Outbreak – various
–
Four weeks ago...
–
Omega was a land of prosperity and death. A lone batarian, terrified, ran down an abandoned alley. The ozone smell of shorted-out shields filled his many nostrils with each laborious breath he took. He did not look over his shoulder to see if he'd lost his pursuers yet. He just ran and ran, tripping over piles of refuse. His mind – previously regarded as one of the brightest the Blue Suns had, wondered furiously how his luck had reversed so quickly. Was this his destiny, to die like a tuk-rat in the sewers? Alone and forgotten? Sutka knew how the game was played, but he never expected he'd be on the losing side again. On Omega, you won or lost on your own merits. There was no padding, no system in place to protect the weak. You could be a king one week and lowly slave the next (Patriarch could tell you all about that). Smarts and luck were destiny. Sutka had had no small measure of either, but it appeared they had finally run out.
A shot rang out, and there was an explosion of pain in Sutka's right foot. He cried out as he tumbled violently to the ground, smashing his face against the alleyway's steel floor. Blood leaked down his forehead into his eyes, painting everything a red-brown hue as he twisted to look at the stump where his foot used to be. He howled in shock and rage.
–
Sutka had had a hard life. Everything he had, he'd fought tooth and nail for. Nothing given, everything taken. Bastard child to a bottom-class mother on one of the batarians' outermost colonies, Sutka had been taken from his miserable family and sold into slavery before his seventh birthday. Enslaved by his own kind to pay one of the local gerent's debts to an offworlder. He didn't know enough to be disgusted.
His childhood, if it could so be called, was spent touring the Omega slave market, being passed from master to master. Most of his owners were awful – many didn't feed him, leaving him to survive on what he could steal or scavenge from the streets. Others would beat their slaves for the minorest offenses, and Sutka had seen more than one of his peers die over misplaced tools or late shipments or even just being in the wrong place on one of their masters' bad days. Still, Sutka made the most of it. He was smart – smarter by far than any other batarian he'd met – and soaked up everything Omega could teach him. Most of his masters had him do manual labor then, when he was big enough, guarding valuables or roughing up unruly customers – batarians were seen as good for little else – but every time a master grew tired of him and resold him he returned to the market with a few new skills. From lockpicking to welding to the best way to break a turian's arm, Sutka had done it all, and the price he fetched grew higher and higher.
He belonged for a few years to a wealthy volus merchant, who quickly recognized his keen intellect and put him at the head of a small slave militia. Sutka had delighted in the ability to command other slaves, to outthink the volus' business rivals and leave them broken-kneed in the remains of their own shops, and his master had treated him well. Then the volus had stepped a bit too far and the Blue Suns had shut him down. Sutka still remembered the sight of his master's environment suit rupturing.
The Suns took Sutka in, putting him to work as a covert guard. He would sit in disguise in front of hidden Blue Sun shipments, pretending to be a vagrant, but ready to crack skulls should anyone get too curious. It didn't take long for his shrewdness and mind for the viciously practical to get him noticed here either – he had a knack for recognizing threats well before they made their move. He even managed to charm away Aria's men once or twice, something few Suns would risk even attempting.
Standing guard on the Omega streets, Sutka had prime seats to watch Archangel's story unfold. The Suns started dying. Not unusual in itself – some loss of life and limb was entirely expected on Omega – but not entire squads. Sutka watched the station reel as it tried to explain the sudden deaths of so many armed men. Then it came to light – he'd been seen. The newest of Omega's long history of vigilantes had declared war on the station's vast complement of mercenaries. At first, killings were few and far between, but with every merc killed, the killer's infamy grew. Before long, the public had conjured up a quasi-mythical face to put on their new champion, and Archangel was born, baptized in the blood of a thousand guns for hire.
Sutka never lost a shipment until Archangel. And when he finally did, instead of beating him, the Suns made him a member. Freed him. He'd gone to get the tattoo that afternoon, and worn it proudly ever since.
The months that followed were bad months to be a mercenary on Omega. Hundreds of deaths, and one name on everyone's lips. The Blue Suns hated Archangel. Eclipse hated Archangel. The Blood Pack hated Archangel. Everyone hated Archangel.
Sutka didn't. If Archangel hadn't decided to repaint the station in merc blood, he knew he would still be a slave. And if Archangel wasn't so goddamn clever, Sutka wouldn't have been promoted to sergeant. The Suns needed men to deal with Archangel. Men like Sutka. Hundreds of years of lax restrictions had turned Omega's battlefields into contests of strength alone. No attempts to hide smuggling were made – if you had the guns, you made the rules. While accounts varied, popular rumor put Archangel's allies at no more than fifty, a gnat next to the overextended mercenary armies that made their home on Omega, and yet the bastard had every criminal quaking in their boots. Sutka knew why, and it gave him an edge; Archangel had changed the game, and that was what made him terrifying. He wasn't a Spectre or a biotic god or any of the other insane labels people gave him – he was just clever. He turned mercs against one another, used their greed and complacency to destroy them without needing the brute force that was Omega's norm.
Archangel was a thinker. And no matter who they amassed to kill him, he simply wasn't going to be stopped by anyone who wasn't. Sutka was a thinker, and it made people listen to him. He had brains. He had power. He knew traps when he saw them. And so he'd known right away there was something wrong with this Sidonis fellow.
–
He'd been right, but it came as no comfort now. Sutka tossed his blue and white helmet aside – it wouldn't protect him from sniper fire anyway – and crawled his way over to prop himself against the nearest wall. Blood from his missing foot pooled around him. His hands shook viciously as he drew a packet of medigel from the pouch on his belt. It took him several tries to open it and squeeze it onto the ragged stump. He grit his teeth and rubbed it across the wound, sealing it as completely as possible. The medigel sizzled as it solidified.
The sound of heavy footsteps from the far end of the alley nearly sent Sutka into cardiac arrest. Terror seemed to press in from every direction. His mind worked furiously, searching for any option. He was unarmed – his gun had been shot out of his hands – and obviously not in any shape to outrun a turian. That just left hiding. He crawled to the largest pile of trash he could see and burrowed in, piling putrid-smelling filth atop himself. Anything to escape detection.
It was to no avail.
"How appropriate." Archangel's voice was calm and smooth, as if he considered Sutka no more pressing than the weather, and it filled Sutka with rage. He looked up to see a helmeted turian, armored head to foot in blue steel and cradling a massive sniper rifle. "Trash hiding in trash."
"Fuck you," Sutka spat, snarling. If Archangel was at all offended, he didn't show it. He took a knee next to Sutka, leaning casually on his weapon for balance.
"I wonder if you've learned your lesson," Archangel mused. Sutka couldn't see his expression behind his black visor, but it gave him chills all the same.
–
At first, Sidonis had seemed legit enough. He'd approached the Suns through the usual channel, called himself a drug runner. Brought them product to see – a case of Hallex and Setzac. Clean, pure. Worth its weight on the streets and elsewhere. He promised more of the same and the other Suns had agreed without pause – Archangel's activities had made such valuable shipments hard to find indeed.
Sutka had had his doubts. Even after Sidonis had made good on his delivery of a whole pallet of product, just as pure as the first, Sutka had doubted. Sidonis had used his name. His real name – Sutka had checked. No self-respecting drug runner would do that.
It hadn't taken Sutka much to convince the others that Sidonis was a threat worth ending – the Suns had learned to trust when he had something to say about Archangel. Besides, even if he was wrong, they could still get their hands on Sidonis' product. And if he was right, and Sidonis was just baiting them for a later trap, then they could pump him full of holes and leave his body for Archangel to find.
Sutka himself had led the party to hunt down Sidonis. It hadn't taken long for them to find him, living in a dingy apartment in one of the station's nearly-abandoned lower decks. Steadily failing life support in the area had made the air unpleasant, filled with the omnipresent stink of poisonous gas pockets, and most of the residents had long since abandoned their homes. Empty buildings had stared down at the Blue Suns as they'd made their way to Sidonis' home. It was a perfect hideout for a drug runner. Or a vigilante. Sutka had sent men to setup sniper rifles at several nearby vantages before kicking in the door.
Sutka and his men charged in without hesitation, shoving through the door so fast they nearly bowled over the stripe-faced turian behind it. In seconds, two of the Suns had a shell-shocked Sidonis on his knees, his taloned hands cuffed behind his back. Sidonis' protests died on his mandibles when Sutka kicked his gut so hard he wretched blue blood onto the floor.
"Remember us?" Sutka asked, grinning sadistically at Sidonis' defeated posture. He paced around the beaten turian like a hungry varren. "Sidonis?"
"What is this?" Sidonis managed, looking meekly up at Sutka. The batarian backhanded him with one gauntlet.
"You know what this is. This is us not falling for it." He signaled one of the men holding Sidonis' arm, who slammed a fist down into the cleft of the turian's neck. Sidonis cried out in pain. "This is you being outsmarted. Where is Archangel?" he demanded.
"How should I know? I have no idea what you're talking about!" Sutka signaled the merc to hit him again.
"Do I need to ask again?"
"I don't know!" Sidonis shouted, earning him another strike.
"You think I'm stupid?" Sutka asked dangerously. "I'm not." He grabbed the turian's chin, forcing him to stare into his eyes. "I know you're with him. I knew it the instant I heard you talk. You talk like him. Like you're better than us. Like you don't have a bad side."
"Don't know what you're talking about," Sidonis mumbled, and he was struck again.
"Don't bother stalling," Sutka said, releasing Sidonis' head to hang limply. "Don't think your sacrifice will give him time to escape. He won't get ten feet from this building. I have men covering every exit." Sidonis muttered something. "What was that?" Sutka asked, leaning in close. He drew a knife and held it to the turian's throat. Sidonis spit out a mouthful of blood.
"I said check again, asshole."
There was a thump from outside, and Sutka felt his stomach descend. He turned and saw the bloodied corpse of one of his men laying in an unceremonious heap at the foot of the broken door.
All hell broke loose.
–
Sutka was the only one who made it more than a few feet. Well-positioned sniper fire had felled the other Suns in seconds, and he'd only just managed to escape behind a corner with his life. Now here he was, bleeding to death in an alley while Archangel watched. He cursed his own stupidity. He had been right – Sidonis had been setting them up for a trap. But not the trap he'd expected, and Sutka had walked right into it, right into Archangel's well-prepared killing ground. And now he was going to die for it.
Footsteps rang out again. Through the haze of blood on his face, Sutka recognized the shape of a second turian. Archangel stood as the newcomer cocked a gun.
"Played it a little close, didn't we?" the new turian – Sidonis – asked. Sutka could hear the anger in his voice, and feared for his life.
"We had to make sure we had a bead on all of them," Archangel responded calmly – too calmly for one who'd just been through a firefight. "You survived. You played your part well."
"Thank you sir," Sidonis said, the adoration in his voice clear. Even Sutka could hear how much he idolized the other turian. "A few bruises will be worth it to do in this piece of crap." Sutka felt a solid kick to his midsection and curled over in pain.
"Please. Please," he started to say. A gunshot rang out. Pain flowered up from the new hole in Sutka's good foot, and he screamed in agony.
"Shut up and listen," Sidonis growled. Sutka quieted. "We are better than you. We are Omega's good side. If you were half as smart as you think, you'd have seen that and gotten out." Sutka heard the whirr of Sidonis' pistol and felt it press against the spongy mess on his forehead. He prepared for the end.
"Wait," Archangel's voice, still calm, like before. "Stop."
"He should die," Sidonis growled. "Come on. Look what he did to me."
"He should die," Archangel agreed. "And he will. But not today. We need him to run back home with his tail between his legs, tell his friends what he's learned. We need him to live. Trust me." Sutka looked up hopefully. Even through the bloody haze over his eyes he could see Sidonis' disappointment. There was a long silence. "Trust me."
At length, Sidonis lowered his gun. "Alright," he breathed. "Alright." Sutka was filled with relief, until Sidonis gave him another solid kick for good measure. He yelped but otherwise stayed quiet, too thankful for a second chance to worry about saving face. He'd regain his honor. He'd make these turians pay. They had crossed the wrong batarian. "Maybe he'll bleed out anyway," Sidonis said hopefully as the two turians left the alley, leaving Sutka to nurse his wounds.
"We can only hope."
Three weeks ago...
–
Omega was disgusting. The whole place, really, but down in the ducts in vorcha territory? Awful. Simply awful. Captain Gavorn muttered a stream of obscenities as he crawled, on elbows and knees, through six inches of vorcha feces. He wondered if the vorcha chose these ducts as their latrines on purpose, knowing they were the only way he had into their lair. He wouldn't put it past the little vermin – it was disgusting and stupid, like most vorcha 'ideas'. And they wondered why he shot them at every opportunity.
As foul as these trips through what amounted to vorcha sewers were, Gavorn never rushed them. He had no delusions about the tenuous peace he'd managed to find with the vorcha – it was based on fear, and fear alone. As soon as they thought they had an advantage their sniveling subservience would disappear in a heartbeat and they'd be all over him. Gavorn had no intention of giving them that opportunity. He crawled deliberately, slowly, his assault rifle leveled out in front of him. Every sound made him stop and listen – he had not survived his tour of duty in the turian military to be outsmarted by frickin' vorcha. He crawled past a vorcha corpse, riddled with holes – it was one of the ones he'd killed last week, dead but still twitching as its bodies stem cells tried to repair the damage. He pushed it aside and kept going.
He emerged from the far end of the tube without incident and shook off the coat of foul-smelling sludge as best he could. Here, in a sealed-off deck in Omega's underbelly, was one of the vorcha nests. The deck had been cordoned off a few decades back after a hull breach. Somehow, the vorcha (or, more likely in Gavorn's mind, some smarter species) had found the leak and plugged it, and now the whole area was swarming with the needle-toothed monsters. Nests were tucked away in every orifice, leathery, shell-less eggs lying about abandoned in piles of filth and refuse the mother had collected.
The vorcha knew to avoid the ducts Gavorn used to enter their lair, but he could still hear them beyond the walls, bickering and fighting. He scowled angrily, wiping the slime off of the light on his rifle, before making for one of the passages. Screeching hatchlings crunched beneath his taloned feet as he waded his way through the muck. His light pierced through the pitch black as he swept it from side to side, checking each crack and crevasse for ambushers. There were none. The temperature was sweltering, and Gavorn's mandibles clacked back and forth to fan off excess heat.
A black silhouette materialized out of the dim light at the end of the tunnel. It was hunched, ugly to look at, but stayed stock still as Gavorn approached, rifle brandished threateningly ahead of him. He fired a few shots over the vorcha's head, causing it to duck and mewl piteously, but it did not flee. They knew the pattern – whenever they approached Gavorn in groups, the captain would pick one or two off to show he meant business, but if they only ever met him singly he would spare their lives rather than have to seek out another. Gavorn was an impatient turian.
"Nanak Captain Gavorn," the vorcha spat, staring up at him with creepy slit eyes. "Pek pek. You have brought something good?"
"Shut up," Gavorn snapped, training his gun on the vorcha's head. The vorcha did not move. "I told you the deal, you little cretins. You don't get what you want until I get what I want."
"Gavorn get what he want, vorcha very quiet this week," the vorcha protested, clicking its bizarre array of needle-sharp teeth in annoyance.
"Bullshit. Blue Suns told Aria you've been stepping into their territory again." Without warning, he reeled back and slammed the butt of his gun into the vorcha's face with a gruesome crack. It gave a blood-curdling scream and fell to the ground, clutching its broken face. "Aria nearly had me killed!"
"Sorry, we sorry!" the vorcha screeched pitifully as Gavorn set a taloned foot atop its neck. "We did not know! Stupid vorcha!"
"You want to keep the boot from coming down, you keep your little friends out of Aria's sight!" Gavorn roared, giving a little push. The vorcha gurgled painfully, grasping futilely at Gavorn's leg. He gave it another good whack with his rifle for good measure before finally stepping off to let the little creature breathe. It dutifully limped to its feet, whimpering piteously.
"Sorry," it burbled. "Stupid, stupid." Gavorn glared down at the vorcha.
"You know what happens if you cross me again."
"The flames," the vorcha squeaked almost inaudibly. "Captain Gavorn come back with the flames and burn home." It had not been long after Aria had assigned him the vorcha problem that Gavorn had learned how much the little pests feared flamethrowers. They had no qualms using them themselves, but Gavorn had only had to barbeque their nesting grounds once to get their attention in a big way. Now the mere threat of it was often enough to get them to fall in line.
"That's right," he said. "Now listen to me." The vorcha looked up, listening intently. "I have a... friend. Turian, like me. Named Acus. See, Acus and I had a bit of a falling out recently. I want you to kill him. Do you know where the Ugudu apartment complex is?" The vorcha nodded slowly. "He lives there. Leave his head where you find him, so I know you did good, and I'll let you eat the rest." As stupid as the vorcha were, they were tenacious little bastards when they wanted something. They could get roughly anywhere on the station, traveling through ducts and dangerous engineering corridors. And better, nobody cared what the vorcha did. If people that just happened to have substantial cash bounties on them just happened to be torn apart by vorcha during the night, nobody bothered mounting an investigation. Gavorn could collect the bounties without suspicion.
"Cannot eat head?" the vorcha asked after a moment, cocking its head to one side.
"No. How will I know you did good?" Gavorn asked. "How will I know to bring you something good the next time I come?" The vorcha seemed to consider this for a long moment.
"No," it said, and stared defiantly up at him. Gavorn's eyes widened, then narrowed in cold rage.
"What did you just say to me?" he breathed dangerously, training his rifle on the vorcha's forehead.
"No!" the vorcha repeated, then erupted into peals of throaty laughter. Its mirth was cut off as Gavorn pulled the trigger, ending its life in a plume of red mist. Gavorn cursed impatiently as the body flopped lifelessly into the sludge. Goddamn vorcha. Now he'd have to find another one and repeat the order. He toed the vorcha corpse to one side and continued down the hall before he heard more laughter behind him. He stopped and turned.
Two dozen vorcha filled the hallway behind him, cradling weapons in their spindly arms. They laughed their eerie laughs and stared viciously at him, like he was a mere piece of meat. Gavorn did not hesitate in the least, and immediately shot the closest vorcha dead. The others scattered for a moment, but in seconds they were back, still cackling.
"Back off," Gavorn warned, killing another vorcha. They kept laughing and began to press in, stepping over their friends' corpses without a second glance.
"We not listen to Gavorn. Not today," one of them told him before he cut it down in a flurry of well-placed shots. Gavorn felt the fear start to grip him. He had been attacked before, but not like this. Nothing organized. Nothing a few blasts of his assault rifle couldn't dissuade. This time vorcha were practically pouring out of the walls, fearless as they surrounded him from every direction. They started to take potshots at him and he was forced to retreat, plowing down several of them in his path. He dove behind a nearby alcove.
"Gavorn will bring the flames!" Gavorn threatened desperately, popping a fresh heat sink into his gun. Though his mind feared, his military training kicked in without fail. He took his time to aim each shot, cleanly blasting the vorchas' heads off their bodies as he backed away.
"Blue suns territory VORCHA territory!" one of the vorcha screamed, ignoring him. "We make plague! We make vorcha strong!" Gavorn popped up from his hiding place. There was no holding back now, and the captain fired broadly into the crowd of foes, cutting down dozens. Still they kept coming, clawing rabidly after him as he retreated.
"Boot comes down!" they screamed. "No more Gavorn! No more fight for Gavorn! Eat him!" Even as he slaughtered them their numbers continued to swell. Gavorn swore as he used his last heatsink and the vorcha kept coming. One of them grabbed at him – he hit it so hard the overheated rifle splintered. Tossing its useless remains into the sludge, Gavorn turned tail and ran back the way he had come, firing his pistol blindly behind his back. He did not look backwards to see the tidal wave of claws and anger chasing him as he dove into the ducts, crawling for his life. Their laughter followed him, echoing off of the filth-stained walls.
Two weeks ago...
–
Omega was hers. No further explanation needed. No hedged words, no conditions. The absoluteness made Aria smile. Sometimes she entertained herself thinking of all the ways her power could have been an illusion, somehow smaller than she thought. All the ways she might have missed something. All the ways she might not actually be the all-powerful bitch she knew herself to be. History was full of powerful people, but absolute rulers? Rare. Unprecedented, even. History said that there had to be cracks in her kingdom. Parts of Omega she didn't rule.
History was wrong.
Asari were, as a rule, quite intelligent. They lacked the frantic curiosity of the salarians, the quiet aptitude of the quarians. Even the raw, flexible ingenuity of the humans. But for putting things together, for drawing thousands of ideas into one, careful symphony, none compared. Matriarchs were famous for their long-view wisdom, their ability to see the currents in asari society and steer them where they belonged, and Aria was no different. Centuries on Omega had set her at its center, the station's mind, heart, and soul. She fed off of its vicious pulse, reading the ecosystem of violence and riches. Thousands of individuals fed her information in networks she'd carefully cultivated for hundreds of years now, networks that made the close-knit council of guards Patriarch had used as his eyes and ears look almost comically pathetic by comparison. Nothing that happened on Omega escaped her notice. And she knew what to do with it. When to act, when to wait. When to lie, when to tell the truth. The complexities of running an empire had become almost second nature to her now.
She'd known about Gavorn's dealings with the vorcha. She didn't care. Gavorn did his job – he kept the vorcha out of her sight. If he chose to send them after bounties, earn a little side cash, it was no scales off her head. He deserved the money. Besides, quick bounty turnover kept Omega moving. Kept things interesting. Of course, it didn't do to let people think she tolerated disloyalty – she knew all too well the ripples and power struggles any shift in her reputation could create – and so when he'd shown up, beaten and filthy and terrified after his vorcha pets had finally turned on him, she'd had him tortured to prove a point. But it hadn't been personal. She had simply demanded it. Omega had demanded it.
It was the same reason she'd given that salarian what he'd wanted. She'd liked him immediately. Mordin Solus was utterly transparent and it was all he aspired to be. Morality had always struck Aria as something of a bother, a contradictory pile of rules and regulations that the races of the galaxy used to make themselves feel bad about feeling good, but when Mordin had outlined his own system at two hundred words a minute and it had been so ruthless, so unapologetically different, so simple and accepting of its own nature, she had been amused. He'd explained his wishes to move his clinic and a small army of mechs to the Gozu district, to battle a plague he knew was coming. Asked permission out of respect, but made it clear he planned to do it whether she agreed or not. His bravery was refreshing.
She'd allowed it, then closed the doors behind him. Ordered a quarantine, posted guards. Locked Mordin Solus and his clinic in the middle of vorcha and Suns and a whole lot of violence.
It wasn't out of any particular worry about the plague – it would run its course. She wanted to see what would happen.
It was good to be the queen.
One week ago...
–
Omega was fascinating. Where else could one spend one week patching up gunshots and the next matching wits with a biotechnological plague? The interplay of so many races without the intrusion of any pretense of government wove a thick tangle of secrecy, violence, and drama that Mordin found almost hypnotizing. It was a land of puzzles and lies. Disgusting and heartless, yet never a dull moment.
"Doctor." It was Daniel. "One of our patients is not responding to the Trioclopan."
"Batarian, yes?" Mordin sheathed his bulbous eyes, thinking. "Saw this coming. Batarian clearance rate faster than Trioclopan mechanism. Risky choice, risky from the beginning. Still, only way. No other drug produce translational shutdown without risk of organ failure."
"We could try icing him. Drop the temperature, drop the metabolism."
"No no. Batarian phenotype plasticity an issue. Drop temperature too low, changes expression patterns. Complicates our work. No, must be Trioclopan. Coinject with anti-diuretic. Monitor. Place on dialysis if skin discolors. Kidney failing. Risk, but unavoidable."
"Yes Doctor," Daniel agreed, rushing off to fill Mordin's orders. Mordin smiled. Daniel was a bright young man. Not a salarian, mind you, but still did not hesitate to help even batarians, even as they hurled insults and spat at him for being human. Perhaps not compassion but guilt, attempt at redemption – perhaps worried that some human lab really had engineered the plague, even after Mordin had explained it. Either way, noble effort. Good to see.
Funny that Daniel himself had convinced Mordin of the humans' innocence, even if he didn't know it. That the plague was engineered was obvious. Galaxy mostly believed that diseases could not cross between species. Not true. Still, any grad student knew viruses were too dependent on precise genetic hijacking mechanisms to strike organisms that evolved in different biospheres. Simple rule from nature. Plague broke rule. Plague was a virus. Ergo, plague not from nature. Blaming humans not illogical for circumstantial reasons. True, humans not dying. True, human looters stealing from aliens, perhaps motive.
Not true: humans unaffected by virus. Days ago Mordin noticed Daniel's scent changed. Not bad, just different. On hunch, ran residue from Daniel's drinking glass through chromatogram. Indeed, foreign substance present. Further analysis revealed aromatic molecules containing abundant sulfur, relatively uncommon element in Earth life. Checked other humans in clinic. Also compounds in saliva and aerosolized in breath, varying degrees. Easily detectable with right technology. A curious thing. Harmless but curious. Excellent puzzle, took Mordin three days to figure out. Clue to the larger answer.
Plague was studying genetic variability, human included. Virus was a super-meric type, severity of symptoms correlated directly to viral integration load. Virus especially lytic in species with low variability – salarian, turian, asari. Virus spread through body. Transposition elements hyperactive. Respiratory system overwhelmed by nonsense mutations. Death followed quickly. Curing difficult – parthenogenic asari entirely extinct in district before Mordin had chance to help. Species with more variability – krogan, mostly – gave virus alternate sites to integrate. Less harmful lysogenic cycle initiated, death came slower. More robust genetics, slower death.
In humans, same goal, different method. Virus not capable of rapid transposition in human DNA. Integrations non destructive, virus propogation entirely lysogenic. Virus spread without harming host. Operon-carrying transposons produced, coded for genes to produce sulfur compounds. Similar to virus in nonhumans, more heterogeneous genetics let operon integrate more extensively, led to greater production of the sulfur compounds. Fascinating answer – proved plague designers trying to study genetic heterogeneity, in humans most of all. Other species simple yes no answer. Diverse or uniform. Die or live. In humans, quantitative. Measure sulfur compounds in breath easily with spectrophotometric scanners. See how human gene patterns distributed. Careful. Precise.
Clever. Fascinating. Opened new puzzles. Why study humans more carefully than other species? Answer still hidden. Who is taking measurements of human scent? Vorcha most likely candidate. Why? Answer still hidden.
Development of cure easy by comparison. Virus brilliantly engineered to integrate with several species' genetic molecules, but unlike natural virus, did not have millions of years to evolve resistance to treatment. Molecular inhibitor could bind to viral particles, prevent infection. Early versions already administered to Mordin himself and his staff. Now just a matter of testing, refinement, and deployment. So far, cure did not take except at massive doses. Needed system to ensure proper cure penetration. Solution had so far eluded him. More puzzles.
Mordin looked up suddenly. Panicked shouts were coming from the front rooms, almost drowned out by the emotionless chatter of security mechs.
"Mordin!" his chief guard, a human woman, shouted as she ran into his lab. She needn't have bothered. He was already moving, pistol in hand. His labcoat swirled impressively behind him as he marched to the clinic's entrance, the guard following. In front of the clinic, a half dozen Blue Suns had drawn their guns on his miniature army of mechs, which droned on and on, politely insisting the mercenaries vacate the premises. Mordin could barely hear anything over their noise, and, with a wave of his omnitool, muted them. The apparent leader of the Blue Suns lowered his weapon and stepped forward.
"Mordin Solus!" he bellowed.
"Yelling unnecessary," Mordin said calmly. "Know I am here. Have not hid from Suns in the past. Useless bravado. Attempting to intimidate us. Indicates you anticipate resistance, need compliance." He eyed the mercenaries carefully, mind working full speed. "Not displaying plague symptoms. Not here for medical help for selves. Heavily armed, preparing for combat. Would not wish to stop my work – plague affecting Suns too, and cure beneficial to all. Want something else. Money, perhaps?"
The mercenary commander's brow knitted as he attempted to keep up with Mordin's rapid-fire analysis. Mordin waited patiently, arms crossed.
"Money?" the commander asked after a moment. "No, you got us all wrong, Professor." He smiled widely, showing his teeth. "We ain't here to rob you. We just wanted to offer our services. Vorcha are getting closer, an' like you said, we'd hate to see your work interrupted. We thought you might want to enlist us, make sure the violence don't find you." The commander grinned wryly. Behind him, his men brandished their guns in none-too-subtle threat gestures.
"Offer of protection," Mordin said, scratching his chin. "Protection obviously not needed. Clinic has mechs, guards. Quite safe. Not hidden – mechs easy to spot. Not an offer. Blackmail. Threaten violence if I do not pay. Free clinic obviously has little money – not about money. About balance of power. Suns losing control of district. Worried I am muscling in. People going to clinic for protection, not Suns. Suns losing control." He tapped his chin, thinking. "Only brought five guns. Obviously outnumber you here. Still, Blue Suns have extensive personnel in area. Refusal may lead to further violence. Agreement may interfere with work."
"Perhaps cure made more mobile with chelation," he mused, instantly changing the topic. "Coordinate cure onto metal particles, increase radius, allow for wider distribution. Perhaps through environmental systems." Everyone stared at him, brows raised in confusion. He continued on, unconcerned. "Good system. Safe. Cheap, if metal chosen properly. Still have to deal with electrostatics, however. Maybe take page from weaponized bio-agent delivery systems. Worth investigation, worth investigation."
He was still in mid sentence when he lifted an arm and fired a plasma dart into the nearest mercenary. The mercs looked on in shock, too offbalance by Mordin's distracting speech to react as their comrade suddenly burst into flames and fell screaming to the floor. By the time they'd raised their guns, Mordin had already ordered the mechs to open fire. "Violence against Blue Suns inevitable," he said, calmly firing his pistol into the commander's head. "Lethal surprise attack best option. Risky. Best option."
Once all the mercenaries were dead, Mordin holstered his gun. He nodded his head, satisfied. "Best option," he repeated.
With a swish of his coattails, he turned and headed for the lab. New ideas to try. New puzzles.
Present...
–
Omega was a terrible, terrible place. With everything that the dancer told him, Jacob was more and more sure that its denizens were not the sort of people Shepard should be recruiting.
"The raids have really stepped up," the asari said calmly, arching her lithe back until her head frills nearly touched her toes. "Suns lost another squad a few days ago, right in the middle of the street. They've been keeping to crowded areas, thinking Archangel won't risk civilians. Didn't matter. He killed them all without scratching anyone else." Jacob nodded, urging her to continue. "Blood Pack's taking it a step further, taking hostages to try to draw him out," she said.
Jacob hid his disgusted frown behind the lip of his drink for a moment. He didn't want to risk alienating the woman, and buried his disapproval under a false smile. "It work?" he asked, letting his gaze trace down her body so she wouldn't be able to see the lie in his eyes.
"Not yet. But smart money says it will eventually. Archangel's a busy man, whoever he is, but he'll come deal with them." The asari smiled evenly. Jacob wondered how much she cared about Archangel's crusade – she was certainly safe from mercenaries working in Aria's club, and Omega, as rule, did not seem to engender any worry outside of oneself. Still, Jacob had always believed there was goodness hidden anywhere you cared to look. To him, Archangel sounded like something of a thug. He was the talk of the station, loved and hated, and yet it was impossible for Jacob to get any kind of solid understanding of what he was. One person or several? Mercenary or champion of justice? Even his species had somehow evaded public knowledge.
"Well, sounds like they have their work cut out for them," he said neutrally.
"They do," the asari agreed. "They're terrified of him. Banding together, if you believe that, and recruiting for some massive strike. One man has all the mercenaries in Omega pissing themselves," she said, slithering boldly onto his lap. Jacob played his part in good humor, and even wrapped his arms around her, ignoring the electric tingle of her biotics tickling his fingertips through her azure skin. He'd never quite adopted the fascination the galaxy seemed to have with the asari. It wasn't like he didn't see their physical charms – far from it – but he'd been raised not to think of women that way if he could help it. It felt disrespectful to get too wrapped up in a woman's appearance, all the more so to suspend judgment on her character because she was gorgeous, so he did his best to avoid it.
Besides, he and Miranda weren't here to see the sights. They were here for information. Shepard had sent them away while he went upstairs to speak to Aria T'Loak. "Have fun, you two," he'd said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Get yourself a drink." Ostensibly it had been a gesture of peace on his part, to show Aria he meant no harm, but Jacob knew the truth. Shepard didn't trust them, and didn't want them privy to everything he learned. It was unfortunate, for Jacob wanted Shepard's trust very much – the Commander was everything Jacob aspired to be. Still, he understood trust was not a commodity to be thrown about recklessly – look what had happened with Wilson. He'd snapped a salute and departed without hesitation, dragging a much more reluctant Miranda along with him.
Now they were working the bar, trying to prove their usefulness by gathering what information they could. Jacob had never been to Omega before, but he'd seen dangerous bars like this time and time again since joining Cerberus. He was often sent to negotiate one unsavory deal or another. Much of Cerberus' activities had been on the far side of the law, but Jacob had a feeling the Illusive Man kept him around precisely because he disapproved. Jacob was an honest man. He wasn't as devoted or talented as Miranda, but he was no steely-faced, impersonal secret agent. He was a good person, and people opened up to him in a way they never would with her.
Not that she was doing half bad herself. Jacob stole a glance at her out of the corner of his eye. She was across the room talking with two or three enrapt humans. Miranda was a good liar, but too arrogant and uptight to mingle like Jacob did. Her childhood had simply been too isolated for her to carry out a decent conversation that didn't involve reapers or cellular mutation or whatever. Of course, what she lacked in charisma she more than made up for in raw physical beauty, and Jacob could see practically every human eye in the bar (and even some inhuman ones) staring at her in ways he didn't quite like. He'd told himself hundreds of times that whatever had been between him and Miranda was over and that it was better that way, but watching the lecherous way men ogled her still filled him with cold anger.
He put that anger away for the good of the mission, like he always did. Those lecherous stares were getting them valuable information. Miranda didn't even have to act interested – she could bat her eyes and the dumbstruck men would tell her anything she wanted.
Still, Jacob was grateful when Shepard finally descended the staircase and headed for the club's exit. He paid the dancer and excused himself. He rejoined Miranda and Shepard on the Afterlife's front steps as the Commander tapped out a message to the Normandy.
"Well?" Miranda asked once Shepard had put away his omnitool.
"We're headed for a quarantine zone in Gozu district," he grunted, not bothering to look at them. Jacob frowned. This whole station should have been a quarantine zone. "Blue Sun territory. Mordin's set up a clinic there. Apparently the whole district is a warzone, so be on your toes." Shepard said no more as he started towards the apartments.
"Commander," Jacob volunteered, "did Aria say anything about someone named Archangel?"
"Yes. Learn something about him?" Shepard asked. Jacob did not miss the hint of interest in his voice.
"Some kind of vigilante figure," Miranda explained. "He's been slaughtering the mercs here for months, and nobody's been able to get their hands on him." She paused. "Apparently the mercenaries are amassing a small army to deal with him, Blue Suns included. We should take advantage of their distraction. Get Dr. Solus and get out with a minimum of fuss."
"Or we could go save him," Shepard said. "Recruit him." Miranda looked frustrated.
"We do not need any more exposure here than absolutely necessary, Shepard," she said testily. "These mercenary groups have little love for Cerberus. They could make our mission to retrieve Dr. Solus very difficult if we let them catch wind of our arrival. We should not get involved in their gang wars with some crazed vigilante."
"Tough. I want to meet him. Can't do that if he's dead," Shepard said. He obviously wasn't about to be dissuaded. Jacob had the distinct impression Shepard mostly liked the idea of recruiting Archangel precisely because he wasn't one of the Illusive Man's dossiers. Understandable, perhaps – he'd never trusted the Illusive Man either – but not worth getting killed over.
"Can we really trust someone we know so little about, Commander?" Jacob asked. "I'm tempted to agree with Miranda."
"You know what, guys?" Shepard asked, annoyed. "One of your goddamn dossiers is for a super-biotic psychopath currently serving life in a maximum security prison for ninety-eight counts of murder. Don't talk to me about trusting these people."
"Touche, Commander."
Codex entry: Exogeni Corporation Presents: Aliens, Disease, and You – A Space Colonist's Guide to Basic Xeno-Hygiene, part 1
Hello and welcome, (name of colonist)! If you're reading this, then let me be the first to welcome you to ExoGeni Corporation's Colonial Initiative Program! ExoGeni Corporation represents humanity's lifelong dream of reaching for the stars, with over fifty colonies in eighteen systems! Soon, you will be among the thousands of people living their dreams on the forefront of galactic colonization! Welcome to the future!
Your payment has been received and your application to join (name of colony) has been accepted! (name of colony) is a friendly, safe colony established by ExoGeni Corporation in (year). (name of colony) is famous for its (claimtofame) and its fun, carefree attitude. Whether you like to (activity_1), (activity_2), or even (activity_3), (name of colony) is the colony for you!
But don't pack your things just yet! We humans aren't the only ones out there, you know! Hahaha! (name of colony) boasts small, permanent populations of several alien species, with others visiting every day! Interacting with your alien neighbors is a great way to learn about the galaxy, and make some great friends along the way. However, close contact with alien lifeforms can in rare cases be hazardous to your health or theirs. ExoGeni's top xenobiologists prepared this guide of handy tips to help you keep your family safe.
The Basics:
Just as on Earth, on colonies with mixed-species populations, disease can pose a constant threat. Xenobiologists tell us that bacteria and viruses represent the most successful life strategies in the galaxy, with analogs in every known xeno-biosphere! Though ExoGeni Corporation takes safety very seriously, some of these diseases may crop up. It is up to you to keep yourself safe.
"But wait," you say, "I heard on the extranet that humans can't catch alien diseases!"
Hahaha! Well, (name of colonist), you caught us! It's true, most diseases are too specific to cross from one planet's lifeforms to another. Viral, virion, and prion-like pathogens are considered completely non transmissible, so do not fear. So rest easy, Salarian Eye Rot will never touch you! However, bacterial and archean analogs have been known to adapt to cross species barriers.
"But wait," you protest, "I'm more closely related to an oak tree than to a salarian!"
Right again, (name of colonist)! Genetically you and the oak tree are like brothers, but there's not a lot of family resemblance! Functionally, however, you share remarkable similarity to many of the galaxy's sentient species. Take the salarian – both salarians and humans have closed circulatory systems, warm blood, fast metabolisms, unidirectional digestive systems, levo-amino acid based protein chemistry, and more. You're more similar than you think!
Turns out, some bacteria that live inside you can take advantage of this similarity and move into salarian hosts, or vice versa, with little difficulty. It's the miracle of evolution, and it happens every day! Just ask the poor saps fighting drug-resistant bugs back in the 21st century!
Interspecies diseases can, on rare occasions, be very severe, but just like with Earth bacteria, basic hygiene goes a long way towards avoiding illness.
--Always wash your hands several times a day.
--Make sure your food is properly cleaned. Animal products, Earth-born or otherwise, should be thoroughly washed.
--Do not go to work or school if you feel ill. If symptoms persist more than one standard day, seek medical attention.
--Avoid individuals, human or alien, that appear sick.
--Always follow posted public health advice
--Most importantly, be sure to update your ExoGeni Corporation Immunobooster and Vaccine Cocktail Shots every year! Nothing says safety like ExoGeni!
Species-specific health concerns:
Salarians – Salarians are a race of fast-paced, warm-blooded amphibians. Despite their alien appearance, salarians are actually considered the most similar sentient species to humans, and thus represent the greatest health concern. Salarian food is biochemically compatible with humans, containing no known hyper-allergic threats (though of course individual allergies still apply). Be careful, for the reverse is not necessarily true – some rare human foods can cause anaphylactic shock in salarians. Always check nutrition information before sharing your food with any species. Salarian animal products should always be cooked thoroughly to avoid the transmission of rare enteric infections. Avoid contact with salarian saliva or eye-mucus – both contain commensal microorganisms that, in rare situations, can cause illness in humans.
Asari – Asari are not known to pose significant health threat to humans. Physiologically, they very closely resemble humans. Food and drink are considered entirely compatible with humans. There are no known diseases from the asari homeworld that can spread to humans, though some asari have been known to temporarily harbor STD's from other species.
Batarian – Batarians are many-eyed mammals, superficially similar to humans in many ways. Though they are based upon levo-amino acids like humans, several of these amino acids are not found naturally on earth, and thus some batarian foods can be dangerous for human consumption. Batarian food also tends to contain polysaccharide polymers that are indigestible to humans. Batarians often live in dense communities, fostering the spread of endemic infections. These infections are asymptomatic for batarians, but can in some cases cross to humans, where they are lethal. Fluid to fluid contact is strongly discouraged.
Turian – Turians, like the much rarer quarians, have a unique dextro-amino acid based biochemistry. Their proteins contain many of the same amino acids as humans', but mirrored. Ingesting these foreign amino acids can pose a significant allergenic threat. Turian food is considered completely incompatible to humans – 5-10% of cases of accidental ingestion lead to fatal hyperimmunological symptoms. There are no known turian diseases that can spread to humans.
Elcor – Due to evolving in a high-gravity environment, Elcor are physiologically very unique, and Dekuuna-born illnesses are not known to cross into humans. However, Elcor are the only known racemic-based races – their proteins contain both L and D form amino acids. This makes them a prime reservoir species, fostering the evolution of racemic-based diseases. Diseases specific to turians can infect elcor and, over time, evolve compatibility with L-based species. This was believed to be the source of the famous Twilight epidemic that swept the citadel in 1981 CE.
Volus – Volus cannot live in human-compatible environments without pressurized environment suits, and thus are not known to spread disease to humans. Contact with dead volus tissue should be avoided, however, as it is toxic to humans.
Krogan – Like the krogan themselves, krogan pathogens are rugged and adaptive. Luckily, many of these pathogens embody low-virulence strategies. Occasional disease transmission into other species tends to result in a rapid initial mortality wave followed by a loss of disease virulence as the pathogen evolves into a passive form. Still, direct krogan/human contact is discouraged. (Of course, most krogan consider physical contact a dire insult, so perhaps it need not be mentioned!).
(name of colonist), follow these tips and you (and your alien friends) will live long, healthy lives! For more health tips, proceed to part two of this guide or search the extranet for ExoGeni, keyword safety.
Good luck on (name of colony)!
–
A/N: So... Chapter 4!
Sorry for how long this took. This one actually has been close to done for a while, but I have this rule where I don't edit one chapter until the next chapter's first draft is done, and chapter five has been kicking my ass all week.
More mild continuity tweaks in this one, chief among them that, in this story, Archangel was not one of the Illusive Man's suggestions, but someone Shepard decided to go after himself.
Finally, I just wanted to express my thanks for all the great reviews I've gotten. They really make it so much more fun. I try to respond to all of them, but if I should happen to miss you, know that I appreciate it. Really.
Finally finally, love writing Mordin. Love it love it.