Author's Note: Don't panic, regular readers! This story is not replacing my bi-weekly updates of my other fictions. This short story is a piece for a Control-Ending contest over at Aria's Afterlife Forums (if you're a Mass Effect fan and not already posting over there, you should check it out) on fanfiction dot net. I'll be updating this story daily, yes, daily! until it's concluded. Which I suspect will be weekend, or Monday at the latest. Hope you enjoy it.

Steven's Sacrifice

Chapter 1

Phoenix

How many ships could say they'd been commanded by the man who'd saved the galaxy?

Only two, as far as Admiral Steven Hackett knew, and the bones of one of those ships now littered the surface of Alchera, final resting place of the crew of the Normandy SR-1 who hadn't survived the prototype's destruction at the hands of the Collectors.

The second ship to bear the name Normandy had done better than her predecessor. She'd travelled to the lethal galactic core, gone up against the Collectors with guns blazing and engines screaming, and come out of it in one piece. She'd been in the thick of the action during the battle for the Crucible, running rings around Reapers that out-gunned her by a factor of hundreds. She'd been a symbol of hope for military personnel and civilians alike. Indeed, she'd been just as famous as the man who'd commanded her. She wasn't just a ship; she was Shepard's ship.

So, of course, Admiral Hackett felt like an interloper as he stepped up to the captain's position at the aft of the Normandy's CIC. Detecting his presence, the ship automatically brought up a map of the region, a beautiful display of swirling lights which indicated nearby star systems and their corresponding mass relays.

"Awaiting your orders, Admiral," said EDI, her voice coming in loud and clear over the Normandy's speakers.

"How does it feel to be linked up to the Normandy again, EDI?" Hackett asked her.

"I believe the correct analogy is 'like coming home,' Admiral."

He smiled. Yes. It was very much a homecoming for the ship's artificial intelligence.

"Joker, how's everything looking from the cockpit?" Hackett enquired.

When the pilot replied, it was with his unique style of light-hearted irreverence.

"I can't believe I ever thought this seat was comfortable. Remind me to invent a time machine, then I can go back and tell my younger self to tell the Illusive Man to install one of those awesome poly-suria seats, like the one on the Viking."

"Jeff," EDI spoke up, a tone of eternal patience echoing in her synthetic voice, "even if you were able to travel through time, and survive the journey, and locate your younger self at the correct moment, he would not be able to relay such a suggestion to the Illusive Man as poly-suria had not been invented when the Normandy SR-2 was constructed."

"I know, EDI." Joker sighed, and Hackett could imagine the pilot rolling his eyes at his AI counterpart. "It was a joke."

"Oh. I see. Ha ha ha."

Hackett shook his head, but he couldn't help the smile that played across his lips. "Some things never change. Joker, how is everything but the furniture?"

"Engines are in the green, Tantalus drive core is purring like a kitten, and we have a Go from flight control."

"Good. Take us out of the Earth's orbit on a heading to the Charon Relay."

"Our destination, Admiral?"

"Tuchanka."

"Ahh, Tuchanka. I haven't been there since the mother of all threshers took down a Reaper and almost ate the Normandy in the process. Good times."

Hackett felt a gentle thrum as power surged through the Normandy's conduits. You didn't get that thrum on newer ships; their bulkheads were lined with a material designed to better insulate and regulate the power-flow.

Thrum.

That was the Normandy breaking out of the Earth's orbit.

Thrum.

Joker just switched from atmospheric thrusters to the main drive core.

Thrum.

Sub-light engines activated. The Normandy was now gliding through space like a dolphin through water, and to anybody watching from the planet's surface she would appear nothing more than a rapidly dwindling speck of light.

"I still can't believe they let us take her out of the San Francisco Ship Museum," Joker said.

"One of the perks of being Admiral of the Earth Military Fleet," Hackett chuckled.

"Admiral?" It was EDI, appearing in her holographic form beside the relay map. Hackett knew that when she appeared like this, it was a personal appearance, not broadcast over the comm system. "Should I ask one of the crew-members to fetch a seat for you, from the mess?"

"Oh, no, no need for anything like that," he said quickly. True, his bones ached a lot more these days than they used to, and there was a slight stoop to his shoulders that hadn't been there a few years ago, but he hadn't thought anybody had noticed his age creeping up on him; and he certainly hadn't thought the AI would notice it.

EDI disappeared, and Hackett glanced around to make sure none of the crew had overhead the exchange. He wasn't sensitive about his age; eighty-five was a lot younger than it had been before the time of life-enhancing medical treatment, and to date he hadn't needed a single hip replacement. But the crew needed a strong leader, and though he knew they wouldn't respect him any less if they learnt that time was finally catching up with him, he didn't want any special treatment because of it. He wasn't sick, he was just approaching his sell-by date.

There was a palpable tension in the air of the CIC, half excitement, half nervousness. Since being restored to her former glory and put on display in the SFS-Museum, the Normandy hadn't even so much as glimpsed open space. Of course, there had been critics and nay-sayers. She'll never fly! they claimed. And even if she flies, she'll never jump!

Hackett knew better, and he had to give Cerberus their due; they'd built the SR-2 well. It would have been easy for them to have scrimped on cost, to replace certain materials with sub-standard counterparts. But they hadn't. They'd not only matched the old ship, but bettered her. The Normandy's second incarnation was larger, faster, and more powerful. It also helped that Shepard's crew had modified and upgraded her in different ways, in preparation for her mission against the Collectors. Her Thanix cannon packed a powerful punch. Or at least it had, twenty years ago. He didn't know whether the cannon would still work, and he wasn't eager to try.

"Approaching the Charon Relay," said Joker. "Might wanna hold on to something steady, Admiral. The old girl hasn't seen a mass relay in two decades; I've got a feeling she's getting excited."

Thrum.

Hackett decided to take Joker's advice, and placed one of his hands firmly on the railing. The tension in the air rose, the crew speaking in eager tones, their eyes shining with the reflected light of the CIC computers. Most of these men and women hadn't served on a stealth-ship before. Now that the Reapers were no longer a threat, and galactic peace had been achieved, there was no need for stealth-ships. The Normandy was the last of her kind; all of her sisters had been destroyed during the battle for the Crucible, twenty years past. Of course, the military still kept the old schematics in their database, just in case galactic peace wasn't as permanent as everyone hoped. You never knew when the designs for an advanced stealth frigate might come in handy.

Most of the crew were Normandy virgins, but a select few had manned their stations before. Finding survivors from those times hadn't been easy. Only two of the bridge crew had served aboard the SR-1, and with Adams in engineering and Dr Chakwas—the old battle-axe still wading her way through injured soldiers—manning the medbay, that brought the total to four. The cook and the communications officer were ex-Cerberus, and had served during the SR-2's mission against the collectors. Samantha Traynor, now a Commander herself, was acting as the XO for this 'mission,' and, of course, Joker was here, along with EDI. And that was it. Less than a dozen crewmembers who knew what it was to be part of the Normandy. To be a part of the legend.

Thrum.

Hackett felt the ship shudder as it hit the relay and the FTL drive kicked in. He told himself that it was a shudder of excitement, that the Normandy would not be felled by a simple FTL jump after everything she'd endured in her life. Another brief quiver and the ship did not let her crew down. As she sped forward through the cold depths of space, Hackett turned his gaze to one of the small observation windows, and saw the multi-hued aura that surrounded all vessels as they travelled faster than light encompassing the ship, a slip-stream nimbus of colours that danced across his vision.

Thank you, old girl, he thought to the Normandy, patting the railing.

"This is the galaxy's number one pilot reporting from the cockpit," Joker said over the comm. "Just thought I'd let you know that at our current velocity and drift, we'll be at Tuchanka in under an hour."

"Adams here," said the chief engineer. "Drive core is operating within accepted tolerance, and I'm keeping a close eye on it, Admiral. It might take a couple of jumps for all the dust to clear out of the vents."

"Admiral," said EDI's disembodied voice, "I am pleased to report that the Normandy's heat sinks have not lot storage capacity since the ship was last used, and I calculate we should be able to make all of our stops and return to Earth before we will need to discharge them."

"Good work, people," Hackett said. He purposely raised his voice so that those on the bridge could hear him too. "I never doubted the success of this mission, or the dedication of this crew. Those of you serving here for the first time will never have another chance like this." He smiled. "So whilst we have a little quiet time, you might want to take his opportunity to get the photographs out of the way. Pictures of you serving aboard the Normandy will be something to show your grandkids."

"I have to say," Joker piped up, "it feels great to be back in this seat, all physical discomfort aside. I'd almost forgotten how smooth and fast the Normandy is. It's been too long since we last danced."

"Try to keep dancing to a minimum until we return to Earth please, Joker. Now, I'm going to head up to the captain's quarters, and file some reports for HQ." The Alliance would want to know that the 'mission' was off to a good start. Of course, they probably already knew that by the fact that the Normandy hadn't been scattered all over Sol upon her encounter with the Charon Relay. But they'd still want reports. They always did.

"Aye, sir. I'll contact you once we reach Tuchanka."

Hackett turned to step off the CIC deck, but when a thought occurred to him, he pressed the comm button once more.

"Joker, you are not, under any circumstances, to activate the ship's stealth system in an attempt to 'sneak up' on Tuchanka. I want the krogans to see us coming."

"Haha, I hadn't even considered it, Admiral," Joker offered lamely.

"I'm sure. EDI, make sure our pilot behaves."

"Of course, Admiral," EDI purred. "I will keep a very close eye on Jeff."

Finally satisfied there would be no surprises during the journey, Hackett left the CIC and stepped into the elevator. He didn't bother checking out the preparations in the observation lounge – the cook would be handling matters there, and everybody knew that too many cooks spoilt the broth. Instead, he went straight to the captain's quarters. All of Shepard's stuff was still here; the tiny model ships he'd collected on his travels, the aquarium that was eerily empty of fish because the museum curators hadn't trusted the Normandy staff with their care on this journey, even a framed photo of Liara on Shepard's desk.

This was all that was left of Shepard. The Alliance hadn't had a body to bury, in the wake of the Reaper withdrawal, so his personal effects had been kept here, where the saviour of the galaxy had lived and worked. For twenty years this room had been a shrine, a Mecca for those who wanted to give thanks to Shepard for all he'd sacrificed, but couldn't find any other way of doing it. For twenty years this room, this ship, had been the San Francisco Ship Museum's biggest tourist attraction, and they hadn't liked letting the the old girl back out into space. But nobody refused a request from the Admiral of the Fleet.

The room felt empty. Forlorn. The space cried out to be lived in and used for something more than hero-worship by daily groups of strangers, some of them too young to remember what it felt like to look up from Earth and see Reapers descending. And for the second time that day, Steven Hackett knew that he didn't belong here. He was a poor substitute for the man who had saved the galaxy. But sometimes a poor substitute was all you had to work with.