Chapter 14: A Noble Knight

Chancellor Durazo was on the verge of a headache. A mean bastard of one too, the type that usually came as a result of her brace being connected too long. Or maybe it was because the War Cabinet had been going for five minutes and it was already grating on her sanity.

The War Cabinet was the UHG's response to times of significant crisis. In the history of the new Charter of Humanity it had only been assembled once: when the Didact recovered the Composer and set a course for Sol. Now, on the eve of what could very easily be war with another galactic power, the Assembly voted to instate the War Cabinet. And so, she was here, listening to her personal Cabinet bicker with the Board of Admirals, the Assembly Committee for Defense, and Paknak the Party Elephant for all she knew. It was 80 people in suits who were used to being the most impressive people in the room. In other words, it was hell.

There was no grand discussion of strategy, cooperation, or even a system of discussion. There was, in fact, no precedent for anything of the sort. The last Cabinet had been just under 15 people, and was primarily run by the remnant of the UNSC Dictatorship. Getting people to commit to things was easy when you'd known and served with each other for decades. It was not easy when there were 8 times as many people, half of whom native to civilian government, all of whom hated each other with significant amounts of vitriol.

The Chancellor ran down the list of important faces in her head. Senator Mata Banjajee was the head of the Opposition Coalition in the Assembly, leader of the largest Outer Colony political party and the head of the Assembly Committee for Defense. The fact that her former rival for Chancellorship was the least of her problems was telling. Lord-Admiral Prakesh was seated somewhere, along with the entirety of the Board of Admirals in various states of debate and/or screaming. Admiral Sierra was whispering menacingly at a corner of the table, as ONI Heads were wont to do. And most importantly, sitting at the far edge of the table, was a Sangheili. The Ambassador for the Swords of Sanghelios, Kor 'Dathm, was himself rather collected, compared to the mass of humanity surrounding him at all times. This was certainly by design: the fact that a Sangheili was on Earth at all was, to be frank, an utter shitshow. Nobody wanted to get in the gleaming Ambassador's way for fear of another diplomatic incident, and so everyone kept a wide berth from him. 'Datham seemed just fine with that, as he lapped his tea bright-eyed, watching the carnage unfold.

The current argument was something about the Chancellor overstepping her bounds by allowing 'those wretched Elite dogs' into UHG territory to help retake Shanxi. Given the fact that they weren't even sure Drescher was still alive, refusing all help out of principle seemed foolish at best. Of course, she'd already said that, at least twice in the first minute. It hadn't worked out all that well. Really, the whole thing wasn't working out all that well. She had to act. So she did.

It was simple really. All she had to do was stand. The Sangheili was the first to follow, raising eyebrows across the room. An Assemblyman in the middle of a tirade about the 'four-jaws' looked like he'd seen Christ himself appear with a plasma sword. He noticed the Chancellor before he called for security at least. The whole room fell to silence, and stood. She smiled, and spoke. "I'm glad I have everyone's attention. As you may be aware, we are in the midst of a significant crisis that must be addressed, not by shouting, but by working as a team. Right now, the Admiralty has no new information on the status of Drescher's Fleet, so shouting at each other in the meantime is no use. Right now we should be discussing preparations for the defense of our people. Minister of Defense, what is being done?"

Zimmerman smiled at her, and remained standing as she took her seat, along with everyone in the room. "We've already begun coordinating a raising of COLCON to Level Green in a 500 lightyear radius around the Shanxi System. We're alerting the Army Reserves, and organizing Task Force HIPPODROME from the 8th, 9th, and 10th fleets stationed Earthside of the Dead Zone. They'll be ready to push off in a day, and they'll have comms ships this time, so we aren't put in this sort of position again."

Zimmerman motioned to his partner, Minister of State Blomgren, who began laying out their plans, while the Chancellor zoned off. Of course they'd prepared for this. Everyone knew that the Committee for Defense hated the Admiralty, that the Admiralty hated the Committee for Defense, and that they both would take hours to settle into the talking semi-peacefully mood. That's why she'd orchestrated that little show. That's why the UHG had an Executive. She smiled as the room settled into something close to normal discussion, and joined it herself.

The chat went on for an hour until an aide interrupted the meeting. He was out of breath, and red of face. Important news tended to do that to messengers. "Excuse me! I have an important message for the Cabinet!" The silence came quickly. The Chancellor grew stiff in her speech.

"I imagine this is about Admiral Drescher?"

The aide had to force himself to look at her. "We've only received a text message from her, it's only now been decrypted." He pressed a few buttons on his tablet, before adding, "I've just sent it to your screen." He bowed his head, and shuffled to the exit.

The murmuring of the Cabinet echoed in the room, but she quickly stood to stop all that. She pulled the tablet from the table, and scanned over it quickly, to prepare for the delivery of the news. She couldn't hide the grin. "Drescher reports strategic victory, requests a diplomatic envoy, end message."

The room erupted.

"So he is dead." John intoned. The Spartan had known the Arbiter for, in the grand scheme of things, less than a week. He had only barely learned his real name by the time the Dawn escaped the Ark. But still, it stung to hear the truth.

"Yes, human. But do not despair, for his death was in honorable sacrifice, to stop a Forerunner construct attacking your homeworld."

"Wasn't the type to die of old age, was he?" John stalked around the interior of the Phantom. Shadow of a Falling Blade was a relic of an old war, a Type-52 Phantom retrofitted with a stealth cloak. Poorly, by Cortana's estimation. Really, everything in this ship seemed slapped together. The plasmas looked old and weathered, the controls damaged; the hull itself bore obvious scars of battle, and the crew? Well, they were certainly something. There were four Elites on board, with Wi'Pensek as their leader. All of their armor looked battered and worn, the sallow green stained even on the Shipmaster. This was of course without mentioning the UNSC marine who'd managed to hitch a ride. Lt. Massani, one of the Marines that found him on the Dawn, offered to take the boy for a moment while the Spartan spoke to the Shipmaster.

"No… no he wasn't. In the last few decades the Knights of Sanghelios have become… less focused on our original mission, but there are some of us that have kept up the search, as the Arbiter commanded."

Cortana decided to pitch in at that. "We thank you, Shipmaster. Your help has been-"

"Humans, do not thank me for something of this triviality. Your actions freed my people from servitude, taught them of truth, and saved them from genocide. A short ride on this rusted shell is of no matter in comparison."

John let the refusal wash over him, focusing on the key detail. "Short ride?"

"Yes, Spartan, It seems a UNSC detachment has managed to rout the enemy over Shanxi, so we will be transferring you to them. We would appreciate it if your AI would transmit appropriate codes to allow us through."

"I'll insert Cortana now, if you'll excuse me I should talk with the child." The elite bowed its head in response, and accepted Cortana's data chip. John made his way back towards the aft of the ship, and found Aiden and the Lieutenant lounging in seats much too large for humans.

"I mean, the eyepatch is something of a long story, but it's not like we're going anywhere so- Master Chief?" Massani shot out of his seat, and saluted.

"I'm not your superior, Lieutenant, there's no need. You outrank me now, remember?"

"Sir… no man alive outranks you, no offense." Zaeed looked down sheepishly, before changing the subject. "So… anything new from those hingies back there? I heard about some new developments, but then we heard the distress call."

"A Battle Group has routed enemy forces, we're meeting up with them now."

"Wait, we're saved?" The wind blew out of the young marine's sails. "I… did they say who it was?"

"Cortana's finding that out now, so I suggest you get ready for disembarking."

"Holy shit… yes sir, hey Aiden, I'll tell you that story some other time okay?" The boy beamed in response, as the marine gathered the sparse equipment he'd claimed for himself and left the little room.

"Earth sent someone to help us?" Aiden asked, before answering with, "They took their time I guess..."

John didn't have a response for that, so he sat next to the boy and took off his helmet. The air tasted strange aboard Covenant ships. Or, Sangheili ships. He sighed, and let the weariness run off him for a moment. Provided that nothing horrendous happened in the next few minutes, he'd be on a Human ship for the first time in weeks. Safe for the first time in almost a month. How long had he been protecting this boy? A week? Just over? And now they were the safest they'd been yet on an alien spacecraft crewed by a species that had been his enemy for decades. It was one thing to fight alongside them. It was another to let your guard down completely on their home turf.

"Hey, Chief?" Aiden asked, tired of the silence, "What's your real name? I mean, your mom didn't name you Master, did she?" He giggled slightly, before catching himself, "Not that it's a bad name I mean-"

"I'm John."

"Oh. Well, hi John."

The spartan turned his head to look at the boy, clothing still tattered and in places covered in pale purple flecks, and smiled. "Hi."

The rendezvous with the relief force took no time at all. Aiden was asking questions about John that nobody had ever asked him. About his home, and his friends and Cortana and even the armor he wore. The boy would point to a scratch or small indent, and ask where it came from. John remembered every shot he took, so it was never all that difficult to give a story. The Spartan didn't immediately notice the return of Zaeed and a Sangheili he'd befriended, nor did he notice the gradual filling of the space around him. John was engrossed in the stories he was telling, in the story of his armor and his helmet, of his battles against terrorists and genocidal maniacs and all consuming nightmares. Even after he'd noticed the awed crowd, he continued in his tale of the assault on the Arc, of his encounter with Guilty Spark, of his escape through the collapsing Halo Superstructure. The Spartan had simply stopped caring about orders. About giving nothing away, letting nothing slip past the iron trap. He'd bottled so much inside himself. He was going to let it go.

John had never been the best story-teller, but it didn't matter when all you said was history-making. John never hammed anything up. Not his defeats, not his victories, nothing. There was no need when John's memory of battle was so exquisite. His exploits so legendary. The four hour flight to their rendezvous took no time at all. By the end, even the Shipmaster listened near the back wall. John was never focused on any of them though. He was focused on the boy, on the little expressions of amazement, on the smiles and the crinkling of his eyes. It felt right to see that unhindered by his shattered visor. That was all he could think. It felt time flew by, and the Shadow used that time well. Proximity alarms went off right as John was describing the escape from the Ark, sending his audience into groans, and exclamations of protest. John smirked as he stood, returning his helmet to its familiar place. It was time to face the music.

John wasn't exactly sure what he was expecting, as the Shadow closed for . It had, of course, been a hundred years since he'd seen a modern human ship. But this was simply insane. At first, he'd been surprised that the proximity alarm had gone off so late, given how large the vessel had looked through the force fields. That surprise soon turned into amazement. Then awe. He'd never seen a human vessel like it.

The Indomitable was spinning lazily on its axis, angling slightly for the reception of the Sangheili craft. It was odd, really. John had been on a thousand motherships, and not one had corrected their course for him. Certainly nothing so large. Even in the great size reducer, space, the Super Carrier looked like power incarnate, bustling with servant ships and raw intimidation. There was a part of him, deep within, that jumped for joy at seeing it. A small memory of before. Of childhood, when John used to sit with his father at the spaceport, watching the ships take off into the unkno-

"Prepare for docking procedures, Chief." Cortana whispered in his ear. "Might want to polish those boots, I think we're gonna have a crowd down there."

The memory slipped through John's fingers, and the Spartan was left with only a wry comment on his lips. "Might have forgotten to pack any." He said, swallowing the bubbling emotions. "You planned this, didn't you?"

Cortana appeared in a dialogue box at his right, smiling his answer. "I mean, I could have used a generic AI IFF, but I kinda missed saying 'Sierra One One Seven' at people. Cut a girl some slack, would ya?"

John rolled his eyes. Two long, sleek craft -heavy fighters by their armament- joined the alien craft in perfect diamond formation. Escorts, evidently. Entirely unnecessary this close to the hangar, but flashy. Meant to impress the citizens starving for patriotic fervor back home. Or maybe for the Spartan himself? The idea almost made him laugh. All this for him? Unlikely. The Phantom was guided into the hangar bay, past the still bustling crews working to keep the war machine running. Their destination would lie deeper within, the ceremonial hangers used for diplomatic visits. John had only seen these hangars from the floor. But as the fighters peeled off, and the Phantom rounded a corner, John learned what it looked like from on high.

There was a sea of white. John's eyes told him it was not a sea, but soldiers standing in dress white. His brain did not believe them, even as it was true. That little disagreement distracted the Spartan from the landing, and from the fact that Cortana was telling him to report to the port exit. He did so quickly, skipping past the Shipmaster, already present, waiting in deference. John asked the Elite to open the door, and he did so without comment. No, his eyes were not deceiving him. How could they? Before him stood an army. Well, likely a ceremonial battalion. A thousand men and women come to welcome someone home. Their boots seemed to glow in the warm light of the hanger. The medals they wore glinting. A person was already marching towards him, clad in the same white. A woman, the Captain of the Guard most likely, maintaining perfect composure. She held aloft the ceremonial banner of the Indomitable. Her march stopped bare feet from the Spartan. She looked up, and saluted with her off hand, which he accepted with a salute of his own. Then, she spoke.

"Master Chief Petty Officer John-117, you are humbly invited aboard the UNSC Indomitable." Her voice wavered in the words, emotion already building in her throat. Chief remained as stoic as ever. Outside the helmet anyway.

"Thank you, Ma'am. You're relieved of the flag." She smiled and flipped the banner, presenting it to the Spartan, before tucking the cloth end into the crook of her arm, and stepping to the side. Somewhere people called orders and the sea of white shifted, facing the now cleared path forward. His path forward. Chief stood still for a lingering moment, before walking down the aisle. A thousand and one soldiers had tears in their eyes.

Cabals, being one of the most valuable assets in the Turian Special Forces, were trained regularly and rigorously in the art of escaping dangerous compounds. Jourdai could faintly remember the mantra his instructors had drilled into him. Location, navigation, exfiltration. Find out where you are, where you're going and how to get there, and the best way to do so. Underground bunkers weren't exactly part of the training, but bunkers were quite like starships, at least conceptually. Airtight, packed with people, with only a select few exits. If anything, bunkers were somewhat simpler. Up was always the way out, for one. For the other, nobody is ever ready for an intruder within their walls. Everyone, from the snootiest Asari to the most despicable Vorcha, feels safe inside their little encapsulated home. No matter the drills they face, the soldiers they fight, the truths they know, that primal feeling of safety lingers. The way a brain finds sleep in the night. It made even the best sloppy. And these refugees? Not the best. Still, underestimation is the greatest killer this galaxy has ever known; it had already made a blunder of the invasion itself. It had already killed so many Turians. Jourdai wouldn't let it kill him too.

Currently, he was still inside his cell. The male human, his would-be torturer, was currently laying in a pool of blood, a bullet hole still sizzling at his temple. The female was still shivering wordlessly, another shot in her belly. Apparently, humans were far less susceptible to blood loss than Turians, given the fact that she was still alive with that much red on the floor. Jourdai had gagged her when her screaming hadn't ended within 30 seconds, unwilling to waste a shot. Too weak to try something more permanent. Luckily, this part of the prison seemed empty of visitors, and furthermore, soundproof. It gave him more time to think.

He'd taken the cube translator, one of those infernal bullet cartridges the humans loved so much, and quickly wolfed down the remainder of his meal from the previous day. The foul smelling broth tasted far better than it had for the last week, and it filled him with determination. He'd had a plan for a while now, but it was the kind of plan that the mind daydreams in its off hours, ethereal and abstract. Everything had become deadly serious in a very short amount of time. So, he worked on the plan as he frantically gathered supplies.

It was likely there were other Turians down here, so the first priority was finding them. How he would do that was another question entirely, but he assumed that they would be close by at least. After that, take a prisoner of some kind. Use the cube to interrogate them, find an exit, and escape. Easy, right? Jourdai chuckled darkly as he started to push open the door out. He was so screwed.

He wasn't sure what he was expecting of the outside. He'd seen out the cell door numerous times, of course. But the bare white of the few feet surrounding the exit did little justice to the clean white halls of the exterior. Bright white light burned from LED panels in the ceiling, illuminating the alabaster floors and walls. The monotony was broken up only by the illegible human script in bold red letters, and the grey doors that marked the entrances to cells. A quick peek inside them dashed his hopes quickly. All of the cells in this hall were empty, bare of anything but the familiar grey-green of the cell walls. It stung, but not unexpectedly. It would never be that easy, would it?

Jourdai hobbled his way to the end of the hall, and pushed open the door to find more of the same. Six doors and shining lights. Great. Of course, this had to be interrupted by the door on the far side of the hall creaking violently, followed by the voices of more humans. Jourdai practically jumped, before choosing one of the cells and ripping the doors open. Jourdai had the door closed just as a loud crash signaled the opening of the far door.

There were two things immediately apparent to Jourdai once he entered this room. One: He wasn't alone. Another Turian, an infantryman by his tattoos, was staring in a mix between surprise and terror at his fellow bloody Turian. Two: The cube was speaking. Spitting out whatever words it could translate from the indistinct conversation outside.

"-procreating door, fixed not soon [correct?]."

Jourdai started randomly hitting buttons on the screen in a panic, as the sounds echoed around the chamber.

"If! [Laughter]. Plans after {Name: Untamable?} arrives." Another voice bellowed from the device, as the other Turian tried to calm Jourdai down.

"Ha, take cleaning ritual probably! Going to come today with help team, hope they bring {item, food, snack}... do you hear that?" The other Turian took the cube from Jourdai's hands, and shushed him as he lowered the volume, while starting to sing.

At a whisper, the cube continued to speak under the assault of a Palaven nursery rhyme. "[Displeasure] it is just that {Prehistoric Lizard: Turian} singing-harshly-vocalizing again…" The door opened, then closed, as the danger passed away without incident. The turian, though, seemed frantic in excitement.

"By Valuvia! A fucking person! And a fucking kabalim to boot! Shit…" The excitement quickly died down, replaced by the more formal tone a rank and file soldier took towards the Cabal. "I'm Bedas… and apparently we're locked in here together now, unless you know how to use these primie weapons…"

This female was a sight for sore eyes. Even in her somewhat emaciated state (what with being fed broth for weeks) the fact that she was a real Turian, flesh and blood and everything, with mandibles and fringes and… okay. Relax. "I have something better, my friend." I retrieved the key, showing it off briefly before standing and looking out the window. The coast was clear, at least for now, and Jourdai opened the door.

"Spirits, and I thought being a kabalim was the crazy part…" Bedas stood shakily, before propping herself against the walls.

"Have you seen any other Turians while you were here?" Jourdai asked, holding the door for his considerably weaker counterpart.

She pointed to where the guards came from. "There are a couple more in the next few cell blocks, I think they're still fine, but only the Spirits know… we're breaking them out too, right?" Jourdai nodded, offering her a shoulder as they started towards the door. She sighed, "Good… It's… been a long time since I've seen my men…" Jourdai said nothing. Every Turian could understand the feeling.

The next ten or so minutes passed without encounters. The next hall contained two soldiers, the following, three, the last, four. All of them were regular infantry, which caused a twinge of worry. But he paid it no mind, he had no fear that his own team had made out. At least, that's what his brain told his heart. The story of this band of captives pieced together as they liberated the squad. Bedas' command had been cut off behind enemy lines at the Spire, and was quickly surrounded and captured. Unlike Jourdai, most of these forces remember being brought into the tunnels for processing, and a few had an idea of where to go. Jourdai said little through the plan making process. Despite being their savior, rank and file of the Turian Armed Forces rarely warmed up to members of the Kabals, especially a kablim. So he kept quiet, and became a follower of the gestalt thing that was the Turian group.

Really, the plan was more of the same. Keep going up, avoid human contact, find weapons, get the hell out. Unfortunately, the universe had other plans. The common areas of the bunker were nothing like the prison, this part of the bunker, was made of simple concrete and exposed pipe.. There were few weapons beyond the Kabalim's gun, so the group were armed with essentially nothing but malnourished muscle and their talons, as barbaric as it was. They took the back paths wherever they could, hid from the small groups of humans that wandered the halls, most of them looking like civilians rather than the lightly armored guards they dodged previously. It was luck that kept them hidden in the pitch black maintenance shafts and air ducts. Creeping slowly past the pinpricks of light that shone through shoddy construction and entranceways. Wooden and metal doors that looked as if they'd creak with a breath. The luck ran out when a human popped his head in, asking a question in that infernal language of theirs.

Of course, he didn't really get to finish it. As soon as the door opened the group of Turians jumped, and as the human entered, he was grabbed quickly, kicking and screaming, into the semi-darkness they'd been trudging through. Jourdai's order to close the door was practically redundant before he uttered a word, as a chorus of whispers and muffled screams echoed down the long corridor. Eventually, as the Turians holding him showed no signs of releasing him, the man's screams turned to muffled cries, then to a huffing silence. The tools he was wearing (quickly repurposed to weapons), along with the practical jumpsuit, made the man out to be part of maintenance, which made him too much of an asset to kill just yet. All that was needed was an interrogator, and with the cube and his lengthy experience with humans, Jourdai was the best they had.

Of course, arguing that to a bunch of jumpy soldiers with biotics trust issues wasn't as easy as logically explaining the reasons. It took support from Bedas, and a subtle reminder of who had saved them all, to keep everyone in line. Unmuting the cube, the Kabalim spoke. "Human, where is the exit."

The human spoke frantically, and the cube practically gave up trying to translate at all. "No hurt (...) god's shielding helps me, I am nothing, I create/destroy, location store sought {stone writing implement} holds {deity/religious figure}..."

"What is this stone writing implement? Does it have a map?"

The human, after parsing whatever jumble shot out at it, nodded, which was translated as a yes. "My container on my previous yes! I possess it, just free me!"

"I… check him for some sort of stone or metal. It might have a map of some kind." Jourdai muted the cube as the human quieted, watching the Turians rifle through the pockets and large pack on his back. It only took a moment to find something: a large, thick slate that illuminated when it was in the open. Jourdai grinned, and turned the cube back on. "Is this it? How does it work?"

The human looked relieved. "Let me touch it. Unspools with hand memory, yes?" Jourdai handed the object over, lacking a real alternative. Still, he watched the human as he tapped his finger to the device, and navigated a series of dull green and blue windows. He found what he was looking for quickly, before setting some kind of dot at a position near the outside of what must have been the map. After this, he tapped the dot, setting it a glowing red. "There is location. We are triangled point here." He pointed to an arrow somewhat close to the waypoint, and set that to a glowing purple. "Look hurt not right?"

The Kabalim smiled, and muted the cube. "Gag him, he's coming with us."

The weight of the galaxy hung on Desolas' shoulders. The bridge saw it weighing him down, and refused to bother him with reports on the Human construct's slow siege against their ship, or the landing of human vessels on the planet, or the human vanguard slowly inching their way closer to the Relay. What remained of the Turian fleet stood now in defense of the Relay, a skeleton force that dwindled by the minute. Individual Captains were surrendering their vessels to Admiral Drescher, and a commodore had already surrendered a scout wing, some 10 vessels, to the enemy. There were 15 minutes left, and it soon wouldn't matter if he decided to surrender at all.

The Admiral stared out the front window. The stars were beautiful today, as they always were. This system, whatever the humans called it, was only a lightyear from a beautiful nebula. To the man on the bridge, not privy to the machinations of the Universal Spirits, it resembled a Tipei, a fish found in the tide pools of Giantrami. The small ridges and the tail whiskers made the resemblance uncanny. He was quite familiar with the Tipei, because he and his brother used to fish for them in their spare time, between school and chores and other, less outdoors activity.

Saren always volunteered to dive into the tidal pools; to noodle for the fish all by himself. Desolas always thought that his little brother knew he was claustrophobic, and hated it down there. So, for that reason, it'd be Desolas, the older kid, the one that was traditionally supposed to be diving into the dark caverns the Tipei dug, holding the rope for his younger. Saren was always a bit of a risk taker. Always edging for the deeper caverns with the bigger fish, the beaches privately owned and sometimes even patrolled.

The last night Desolas spent at home, before he left for the navy, Saren convinced him to do this one last fishing trip, just for the two of them. Had this new spot in mind too. 'Course, he hadn't told him that the 'new spot' was in the Vindlrig Estate, a well respected family with a state-of-the-art drone security system. Needless to say, they were caught quickly, arrested for trespassing, and... well, guess who took the fall for that one? It cost Desolas his ticket into officer school, and a chunk of social credit, but at least it saved Saren from the same fate. The memory made him smile now, but 20 years ago? He was fuming: at himself, at his 9 year old brother, at the world for putting him in such a situation. For a while, the current Desolas felt similarly. But just like his past self, he settled on the right thing to do.

There was a great and terrible sigh. The Admiral scratched just below a mandible, and took one last look at the nebula. It shone a vibrant blue and white, its colors playing off each other, glowing and basking in the light of a billion suns. He typed something on his omnitool, and sent it off to the Ambassador's ship. She might as well have some forewarning about this. Next, he walked to the Engineering head, and told them to shut down the engines, and set operational power to 10%. The officer looked relieved, yet sullen. To Weapons, he told them to stop spooling, and vent heat into auxiliary sinks. People around the bridge were starting to realize what was happening. There was no conversation now. Desolas could hear the echo of his boots on the cold floor of the bulkhead beneath him. He told comms to place a transmission to all remaining Turian forces in the system. Order 111. The comms officer nodded, and did so. All forces would turn off their weapons and go to emergency power. Just as Desolas had done. Desolas then told Comms to aim their tightbeam at the human flag ship, and broadcast verbatim to the rest of his fleet.

"This is Vice Admiral Desolas Arterius, of THS Reticent. I hereby surrender the task force I currently control to the Admiral Kastanie Drescher. Treat our spirit with mercy."

Desolas passed his command to the XO, and left the bridge.

A/N:

Reports of my death have been somewhat exaggerated. This is the End of Part Two. If I'm honest, I didn't actually think I'd make it to this point on this story. I especially didn't think I'd make it to over 1000 favorites! I'm glad all of you enjoyed my nerdy love letter to my two favorite game series, and I hope you continue to! As always, leave your reviews if you have them, I greatly appreciate it.

-Turtle from Space