Prologue

The immense heat of the sun, Aralakh, bathed the arid terrain of Tuchanka in a warm, orange glow that juxtaposed entirely with the nature of the planet. The world was anything but warm and inviting. Sheltered beneath the scorched earth a distant rumble grew steadily louder. The stone slabs that bordered a path of some kind vibrated while smaller fragments, caught in the resonance, danced along the middle. From around a bend came a pounding stampede of twelve stubby limbs. Twelve soon became eight as fatigue conquered one varren and its gallop deteriorated into an ample behind the two speedier specimens. Only deep, aggressive snarls punctuated the unwavering sound of laboured panting that emanated from the advancing, quadrupedal beasts. Muscles and sinews, usually concealed beneath stripped, khaki hides, pumped and flexed like machinery so observable they seemed ready to erupt to the surface. The marble-like eyes of the rightmost creature shifted their gaze from the track that stretched before it and instead locked on to its brethren alongside—the other creature marginally ahead. In a flash the varren parted its jaws and thrust its head towards the other. With a shrill yelp, the rival's leg buckled slightly before a lancinating, elongate fang withdrew, the tip adorned with a thin layer of glistening blood. Undeterred, indeed seemingly spurred on, the stricken varmint did not cease its progress as it snapped its jaws in vengeful fervour; yet the incident had not been without consequence. Rather than fractionally in front of its assailant, the loss of momentum had caused the victim to now trail in pursuit as they continued across the dusty surface.

"And the winner is: 'The Wrath of Kalros'!", announced a well-dressed asari croupier to a mixed chorus of cheers and disappointment.

"But it can't do that!", exclaimed an animated, young human. "It's not fair! The other one would have won if it hadn't of been attacked-I want my credits back!"

The asari calmly replied, "Sir, I'm afraid that is not possible, there are no restrictions on the behaviour of the competitors and this is clearly stated. You are of course welcome to stake a wager on the next race which will commence in less than ten minutes".

"You swindling aliens! Give me my credits now—and my rightful winnings!"

"Novice", thought Saleon, "One should always be prior aware of all conditions. Should be angry with himself for such lack of comprehension of the terms."

The human's mouth opened again, ready to continue his argument, but the sight of an imposing krogan enter the vicinity made him reconsider. While uttering an expletive under his breath, the young man departed the table, currently displaying a hologram of the final varren to complete the circuit, and headed for the exit of the Pulsar Casino and out to the bustling Ward of the Citadel.

"A Wiser decision", Saleon said to himself.

Nevertheless, the sentiment of the human's grievance resonated with Saleon. Unlike the vast majority of patrons gathered around the table, Saleon took a more methodical and scientific approach to the selection of varren that far transcended a basis founded on preference for a name, appreciation of the odds or even study of the form of the various racers. He reflected on his choice for the recently concluded race: 'Shiaguar's Legacy':

"Hmm, noticeably wider stripes on this one. Yes, at least twice as wide as the others. Darker too. Consistent with the variety from Tuchanka's southern hemisphere. Hmm, the region boasts markedly more aggressive fauna, even by Tuchanka's standards. Speed would represent an advantageous trait in such an environment, yes. And stamina. And power. The others are less likely to possess such hereditary characteristics. Less likely to win the race as a result. Excellent, decision made."

To Saleon, varren racing presented an opportunity to test his knowledge and expertise of his field with the potential for financial benefit—a perfect way to combine the salarian geneticists' two principle passions. Only it wasn't perfect. Saleon knew his predictions, however methodical and scientific, remained at the mercy of circumstance and chance; and so he felt equally as aggrieved as the human that their chosen varren had victory so unceremoniously denied. The only difference was Saleon's familiarity with the rules behind the sometimes brutal spectacles.

"Only five minutes now until the next race live from Tuchanka; be sure to place your bets in time", chirped the elegant asari; but the reminder was largely unnecessary for the eager crowd. A flurry of orange-hued activity had soon followed the conclusion of the previous race as the onlookers engaged their omni-tools and drained their credit balance on the speculation of a particular varren only moments after the list of new racers projected out from the table.

Nearby, a hulking elcor could be overheard, its flat, emotionless face more suited to poker than varren racing, "With desperate optimism, my luck will change this time—I can feel it", he droned in the species' usual monotone. The rotund volus beside it scoffed, "*Hiss* you better hope so, or you'll be out with the duct rats". Saleon glared in disdain; "Addiction-clear indication of a deficit in intellect."

Following a quick glance at his credit balance, Saleon withdrew from the table and waded through the glut of desperate denizens; ecstasy and agony separated only a few Quasar terminals apart. The monetary display had caused his slim features to furrow in vexation; but while the lack of success on this occasion had not aided his feelings the true cause ran deeper. The familiar emotions of contempt and superiority flared up within the salarian as he neared the exit; "I shouldn't have to scramble for credits with these wretches of society." But he appreciated that the gambling was an unfortunate necessity—as was the discreet siphon of medical equipment to sell on the black market; an imperfect remedy to rectify his insulting lack of recognition and salary. But Saleon didn't tolerate 'imperfect'; not in the long term at least. The hint of a wry smile crept across his thin lips as he passed through the door, a feint 'whoosh' accompanying the sliding panels. For the insidious salarian had a plan; and once the pieces were in position he would finally reap the rewards he vehemently believed his superior intellect merited—indeed fundamentally deserved…