A/N: Just a note concerning the apparent traditions of each species about names accompanying ranks. Turians seem to be generally referred to by their surnames, such as the case of "Primarch Victus" (Adrien Victus). Asari, on the other hand, seem to prefer using their first names when following a title/honorific, for example, whenever the matriarchs are referred to (Matriarch Benezia). So I've applied this to councilor titles, where turian councilors will be referred to by their surnames and asari councilors, their first names.
[ Chapter 2: Eras End ]
TORUS INQUIRER — "The Galaxy's Powers: One Big Family?"
This evening, in the Kassia Concert Hall on the Presidium, Primarch Kylris Estulius will be officially sworn in as the next turian councilor, and thenceforth be no longer known as Primarch Estulius, but Councilor Estulius. As those familiar with turian politics know, one rises through the meritocracy's many tiers by exhibiting exceptional public service, and at the very peak of the hierarchy stand the Primarchs. When the time comes to appoint or elect a councilor to represent the turian race, the Primarchs convene for a vote and select one from their number based on past deeds, merit of character, and their significance in society.
However, when Primarch Estulius was elected in a landslide vote last week, the public erupted in whispers regarding the vote's integrity, as Kylris Estulius is one of six Primarchs hailing from the same extended bloodline. The allegations are tentative and have thus far only arisen from a vocal minority, since a review of Estulius's personal history reveals all the necessary requisites for legitimate candidacy.
"Greatness can run in any family," says Donil Sonus from Kithoi Ward, who has been following the election since its beginning. "There are countless bloodlines just as qualified and decorated to occupy these offices. Our Primarchs are a very honorable group. To be elevated to their position in the first place they've had to serve the turian state impressively throughout their entire lives, so even if Estulius's election might've been influenced by some favoritism from his own distant relatives, he's also a favorite among the rest of his people. I don't expect our new councilor to disappoint."
But not all turian citizens are as equally accepting of their government's decision. Some have complained that the same well-established, highly influential bloodline has composed a large percentage of the Primarchs, as well as prominent business owners and military officials, for centuries. The people of Council space will watch tonight's inauguration with a wary eye, because the extent of suspicious circumstances do not end in turian affairs, but reach as far as the family of our asari councilor as well.
Ralleus Maevian, father of Councilor Tevos and original proprietor of Lysium Defense [a prodigal company who led the way in combat armor and shield generating technologies for decades before merging with Dyssix Arsenal, which proceeded to stand the test of time until becoming what is currently known as Armax Arsenal; now a major supplier of military-grade turian armaments and gear] several centuries ago, was also part of the same bloodline as Kylris Estulius, and is widely regarded as the man who first lifted his line from obscurity and into fame. Although Councilor Tevos no longer has legal ownership of any portion of Armax Arsenal [after signing over her inherited shares to her half-sister Iona Maevian], the fact that Kylris Estulius is technically—by validation of records, if not by literal blood—a cousin of Councilor Tevos has become a wide point of contention and conjecture.
"Most turians don't want to admit it," says turian dock worker Nelia Aquilus, "but most have this… tiny feeling of doubt. We're just too proud to say so. I'm not saying Estulius has been unfairly selected, but I think people should see this as a sign to keep an eye out, because our system isn't incorruptible. And part of our duty as turians is to correct injustices whenever we see them. To take a stand when needed. But as long as these guys—this powerful extended family—do what the people expect of them and keep everything clean, I've zero problems. I respect that family immensely. They've served our people well and they will always deserve that much respect from me."
:::
Tevos had grown accustomed to the feeling of many pairs of eyes upon her at once. Their gazes would brim with expectation, seeking to capture and immortalize any hint of inappropriate phrasing or self-contradiction. Their stares, as always, were as harsh as the lights trained on the podium at which she stood with the salarian councilor, preparing to open the ceremony with a short, well-rehearsed speech, a standard sentiment of congratulations and goodwill delivered to the impending third member of their trio. Another showcase to highlight the immaculacy of galactic politics.
But the galaxy was a dark place, both literally and figuratively. Throughout the time spent holding her office, Councilor Tevos had witnessed countless secrets, cover-ups, and pulled strings. So very few knew what she knew.
Advanced obelisks containing unimaginable wisdom lied hidden in distant temples. Investments in Traverse research and development flourished under the shielding arm of the Council despite questionable practices in both morality and conduct. Violent allies from foreign domains had shaken hands with them, forging delicate armistices that could be exploited or broken in an instant, cutting a swath for hostilities anew. Spectres or STG units would march into their offices with blood on their palms and openly declare the liberties they had taken to complete their objectives. And they would be pardoned, sent out again without a hint of remorse felt at doing anything wrong, not because they lacked the capacity to feel guilt, but because they had not done anything wrong, not in the eyes of the Council, the law (or lack thereof, especially in the case of Spectres), or to those many citizens who admired their work and justified, rationalized, every felled corpse.
All these things done in the name of galactic concord and stability. In their minds they only did what they felt was the lesser evil, and no more than that could ever be expected from anyone. But minds—even those of the highest officials—wavered, stumbled, and faltered. In logic and in reason, in reality and in motivation.
The moment of unease she'd feel surging through her limbs always faithfully returned to her each time she took this podium. And each time she would stave it off for the sake of both herself and society, and proceed with utmost poise beneath the pale golden lights extending over the sea of eyes.
There might have been a time when Tevos was idealistic, unexposed to the extent of what her job would inevitably entail. Not even her many days spent working closely with her predecessor and glancing many items of disconcerting information had not adequately prepared her. Those experiences were but a brush against the very tip of an iceberg.
The celebration of the next turian councilor—this extraordinarily significant, symbolic, and well-regarded ceremony in the eyes of most whether they actually found enjoyment in watching it or not—had now begun, calling upon the the councilors to preside and wear their most amiable masks. And worn they were, from the gentle smile on Tevos's lips, to the Victa Jansius designer dress wrapped around her body as an emblem of class, success, and taste. She, having seniority in office, opened the speech with the warmest voice she could conjure.
"For centuries the Citadel Council has stood as the functioning beacon of galactic wholeness," she began. "Various races from every corner of our galaxy have found their way into a community established on the pillars of knowledge and prosperity, where we join efforts in seeking the answers of the strange and wide universe we have found ourselves within, and to secure peaceful, fulfilled lives for every individual who steps forth bearing honorable, selfless contributions." The asari councilor kept her eyes forward, gracefully altering her gaze whenever the flowing artistry of her subtle inflections deemed it appropriate. "Though our path has been rough, marred by times of war and grief, we have persevered by the great nobility of citizens and soldiers, scholars and scientists, families and friends. But time inevitably moves us all forward through countless developments, some expected, and others wildly unforeseen. Eras that begin must also end." She stopped, glancing at the salarian councilor beside her, who continued as rehearsed.
"This past decade was a proud one," he said, "and I myself am filled with pride at the privilege I was granted, to have worked alongside Councilor Alvian. It was only befitting for his elected successor to equate his merit and character. After much deliberation, the honored Primarchs of the turian people presented our community with a individual deemed worthy of such a prestigious position. We the Citadel Council formally welcome, with much approval and eagerness, Councilor Kylris Estulius into his office and look forward to maintaining the greatness of our society with his voice present in our trio."
When the brief opening speech of the ceremony came to a close, ovation was generously given and did not quell until the two councilors had left the stage and returned to their seats in the very front row. The previous turian councilor, Gallinus Alvian, accompanied by Primarch Estulius, now strode up to the podium in replacement and were greeted by the same praise. The last ten years in office had left Alvian with a tired dullness in his facial carapace only compensated by the intelligent glint in his eyes, but his successor Estulius stood tall and stately, being the owner of a charismatic smile and a relatively fit build despite recently entering his sixth decade of life.
While Alvian proceeded with his standard introductions and assurances of duty and integrity to be found in the man beside him, Tevos discreetly turned her head a few degrees to speak over her shoulder, willing her quiet words to reach her friend seated one row behind.
"Was I too rigid?" she inquired. "And I hope my tone wasn't sickening."
"These little speeches are always sickening," Irissa replied with a smile, leaning forward to help her reciprocally hushed voice find the councilor. "But you made it bearable. And anyone still given any degree of indigestion probably forgave you just for wearing that dress."
"I see," Tevos said, her response growing in volume from an amused hum.
"I'm never sure whether you pick up on my innuendos or not, Tevos," said Irissa. "You always convey to me half-understanding, but I never know whether your prudence has censored the other half."
The councilor returned her attention to the stage, content with leaving Irissa without an answer.
At the end of Alvian's short speech, he turned to Estulius and began reciting the turian version of the councilor's oath for their selected candidate to repeat. When the final words were spoken, the building erupted in lengthy applause as Alvian departed, leaving the new turian councilor at the podium to deliver his own speech.
"When I was boy, just starting boot camp," he began, "I honestly had no idea how I'd live up to the greatness of my father. He was a lifelong military man, a hero in my eyes, and I vividly remember marveling at all the decorations he acquired over time. As a boy, I was immensely intimidated. I wasn't sure if I'd be able to make him proud in the end. But here I am, and my father is with the Spirits, hopefully here this evening to see how far his son made it. But not only do I feel the pride of my father, but the pride of the entire turian race. An overwhelming honor. We're a proud people, very parsimonious with our praise, exclusively reserving it for those individuals who have thoroughly proven themselves to the community. And to be the recipient of that praise... transcends words. So great is this gift that it steers me in the unwavering direction of repayment. I make this promise today, to all of you, turian, asari, salarian, volus, hanar, batarian, elcor, drell, every soul in this noble realm of united peoples, that I will perform to the very best of my abilities to protect and preserve our safety and prosperity; values that echo in every sentient being, values of happiness and honesty..."
:::
The moment the skycar's doors hissed open, the group climbed inside and settled down into their seats. The doors shut again, locking into place with a click, and the driver sent the vehicle into a smooth, steady rise. They left the platform behind, ascending to the heights of baleful spires hanging inverted from the district above like stalactites spanning a cavern's vast ceiling. When the vehicle merged into the brisk tides of traffic, eternal dusk gleamed over its body and created a vacillating, reflective sheen. Within the compact shell, the passengers initiated their confidential discussion.
In the back row of seats, Aria spoke first. "Let's hear the results," she said to the asari beside her.
The forensic specialist Kriana gave a nod, bringing the familiar glow of a datapad to life. The emitted light bathed her face. "Olat Dar'nerah's death was indeed caused by a gunshot wound to the back of the cerebral cranium." She gestured at an anatomical diagram in her datapad conveying the damage she had scanned from Olat's body earlier that day. With a pair of fingers she manipulated the model to enhance the area she spoke of. "The fatal injury was inflicted by a small round, which we recovered." Kriana reached down to the satchel lain across her lap, gingerly sifting through its contents before producing a sealed bag with the tiny item safely inside.
Aria took it in hand, examining the bullet under the flickering, sweeping lights that doused their bodies in sporadic intervals. "What gun fires these? It looks batarian." She held the bag closer to her face, noting the metal type and color. "And it's old."
"We matched it to a model no longer in production, not for decades. A small revolver of batarian origin, called a druta. It's more of a ceremonial firearm than one fit for killing. Not much use for one on Omega, I mean. Whoever the owner was, I suspect they're part of a very small club." She showed her boss a picture of the gun on another window brought up on her datapad. Bronze mechanical parts intercepted the body of black encrusted by beautiful batarian patterning. When Aria returned the bag containing the bullet, Kriana slipped it into the satchel again. "The bullet tore through the region of the brain responsible for motor skills, as well as lower-level ones, including breathing and organ functionality. He died very quickly."
"And what about him climbing the statue?" Aria asked. "What do you and Havlon have on that?"
"Doctor Havlon originally suspected some sort of parasitic spore to be at work," answered Kriana, "as there are many documented species capable of hijacking a host's body functions in such a manner. However, after running countless tests, we could find no foreign biological anomalies in the body, and so that hypothesis was dismissed. Whatever was done to Olat Dar'nerah was likely to have been electric. For example, running a current through muscle tissue to induce spasms. But we found absolutely no devices inside the body able to reanimate the corpse with that level of exhibited sophistication and precision of movement."
Aria looked away from her, casting her gaze to the scenery beyond the window instead; the sedated hues of ash, rock, and the everlasting, haunting premonition of a fire somewhere nearby. "So we've got a dead man walking, who entered Afterlife unharmed as reported by witnesses and bouncers. Therefore whatever happened to him was done somewhere in the club itself, which we cannot find in the security footage." When the skycar passed between two massive structures, a deep shadow obscured the interior, blackening the forms of their bodies until they emerged into the light once again. "And I find it to be quite obvious," Aria began anew, eyes still peering outward, "that whoever is doing this had something personal against Olat. And just this morning, as we found, against Lieutenant Pasora as well. Has Havlon spoken of that yet?"
"No ma'am," replied Kriana, words accompanied by a negating shake of her head. "Just his complaint of not having much to work with."
For the first time during their ride, the batarian piloting the vehicle spoke up. "As small as it was, why use a bomb? Aren't there much more… subtle ways of taking out someone?"
"Pasora was vain," Aria said wryly while reclining into her seat. "I don't think she'd be happy to know that the corpse she left behind wasn't pretty. It was quite appalling." A wrinkle in the bridge of her nose appeared in recollection of the bloody mess splattered around the corner of a local restaurant, and in the booth, where the disfigured remainder of the asari commando sat; chest split wide open, dripping organic debris onto the table like the sweet flesh of a melon given forth from its broken rind. The lower half of the face had been stripped, with ivory bone of both teeth and skull glistening with streams of darkening violet—and to top it all off, a thin, expensive cigarette still resting between two bloody fingers, no longer anything but a stick of ashes forgotten by its owner, who slumped forward with dreary, sightless eyes glazed over by a violent, sudden death. In further reaction to the memory, Aria's features gradually hardened into a menacing glare. "These assassinations were carried out in a manner that most insulted the target," she reasoned aloud. "It's a very personal affair. Either both of them angered the same entity, or the entity is indiscriminately after my entire administration. The latter is more probable." A moment was spent pensively drumming her fingers upon the seat in a steady, barely-audible rhythm that merged with the gentle hum of the vehicle.
Not only were these mysterious murders plaguing her, demanding her attention and swift response, but a struggle between her syndicate and a gang known as the White Crests was drawing out much longer than she had originally estimated. They were engaged in a deadlock over territory in the Kenzo District, and although Aria's forces were steadily pushing forward and eroding White Crest numbers, the area was a thicket of haphazardly stacked structures that created something no less than a maze in which entire platoons could hide and slip away. The only reason why Aria hadn't opted for a more aggressive invasion was for the fact that a slower approach lessened her amount of casualties, but as the situation became increasingly time-consuming, Aria was beginning to lean toward a change in plans favoring an all-out assault just to be done with it. Securing the Kenzo District would free up some operatives to help with the assassinations, at the very least.
A sudden chime in her omni-tool captured her attention. Aria answered the audio-only call. "You better have some good news for me," she said coldly, awaiting her officer's response.
After a hesitation, the man spoke. "I'm afraid I don't. You still want to hear this, or should I wait until another time?"
"Just tell me."
"They got another."
"Fucking hell," Aria cursed when her worst suspicions were confirmed. She turned to look beyond the window again, bearing venom in her glare. "Who?" she asked at last. "Where?"
"They got Aetius Visiom. Lower Kima District, sewer entrance five."
She initially said nothing. The other occupants of the skycar remained equally silent and as motionless as possible, perhaps wishing to disappear into the very upholstery to avoid being scorched by the rage igniting within their boss.
"We're on our way," Aria muttered at length before ending the call.
The driver changed course, diverging from the current traffic flow and joined a route linking them to the new destination. Their skycar entered a long tunnel, coming under the staggered points of illumination mounted in the ceiling whose glazes of industrial orange began skipping over the vehicle. Beneath the flashing, warm light continuously passing through the tinted windows, coating her angered body, Aria sank back into a string of thought.
She had not expected Aetius of all people to fall victim to carelessness. His entire reputation was founded upon his reliable discretion, his mindfulness, his pragmatism. How could he have let this happen? When the skycar left the tunnel they emerged into dusk again, soaring between the bleak buildings of the Kima District. Her eyes washed over the craggy vista, the complexes, the somber apartments...
As her thoughts evolved Aria suddenly looked away, returning her stare to the vehicle's dark interior, and paused within deep cognizance for a few brief moments.
"Stop up there," she said to the driver, shifting forward and extending her arm past the row of seats to point at a convenient landing platform on the tier they traveled alongside. "I need to make a quick call."
:::
On the surface of a metal desk set before a window overlooking Omega's solemn labyrinth, an e-book's text filled the screen of a tablet. The reader poured over it, absorbing written accounts about the first worlds discovered by asari explorers long ago. Illustrious gas giants cloaked in eerie auras, garden planets teeming with alien flora, hostile orbs of molten rock shifting and churning ceaselessly throughout time. And occasionally, celestial spheres blessed with deep oceans and mild weather, suitable for both expeditions and eventual colonization. It was romantic. Ships would sail out into the void, sometimes for years, even decades, maintained by the ambitious minds aboard braving space's daunting limbo for but the sake of knowledge.
Most returned. Some ships never did. The reader particularly wondered about those—were they destroyed? Did they get lost? Did they crash land and construct their own new society? Then there were those vessels that appeared to be lost, sometimes for decades, only to reappear on the horizon of the Parthina System one day proudly announcing a completed mission. Their survival stories were remarkable, often involving the growing or breeding of their own food aboard the vessel, harvesting new fuel sources from planets stumbled upon, and even a handful of births had been documented. They were drifting townships, perfect communities in their own right, traveling over the astonishing distances never intended to be traversed. They had seized their own destinies. They had set forth into the wide universe their people had suddenly awoken within one day as incredible, tiny motes of dirt and water. Disoriented, with purpose uncertain, and yet, still mustering the courage to venture outward, only armed with insatiable curiosity and an ounce of resourcefulness.
The sound of the room's door disengaging and sliding open caused the reader to abruptly turn around. She identified the intruder as a familiar matron, who lingered in the doorway until being granted acknowledgement. "Iaera," said the reader, reorienting the chair to face her visitor with confusion lighting her eyes.
"I have some unfortunate news," said Iaera, taking a few steps into the bedroom. "We're going to be moving again. Start packing your things within the hour."
"What?" the girl furrowed her brow, taken by both surprise and confusion. "We just moved not a month ago—"
"The orders come directly from your mother," explained the matron, "so it's non-negotiable. But I can tell you the reason why. There have been deaths in her administration. Assassinations. Your mother fears that you could be targeted as well, and so she wants us to relocate again."
A frown. "Sounds like paranoia. Her administration is always getting themselves killed, and none of the current lieutenants even know about me. It's not like the information could be taken from them."
Iaera pursed her lips in disapprobation. "These assassinations have been executed very professionally, and with a capable enemy comes the possibility of tapped communications. They could know about you. Don't you think this inconveniences me as well? We're all just trying to keep you safe. That's the point of all this, our main priority."
Liselle turned away, facing the window again and leering out at the city, growing silent for a while. "Are you sure the main priority isn't getting paid?" she quietly asked, voice tainted by accusation. She wrapped her arms about herself in uncertainty. "I heard you a few months ago, when you were both talking in the other room... When I turn sixty, you get to retire with ten million in your account."
"Liselle..." Iaera shook her head incredulously, dolefully, and then donned an expression of offense. "I watched you grow up from infancy. It's not just about the money anymore. Don't you dare think that I haven't come to care about you as a real family member would." She drew a bit closer to lay a hand on the girl's upper arm, hoping Liselle would grasp the sincerity of her words. "You're almost a daughter to me, Liselle. I may not be your mother, but I care very much about you and would do anything to make sure you're safe. And that includes moving on such short notice."
The maiden tapped her foot on the floor a few times, still frowning, but the displeasure soon morphed into emerging guilt as she swiveled the chair to face Iaera again. "I'm sorry," she admitted. "Everything just... frustrates me."
"What frustrates you?" Iaera asked, patiently taking a seat nearby upon the edge of the bed and looking at the girl, whose body was obscured by the shadow it cast upon itself after intercepting the window's warmly-hued glow. The catalyst of Liselle's frustration, regardless of its current form, was undoubtedly the move. The girl had never quite acclimated to a very loose definition of home.
Liselle hesitated, bringing her eyes downward to piece her thoughts together. Her pale irises visibly flitted about the drab, carpeted floor while formulating an answer, and when she had one, she lifted her head again. "I don't know... Maybe Mother. She treats me like a helpless child. Not like a person completely capable of defending herself."
"Liselle, don't you think Aria's administration were also capable of defending themselves? Even they were killed by whoever was after them."
"But Zuria's been training me for longer than some of them have even been alive," Liselle objected. "In turian or batarian years I'm middle-aged! Listen to my voice!" She gestured emphatically by touching her fingertips to the high collar that clad her throat, bringing attention to one of the only reliable gauges of an asari's age. "I don't squeak like a little girl anymore! I haven't in years, I'm just... I'm not a stupid child anymore, but she still treats me like one. Just keeping me hidden and safe because failing to protect me—one person—would probably embarrass her..." She turned, resting her elbows on the desk, and brought her hands up to cover her face. "I didn't mean that," she said, voice muffled and contrite.
Iaera rose, approached the girl, and laid a gentle hand upon her shoulder. "You know she loves you," she said. There were few additional words she could spare in reassurance. The unfortunate truth was that Liselle was not ready to face the world on her own, and wouldn't be for quite some time, by the collective judgement of her tutors and caretakers.
"I know," Liselle said, her conceding reply muffled from keeping her hands over her face. She only removed them to speak again after recognizing the impediment they caused her speech. "And I know we have to move. I understand. I'll start packing right now... I just get restless, you know? And sometimes... sometimes I just can't help but blame Mother for that." Her aimless gaze fell upon her tablet where it lay on the desk, just as she left it. The screen was dark with hibernation. "She's what's keeping me holed up here, away from everything. And whenever I am allowed out there's always an escort of commandos with me, all telling me where I can and can't go, what I can and can't do..."
After an empathetic pause, Iaera responded. "I understand where your restlessness is coming from," she said, giving the girl's shoulder a small, reassuring squeeze. "It's completely normal for someone your age. Just remember not to let this restlessness take control of your life, because you are an extremely important person, Liselle. It would be awful to see you get hurt as a result of recklessness. I promise—a day will come, perhaps sooner than you think, when all your patience will be rewarded. You'll be armed with biotic skill and an education. Those things will take you far on Omega, especially combined with your mother's blessing."
Liselle was initially quiet and immersed in thought, but ultimately decided to nod in agreement. She rose from her chair, nearly matching Iaera's height when standing with legs erect. The girl's stature still took the matron by surprise sometimes, for it did not feel so long ago when Liselle was but a small child jumping around on the sofas before supper, or when she requested help to reach high shelves, or when her mother would lift her from the floor and into her arms whenever she visited, quietly uttering sweetheart and other words that sounded strange on Aria's lips. And now, standing before her was Aria T'Loak's daughter, the very same girl—albeit taller, wiser, and stronger—brimming with potential, and keeping the same alert, questioning facets in her eyes she had possessed since childhood.
She was gentler than her mother. She smiled and laughed more often, more benignly. Her eyes would shine, and on occasion she would inadvertently scrunch her nose in delight as humor took hold, and she was capable of doing so without siphoning detriment from others to synthesize comedy for herself, a tendency of which her mother was guilty. And although whenever crossed Liselle's words could arrive just as icily and injuriously as Aria's, she did not evoke nor demand the same absolute terror from witnesses to her glares. Liselle was very much her mother, but she was also very much not; in the arenas of temperament, interpersonal distance, and the preferred degree of ostentation in one's image, mother and daughter stood incredibly separate. Iaera often pondered about whether it was a blessing or a curse to have been spared from a second Aria.
Of course, Iaera was immensely loyal to the Pirate Queen, but she could not deny the dread felt toward the notion of raising a brooding storm like Aria had probably been years ago during her adolescence. Had Aria always been the same? Had there ever been a time when Aria laughed with the purity Liselle harbored, or had she only bore a perpetual frown, finding enjoyment in fist-fighting with other children? It was exceedingly outlandish to attempt picturing Aria as a child. Every time Iaera tried to envision her at such an age, the mental image would instantly warp back into the shape of Aria's present self: when not placidly seated in Afterlife and surrounded by its luxury, sprinting like a predator in pursuit of prey and methodically tearing through enemies with biotic explosions, shouting in the euphoria brought by prolonged engagements against formidable enemies.
Iaera wondered if Liselle would ever come to mirror Aria in that respect. Her biotic aptitude was still in its nascent stages, so it remained impossible to determine whether or not the girl would one day develop the sort of magnificent destruction her mother could call upon. It was hard to imagine a maiden so devoid of truculence following in those footsteps, as anyone who had ever seen Aria in battle could see the infernos of raw ambition she tapped into, subjugated, and redirected to her will. Liselle could never muster such power. Wrath was simply not present within Liselle in large enough amounts to ever be weaponized, and so Iaera utterly failed to see such potential within the girl she had essentially raised. She knew this well. She knew Liselle possibly better than her own mother.
And yet... as she recalled, despite Aria's frequent absence, Liselle had always stubbornly identified as her mother's daughter rather than attaching herself to Iaera. It was a product of Aria's will, for she had specifically forbade Iaera from supplying surrogate motherly affection. Kisses and embraces only came from Aria when she was around to give them, all to condition Liselle's bonding, to train its growth toward her biological mother over any other.
But was that not horribly selfish of Aria, to starve a young child of affection until she decided to be present? To allow the young Liselle to mope or cry on some nights when her mother had been gone too long, leaving her deprived of the comforting contact vital for her development into an emotionally and mentally healthy person? Aria had taken that risk, and Liselle had emerged from her imperative first years of life relatively functional, but the gamble was still an unjustifiable crime unto her daughter.
Did Liselle ever think about that? Did she ever look back to her early childhood and see with her matured mind, now capable of recognizing things she was previously unaware of, that her mother had committed a terrible transgression? Did she resent her for her selfishness, or did she understand Aria's intentions and either forgive or agree with her? As Iaera left Liselle in her bedroom to begin organizing her belongings, she continued to contemplate without revealing her secret thoughts.
Now alone, Liselle proceeded to place items of most importance upon her bed, arranging them in neat categories as her own mind began to wander and speculate about Aria T'Loak.
Assassinations targeting her administration were certainly concerning, but her mother had dealt with similar situations before. Omega was always engulfed in some type of strife, and it often leaked into Aria's territories. But she always put it down. Brutally, swiftly, and completely. Before long the problem would be solved, maybe even within the week, and moving would have been for naught. That was how things usually turned out.
Her mother was untouchable. Even when allies around her fell, Aria would always emerge unscathed after taking the fight to whoever instigated it in the first place. She was unstoppable, unmatched. Liselle welcomed a small smile into her face. She admired and loved her mother, after setting aside all the frustrations and limitations that came with being her daughter. Aria was in no danger. She was never in danger—and the only times when she seemed to be were when she was faking out an enemy to gain the upper hand.
Still, sometimes Liselle worried. She wanted to ask Aria questions, to investigate things such as whether she too was ever afraid. And beyond queries confined to the topic of her empire, Liselle also had many others that remained unanswered. Too many, she realized. But she held her tongue more often that not, because there were just some things one didn't ask Aria T'Loak. Aria would either pretend to ignore the question by turning away, or blatantly refusing to answer it. The latter was the most frequent reaction. And pressing her mother for personal information, or even certain information Liselle felt in her right to know, was generally futile.
Over the years, Liselle had learned to not ask those questions in the first place. Not because she had lost interest, but because of imminent failure.
:::
When Councilor Estulius's speech had finally concluded, another roar of ovation engulfed the building. Other diplomats high on the pecking order joined him on the stage, shaking hands and drawing close to exchange friendly words. The sea of people in their seats rose in waves, becoming a protean mass of bodies relocating, congregating, and some departing. Then came the media, set loose from the areas they had been restricted to until this point in time, now all rushing toward the stage with camera drones in tow. Estulius laughed when someone brought them to his attention, and he stepped forward unfazed, more than willing to answer their many questions.
In the front rows of the audience, C-Sec had taken to their posts around the other two councilors, keeping the press away at a safe distance until the politicians said otherwise.
"Looks like someone released the varren," Irissa quipped to Tevos, having to raise her voice over the din erupting in the great room. She nodded at the reporters in gesture. "They're going to come after us when they're done gutting Estulius. Shall we save ourselves and throw our press secretary into the pit, or should we stay to lend her a hand?"
Their press secretary, seated beside Irissa, shook her head. "Oh, that's hilarious." She rose from her seat along with her superiors. "Do what you will, just don't overfeed them if you choose to spare me a horrific demise."
"I suppose we can give them a few words," said Tevos, walking alongside the two other asari within a cage made from C-Sec officers. "It would only be proper to publicly comment on our new turian councilor, don't you agree?" As if her words were an invocation, a group of reporters spotted her, came rushing over, and were held at bay until Tevos told C-Sec to let them speak to her. Irissa and the press secretary stood nearby to observe the spectacle.
A slew of questions found the councilor, all at once, and she could only resolve by specifically singling out one of them to speak first.
"Rina T'Gona, Banveria News," said the lucky reporter. "Councilor Tevos, what new ideas and policies do you think Councilor Estulius will bring to the Council, in contrast with Councilor Alvian's?"
She tilted her head to ponder a moment, folding her hands neatly behind her back. "That is certainly yet to be seen, but judging by Councilor Estulius's military leanings, veterans might expect some reforms."
Another question was issued by different reporter. "Councilor Tevos, how do you respond to the comments regarding your family ties to Estulius? What relations do you still have with the bloodline?"
Tevos hesitated, glancing over at Irissa and the press secretary, whose eyes had slightly widened. She turned back to the press, confident in her ability to properly handle their tactics. "As an asari, my relations to that side of my family have been diluted with each successful generation after my father and his other children. At this point in time, the people composing Councilor Estulius's family are as estranged to me as any other bloodline."
"Councilor, what about Ralleus Maevian's companies, that still primarily remain in the ownership of Estulius's extended family? Do you have any ties to them?"
"I relinquished complete ownership and association to my sister long ago," Tevos began, growing wary and swiftly less inclined to continue answering, "as I had little interest in owning a portion of a company specializing in warfare innovations."
"So you condemn what your father's company has become? Or your sister's choice to inherit it? Do you condemn weapon suppliers as a whole?"
The asari councilor indulged in another pause, suddenly thinking it a mistake to have decided to humor the press. The questions were becoming less of a convivial interview regarding the new turian councilor, and more of an interrogation propagated from an opportunity; a single suspicious link between councilors, bearing the slightest potential for nepotism, to be exploited and utterly devoured by their manic hunger for sensationalist stories. "My answer is no to all of those questions," said Tevos. "My reluctance to inherit that conglomeration was a result of my personal preferences, as I already entertained specific ambitions for my future at the time, and they did not entail business management."
"Councilor Tevos, was relinquishing ownership of your father's company while choosing to keep Theralia N'Vani's share of the element zero and palladium market a socio-political statement? Did you wish to disassociate yourself from your father's family to avoid becoming a part of your maternal bloodline's empire of corporate connections, obtained largely via strategic marriages? What was Theralia N'Vani's agenda in regards to—"
"The only present agenda is your own," Tevos said, keeping a surprising amount of civility in her voice. "These questions are shamelessly jaundiced and I have no desire to answer any more of them."
The C-Sec officers dutifully formed a wall between the councilor and the press, helping her escape their vicious scrutiny. To most, Tevos's indignity was nigh invisible, but to Irissa, who had known her for centuries, it was as glaringly noticeable as the lights emitted from the camera drones hovering around like creatures of carrion.
"Councilor Tevos!" the reporters called after her. "What is the reason why you chose to keep your family name in its present state rather than converting to the customary 'T'Vani'? Was that a conservative statement? Would you say that you advocate regional asari government as opposed to global policy?"
"Do you consider yourself an emissary for your family?"
"What gains has your family made from your position as asari councilor?"
After rejoining the ones awaiting her, Tevos gave them a cryptic expression. As they began to depart, she told them quite dryly, "I did not expect to be so openly assaulted. I was under the impression that we'd exclusively be discussing Councilor Estulius, but evidently my parentage from centuries ago also meets that criteria."
"How long have you been in office again?" Irissa remarked. "The press loves nothing more than obscure conspiracy theories. They're all scrambling for viewers and ratings and they'll string you up and persecute you until you've bled enough to satisfy."
As they continued toward the hall's exit, guarded by the ever-watchful C-Sec, Tevos subtly shook her head. "Ironically... it's somewhat anticipated in a discussion of lineage. Certainly a demographic comprising less than a fraction of one percent of the Thessian population, yet possessing nearly four percent of all privately owned wealth on that world, poses an excellent topic for persecution. My offense is in their assumption that being a product of those select northeastern pedigrees is indicative of involvement in pretentious cabals revolving around market domination. Which I am not, which I have never been nor want to—which is the reason why I signed over my father's business to Iona long ago."
"I don't mean to be contrarian," Irissa disclaimed as they neared the main doors, "but you are part of that family. Maybe not your father's line so much anymore, but to be fair, you've lived off your mother's wealth and name. You were given priority all your life, and it might even be why the matriarchs and Asari High Command wanted you as councilor despite your youth in comparison to other candidates. They wanted a liaison between them and that family. Maybe by keeping reins on you they could keep reins on the 'rest of them'."
Tevos suddenly stopped, turned around, and faced her friend with an indiscernible expression, just as unfathomable as the one she had given them after escaping the press. Her green eyes were lightly quivering, reflecting the many thoughts flying through her head at dizzying speeds. After a moment she turned away again, having said nothing, and resumed their departure from the building, only to be met by another barrage of flashes and glaring light cast by people trying to capture holos of anyone even moderately significant. And Councilor Tevos was near the very top of their list—the asari councilor from a bloodline whose name was deliberately frozen in time to manufacture prestige for themselves, a seal of wealth, exotic dialect, excess; segregated in the mountains amid the ice-covered lakes to create an aspect of exclusivity, cold and distant toward those who were not them. Cold, like their hearts, vanity, and credits.
:::
When the skycar descended to the street the doors lifted, permitting the passengers to rise from their seats and exit. The moment Aria's boots touched the ground she entered a brisk stride toward the congregating guards standing around the synthetic gully leading into a main channel that ran into the vast sewer system permeating Omega's tangled infrastructure, and destined to eventually arrive at a central purification plant. Her pace increased in speed with anticipation as she approached, preparing to demand knowledge of what fate had befallen her valuable right-hand lieutenant.
"What the hell happened?" she barked, coercing the complete attention of all in the vicinity.
A turian officer answered her. "Aetius Visiom and his squad were completely wiped out," he reported, stepping aside to let his boss join them at the edge of the sloping culvert.
The sight awaiting her was a deep gutter of murky water, stained by varying hues of blood diffusing outward in dark, cloudy halos around the four floating bodies. Two more guards wearing biohazard suits stood at the base of the culvert's declivity, looking out at the same scene from where they lingered at the edge of the pestilent water, leaving everything undisturbed until told otherwise by their boss, who loomed seething above.
"By who?" Aria asked, hands clenching into fists at her sides.
"Well, they were checking out some explosions that happened somewhere around here. I had some techs get into Visiom's omni-tool without having to touch the body. Recovered the data and read through everything he sent or received today. One of the last things we found were just the orders you gave him this morning—"
"Orders?" she repeated, narrowing her eyes at the officer. "What orders?"
"The ones telling him to check out the explosions."
Aria swore. "I didn't give him those orders." She looked away, activating her own omni-tool and searching through her sent items. After finding no evidence of recent correspondences with Aetius, the glowing device faded from sight. "A trap, of course," she concluded, returning her eyes to the dead souls, half-sunken and slowly, gradually drifting toward the wide black mouth of the drain patiently waiting to swallow them whole. "Pull them out," she called down to the guards below, who promptly began treading through the dismal, waist-high mire and toward the buoyant deceased.
She watched the body of Aetius Visiom being retrieved, dragged over to the cold metal shore, and rolled onto his back. There, protruding from a weak spot in his chest plating was the hilt of a turian ceremonial dagger, his very last memento from the little colony he left behind long ago. Streams of old water and blood ran down the rivets and curves of his armor, gathering into a pool beneath the corpse. Aria's choleric gaze continued to rove over him, up to his face, where she made a second gruesome discovery—his brow plate had been viciously pried off, revealing the flesh beneath, glistening raw in the light; and his mandibles had been snapped away, leaving what remained of his barely-attached jaw disturbingly mangled and jagged.
When the other dead had been towed back to land, Aria found no such mutilations inflicted upon any of their bodies. It was apparently a privilege reserved for her loyal administration, she grimly mused to herself, barely able to stave off the ire that had been building up within her head and chest in volatile proportions. "Who sent him the fake message?" Aria asked the officer, returning her leer to Aetius's body.
"Still trying to make sense of it," he replied. "The address of the original sender was heavily encrypted. Aetius probably thought you were just trying to be cautious. Got a few guys on that right now, but I'm not sure if they're going to be able to get anything out of it."
A shout rose from the trench. "I've got something!" The man in the biohazard suit held up a small item. It was impossible to distinguish from the distance at which Aria stood, however, and she resolved by gesturing for the man to bring it to them.
"Better not be another bomb," she said down to the man obliquely traveling up the precariously narrow pathway leading up from the culvert.
"Found it in Visiom's throat," the man said up to her, though his voice was slightly distorted by his suit's helmet, coupled by the slur of physical exertion. "We scanned it. It's a capsule; nothing potentially dangerous inside. No traces of poison or anything either." When he made it out of the culvert, he held out the small metal orb to his boss in the palm of his gloved hand.
Aria frowned with revulsion, gazing down at the coat of blood and bile encasing the capsule. She jerked her head in the direction of the turian officer standing beside her, who took it instead. His hands, unlike Aria's, were completely covered. He examined it, found a thin line encompassing the orb with an equator, and twisted the halves in opposite directions to retrieve what lay inside. Tentatively, he reached down into one of the halves, grasping something within two digits, pulled it free of its sepulchral shell, and held it to the light.
"It's… It's paper," he announced, turning over the tiny, folded sheet a few times in his hand. The antique means of communication perturbed him.
"Open it. Read it," Aria said to him, intently watching him as he followed her orders.
After unfolding the note, the officer revealed lines of text written by a computer's hand, in a turian dialect. Fortunately, it was one he recognized with fluency.
"The dead can't read. But you can. These people died spectacularly, but you won't. You will die pathetically, choking on your greed and arrogance and we will parade your corpse around the districts like a trophy. Your wicked regime is coming to an end."
When the officer had finished translating the message for her, Aria nodded, hands placed on her hips. "Let's see... unoriginal, typed up on a device... and without an explicit addressee. I can't imagine who it was meant for," she sardonically remarked.
"What do you want us to do?" the officer asked as the gravity of the threat sunk in. His boss might very well have been in serious danger, and that also meant that everyone affiliated with her was in equal peril.
Aria had no answer for him. Many valuable people had died all within the span of a single day, and their murderers were still at large. She could not bring the fight to them. She could only play a defensive game, and not only did that infuriate her, but those who played defensively were doomed to lose in the end. Discovering the identity of the enemy was urgent. Before she could say anything to the man, another shout arose from the culvert, redirecting their attention.
"Visiom's got something!" the guard who remained below said. "Tucked in his undersuit's sleeve! It's uhh… It's a shard of armor with a serial number!"
"Someone check that out," Aria said. The significance of that little shard was great—Aetius always had a habit of concealing small possessions within his gloves and sleeves, usually spare ammunition. For something else to be there was of immense importance and worthy of close investigation.
A salarian tech soon came jogging over with the results, bringing up his omni-tool's screen and presenting his findings to Aria. A three-dimensional model of the armor shard appeared in the projection, slowly rotating to showcase its dimensions. "The fragment is part of a helmet, evident by the degree of curvature and the location of the serial number. Foreign blood residue is asari, who was likely the owner." The salarian manually manipulated the model, zooming in on the serial number that appeared along with the full scan. "Original manufacturer of the helmet is on Omega, Kenzo District, and is also the main supplier of gear for Enarius's White Crests. With that accounted for, and judging by the gray paint of this specific hue and location on the helmet, the probability of this fragment belonging to a White Crest member is extremely high."
Aria looked away, down at Aetius again, and felt pride swelling in her chest. Her lieutenant had likely acquired the fragment after managing to bash one of his assailants' skulls in. Perhaps while his squad held them off for as long as possible, Aetius had broken off the targeted piece of the helmet, slipped it into his sleeve, and rejoined the fray, if only to lose his life in the end. Nevertheless, he had secured something invaluable for his boss, a vital piece of evidence to wield against his enemies even in death, to ensure the continuity of Aria's organization from beyond the grave. Son of a bitch, Aria thought with a smirk, and vividly remembered why she had appointed Aetius as her right-hand in the first place. Blood would soon be spilled in his honor.
"Get me Lieutenant Renaga on a secure line," she said, only having to wait a few moments before a thug rushed over to her with the glow of an omni-tool upon her arm. It projected the hologram of an asari, who appeared to be seated somewhere.
"We've got a lead," Aria said to her attentive lieutenant, whose brow rose with interest. "White Crests, down in the Kenzo District. I want you to relay orders and get reinforcements over there within the hour. Use the beta-six encryption key."
Renaga nodded. "You want the reinforcements to bunker down with the established ones?"
"No," Aria said, pacing a few steps to the left. "We're taking that district today. Now, here's the important part. We're still targeted. All of us. So when you deploy the reinforcements... ditch the routine. Adopt unpredictable movements so they can't take you out, because I'm certain they're going to try. I want you all over the map, I want you all to virtually disappear while heading over to the Kenzo District. Disappear into the cities, fan out, travel by alternate means, go dark. We'll rendezvous at the front lines and charge forward. On foot, through buildings, whatever we need to do. I want to hit them fast, hard, and I don't want the Crests to ever recover."
"Yes ma'am."
"Good. Hold on." Aria turned to the rest of her operatives in the area. "Listen up!" she said. "You four stay here with Doctor Kriana and work on the bodies. The rest of you are with me. We're going to the Kenzo District."
There was swift movement; a rush of people, organizing themselves at once like a fantastic machine with all components exquisitely synchronized. They climbed into their skycars within cohesive units, activated their engines, and sent the vehicles into idle hovers with doors still hanging open while awaiting their boss to lead their warfaring caravan.
"You're coming?" Renaga's hologram dubiously inquired, not fearing for Aria's life, but for the sheer chaos and destruction lying in the near future. Aria rarely joined sieges of territory, preferring to leave those operations in the hands of her adept officers, but when she did, the effect was similar to having a few extra gunships flown in. "Don't you think we're being a bit hasty?"
Aria faced her again. "You mean, 'don't you think this might be a trap'?" She afforded the other asari a knowing nod. "There's a good chance that this is a trap. But what's our alternative, Lieutenant? Sitting around while my administration collapses, waiting to see who's the next hit? I don't think so. If this is a trap, then someone will likely be around to spring it. And if I catch a single glimpse of them... " Aria paced back the number of steps she had deviated from her original spot. "It's worth the risk. If they want me dead, they can take their best shot. Now get moving."
"Right away," confirmed the lieutenant, whose image vanished from sight.
Aria motioned for the guard who provided the line of communication to follow her into the skycar she arrived in. When Aria boarded the vehicle at the head of their miniature fleet, she stood out on the edge of a step, holding onto the door with one hand, a gun in the other, and called out to her mercenaries, "The White Crests want to fuck with us, so let's go fuck with them. I want a bloodbath. I want a fucking slaughter, do you hear me?"
Voices arose in a chorus of affirmation.
"Shields online," she said before pulling her head back into the vehicle, and issued an order to the driver. "Let's go. Even if these bastards turn out not to be our real targets, at least we're changing up the game."