So a couple of editorial notes as the second act of this fic begins. First, the summer allowed me to resume work in earnest on this. I'll generally be writing about three or four chapters ahead of where I'm publishing, with a slightly long lag at the start of each act so that I can make sure the details click the way that I want them to.
Second, I should note that I consider the magnificent writing of Mass Effect: Interregnum to effectively be canon. It's that good - several light-years ahead of Bioware's own interpretation of that particular story arc. If you haven't read it, you should take this opportunity to do so. It's hands-down the best written piece of science fiction that I've read since Neuromancer. I'd also like to very publicly note that, while I will not be modeling my own work off of it, I will be borrowing some of TheNakedPen's spectacular world-building and referencing events that occur within that fanfic as if they were part of the overall Mass Effect canon. Simply put, the material is too good not to incorporate - I would be doing a disservice to my own version of Liara's narrative if I didn't. As would be the case with any of Bioware's original material, all disclaimers about philosophical ownership of ideas and concepts apply.
So, short version: I'm back, I'm writing, and you should all go read Mass Effect: Interregnum...right after you read this.
Act II: The First and the Last
Prologue: Judgement
Kolarov District, Omega
The dark air burned with the smoke of a hundred choked fires, the scent of smouldering garbage stinging Borja's eyes as he roamed among the streets of the Kolarov District on Omega. Even by the station's standards, the slums here were decrepit. Refuse lined row upon row of one-level shacks, many held together by the flimsiest of durasteel frames. The flashy automated entrances of the richer Gozu District gave way to doors that barely sealed, roofs that leaked, and slums and cavernous ruins of apartment towers that often lacked water and sewage. Fires burned openly, and he was forced to shield his nose and mouth to avoid the sting of the rancid air.
If hell existed in the galaxy, this was it: the poorest, filthiest, most miserable part of Omega. They called this place the Citadel of the Terminus Systems, yet it barely did justice to the level of ruin that the district exuded. The Kima, Gozu, or even Zeta districts seemed an Elysium of bliss compared to the Kolarov District.
People swarmed around him, their misery plain to see on their faces as he passed them. Humans, Batarians, Turians, Asari, it didn't matter. The dregs of every species ended up here eventually. Even now, he could see the signs of each one's fall as he moved between them: severed limbs, bandaged heads, festering illnesses that ate away at the body and the mind in equal measure. Some looked him dead in the eyes, prompting him to lower his to avoid their knowing and pain-filled gaze. Others shuttered the doors or flappy entrances to their hovels as he approached, drawing their miserable children inside as he and his escort passed. They came from all corners of the galaxy, drawn to Omega when they had nowhere else to go. Whether it was a trade crisis on Khar'shan, cartel violence on Invictus, a plague sweeping through Korlus, or refugees straggling in from a slave rebellion on the fringes of Terminus Space, their desperation always led them to the mined-out hulk of an asteroid that the Protheans had first populated fifty millennia earlier. To a man, this world was what they found.
Part of Borja pitied them. Born into poverty on Earth, he'd known those feelings of hunger, of want, of misery. He'd slept on concrete floors in hovels holding forty people, rife with disease and starvation. He lowered his gaze when they looked at him because he saw himself in their eyes, a past he'd spent a lifetime trying to bury. Yet he did not come here to pity them, or to save them from their hell. In this patch of the Kolarov District, he was the god of vice, come to give and to take.
The individual capsules of pure refined Red Sand rattled around on his utility belt, covered firmly by a knee-length trenchcoat that obscured his well-built frame from view. He'd gained it from his supplier – a Batarian-Human cartel that controlled this neighbourhood and several others on behalf of Eclipse. He was their distributor, the foot soldier in a shadow economy worth trillions of credits. The chemical stimulant was said to be among the most potent ever created for sapient consumption, and the demand for it in a place like this was staggering – biotic powers or no. At the street level, a single gram of the substance could command a fee of two hundred credits – even more in the tightly controlled and policed space of the Turian Hierarchy or on the Citadel. Borja would take his cut – twenty credits per gram sold – and the rest would be funnelled to the supplier. He could move a half kilo of the stuff in a week, netting him a considerable profit and the envy of his rival distributors.
It was a simple market, one lacking the complex systems of credit and loan that so characterized the economies of Citadel Space. If you had money immediately, you got your sand. If you bought more than you could afford, the loans were simple: Pay up on time. And if you didn't? That was where the two armed and armoured soldiers behind him came in. A Batarian and a Human, he'd hired them as extra muscle when several of his clients began to default on payment. On Omega, to be seen as weak was suicide – rivals would move on your turf, and your suppliers would move on. Borja knew several distributors who'd met an untimely end when their supply of product suddenly dried up. Unable to pay debts they'd incurred from the Big Three mercenary corporations, they were killed as examples.
The two escorts watched the rooftops and corners as Borja conducted another set of deals, the credits transferring instantly into his account as the Red Sand traded hands. After two more stops at long-time clients, the trio turned their attention to the last bit of business for the day.
Their path through the slums led them past row upon row of freight containers, each housing a half dozen people, sometimes more. Cots littered the streets in some places, with many sleeping in the open air. Borja and his escort sidestepped them ably, ignoring the wasted hands of the few who crawled towards them. They were in the worst pits of the district's slums now, those who no longer had the money or connections to fuel their cravings for San or the other drugs that circulated through Omega. I grew up in this, he thought to himself, I saw it every day. He hated being back here, resolving to get through it as quickly as possible and move onward to his final destination. All around him, the pleas of the wretched echoed past him, paid no mind by him or his escorts.
"Help me."
"Please, just one more hit!"
"I'll pay later, I promise. Just one more!"
"Sir, we need water!"
"I'm so hungry, so cold."
"Make it end!"
They were cries Borja had heard a thousand times before, cries he'd uttered when he still lived on Earth. Yet he'd done it – he'd escaped it, through sheer force of will. These wretches still dwelt in the squalor of their misery, unwilling or unable to escape its grip. He continued on, ignoring their cries for food, water, shelter, drugs, money, or the mercy of a swift death. He gave them none. Mercy had no place on this station, no role to play in the grisly business he moved to conduct.
The three crossed through the slums without incident, coming to a vast apartment block that stood at the edge of the shantytown. Its concrete frame was ancient, even by Omega's standards, with cracks and whole chunks of wall papered over in places. It towered over the district, rising twenty floors into the air with open-air balconies that stared down at Omega like the public galleries at an execution. The edges of the building were lined with refuse and burning barrels. Borja motioned to his two guards, and they entered the cramped alcove that could be generously called an 'entryway'. The desk looked like it had been unmanned for decades, a heavy layer of dust caked over it as he walked past. He didn't want to guess how many cycles of abandonment, desertion, and gradual reclamation this building had seen.
They made their way to the flimsy elevator, opening the shuttered gate and pressing the button to the seventh floor. The lift ascended slowly, and they could see through the grating as it rose and onto the other floors they passed. Lights flickered on and off in the dusty gloom, the shadows of people lining the halls ghosted in and out with them.
"Why would they be here?" one of his escorts mused.
"No one else will come looking here." Truth be told, it had taken time for him to think of doing so.
They slowly reached the seventh floor, moving to their left and down the decrepit hallway to their destination. Doors blurred through Borja's vision as they walked briskly, his focus only on the door at the very end of the hallway. He could hear the faint sounds of tenants from behind the walls that they passed – shouts, screams, chatter. All but laughter; there was no laughter or joy in this place. Their armoured boots echoed through the hallway, and some voices hushed as they passed. He could tell he was not the only one who passed through the skid row of this district; he would deal with his competition in time. For now, they had reached the door that stood at the edge of the hallway. The light in the alcove above him barely flickered with life.
The Batarian cleared his throat loudly. "Is this the one?"
"seven twelve," Borja responded. "This is the one."
He reached his gloved hand to the door and knocked loudly, rapping against the steel three times.
No response. Frowning, Borja knocked again. No response.
"Do your work," he said to his guards through gritted teeth. The human nodded, drew his shotgun, and applied the full force of his boot to the door. It shuddered against the blow, but didn't budge. He growled and tried again, shifting his bodyweight to maximize the force of the blow. The door gave way beneath him, and Borja's two guards raced into the apartment.
It was a small dwelling, barely twenty feet across either direction. A small alcove cut left into what Borja supposed might have once been a kitchen. A lone gas burner sat in the corner, the counter covered in soot, grime, and dust. Where the wall opposite had once had a full-size glass door, only open air to the concrete balcony remained. A single light panel cast its yellowish glow over the room, bringing what little furniture there was into stark relief.
The one they were searching for was huddled in the back-right corner of the room, his gaunt features were drawn back against his jaw and exposed chest. His arms were coated in scratches and scars, most self-inflicted. He was dressed only in the flimsy remains of a castoff shirt that barely covered his skin in patches below the shoulders. His teeth were near-blackened by the scale of the rot that had set in, and his nails were shattered raw to the skin, though whether self-inflicted or a result of the Sand, they did not know. It was his eyes that were the most disconcerting: bloodshot, stretched wide and shaking, they barely betrayed recognition as he approached. This, this wasted shell of a man, was who they were looking for.
"I know why you're here" was all he could manage, his voice rasped and weak. "I've taken from you," he paused for a moment, "and you want it back."
Borja nodded. "The terms of the agreement were simple: credits for Sand. We upheld our end of the transaction; you did not." He motioned to the Batarian, who took a menacing step towards the man. "And I do not believe in second chances."
The man chuckled to himself, his laughter even more ominous than the rasping voice or bloodshot eyes. "You think you can take from me?" He collapsed in a violent bout of coughing, and when he regained his composure the inside of his left hand was coated in blood. "What more can you take from me? Look around you," he gestured to the squalor of the tiny apartment. "You gave this to me, in your own little way. I owe you for this."
"Be that as it may, the debt must be paid," Borja intoned simply. "The debt will be paid."
"I cannot. Everything has been taken from me."
"If not in coin, then in blood."
"Then do it yourself," the man coughed at him. "You hired these thugs to avoid getting your hands dirty. Finish it personally, so all the station will know what you have done."
Borja regarded the man coldly, his icy stare boring into the addict's shattered visage. On another day, he might have hesitated, content to let his bodyguards do the deed, but something about this man cried out at him to oblige. His bloodshot eyes stared back at Borja's, never quite sure of their own comprehension. Yet in that brief moment they hardened, resolute as they stared back at his with the last remnants of what had once been a brilliantly-burning inner fire. He motioned to the Batarian to stand aside, and his escort duly obliged. Drawing his pistol, he stepped into the centre of the room.
"So be it."
A single shot to the chest made it so. His pistol was an older variant, equipped with slug-shells to add stopping power to lethality. The addict's body was torn apart by the force of the impact, blood coating the walls around him. Part of the spray caked itself onto Borja's overcoat, and one of his escorts visibly grimaced.
"Another condemned by Omega's siren call," his human bodyguard noted. "Can't help but feel sorry for the guy. This," he gestured to the apartment, "is probably not what he imagined for himself."
"How he got here is none of my concern. Someone needs to cater to the refuse, and take it out when need be."
They descended to the main level of the complex, meeting no one as they did so. It would be another long night working the streets of the Kolarov District, moving the Sand that kept this part of Omega's dark economy running. As he stepped out into the open expanse, he paused to breathe in the ambience of this hellish corner of the universe: the burning refuse, the stench of alcohol, drugs, and death, the sound of sparks and gunfire crackling electric across the sky, the odd contours of the rocky ceiling that formed their twisted sky. For a moment, he closed his eyes and let himself drink it all in.
He never saw the sniper's shot coming.
Zheigun District, Omega
Tagarn Korragan surveyed the narrow road that ran outside of the warehouse, his M55 Argus Assault Rifle cradled at his side. They were expecting a shipment soon – another incoming haul of Sand from a business partner on Erszbat. The Red Sand would be processed, refined, chemically enhanced with the addition of several other stimulants, and then shipped to Camala, where the large population of labourers in the Eezo mines would make for willing customers. To his left, Tarrus stood watch with a set of macro-readers, scanning the rooftops surrounding them to pick out targets for the snipers standing watch on the warehouse's roof. Sighing, he glanced at his omnitool to check the time. The shipment was expected soon, and with the day's cycle coming to a close, Tagarn was eager for rest and a smoke. He could already feel the craving for both gnawing at him, making him more irritable by the minute.
"Fucking hell," he muttered to Tarrus. "They were supposed to be here three hours ago! How long does it take a fucking shipment to dock and unload? It's not as if Endline's fees have changed at all. Tanner's done the run enough times that he should know the procedure."
"You know how Omega is," Tarrus chuckled to himself. "Any number of things could have happened. It has to cross through Eclipse and Shadows territory first – either of those payouts for safe passage could go wrong. Could get caught in the middle of another gang war, or Eclipse could decide that the little arrangement we have together has suddenly lost its appeal for them."
It was an arrangement that had worked well in the past for their mercenary group – the Storm Cartel. Founded by Vitesh Lowe and Kathka Ror'aat five years ago, they numbered close to a hundred mercenaries, smugglers, and enforcers centered on the far side of the Zheigun District. They specialized in the trafficking of Red Sand between the Batarian Hegemony and the outlying planets in the Terminus Systems. They clung to the edge of Eclipse's territory, with whom they had a specified arrangement: the enormous mercenary cartel would task Storm with maintaining the protection racket in their district, and give Eclipse a cut of their net profits. In return, the Salarian-Asari conglomerate allowed them to exist, partnering with them when there was no need to expend even the meagre resources that would be required to grind them into the dust. Eclipse also occasionally contracted them to fight low-level turf wars against other encroaching gangs or to hit the subordinates of the Blue Suns or Blood Pack. The partnership had begun two years ago, and it had thus far paid dividends for the outfit. When Lowe and Ror'aat had first approached Eclipse, they had numbered forty. Their territory had more than tripled, and they now counted business partners in the Batarian Hegemony, on Invictus, Deinech, Illium, and even a few contacts via Eclipse in Citadel Space itself.
Tagarn shook his head and shifted his back against the wall next to the entrance, glancing upward towards the soaring roof of the asteroid above them. He lit a cigarette, deeply inhaling the noxious smoke before letting it blow out through his nostrils. "Whole station's on edge, you can feel it eh?" Tarrus nodded in response. "Ever since the Skulls Alliance fell apart, that whole system has been a massive shitstorm. Big Three are losing contacts and people everywhere. Contracts are disappearing even as the demand soars."
"It's not just that," Tarrus noted as he brought he adjusted the view on his visor. "it caught Eclipse and the Blue Suns completely off-guard. The alliance looked set: Throttlers, Diamondeye, and Calvaria were good to go, the top leaders prepared with plan upon plan for months-,"
"I heard it was the most tightly coordinated operational plan to hit the Traverse since the Blitz," Tagarn interjected.
"So did I. Think we both heard it from De Merwe. Whole thing falls apart. Local leaders of Calvaria murdered out in the open. Diamondeye blame Throttlers, Throttlers blame Diamondeye, Calvaria blame both of them, all three blame the locals. Things go eyes-up from there pretty rapidly. Now everyone here's wondering the same thing – who's got spies in each other's ranks? Who's got people on the inside of whom? Who's about to pull a sneak attack on us? Everyone's on edge. Could explode any moment."
"Well, let's hope Eclipse protection counts for something."
"Wait a second," Tarrus tapped his visor, focussing in on a spec in the distance. "We've got friendly transponders on the horizon."
"Is it Markus and Rorta?"
"Difficult to say. Wait for it to get closer into view. It's identifying as friendly."
"This is Richards," the distinctive voice on Tagarn's comms said, "Who am I talking to?"
"This is Korragan and Vitulus. We've got you on scope Richards. Who are you with?"
"Our old friend El Rojo, fresh off the cruise from the Hegemony. He's looking good, though he got a bit roughed up at Customs. Can you let us through?"
"That we can." Tarrus signalled to the snipers on the roof, who lowered their rifles as the two trucks came speeding into view. The congestion of Omega's airlanes meant it was safer to transport the precious and illicit cargo on-foot, even if it meant passing through Eclipse territory. Each truck could carry about five hundred kilos of Red Sand, which would amount to over fifty million credits once Eclipse and their sellers on Camala took their respective cuts. It was a hefty sum – one that would see Tagarn and Tarrus each land close to fifty thousand credits.
What the mercenaries did with that money varied wildly. Many spent it on drugs, alcohol, and comfort in the dregs of Omega; others bought better weapons or serviced their armour. A rare few fought for a higher cause, seeking to put that profit to good use. Tarrus was one of them: his brother had fallen into the throes of Corpalis Syndrome, a debilitating Turian illness that gradually destroyed the mind until the individual withered away. Though he didn't show it, that was his one concern; every credit he earned went back to fund treatment, save for those needed for upkeep and weapons.
Tagarn? He was in it for the money. Since their self-imposed isolation from Citadel Space fifteen years earlier, the Hegemony had suffered immensely. Prices rose, opportunities dwindled, and employment that would have been legitimate by Citadel standards was rare and hard to find. He had once spent a week on the filthy streets of the Khar'shan slums, gasping in hunger and thirst. He had sworn to never do so again, and had turned to the only place where employment was plentiful: Omega. The cartels and protection rackets provided constant work – even if the chances of death were high – and they paid well. He spent it frivolously, on the comforts he had never known in Batarian space - on alcohol, on Halex and Red Sand, and at Omega's infamous nightclubs and brothels. He'd become fond of frequenting High Fidelity and Afterlife, even if both meant straying outside of Eclipse and Storm territory. The Asari at Afterlife could drive him wild in a matter of seconds, while he'd developed a taste for the Human girls they brought into High Fidelity. The managers made his skin crawl, but the prices were reasonable and the girls there would fuck anything – even Krogan, it was rumoured.
Richards maneuvered the first truck into the loading bay as the vast door opened. Three Batarians, a Turian, and a Human scurried into the garage to provide visibility for him as he parked. The second truck moved in behind as well, nestling up as close to the wall as it could go before applying the brakes. "Fucking showoff," Tagarn muttered to himself.
"Jesus Christ, you'd think you'd get used to getting fucking fleeced on Omega," Richards cursed as he hopped out of the cab and moved to the back of the trucks. "Endline actually fucking demanded the right to inspect the goddamn truck!" he shook his head incredulously. "And then, to top it all off, they demanded that I pay twenty thousand credits in 'docking and administrative fees'. Fucking nonsense!"
"Probably taking it to shore up their personal security. Station could dissolve into a bloodbath at any moment. They'll try to cover their ass and minimize corporate casualties."
"I don't get why one of the big three doesn't just kick Endline out of the docks and burn their hides to ash."
"Docks are too strategic to give up control of. Better to let a neutral party fleece everybody than dissolve into a turf war. Just demand preferential fees."
"Not like we get those," Tarrus scoffed.
"Hey, if you want to risk Omega without Eclipse protection, be my fucking guest," Richards shot back. "In the meantime, grab crates and help me get this shit to the labs. It needs to be processed, refined, and ready to ship in four cycles." Tagarn and Tarrus both moved to help as the vast bay doors sealed behind them.
"Where's De Merwe?" Richards questioned as they moved the crates from the loading bays towards the elevators that led to the Sand labs. "I thought they'd pulled his team back to base and away from the zone border."
"Scouts picked up Vorcha movement inside the administering zone. Lowe sent De Merwe and twenty others to flush them out."
Richards paused from his work to raise an eyebrow at Tagarn, a facial expression the Batarian still found baffling. "Blood pack?"
"If so, it's a splinter group," Tarrus offered. "No Krogan, no advanced weapons, no sense of tactical organization at an even rudimentary level. Just a bunch of Vorcha crawling over the edges of our territory, nothing more."
"Still, you have to wonder if the Pack are starting scouting raids into the Eclipse Zone. You can bet they're doing the same to the other big cartels. If things go to shit, the more you know the better."
"Well, if they're as poorly armed as Tarrus says, De Merwe'll deal with them," Richards stated matter-of-factly. "How many are left here?"
"Around fifty, plus another ten within the sector one perimeter. If this is meant to be a 'draw us out' ambush, we're more than prepared for it."
"Tarrus," the Turian's omnitool flashed with an incoming message. It was the voice of Kathka Ror'aat. "Tarrus Vitelus, do you copy?"
Tarrus answered quickly, "aye Commander Ror'aat; I read you."
"What's the status of the delivery?"
"Richards, Korragan, and I are just finishing up delivery to the labs."
"What's the ETA on full refining?"
"We'll get a quote from them."
"Do so. Then I want you three in the command room for a debrief. De Merwe also says he'll have updates on the Vorcha situation."
"Commander," Richards interjected, "what orders should I give to the warehouse crew?"
"Tell 'em they can stand down for the night," the gruff voice of Vitesh Lowe cut in. "We've got the watch set for the third trio of the cycle. Besides, ten hours of rest will do them a lot of good. Once you've done that, get here quickly."
Tarrus cut the link and glanced at Tagarn and Richards. "How does he sound? I'm not too good with human vocal expressions."
"On-edge," Richards offered.
"Like fuck he is," Tagarn shot back. "The whole station is on edge. Doesn't take a psychoanalyst to say that much."
"It's not just here though," the human noted. "It's everywhere."
"Yeah, we've known that for almost thirty cycles!"
"Even outside the Terminus Systems," Tarrus suggested. "Our seller on Terra Nova was arrested ten cycles ago. Chatter in the clubs is saying there's an ongoing crackdown in Hierarchy and Alliance Space. Must be from the aftermath of the death of that Human Spectre."
"Shepard," Richards noted.
"Whatever. All you Humans seem the same to me."
"From everything I've heard, he was particularly bad. Professional, honourable, noble, all that spacer military bullshit."
"So a self-righteous idealist with a stick up his ass, is what you're telling me," Tarrus mused. "He'd have killed us all without a moment's hesitation, without bothering to ponder why we do what we do."
"Easy for you to say," Richards shot back. "Your reasons for being with The Storm at least have some sense of nobility."
"Even beyond that," Tarrus replied. "Tagarn, why are you here?"
"Credits. They don't exist in the Hegemony outside of smuggling, slavery, private security, or the upper castes. Had to go somewhere."
"Exactly. Now Shepard wouldn't acknowledge it, but his precious Alliance – that fucking 'beacon of light in the Traverse' is a big part of why."
They reached the yawning vaults of the garage, where a dozen mercenaries were cleaning their weapons and checking the equipment to ensure its cleanliness. They appeared fully aware that their cycle on watch had ended, and a few had already begun to bed down for the dark hours of the cycle. Tagarn and Richards checked the doors to make sure they were sealed, while Tarrus did the rounds on the rooftop snipers who would stand watch through the next hours.
When the three had finished their work, they found Ror'aat and Lowe in the command room, along with another half-dozen on-site lieutenants and Doctor Solvug, The Storm's chief scientist and overseer of the refining labs for their shipments of Red Sand.
The two leaders of The Storm could not have cut more different figures. Vitesh Lowe was a slight build, his average height and dark skin leaving him far smaller and inconspicuous than the Batarians and Turians that dominated the room. A ten-year veteran of the Rojo Brigades on Earth, Vitesh had lost his left eye in gang warfare on the borders of the United North American States. He'd arrived on Omega six years ago, taking less than a year to form his own mercenary band from among the motley group of humans that clung to the fringes of territory between the Blue Suns and Eclipse. He had sought to consolidate the Human gangs and cartels that filled those small pockets, hoping to eventually rival the Big Three in the business of protection rackets. The venture had gone poorly, with many local leaders resisting his new presence. But that was before he met Ror'aat.
Where Lowe was slight and inconspicuous, Ror'aat was massive and physically imposing. He stood nearly six and a half feet tall, with broad shoulders and a demeanour that caused consternation even amongst the Krogan. He wore the ancient, heavily scarred armour of his ancestral family line, one which had seen service in the slave rebellions of old. Ror'aat himself was a grizzled, disenchanted veteran of more than a decade of piracy and trafficking in Batarian space. The chaotic politics of the Hegemony had forced him off of Khar'shan a year after Lowe had arrived on Omega. The two had met whilst hitchhiking on a freighter to Invictus, jointly fighting off a Blood Pack raid on the vessel. Grudging alliance had turned to beneficial business connections to mutual partnership. The rest was history.
"Now that you three are here, we can begin," Ror'aat noted sternly, his four eyes glaring across the table at the assembled subcommanders. "I want full reports from each of you, and De Merwe will be patched through on comms when he's needed. Richards, start with you."
"The shipment docked from Erszbat two hours before the cycle switched. End Line were in the mood to take a larger cut than usual – about twenty percent more than the shipment nine cycles ago. Eclipse also took slight cuts at two checkpoints; I paid them off out of my own accounts – about five thousand creds in total. Shipment came in one hour ago. We've got it down to the labs. Another shipment comes in in four cycles. If the refining finishes on schedule, it'll only take one run to the docks to do both."
Ror'aat's gaze went to Tarrus, who quickly rattled off the necessary information. "Eight snipers on the HQ tonight, plus another eight stationed in a one-click radius. We've seen increased activity by unidentified groups on our east border. Definitely not Eclipse, and likely not from the same as the Vorcha packs that De Merwe's been dealing with. I want to take a team out tomorrow and investigate further."
Tagarn felt the eyes burn into him next, and he obliged his superiors accordingly. "I share Tarrus's concerns about our east border. Whole station is on-edge – my contacts in Eclipse and Pack territory suggest the mood is similar. They've reported more border patrols by the Pack, but nothing beyond that."
"And the word on the Suns?" Lowe cut in.
"Very little. My two channels in their territory say the mood is similar. My two within the Suns themselves have been strangely silent. I'll keep trying."
"See that you do," Ror'aat noted. "We're trying to patch De Merwe through on the comms." He paused as the sound of static grew on their link, before clearing up and giving way to the smooth, accented voice of their chief lieutenant. "De Merwe, you there?"
There was a slight pause, "…I-…you…shit, sorry, one moment. Clearing up static on this end. Roger that, I read you."
"What's the situation on the border?"
"We're tracking a group of about thirty Vorcha on the far side of our holdings adjacent to Pack territory. They entered our zone four hours ago, and have set up camp in a set of alleyways near the Eternity block of apartments."
Ror'aat silently contemplated the situation for a moment, "any hostile actions so far?"
"Nothing beyond Omega's usual. We found a couple of bodies across the square, but it was impossible to tell whether it was them or someone else that killed them. We've got overwatch on the area and are preparing to move in."
"Any heavy support?"
"We notified the nearby Eclipse garrison. They have two gunships at the ready if we encounter trouble, but that shouldn't be a problem. Doesn't look to be more than about thirty Vorcha."
"Can you confirm that you are in a position to attack?"
"I have two squads moving to converge as we speak. One more is being held in reserve. I've got Lucas and Fedorian moving to ambush."
"What are your current coordinates?"
"29-46-07. Eternity Block."
"Bring them up on the grid!" Lowe's order was met wordlessly as the command room's tactical grid hummed to life. The advanced software gave them a full rendering of the blocks surrounding De Merwe's position, with flashing white markers indicating the presence of unfamiliar bioheat patterns in the vicinity. The light blue dots coincided with the positions of their own mercenaries, with two pack of light moving towards the alleyway where the Vorcha were located. "De Merwe, patch us in on Fedorian and Lucas's comms units."
There was a brief patch of static before the audio hummed to life, clearly relaying the voices of his Turian and Human subcommanders.
"Fedorian, confirm visual on Vorcha pack."
"Visual confirmed. Seventeen signatures in the immediate area. Hurta is currently sweeping the building to lock it down."
"Lucas, are snipers in position?"
"Snipers on the roof, four Vipers trained and ready. Just waiting on command signal."
"Lowe? Ror'aat? We are in position. Give the order."
Ror'aat inhaled sharply as he surveyed the hologram, eyeing the sharp concentration of blue dots next to the alleyway. "Do it."
The audio was jarred by the sound of a massive explosion followed by short, crackling bursts of gunfire as De Merwe's troops converged on the Vorcha. The flashing white dots briefly struck red, then disappeared from the map, gunned down by Storm forces. Those few unidentified transponders outside of the alleyway scattered for cover, disappearing into blocks of apartments as they sheltered from the din outside.
"I've got two Vorcha making for the exits. Get the reserve to block them."
"Copy that, Hurta Squad moving to intercept."
"Lucas, have your snipers break cover and reposition. We've got four putting up resistance behind the short wall."
"Two more down."
There was another brief flurry of activity before the last of the hostile dots vanished from the hologram. After a slight pause, it was De Merwe who spoke, "HQ, I think we've got them all. Hurta's running a final sweep on the block to the north."
"Guess we won't be needing the Eclipse gunship after all."
Ror'aat nodded approvingly. "Excellent work. Casualties?"
"One dead in Fedorian's group – Mauler straight to the chest. Two with significant but manageable wounds, another four with light wounds. We'll take out the trash and then sweep back to HQ."
"Copy that Ruud," Lowe added in, "I want a full debrief ready inside of two local hours. We've closed up shop for the cycle – use the tunnels on your way back in."
"De Merwe over and out. I'll reconvene once the sweep is complete."
The hologram faded into the background as Lowe turned to Tagarn and Tarrus. "We'll finish inventory while we're waiting for De Merwe's team to finish up."
The five of them worked in silence, each balancing their set of accounts with the total outflow of Red Sand both on- and off-world. This was normally just routine, a simple measure designed to ensure that Lowe and Ror'aat weren't stealing from one another. Necessary in the days when their alliance stood on shaky ground, it had long since become no more than routine – another tick-box on their routine before closing up for the night-watch.
"My inventory checks out," Tagarn noted simply.
"As does mine."
"And mine."
"Mine as well."
"Mi-, hold on a second," Richards peered over the charts once more. "I've got one set of outstanding transactions. Ceballos was supposed to pick up a full set of payments in the Kolarov District. He was due to report back an hour ago, and hasn't done so."
"No word from the mid-dealers on his whereabouts?"
"None."
"Potentially problematic," Lowe noted as Ror'aat locked up the remainder of the records. "Open comms with our ops in the Kolarov district. If he's skipped town, I want to know."
"Copy that. I'll patch comms through to you."
They only had to wait a few moments, as a message from the district hailed in on the emergency frequency. Richards quickly patched them through, bringing the audio up on the command centre's main hub.
"This is Lowe. Who's reporting in?"
"This is Actus," the voice of one of their mid-level dealers in the Kolarov District spoke up, "we've got a problem."
"One of your street dealers hasn't reported in."
"I know. He was collecting payment in the slums and missed his rendezvous by an hour. I sent out scouts to find him."
"And?"
"They found his body outside one of the old apartment blocks, along with those of his two bodyguards. Clean headshots from long range."
"Any trajectory analysis?"
"Negative. One of them tried to get close enough and was also shot. The surviving scout just got back. I'm calling in all my street dealers until we sort out what happened."
"Confirmed. Pull back your dealers. We'll redeploy De Merwe's team once they've completed their cleanup elsewhere in the sector. Lowe out." Lowe glanced at the other men in the room, eyeing Ror'aat and Tagarn caustically. "Street dealers getting shot with that kind of precision can't be coincidence."
"You think it's the Pack encroaching on our territory?"
"No. They'd leave a bigger trace than this – Vorcha are easy to track and not particularly good snipers."
"Another one of Eclipse's subcontractors? Someone else entirely?"
"Shouldn't be. We've got a truce with Diamondeye, and other mercs wouldn't want to tangle with Ecli-."
The miniature inquisition was cut short, as the monitors in the center of the room suddenly flared up. Dozens of tracking signals pinged wildly, indicating heightened distress, and then fell silent. The comms unit lit up with chatter from De Merwe's unit, barely any of it discernible as Richards quickly patched them through.
"Bunker, this is De Merwe!" There was an edge of terror and fear in his voice, and the entire room's ears perked up at the sound of it. "Half my group just got taken out! Planted heavy-grade explosive took down the entire building on top of 'em! We can see heat signatures moving around us – definitely not Vorcha; fuck, I'm not sure what they are. Send reinforcements, I repeat: SEND REINFORCEMENTS!"
The signal was drowned out by the hails of gunfire on De Merwe's end, and Tagarn watched in horror as the remaining tracking bugs flared up, and then disappeared. De Merwe's own vital signs declined rapidly, before fading to black as they lost the signal.
"Richards, get his signal back. Lowe and I need to know what's happening. Tagarn, you and Tarrus go wake the standby unit. They need to be at De Merwe's position ASAP!"
They complied quickly, grabbing their rifles and punching the door lock open.
They had less than five seconds left to live.
They had moved efficiently, maneuvering themselves silently into position as their snipers took out the guards standing watch on the Storm Cartel's bunker complex. One squad positioned themselves near the main entrance, fixing blast charges on the reinforced doors in preparation to breach. Another took up positions on the roof, methodically clearing the bodies of the Storm Cartel's guards as they did so. A third squad waited in the wings, keeping watch on the surrounding area for stragglers and possible movement from Eclipse. They would not be detected: all communications out of the bunker were jammed, save for those needed to maintain the element of surprise. In position, they waited for the signal.
They had prepared to perfection. Spurred on by rumours of scavenge, the Vorcha had led the Storm Cartel's strike team perfectly into the trap. The charges were set, and they would no doubt uncover them in due course. Their sniper teams had been tracking Storm dealers throughout the day, and had begun picking them off in the last hour. Some had gotten restless, but the operation had been sleek, efficient, and highly professional. Their reputation demanded it, and their training guaranteed it.
They waited patiently, knowing that the perfect time to strike would eventually come. The Blue Suns or Eclipse would have rushed in, led as they were by trigger-happy guns for hire, the lowest denominator of mercenary. The Blood Pack would have carved a path of destruction through the entire sector, alerting Eclipse and wrecking the delicate balance between the mercenary groups on Omega. No, this required a more deft touch. They had been hired explicitly for that purpose. Their employer was unknown, even to them, but he knew enough to hire Vult.
Where most mercenaries saw their profession as a job, soldiers in Vult saw it as a craft. Where the Blue Suns were thugs, albeit highly effective thugs, Vult were artists of the battlefield. Where Eclipse relied on tech, Vult used stealth and precision to achieve their aims. Where the Blood Pack used brute force, Vult used skill. Overwhelmingly Turian, with sprinklings of Asari and Humans, they only took the best, and they only worked for the best. Each of them wore identical, grey-patterned body armour with a single identifying marker – roman numerals of human origin indicating their unit and number. They were professional, efficient, and lethal.
The order to strike was never given, but the audible destruction of the apartment block housing most of the Storm Cartel's strike squad was all they needed. The blast levelled nearly an entire city block, with another platoon mopping up the few survivors. With the Cartel momentarily thrown into chaos, Vult struck. Those mercenaries positioned on the roof either shot their way through the rooftop entrances or rappelled down the side of the warehouse and through the windows. The blast charges on the doors did their work, and the first Vult squad burst into the wide foyer amidst the dust and smoke still rising from the detonation. Those inside were caught completely off-guard. Scarcely any of them had weapons in their hands, and even fewer drew them quickly enough to return fire. The smoke from the blast charges obscured visibility, giving the infrared-equipped Vult mercenaries the edge. Still greater advantage was conferred from the Vult soldiers that had scaled to the roof, as they now traversed the catwalks of the warehouse's ceiling to devastating effect. There were less than two dozen of the Storm Cartel's troops left in the building's main foyer, and all of them were dead within twenty seconds.
They were equally methodical in clearing what remained of the facility. A simple flash grenade took care of the labs, where the volatile mixture of red sand and solvent chemicals worked to kill the workers there and incinerate the contents of the room. Three more Vult soldiers rapidly cleared the barracks, with two incendiary grenades lobbed amongst the still-sleeping soldiers of the Storm Cartel. The lower entrances through the tunnels were secured by the third team, the few remaining guards dispatched with ease. Blind spots were used to devastating effect, with most of the Storm guards caught blind by flash grenades or their line of sight. To those who tried to fight them, the dark camouflage patterns on Vult armour made them appear as ghosts, breaching the darkness only with the flashes of rifle-fire or tech attacks.
The command room proved just as easy. They had anticipated a brutal fight, of having to storm the room with blast charges on the walls with the remainder inside ready to fight to the death. Instead, they found the doors opened for them, a Turian and Batarian haplessly walking towards them – they were dropped instantly by Vult commandos. Only three others remained inside – two humans and a Batarian. One of the humans moved for his pistol, but was gunned down before he could react. The Batarian returned fire, catching one of their assailants in the shoulder with the slugs of a Mattock rifle. Two more Vult mercenaries took his place, catching the Batarian – very obviously the leader – in the chest with a stream of rifle-fire. The last remaining human dropped his weapon and fell to his knees, arms in the air and mumbling incoherent pleas for mercy.
One of the Vult mercenaries moved to stand near him, pondering the human through his visor. "Humans," the Turian scoffed. "They always beg." Drawing his pistol, he ended the Storm Cartel with a single shot.
They would have counted their dead, had there been many to count. Two Vult soldiers had fallen in the assault – one to the Batarian's final act of defiance, another caught by two desperate Storm mercenaries fighting a pointless rearguard action to the tunnels. Their bodies would be collected, their armour reclaimed, and their bodies burned.
As the bodies were cleared and the fires doused, one of the Vult mercenaries opened a comms line to his headquarters. "Mission is complete, site is taken."
"Excellent," came the garbled reply on the other end. The voice sounded strangely disembodied, a result of the vocal filters used to obscure its owner. "Casualties?"
"Two. They were unprepared. They had grown complacent under the guard of Eclipse. They were lured into the trap. The remainder was child's play."
"Do you anticipate reprisal?"
"No. We left none alive. At most a half-dozen Storm Cartel mercenaries remain in the sector. Only possible reprisals would come from Eclipse."
"Leave Eclipse to me. They will not interfere with our operation. You have done well."
"Acknowledged. Further orders?"
"Secure the perimeter and hold position on site until further orders are given. A representative of our client will be arriving within the cycle to oversee the operation personally. The representative will assume command of your squadron once they arrive at the site. Ensure that this operation is carried out smoothly and professionally."
"It will be done, commander," the mercenary responded.
"You have done well, Agent Chirin. This operation will be successful. Deus Vult."
"Deus Vult," the mercenary responded, before terminating the connection. Stepping out of the alcove and into the dim light of Omega's skyline, the female Turian stared across the ocean of rock and refuse that dotted the asteroid's darkest sectors. Obscured by the helmet's visor, she cracked the faintest of grins.
There would be no stopping them. Their client's wishes would be completed.