Chapter Text
Eric Cane’s elderly eyes strained, but kept their steadfast gaze. He must have been staring down that ship for nearly an hour now. Its sleek metal didn’t count for much when he saw now just what the Council had been building. All the spontaneous ideas that they had accepted created a ship so erratic in design he thought it should rather be named the Schizophrenic than the Beowulf. He had suggested the original name, and was ashamed of what the legacy of the legendary king would be in Citadel politics after this ship got junked.
Indeed, the prefix “CSF”, which stood for “Citadel Spectre Frigate”, was just a facade. Indeed the ship’s tonnage on Palaven was enough to codify as a Frigate*, but only short of 'Destroyer' weight by four metric tons. In order to push the project through, the committee had to invoke Shepard. Not that Eric didn’t think the man was important, but it had been four decades since the Reaper War ended. Eric lived through it, and he knew that warfare had changed. They added new ship classifications in dozens of intra-galactic naval treaties since then*. If only the committee could’ve upgraded the ship to a destroyer, perhaps the Beowulf wouldn’t be such a mess before it even left the docks.
The old man sighed, then noted the relative silence. The “launch gala” of the Beowulf must’ve ended. Even though it had few honorable guests, the Committee for Spectre Armament had intended to use it to speculate yet more political clout, but the first ship made specially for a spectre to be launched from the Citadel didn’t draw a huge crowd. Eric drew out his pocket watch. He had been staring at the Beowulf for only thirty minutes. He barely had time to be confused over his miscalculation before he heard a jubilant Asari voice, no doubt that of Nessa Terr’ia, come from behind him, yelling “Captain Cane!”
He turned his head, still leaning forward on the railing to the dock. He couldn’t quite see the whole of her, but he saw in his periphery her youthful blue figure in an officer’s uniform walking up to greet him. She entered his field of vision proper and only then did he hail her with a simple “Yes, Mrs. Terr’ia?”
“I hardly saw you at all during that party sir!” Terr’ia said through a smile, “I just wanted to give my respects during the ceremony, but now will have to do I guess.”
“I guess.” Eric breathed out.
Terr’ia bowed her head to Eric and said “Nessa Terr’ia, at your service.”
Eric scoffed and said “We’ve met before Nessa. You’re my X.O., of course you’re at my service.”
“Well,” Terr’ia said, still determined to keep up her obvious facade of enthusiasm, “I haven’t formally sworn my loyalty to you yet.”
“By all means, knock yourself out.” Eric’s crackled Scottish accent bit into his words more than usual.
“I am the daughter of Kepplina Terr’ia and Vis Tod. Formerly a battery officer on the Destiny Ascension, I now swear my utmost loyalty and diligence to you, Captain Eric Cane.”
Eric slowly clapped, remarking “The cameras are away, X.O. Terr’ia. There’s no reason for you to keep up this charade.”
She sighed and her face grew sullen. She simply said “Yeah, you’re right.”
Eric shook his head from side-to-side, saying “For God’s sake Terr’ia. I’ve been doing this crap for thirty-five years now. I know you’ve been doing it for a while too. A lot longer than that. You oughta know that isn’t going to curry you any favors.”
She leaned in on the railing like her superior, saying “So, what’s the deal Captain? Having second thoughts?”
Eric mirthlessly laughed “If you’re trying to get my job, trust me, you probably don’t want it. I have to go down with this thing when it inevitably blows up.”
“No sir, I’m not exactly probing for that. I just gotta know- why the long face?”
He turned his face, filled with a certain wickedness, to the Asari, responding “Familiarity breeds contempt, Officer.”
“Understood sir.” Terr’ia reached into her pocket, pulling out a small black pack of cigarettes, gesturing them towards Cane, saying “Cigarette, Captain?”
Eric smirked, thought aloud “Eh, life doesn’t seem much worth living anyways.” and picked his long slender fingers into the pack. He pulled out one of the small wraps and stuck it in his mouth. As he put a flame to it, Terr’ia asked him more about himself.
Eric recounted his life’s story in minor detail to her, more out of courtesy than favor. He was among those born to be of military age during the Reaper War. Part of the R.A.F. Volunteer Reserve before the war, he was briefly activated as a jet pilot for a month before the day of the invasion, the 8th of May 2187. After spending the all-too long month of June as a “Scottish Partisan” pilot, he was folded into the Alliance Navy to be on the Richtofen, a carrier that was present at the Battle for Earth on the 21st of August. He was distinguished as an ace after shooting down six Reaper Orbs during that battle.
Before he could continue the narrative though, he looked down at his clock. It had been forty-seven minutes now he had been standing there. He crushed his cigarette and said to Terr’ia, “We got eight minutes before we check the Beowulf for the last time and launch it.”
Terr’ia playfully objected to the premature end of the story, but also disposed of her cigarette and went along with him. They walked onto the shiny titanium-nickel alloy gangway of the Beowulf.
The multiple group staffs of the Beowulf flitted about the main chambers of the ship, fitting the ship with the last of their equipment, completing tasks and checks, overall preparing for the indefinite period of time they would be on board. To sign up to a Spectre ship like this was to forge a contract not just with a Spectre, but to the Council itself. Given that it was made on the Citadel, it did not have as harsh terms for breaking it as one that could be made on Illium, but it was inadvisable to break it frivolously.
The ship, and its crew, were designed with the concept of it being capable of being in constant motion with a well-rested crew of mixed-race. The crews were split into staffs regarding their specific tasks, each staff taking their duties in shifts and each having a leader, who reported to the X.O.. The captain was responsible for the overall direction of the ship. While the X.O. was nominally subordinate to the captain, both reported directly to the unranked leader, the Spectre. For this first experiment of this highly unorthodox idea of a Council-sponsored Spectre Frigate, the Council had chosen the most average made Spectre they could have gotten- she was a human. Her name was Apolonia Bugaj.
Bugaj, clad (but unhelmed) in her sanguine Ariake Technologies Mercenary XVIII armor, climbed up the elevated walkway of the cargo bay. The metal of the walkway, freshly forged and polished, comfortably supported Apolonia’s 50kg armor, as well as her own well-built figure. Without a creak to draw everyone’s attention to her, she gripped her decorative baton and smacked it on the railing. A loud banging proceeded throughout the cargo bay. Apolonia’s ivory baton, if it were not girded vertically with steel, may have cracked given the force she was putting into it. Like a judge with their gavel, Apolonia called the entire room to order and to listen to her. Once she saw the dozens of faces- Human, Turian, Asari, Krogan, Salarian, Geth and Volus- looking up at her, she began to speak.
“Crew of the Beowulf! Hear that my name is Apolonia Bugaj. I, as a Spectre, have been charged with the duties of upholding the law and keeping peace in this Galaxy. For that to work, I need a strong ship, and a strong crew. This fine ship, the first of its kind, the Citadel Spectre Frigates. Our Captain, a distinguished veteran of the Alliance, Eric Cane, christened this as the “Beowulf”. For which reasons you have joined me are your own. A sense of justice, a thirst for adventure, financial security, whatever it may be that has brought you here are as legitimate as any other.” She gripped the railing with such ferocious strength that her ungloved knuckles whitened, continuing “What matters now is that you have to give me your utmost effort every day. What separates a strong crew and a weak one is not what planet you were born on, what language you speak, but what you put into your oath. We will become very close over these next few years. My hope is that we may become a tightly-bound family. Thus, I have not levied any fraternization policy between staff or your staff leaders. The exception is that our Captain has requested that you all show him the proper respect that you would a man befitting his position. Do that, and your work, and your years here will be filled with joy. Thank you.”
Eric kept his arms crossed as the crew applauded Bugaj’s stilted speech. She descended the stairs and tapped his arm with the baton, smirking at him. He returned a forced, pressed smile, and gripped Bugaj’s bicep with his frail hand. He whispered to her that she did a good job and let her on her way. His face resumed its resting position as she walked further back. He shook his head and prayed silently that the staff would respect his authority. X.O. Terr’ia walked up to him with the roll sheet, printed on paper as he requested, and the two climbed up the stairs themselves. The room organized itself into their respective staffs as Eric called each name, to check for the last time that everyone who had enlisted was there. He thanked God that each time he called a name, it was met with- and only with- an immediate “Present standing, sir!”. Pleased with this most basic discipline, Cane descended the stairs as Terr’ia began to assign the first duties to the staff leaders.
Over the next ten hours the Beowulf jumped to life. What was a lopsided and oversized frigate sitting idly in the Citadel dock became a lopsided and oversized frigate sitting idly in the Citadel dock but with the lights on and the capability to move independently. Power was pulled from the reactor room and distributed to every corner of the ship. Life support and its redundant systems were confirmed to be 100% operational. The gravitational-force engine was operating but not used quite yet. Finally, the docket of things that needed to be checked, fixed, or installed was finished and the ship pulled away from the dock and flew into the Serpent Nebula. Passing by the Destiny Ascension on patrol, the Matriarch Lidianya saw fit to personally send the following (unlogged) message to the frigate using light signals:
Fortune on your long voyage, X.O. Terr’ia
The Signals Chief, a Geth platform named Toaster-1 relayed the message via wire to X.O. Terr’ia, who immediately ordered Toaster to signal “Matriarch Cassiopeia” in response, but this order was stricken down by Captain Cane, who instead ordered that recognition be given as “thank you”
The shift-change sound emitted automatically on the P.A. for the second time, calling one-third of the crew’s shift up for eight hours. Captain Eric Cane, his eyes weary, delegated communication with the Council to X.O. Terr’ia, then dressed down, performed his evening prayers, and went to sleep.
Otto’s knee bounced up and down like a yo-yo. Halfway to Bekenstein, the crew was on the edge of anticipation. After this, Bugaj would be let off the leash and their gloried lives of wild adventure would begin. To Otto, that image stirred up romantic thoughts of the medieval knights on quest, journeying through the realm, helping all they found along the way. It was a standard he knew wasn’t going to happen, but the thought of anything close to it excited him. It was lunch hour, and Otto Herzfeld got leave from his staff leader in engineering to eat & socialize in the mess hall for forty minutes.
He found it unusually hard to pass the time. Never much of a reader, he had planned to bring five paperback novels to read until they wore down, but he had run out of space for personal belongings in his footlocker with his three outfits of civilian clothes. Now he was regretting not shelling out the credits for a small datapad to read in a more modern way, although the thought of that wasn’t particularly appealing to him. Otto was a man fascinated with the past. It was likely due to him growing up in Post-War Vienna, Austria- the center of the European “Nova-Victorian” movement of art, fashion, and film- romantic epic with a side of quasi-nostalgic emulation of “the good ol’ days” was the weekly affair.
He looked down at his uniform aboard this ship- a simple blue jumpsuit made of a comfortable enough, if dull material, with various patches signifying name and rank, among other things of that nature. Things necessary to cover your bases as a nuclear engineer aboard a ship. That’s what it was- necessary. Lacking the Baroque style that had existed in the Austrian Army, with pompous ceremony and tradition. One of the few good things about that time in his life was his dress uniform. A tunic he took extreme pride in, polishing and cleaning more than he did his rifle. He had it with him for official functions for the past… had it already been a decade?
Suddenly a voice yanked him from his pondering. Sharp yet reverberating- Turian female.
“Herzfeld? Otto Herzfeld?”
High on the ‘fel’. It was a little finicky to tell through the auto-translators. Probably an Old Systems** accent. He was already going to humor her, but he wanted to now, so he could pin down her accent.
“Yes, that’s me.” He said, keeping his eyes averted from her face-markings. That’d be cheating.
“Oh, are you busy? I heard you were on a Turian ship before this, care to talk about it?”, the Turian woman was visibly excited to hear of Otto's time on a Turian ship; it seemed word was getting out.
He couldn’t place his finger on why, other than maybe she reminded him of the comms operator on the Estair; This Turian was from Digeris. He looked up at her- the serpentine trails of red paint with black tears below the eyes proved him right.
“Yes, I’d love to talk about it. You’re from Digeris, aren’t you?” He stuck his hand out to shake hers.
“Oh, I was so nervous about asking I plain forgot- I’m Gensera Quintilus, VI Specialist.”
“So you run the bot?”
“The Beowulf’s VI? I didn’t program it, but I know how to reprogram it if need be.”
“Hmm, fascinating,” Otto’s facade of interest was thin, so he dropped it “What did you want to talk to me about?”
“So, can I ask about that ship?”
Otto’s mind rarely strode from it. So he said “Yes.”
Before anyone knew it, most of the Turians aboard the Beowulf were surrounding Otto, fascinated with his stories of the Estair. Turians always paid special attention to histories- Otto was glad that he was assigned to be the ship’s historian, both because of the high honor then, and the opportunities it gave him to talk to more Turians now. Otto may have been as human as it gets, being an Earthling, but he was always fascinated with aliens and especially the Turians.
So he satisfied them; Told them everything about the PFS Estair. That it was a squalid lopsided mess that somehow avoided catching a mass driver in its stupid hull. That the engine was a civilian nuclear reactor that needed something like a babysitter to make sure it didn’t blow up. That he and the other engineers were good friends. That the captain was a relatively young but jaded Civil War*** veteran. That one time the thrusters gave out and they had to wait a month to be towed. That during that month they all got pretty close. That he ran out of his levo-amino rations four days before they reached a dock, and some thought he might die. And that after that incident, the Hierarchy just scuttled the ship and dismissed him early.
So Otto Herzfeld told that story, the whole time scathing the ship but holding up the crew as good people. Suddenly, his omni-tool started beeping, and the timer for his lunch had ended. Looking up at the faces of the enthralled Turians- a Syglarian making him cock an eyebrow, he said goodbye and got back to work on the engine of a squalid lopsided ship…
“Yes, I am… chk … the Geld Mackers.” a slightly smaller-than-average Volus managed to breath out.
“May I ask another inquiry, Flight Lieutenant?” The geth named DANSON-83 chirped.
“By all means… I am at your service.” Geld responded.
That was a mere courtesy statement though, albeit possibly an accidental one given this was his first job with an actual chain-of-command; this was perhaps confirming the viewpoint of one member on the Committee for Spectre Armament, a grizzled old Turian veteran commander who said that Geld didn’t know a flight lieutenant from a captain, to which the civilian pilot said “... chk … what?”
DANSON proceeded to ask the question, chirping “You put emphasis on the prepositional phrase ‘the’, possibly signifying that being Geld Mackers is impressive. May-”
Mackers, in a rare move for a Volus, shouted “I know!... chk … Where you are!... chk …Going with this!”
The chair of Flight Lieutenant Veronica Abruzzo spun around, practically shouting herself, “Okay, calm down Flight Lieutenant. He doesn’t know who you are. That’s fine. We all were in the same room for the first time only last week.”
DANSON cocked their head, quivering a faceplate, chirping “I didn’t mean to offend you, Flight Lieutenant. If you like, you can introduce yourself to me.”
Mackers sighed. He looked back at Flight Lieutenant Abruzzo and sighed again. Then he sighed a third time. Shouting had really taken it out of him. Finally he said, “No I’m fine… chk … It’s just that I really… chk … Thought that you all might… chk … know who I was… chk … Everybody knows who Hermann Dietrich… chk … is.”
Abruzzo listened intently. She smiled and looked back at him, saying “Well, he knows who you are.”
“Really?!” Mackers exclaimed.
“Yes, I talked to him at the gala. He was wondering where you were, he said he wanted to talk to you. Said he thought you were really talented.”
“Wow, Hermann Dietrich… chk … knows who I am… chk … wow…” Geld looked out into the infinite universe before him, and still that was less remarkable than what Abruzzo had told him.
Flight Lieutenant DANSON-83 broke the silence by chirping another question, “Who is Hermann Dietrich?”
Geld gasped, but before he could start, Abruzzo spoke “He’s a fighter ace. The best living human fighter ace, actually. I think maybe the best of all time?” She looked at Geld, who was practically heaving as though he had just sang an old Salarian jump song.
He nodded and said “The best of… chk … all time!”
“The best of all time,”, Abruzzo continued, “Alliance fighter pilot. Been in there since just after the Reaper War, but left a couple years ago. I’m not really sure why. He tried opening up a flight school in the Citadel, but it didn’t really pan out, since he would only teach people how to fly military jets, and eventually some Ward Warden” (A recent term for an archetypal populist, ‘tough-on-crime’, fun-killing politician on the Citadel) “shut it down. Said Dietrich couldn’t teach freelancers how to operate military hardware, and the courts held it up.”
“Messed up… chk …” Mackers commented.
DANSON’s face went to face forward, chirping a blase “I see.”
“He’s here, you know? On the ship.” Abruzzo turned her head to look at DANSON, apparently questioning why they didn’t seem interested.
DANSON chirped immediately “I know. I know the names of all 31 crew members.”
Abruzzo rolled her eyes. She didn’t hate them, but talking to the Geth was like trying to read a concrete slab. Her shift would be up soon enough.
Otto ducked down into an access port since the elevator was in use. He never was able to see in the dark. He came out into the Engine room rubbing his scalp, wincing in pain. He heard a Krogan voice rumble out “Boss, Herzfeld’s here.”
He looked up to see who he expected. Inzo Kraznik, the Krogan who had stood next to him during the launch gala’s photo op. He was now looking back at him, a three-quarters turn. No other acknowledgement to Otto was given as he turned back to his station. The unmistakable high-pitched voice of the leader of the Engineer Staff, Reath’alter vas Beowulf thanked the Krogan, then came around the dark corner, into Otto’s view. Otto took his hand off of his head and slowly performed a salute, careful not to hit himself on the walls of the cramped room.
“At ease, Mechanic. That won’t be necessary.” Reath’alter waved his hand down, then beckoned Otto to follow him. They both turned the corner and Otto would’ve sworn he had a serious case of déjà vu, but he knew exactly why a bunch of beeping, amusingly unassuming machines crammed into a room the size of a Mark coin**** looked so familiar.
Reath’alter guided Otto past his work station and to another unassuming hunk of metal with an orange holographic keyboard on it.
“This might kill us Otto.”
Otto lifted his eyebrows and smirked, “Go on.”
“This is the terminal that operates the stealth system. You know how these work, right?”
“Basically. Haven’t worked with one before.”
“Your coworker, Joana Melder, has. So, if possible, notify her if it needs to be activated or deactivated. I’ll give you the rundown though in case she’s, ancestors forbid, incapacitated.”
“Ready to learn, Engineer.”
“That’s sir to you, Engineer.”
Even though Reath’s face was obscured by a mask, Otto could tell he was grinning ear-to-ear. The two laughed that off. Later, after Otto sat through Reath’s lecture, Reath almost dismissed him, but then turned back to look him in the eye and said something that Otto would remember, “Don’t keep it on for over 16 Solar hours. If it overheats, everyone in this ship short of the comms operator and one of the pilots dies. If that happens, those tin cans-”
Otto’s face involuntarily scrunched into disgust at that slur. Reath continued, “Are gonna report back to the Citadel and this ship will either get a new crew or get scrapped.”
“Understood sir.”
“Not them, of course.”
Otto turned and walked away without being dismissed, as Reath’alter stood there, shaking his head, disapproving of his own hypothetical, grumbling about Geth.
Otto’s shift continued for another seven hours before it was up. He went into the small sleeping quarters, shook Engineer Melder awake, and then, after stirring in his own cot for all but twenty minutes, he decided he didn’t want to get a full eight hours of sleep. He reached under his cot, pulled out his footlocker. Gazing at his Austrian Army dress uniform, then pulling out a small data drive with a piece of tape on it, scribbled in black pen “Heimat”
Ascending in the elevator, he had to engage in small-talk with head chef Douglas Jackson. The elevator stopped and opened up on the second deck and Otto squeezed between Pvt. Inzo Kabaya’s huge Krogan frame, sighing in relief when he approached the Starboard Observation, almost melting when he opened the door and saw nobody was inside.
Hooking up his data drive into the port of the television, and after ruling out looking over old pictures (remembering that the door wasn’t locked and he’d probably wind up crying besides), he instead went into the section for music videos. He remembered to thank his brother for making this so easily navigable when he spoke to him next. He’d been remembering that for the last four years. Pushing that thought to the back of his mind, he selected a live performance of one of The Beautiful Blue Danube Waltz. Johann Strauss II, to a patriot such as Otto, was an idol.
Putting on the headphones as the violinists sawed at their strings, he rested his eyes for a moment. He chuckled, silently remarking to himself how only now he is tired, instead of in his cot. Granted, the couch was very comfortable. He yawned, but opened his eyes as the waltz picked up into horns.
Flashy. Garish. Bright. Colorful. Given the shroud of evening shown in the video, the performance itself looked like a midnight sun. Otto pondered if Strauss II would be pleased by Andr é Rieu’s performance of his most famous song. He pondered further on the Nova Victorian cultural revolution that was sweeping the Europe he knew four years ago. Were they doing it right? To Otto, history, whether recorded or not, was everything. This was instilled in him by his mother of course, a curator for the Kunsthistorisches Museum in Vienna, historicist to the core.
Otto’s contemplation on the past, recent and ancient, was interrupted when he got scared by a figure coming in through his peripheral vision. He jumped slightly but looked. It was a Turian. One of the ones he spoke to earlier. The Syglarian one. He smiled and relaxed as the man approached and sat down. Otto took off the headphones, saying a simple “Hello”
“Hello Otto.” The Turian said. Otto flushed when he heard it, embarrassed that he did not know the Turian’s name.
“Hey. I was just in here watching a music performance.”
“Oh,” the Turian shrugged, asking “Human music?”
“Yeah. Real old stuff. This is from 2014.” Otto ran his fingers through his hair.
“Hmph.” The Turian muttered something, but Otto did not hear it.
Otto smiled, offering a pair of headphones to the Turian. He took them and put them on.
The waltzing of the dancers, reminiscent of a dozen whirligigs, flitted on the screen. Beautiful women in colorful dresses and dashing young men in sleek tuxedos, sweeping one another across a marble tile floor as the band swelled and horned the crescendo. Otto always liked this video. The Turian looked at it as though he were studying a dadaist painting, something nigh incomprehensible without a caption. But he had fascination in his eyes. His mandibles swayed ever-so-slightly, in a way that Otto had observed before, many times, when he entertained the Turians of the Estair. Turian faces were easy for him to read. This one was amused, interested, and likely wanted to say something, but didn’t want to blurt it out during the crescendo.
Suddenly he turned to Otto, and Otto realized he was staring again. He turned away, back to the vid, for a while. He turned back and saw that the Turian was still looking at him. His mandibles quivered slightly, his brow-plates were lifted. Otto found himself unsure of what to make of that.
“You’re from Earth, aren’t you?” The Turian asked.
“Yes,” Otto replied, and then asked, “I’m so sorry… What’s your name?”
“Heirax. Judike Heirax.” The Turian stuck his hand out.
Otto gripped onto the plated hand. Turians were a lot easier to do this with than others. They didn’t sweat, they didn’t excrete oil onto their skin, and you could be tricked into believing they didn’t wrinkle. But Otto felt something in this handshake. Challenge. Struggle. Toil. Pain. He let go and turned back to the vid, this time for good.
The two men watched a couple more vids off of Otto’s drive, but noticing the time, Otto decided it would be best to retire to his bunk, since his shift was in less than six hours. He climbed into his cot, put a sparse blanket over himself, and let the undulating susurration of the Nar Rayya engine lull him to sleep.
Otto dreamt the same thing he usually dreamed of again, just in a different form. The same as usual. He was telling his dad goodbye before he marched off to war. He didn’t look at his dad’s face the whole time. As he marched away from his childhood home, out of Vienna and into the mountains, singing an old marching tune, gun to shoulder, he grew five times in size, but by the time he was deep into the mountains, he was as tall as he normally was, and felt even smaller. A jet soared overhead, and dropped a screaming fire. He walked the opposite direction, deeper into the snow-laden Alps. He continued marching with his rifle in his hands, until he tripped onto something cold and metal which had been obscured by the snow. He reached down into the snow and grabbed onto it. He screamed as it dragged him into the burning hot snow.
Otto woke up, sweating through his sparse blanket. He looked at the clock. He still had three hours before his shift began. He tried to go back to sleep, and this time, tried ignoring the whispering of the Rayya.