“...so by preventing a heat discharge, what the drive core does is
significantly reduce the thermal image of the ship to sensors. Since
sensors are, by and large, the main method of ship to ship detection,
the reduced thermal electromagnetic imaging makes the ship highly
stealthy, and outright invisible to most conventional warships.”
Her suit responds like it is programmed to. Upon a lengthy
explanation of some fascinating feat or piece of technology, a straw
comes out the side and into her mouth, dispensing an herbal tea
solution which she sips on. Just in case she has to begin the
lecture again.
The turian blinks, staring at her. The elevator continues its
steady climb to the Presidium, and in that time Garrus Vakarian,
Citadel Spectre, has shown that he understands not a single word out
of the quarian girl's mouth.
“So wait,” Wrex says, “If the thermal masking reduces sensor
signature, what about visual profile recognition?”
Garrus glances at the krogan behind them. Then back at Tali.
“The vast majority of warships don't have windows that can be used
as visual ports,” she explains, “And besides which, space combat
is generally done at a range of tens of thousands of kilometers.”
“Didn't help the Normandy today,” Wrex responds, shrugging,
“From what I saw, it was the tens of kilometers. Besides which,
Krogan ships got into knife fight range.”
“But there is no Krogan spacefleets anymore.”
“Not officially,” Wrex responds, and glances at Garrus, “Ask
Vakarian.”
“Wrex...”
“Blood Pack,” Wrex continues, ignoring Garrus, “Clan Weyrloc
runs them, but the way Guld has his head up his own ass I wouldn't be
surprised if the Vorcha run'em in a few years. But they have ships,
and their ships knife fights. If the Normandy got into a fight with
a Blood Pack squadron, the stealth system wouldn't do squat.”
The elevator dings. The door slides down, revealing the white
walkways and lakes of the Presidium.
“Anyway,” Wrex says, “Great talkin' with ya, Tali. I gotta
make a Wards run.”
“Wards run?” Tali asks.
“I got a black market contact I use for equipment and mods,” he
responds with a shrug, “See you on the Big K.”
The krogan walks off, waving at them as he heads towards the
financial district, and the elevator leading to the Wards on the
Citadel's arms. Shrugging, Garrus walks out, Tali following him,
before speeding up her pace and walking alongside him.
“Thanks for helping me with this, Mr. Vakarian.”
“You can call me Garrus,” he responds, twitching his mandibles,
“I know I'm a Spectre and that apparently makes me important, but
I'm not that much older than you.”
“Really.”
He nods. Walking along the white walkways, they walk past the
embassies, uniformed humans and turians in the blue and black of
C-Sec saluting as he passes.
“I've been in the military since I was fifteen,” he explains,
“Instead of becoming a lifer, I followed Dad into C-Sec. I was
offered Spectre training, with the idea that I might end up as a
Spectre. Dad wasn't happy.”
“Why?”
“Spectres write their own rules,” he explains, walking through a
garden lined square, “And when your species' prominent Spectre is
Saren Arterius, you get a bad impression on what that power does to
someone. So, I did research. Found better examples than that
barefaced son of a bitch. And promised I'd live up to their
examples, not Saren's.”
Tali nods. She wrings her hands.
“Have you?”
“I don't involve civilians,” he says, “I don't kill unless
it's a last resort. Spectres enforce the law. They aren't the
law. That's what I go by. So, enough about me.” His mandibles
twitch. He grins. “Who's your friend?”
“Mahrek and I met on the Extranet.”
“Ah...”
“'Ah,' what?”
“Old saying,” he says with a smirk, “The Extranet: Where the
human males are human males, the human females are salarians, the
asari are hanar, and the underage quarians are Spectres.”
“That's...not reassuring.”
He shrugs.
“Your boyfriend managed to contact you during a closed circuit
combat situation,” Garrus responds, “For all we know, he's a
Geth. I've gone undercover as a quarian teenager myself, too.
Mainly to lure out this batarian pedophile.”
“Again. Not reassuring,” she says, and sighs, “Father likes
me using the Extranet to take advanced courses, not as much for
socializing. Especially with quarians who never return from their
Pilgrimage.”
“Who could be batarians.”
The points of light underneath the mask rise, move to the side, and
fall. Tali has just rolled her eyes.
“Anyway,” she says, “Mahrek works at a Sirta office on
the Presidium. He does cybersecurity work, or so he told me.”
Glass doors open, passing civilians, hanar preachers, flirting
asari. Two humans arguing loudly nearby, someone running up to them.
Garrus isn't sure, but he could swear that it's Shepard, but files
that away for later.
Noise hits them like a physical thing. Bartering, debating,
storefronts and offices flashing with lights. Working through a
crowd, a throng of every species, the two work their way towards a
door on the far end of the shopping center. Garrus narrows an eye,
the blue screen over it flickering.
“Is the armor necessary?” Tali asks.
“Quarian kid, living on the Citadel, breaks through a closed
circuit combat grade cybersuite? I like to be prepared.”
The door opens. A reception desk, offices in the back, wall screens
with news and stock information. An asari at the desk, young and
probably in Maiden stage who decided to check the 'clerical worker'
box instead of the 'mercenary prostitute' box on her life plan. She
looks up from her computer, stares at the two.
“Welcome to Sirta. What can I do for you?”
“Mahrek'Noktem vas Citadel,” Garrus says, “Spectre Authority.”
“He's-”
“Mister Harper, I understand your concerns, but I'd rather meet in
person or on visual FTL comm if you're asking for an upgrade on this
level.”
Quarian, accented. Sounds like Tali's accent, Garrus notes. Along
with the voice, the owner of it enters the room. The owner in this
case is a quarian, male, taller than Tali but shorter than Garrus.
His encounter suit is dark brown, lined with black, reddish black
boots on his two toed feet and dark brown, leathery gloves. His face
mask is dark blue, a pair of glowing sky blue eyes and the outline of
a nose visible, his mouth piece flickering. He lacks the belt and
harness Garrus saw on the marines Reegar was with.
He also doesn't seem as built, or stocky as them, either.
“Mister Harper, this isn't a small thing you're asking for. We're
talking top of the line stuff. I'd have to personally install most
of the components myself, because this is custom made. I mean
I-”
And he walks straight into Garrus' chestplate. He looks up. Garrus
smiles. The quarians screams, shrieking high pitched and powerful,
much like a little girl. But, much to Garrus' surprise, he doesn't
run.
“Am I in trouble?” he finally asks.
“No,” Garrus responds, “Not yet.”
And Garrus is none too gently shoved aside, Tali pushing up and into
the boy's line of view.
“Mahrek?”
He blinks.
“Tali?” he asks, and nods to Garrus, “He's a Spectre.”
“Yes.”
“Why do you know a Spectre?” he asks, “Am I in trouble? Your
father found out about me and wants me killed, doesn't he? This is
half the reason I left the fleet, you know, because I know he's the
only father you have but he's two seals short of a full suit-”
She grabs his helmet in both hands, and forces him to look directly
at her.
“Shut up,” she says, “I want to talk with you. I'm on the
Citadel, we've chatted on the Extranet, and you helped us destroy a 2
kilometer long dreadnought that wanted to kill everything forever.”
“I did?”
“Yes,” she responds, “Also, you're not a geth, a hanar, a
krogan, or a batarian pervert. So I think I at least owe you lunch.”
She tilts her head towards Garrus. “Which he's paying for.”
Mahrek nods. Garrus shrugs.
“Rysa?” Mahrek says, and clears his throat, “Could you take
messages for me? I'm going to take lunch, now.”
Before he can hear a response from the secretary, Tali grabs him by
the forearm and drags him out. Garrus shrugs.
“Could've sworn she had a thing for Alenko,” he says, and ambles
out. Probably have to keep them out of trouble, anyway.
significantly reduce the thermal image of the ship to sensors. Since
sensors are, by and large, the main method of ship to ship detection,
the reduced thermal electromagnetic imaging makes the ship highly
stealthy, and outright invisible to most conventional warships.”
Her suit responds like it is programmed to. Upon a lengthy
explanation of some fascinating feat or piece of technology, a straw
comes out the side and into her mouth, dispensing an herbal tea
solution which she sips on. Just in case she has to begin the
lecture again.
The turian blinks, staring at her. The elevator continues its
steady climb to the Presidium, and in that time Garrus Vakarian,
Citadel Spectre, has shown that he understands not a single word out
of the quarian girl's mouth.
“So wait,” Wrex says, “If the thermal masking reduces sensor
signature, what about visual profile recognition?”
Garrus glances at the krogan behind them. Then back at Tali.
“The vast majority of warships don't have windows that can be used
as visual ports,” she explains, “And besides which, space combat
is generally done at a range of tens of thousands of kilometers.”
“Didn't help the Normandy today,” Wrex responds, shrugging,
“From what I saw, it was the tens of kilometers. Besides which,
Krogan ships got into knife fight range.”
“But there is no Krogan spacefleets anymore.”
“Not officially,” Wrex responds, and glances at Garrus, “Ask
Vakarian.”
“Wrex...”
“Blood Pack,” Wrex continues, ignoring Garrus, “Clan Weyrloc
runs them, but the way Guld has his head up his own ass I wouldn't be
surprised if the Vorcha run'em in a few years. But they have ships,
and their ships knife fights. If the Normandy got into a fight with
a Blood Pack squadron, the stealth system wouldn't do squat.”
The elevator dings. The door slides down, revealing the white
walkways and lakes of the Presidium.
“Anyway,” Wrex says, “Great talkin' with ya, Tali. I gotta
make a Wards run.”
“Wards run?” Tali asks.
“I got a black market contact I use for equipment and mods,” he
responds with a shrug, “See you on the Big K.”
The krogan walks off, waving at them as he heads towards the
financial district, and the elevator leading to the Wards on the
Citadel's arms. Shrugging, Garrus walks out, Tali following him,
before speeding up her pace and walking alongside him.
“Thanks for helping me with this, Mr. Vakarian.”
“You can call me Garrus,” he responds, twitching his mandibles,
“I know I'm a Spectre and that apparently makes me important, but
I'm not that much older than you.”
“Really.”
He nods. Walking along the white walkways, they walk past the
embassies, uniformed humans and turians in the blue and black of
C-Sec saluting as he passes.
“I've been in the military since I was fifteen,” he explains,
“Instead of becoming a lifer, I followed Dad into C-Sec. I was
offered Spectre training, with the idea that I might end up as a
Spectre. Dad wasn't happy.”
“Why?”
“Spectres write their own rules,” he explains, walking through a
garden lined square, “And when your species' prominent Spectre is
Saren Arterius, you get a bad impression on what that power does to
someone. So, I did research. Found better examples than that
barefaced son of a bitch. And promised I'd live up to their
examples, not Saren's.”
Tali nods. She wrings her hands.
“Have you?”
“I don't involve civilians,” he says, “I don't kill unless
it's a last resort. Spectres enforce the law. They aren't the
law. That's what I go by. So, enough about me.” His mandibles
twitch. He grins. “Who's your friend?”
“Mahrek and I met on the Extranet.”
“Ah...”
“'Ah,' what?”
“Old saying,” he says with a smirk, “The Extranet: Where the
human males are human males, the human females are salarians, the
asari are hanar, and the underage quarians are Spectres.”
“That's...not reassuring.”
He shrugs.
“Your boyfriend managed to contact you during a closed circuit
combat situation,” Garrus responds, “For all we know, he's a
Geth. I've gone undercover as a quarian teenager myself, too.
Mainly to lure out this batarian pedophile.”
“Again. Not reassuring,” she says, and sighs, “Father likes
me using the Extranet to take advanced courses, not as much for
socializing. Especially with quarians who never return from their
Pilgrimage.”
“Who could be batarians.”
The points of light underneath the mask rise, move to the side, and
fall. Tali has just rolled her eyes.
“Anyway,” she says, “Mahrek works at a Sirta office on
the Presidium. He does cybersecurity work, or so he told me.”
Glass doors open, passing civilians, hanar preachers, flirting
asari. Two humans arguing loudly nearby, someone running up to them.
Garrus isn't sure, but he could swear that it's Shepard, but files
that away for later.
Noise hits them like a physical thing. Bartering, debating,
storefronts and offices flashing with lights. Working through a
crowd, a throng of every species, the two work their way towards a
door on the far end of the shopping center. Garrus narrows an eye,
the blue screen over it flickering.
“Is the armor necessary?” Tali asks.
“Quarian kid, living on the Citadel, breaks through a closed
circuit combat grade cybersuite? I like to be prepared.”
The door opens. A reception desk, offices in the back, wall screens
with news and stock information. An asari at the desk, young and
probably in Maiden stage who decided to check the 'clerical worker'
box instead of the 'mercenary prostitute' box on her life plan. She
looks up from her computer, stares at the two.
“Welcome to Sirta. What can I do for you?”
“Mahrek'Noktem vas Citadel,” Garrus says, “Spectre Authority.”
“He's-”
“Mister Harper, I understand your concerns, but I'd rather meet in
person or on visual FTL comm if you're asking for an upgrade on this
level.”
Quarian, accented. Sounds like Tali's accent, Garrus notes. Along
with the voice, the owner of it enters the room. The owner in this
case is a quarian, male, taller than Tali but shorter than Garrus.
His encounter suit is dark brown, lined with black, reddish black
boots on his two toed feet and dark brown, leathery gloves. His face
mask is dark blue, a pair of glowing sky blue eyes and the outline of
a nose visible, his mouth piece flickering. He lacks the belt and
harness Garrus saw on the marines Reegar was with.
He also doesn't seem as built, or stocky as them, either.
“Mister Harper, this isn't a small thing you're asking for. We're
talking top of the line stuff. I'd have to personally install most
of the components myself, because this is custom made. I mean
I-”
And he walks straight into Garrus' chestplate. He looks up. Garrus
smiles. The quarians screams, shrieking high pitched and powerful,
much like a little girl. But, much to Garrus' surprise, he doesn't
run.
“Am I in trouble?” he finally asks.
“No,” Garrus responds, “Not yet.”
And Garrus is none too gently shoved aside, Tali pushing up and into
the boy's line of view.
“Mahrek?”
He blinks.
“Tali?” he asks, and nods to Garrus, “He's a Spectre.”
“Yes.”
“Why do you know a Spectre?” he asks, “Am I in trouble? Your
father found out about me and wants me killed, doesn't he? This is
half the reason I left the fleet, you know, because I know he's the
only father you have but he's two seals short of a full suit-”
She grabs his helmet in both hands, and forces him to look directly
at her.
“Shut up,” she says, “I want to talk with you. I'm on the
Citadel, we've chatted on the Extranet, and you helped us destroy a 2
kilometer long dreadnought that wanted to kill everything forever.”
“I did?”
“Yes,” she responds, “Also, you're not a geth, a hanar, a
krogan, or a batarian pervert. So I think I at least owe you lunch.”
She tilts her head towards Garrus. “Which he's paying for.”
Mahrek nods. Garrus shrugs.
“Rysa?” Mahrek says, and clears his throat, “Could you take
messages for me? I'm going to take lunch, now.”
Before he can hear a response from the secretary, Tali grabs him by
the forearm and drags him out. Garrus shrugs.
“Could've sworn she had a thing for Alenko,” he says, and ambles
out. Probably have to keep them out of trouble, anyway.