills themselves. Once again, I want to warn you: work every drill at maximum. There is a very high probability we'll have to enter combat for real. Therefore there will be no clarification—training drill or live. Any of the upcoming drills can become live in the shortest time. For mistakes, I and my executive officer will enforce discipline to the fullest severity. Officers—check your subordinates' gear. Helmets—prepare for sealed-cycle transition. Immediately. Questions? No? Dismissed." He gestured for the officers to rise from the mess table. "You were right, Shepard. The officers needed our presence."
Exactly one hour later, the lights went out in every compartment of the Normandy. The loud shipwide siren tore through the post-lunch quiet. Beams from powerful flashlights skittered along the walls as the crew ran to their stations under emergency procedures. Most consoles were without power.
"Crew—switch to manual control! Seal helmets! Activate автономные life-support systems. Maintain silence in compartments! Ship is under threat of enemy detection." Text like that appeared on most crew members' helmet displays. "Reboot navigation systems without engaging external sensors. Verify EW systems under 'Ray' and 'Sphere' схемы. Identify and solve failures in weapon systems."