Lieutenant Cora Harper sighed, not for the first time since their disastrous Habitat 7 landing. She was fine on the outside; a thorough physical examination by Doctor T'Perro confirmed that. Her mind, on the other hand, was in flux. She wandered down the hallway slowly, stopping to rest her forehead against the wall, feeling the coolness seeping into her skin, wishing that it would calm her thoughts.

Why?

She and Alec had discussed this, the possibility of him becoming incapacitated or being taken by the goddess. She was trained personally by him to be the Pathfinder, if necessary, as per Initiative protocol. She remembered the first time she met Alec, back in the early eighties – she remembered being intimidated by him, his deep, commanding voice brooking no argument, his actions swift and precise, led by a sharp mind that she could appreciate. She remembered wanting to be like him, and he'd taken her under his wing, after she was all but banished from Talein's Daughters. She was lost, not knowing what to do or where to go, and Alec Ryder had given her purpose once again, given her a direction to follow.

She learned everything about settling uninhabited planets from him. Spent time with him groundside on various planets back in the Milky Way, watched as he and his artificial intelligence, S.A.M., pointed out things like weather patterns, ground stability, even humidity: things she never gave much thought to, took for granted. Even in combat training, she was bested by Alec, who wasn't even a biotic; he simply moved faster than her, figured out her moves and countered them flawlessly, saw the gaps in her tactics and exploited them so often that most days, Cora felt like she was back in Basic in the Alliance.

For the first time in years, since joining Talein's Daughters, she felt humbled. First by Sarissa Theris, whose teachings she took to heart, and now by Alec Ryder, ex-N7 and Pathfinder. She was thrilled and grateful when the Pathfinder offered her the position of being his second-in-command – of the human Ark, no less! When they left for Andromeda, Cora was fairly certain she was up to the task, having learned a lot under Alec. She went into cryostasis with confidence, with certainty, knowing that whatever came their way, she and Alec could handle it.

The bile rose in Cora's throat, and she swallowed hard, lips twisting at the bitter taste. She was Pathfinder in all but title. She had the training, she knew what to do. Seven years with the Alliance marines, rising to lieutenant in record time; four years of asari commando training, her biotics honed to a razor-sharp edge. She was technically Alec Ryder's tiamna, ready to serve and protect despite the relationship not being formally established. She knew him better than anyone else – his peers, the Alliance who banished him from their ranks, Jien Garson, even his own children.

So why did Alec Ryder name his daughter, Sara, the new Pathfinder? Sara Ryder, who – with no disrespect to Alec – was a complete newbie, with barely any combat training? She knew Alec trained the twins informally – which N7 parent wouldn't? But was that enough to be Pathfinder? She was the one who went through years of Pathfinder training! Her, Cora Harper! Not Sara Ryder!

Why?

The frustration was boiling to the surface. Cora willed herself to slow her breathing, forcing down the stress, resisting the temptation to 'let loose' – she could destroy the entire Hyperion if she was not careful with her biotics. She exhaled slowly through her nose, remembering one of Theris' teachings:

A huntress who yields to her feelings can never be relied upon; a maelstrom, destroying herself, and her sisters.

After reciting an asari meditation chant under her breath for a few minutes, Cora felt the frustration subside, though her mind was still in turmoil. She opened her eyes and continued making her way down to her quarters on the habitation deck.

She needed to think. And one of the asari prayer books she had may hold the answers to the many questions that were running through her head.


This latest announcement was, quite frankly, getting on his nerves.

He slipped between shipping crates, careful to keep himself out of sight. His eyes flicked from shadow to shadow, watching for any potential ambushes. While very few knew of his real identity, he went by the adage, "you can't be too careful."

The mantra had kept him alive this long, after all.

She's raising protection fees again, barely two months after the last one. He found it harder and harder to get a proper drink, not with his habit of vanishing when the bartender's back was turned. Umi had promised to bury a biotic blade in his back if he ever showed up at her place again, and this time his honeyed words did nothing to melt that glacier of a look she gave him. He just laughed and shrugged to himself; Kralla's Song wasn't the only place he could go to unwind. But she did serve the best drinks; the floor shows there were the best of all the places he'd been to, here or in the Milky Way; the business deals he conducted here produced the best profits; and the girls – and sometimes, guys – he took back to wherever he deigned to call 'home' were the best fucks.

Well, maybe not that last one, she had a temper and wasn't too thrilled when she woke up to find him already three systems away…

He upended his cup, feeling the burn of the liquor as it slid down his throat, tongue snaking out to catch the last few drops.

He had his ear to the ground, so to speak, and already the complaints were coming in like mass accelerator rounds at an ill-favored guest: too soon, many were saying of the hike, and too steep. The number of exiles from the Nexus in the Port had already been dwindling, those unable to pay exiled a second time from the Port to the wastelands beyond. He'd been to the wastes several times as part of his job, and every time the experience wasn't improving; on the contrary, it seemed to be getting worse. The creatures that dwelt in the wastes weren't to be fucked with; he lost four of his best smugglers to one of those huge fuckers, saw one lose her legs to a single bite, and it kept coming after they fired a Cobra into its damned face.

This keeps up, the only people going to be left in the Port would be her and her cronies. He couldn't stand that, leaving all those people out there in the wastes to fend for themselves. Not to mention it would be bad for business. Many of the exiles were just caught up in the uprising, nothing to do with it, simple farmers and traders who were swept up in Tann's purges of the undesirables, led by her, of course. He always found that they needed something that they couldn't get by themselves, and so he offered to do that for them – for a modest fee, of course, far less than what she was charging, than what others were charging. And they were willing to work with him, after seeing the paltry sum he was asking for, but that was how you drummed up support for the cause.

He set the mug back on the counter and activated his omnitool, pretending to check his credit balance. The bartender was busy at the other end of the bar, pouring top-shelf for another customer – in this place, top-shelf was hardly worth a credit, in his opinion, but it was a place to drink and think. He slipped off his stool and, like so many times before, disappeared into the crowd.

"Keema, meet me at Outpost 14," he murmured into his comm unit. He never bothered waiting for a reply – the comm unit went straight into the nearest recycler, the evidence destroyed. That was how he managed to keep off her radar for so long – he and his outfit were always careful not to leave a trail behind. That was why she was getting vexed with their activities, their actions undermining her power in the Port and beyond. Maybe that was why she was raising the protection fees, to attempt to weed them out? He found that thought troubling, but if the people have to suffer just for a while longer, he would let that happen.

As soon as he found concrete evidence that it was indeed the Roekarr killing people around the Port.

As soon as he had a solid plan that would allow his outfit to hit Sloane Kelley's inner circle directly.

As soon as he actually had the time to be in three different places at once.

Ugh. He could use another drink already. Or another warm body to spend the night with, to stave off the loneliness. Most days, it felt like he was in it alone, but whenever he saw the faces of those who worked alongside him, looking to him for guidance, to depose that tyrant Sloane Kelley from the throne of Kadara, he would feel like he belonged. It felt like he was part of something bigger than himself.

Like he was someone.

The Charlatan's lips curled into a satisfied smile, baring his teeth.

There was no mirth in it.


"Kare raisu," Jon told the smiling waitress as he sat.

Daisuke's was where the Er San junior gang members usually hung out, and today was no different. Chester Ishii was already there, slurping noisily from a plastic bowl, three more empty ones in front of him. Jon raised a hand in greeting as Kai, Rei, Zhen and Yuuka called out to him from another table, Zhen grinning and showing him a rude hand gesture good-naturedly, acknowledging his defeat to Jon yesterday. Jon smiled and returned the gesture. All good.

"Jon, lei gau mat ye ah? I was about to bankrupt Daisuke with my eating," complained Chester, setting his latest bowl down on the table with a loud thunk. "Shit, it's pretty darned crowded today. Lucky for you, I saved a seat."

Indeed, Daisuke's was filled to overflowing, far more customers than Jon had ever seen before. He spotted the man himself, clad in kitchen overalls and stained apron, cooking up a storm in the open kitchen, steam and flames blotting his portly figure out from time to time, serving customers with a speed only seasoned hawkers possessed. That was made even more apparent when the waitress returned, barely two minutes later, to slide a bowl of steaming curry rice in front of Jon.

"M'goi sai," Jon thanked the waitress, slipping her a tip. Daisuke was an honorable man, and paid his staff on time and in full, never missing a single payday, but with how the economy was, especially in the slums, cash was always welcome, no matter where it came from. The waitress, a pretty little thing, hair plastered to her forehead thanks to the heat of the kitchen, winked at Jon, murmuring a thank you in Japanese. Chester tried to catch her eye, but she had already moved onto another table, jotpad in hand.

"You've been meeting Ka'aira again, haven't you?"

Jon shrugged, spooning the hot rice into his mouth, ravenous. Despite the crowd, the food was delicious as ever, and nutritious too.

Chester leaned back in his seat, lighting a cigarette, careful to keep the smoke away from Jon. "You know, you've changed since you met her. You used to be carefree, reckless as hell, like those idiots over there," he nodded at the four at the other table, who were laughing boisterously, clinking glasses of sake, celebrating a successful job they pulled off last week.

"'The Twin Terrors,'" chipped in Jon, biting into a chicken slice. "Not much of a terror these days, though. Sorry about that, Ches."

Chester waved the apology off, his cigarette trailing smoke through the air.

Truth is, he reflected, watching Jon wolf his food down, he liked that Jon had changed. He was glad for Ka'aira being in Jon's life. She was a decent person, deep under that aloofness, a most human trait for an alien. The path Jon was taking before he met Ka'aira – the path Chester had already taken – led to nothing but blood and death. These days, Jon was more cautious, more averse to violence, preferring to keep to himself, tinkering all day long in that workshop down on the strip, inventing little toys and gadgets that kept the children entartained and tools that proved useful to the gang going on jobs on more than one occasion.

He's a good kid: junior as he may be, he followed orders, kept his head in tense situations. He once drove nine senior gang members out of a firefight on Jinn Street, his knowledge of last-century petrol-burners enabling him to restore their crapped-out truck engine to working order, then jumping into the cabin and hauling the heavy vehicle out of the area. Definitely ready for advancement to senior tier.

But Chester didn't want that for Jon. He was hard, yes, able to defend himself in a fight if he had to, but there was a sort of quality in the kid that made him stand out amongst the other gang members, a quality that made Chester feel that Jonathan didn't deserve to be in the slums. He was more like a space person, those people living in the big metropolises like New York or London, Beijing maybe, flying off to other planets. He had honor, never once letting his adoptive father down, whether it was schoolwork or gang activities. There were no complaints about him from the other gang members, and even if there were, the critics were quickly silenced by his technical skills, themselves knowing nothing except partying and getting drunk. Chester himself was impressed on more than one occasion when Jon randomly spouted things he learned from community school as they were making their way back to the bunkhouse, basic things like photosynthesis. Or Newton's Laws of Physics. He's a smart kid.

Boss Chang himself seemed to be of the same mind; he once pulled Chester aside at a gang meeting, asked Chester to keep an eye on Jon, and to keep him away from the more violent jobs. To his knowledge, Chester had kept his word up till now: the most violent job they'd pulled off together so far was beating up a drug dealer who set up shop in Er San territory – the gang had no tolerance for drugs. Problem was, Boss Chang couldn't do anything more than that – he had to maintain impartiality as chief, and was as hard on Jon as the others when things went wrong, full of praise when things went right.

Jon was quietly itching for blood, for more action, contrary to the obedient façade he put up in front of the Boss. And Chester was hard-pressed to keep him from going out on his own and doing something dumb. He regretted that one time they broke into an antique dealer's apartment: the dealer was robbing people blind, the Boss told him, and so they should return the favor. He'd slipped a pre-UNAS military combat knife from the pile and gave it to Jon as a keepsake, a token of their friendship.

Jon had been sharpening the knife ever since.

Then, Ka'aira came along.

But that was a story for another time, Chester thought, as he stubbed out his cigarette, handing several renminbi to the dour-faced waiter who hovered nearby, waiting for Chester to settle his tab. He tossed an arm around Jon's shoulders, smiling and nodding at something Jon said, not really hearing it, as they left Daisuke's. In the previous meeting, senior gang members only, the Boss warned Chester personally about a possible rat in the Er San ranks, and also about Long Yan gang members becoming more and more daredevil in behavior, thanks to their newly-discovered love for drugs, especially that 'red sand'. Two things which worried Chester, if he were to keep his promise to the Boss in taking care of Jon. But for the moment, he pushed it out of his mind, enjoying the banter with his 'little brother'.


That sunlit July day seemed so far away now.