Chapter 14: This Club Is Closed Forever
There's no way that quarian will survive.
I press my hands to the aperitif tube's curved surface. My breath makes a foggy patch on the glass. Glare from the tube's overheads and my ghostly reflection mars the brutal scene, but can't blot it out entirely.
When the human, a man with a buzz-cut and an Alliance uniform, releases the quarian's enviro-suit the alien flops beneath him. Another quarian breaks through the crowd. She claws at the Alliance officer, lands a kick to his side that knocks him clear of the collapsed alien. Laughing, the human gains his feet. He feints, throwing himself at her in an aborted lunge. The quarian woman falls for his bluff and stumbles into the jeering conglomeration of humans and turians. There must be close to twenty onlookers. One of them shoves her back into the makeshift ring.
Chaos reigns in the club. Those uninterested in the human on quarian brawl or in starting one of their own, flee the cabaret. Panicked bodies collide. They clog the entrance to the Shadow Lounge and overrun the first C-Sec officers on the scene. Club security isn't equipped for an incident of this magnitude. I peer into the crowd, seeking out Zargt or one of the salarian operatives usually holed away in one of the back rooms monitoring the security feeds.
A body slams into my aperitif tube. The impact rattles my sleek cage. I gasp and plaster myself against the enclosure's opposite side. A turian pins a human against the glass. The alien holds the suited man by the throat. There's a crack, a spidery starburst, where the man's head struck. When the turian releases him, red streaks stain the tube. The man doesn't get up. His throat is crushed. Wide, dark eyes stare at nothing. His mouth screams a silent scream. The turian nudges him with his two-toed foot. When the man simply sways and slumps back into position, the turian's attention shifts to the aperitif tube. And its contents.
I stomp on the descent button. Around the cabaret's perimeter, the other floor dancers already sink into the safety of the access level beneath the club. I'm not the only one who's attracted bloodthirsty fans. I am the only one whose fucking descent button sticks.
The elevator platform on which I stand lurches downward then stalls. Cocking back his fist, the turian swings and strikes the glass. He punches again and again. The starburst impact point spreads. Lightning bolt fissures crackle over my enclosure. Music piping into the tube warps. The slurred hypra-pop synthphony becomes nightmarish and the overheads flicker. I jump on the descent button. Mechanisms that should lower me into the access level generate a pitiful whir-buzz that quickly peters out.
Broken glass spits into the aperitif tube when the turian's fist blows through the damaged enclosure wall. An armored limb snakes into the jagged breach. Blue blood spatters the floor, my boots, and thighs. There's not much maneuvering room in the tube, but I dodge the alien's grasping fingers. Snarling, he tries for me again and I catch his hand. He laughs, starts beating the tube with his other fist. He thinks he's got me. He's wrong.
Fisting my hand around his thumb, I twist and yank up hard. There's a loud pop and the turian hollers, jerks his arm back through the shattered opening. As I grind my heel over the descent button, he throws himself against the tube. My enclosure won't stand his assault much longer.
The mechanisms controlling the elevator platform squeal to life. I begin my short flight to the access level. The cabaret is half out of view when the turian breaks through. I cover my head. A shower of glass shards pelts my arms, slices my costume's thin material. Hands clamp around my wrists. Despite my kicking and flailing, the turian hauls me out of the aperitif tube and throws me to the floor.
As I clamber up carpet rasps against my knees, sandpapering off a fine layer of skin. A hand comes down on my head. Talons curl in my hair and scrape my scalp. The turian yanks me to him and spins me around. I flinch when his arm shoots out because I think he's going to hit me. Instead, his hand wraps about my throat, constricts. I wheeze, sucking down what air I can.
With his idle talons, the turian lifts my right hand by its thumb. He wants me watching when he breaks it. Baring his teeth, he bends the digit back slowly. Dull pain spreads from my thumb to my wrist, sharpens the further back he pulls. My heart trips and stutters. I'm lightheaded. All I can do is scratch at the hand cutting off my oxygen supply. On any other alien, scratching or biting might have worked, but my nails can't damage the turian's hard carapace. Something in my thumb clicks and pain spikes up my arm. Everything goes out of focus except the turian's face. The last things I'll see are the white colony markings covering each of his face plates, his hateful, blue eyes—
Eyes.
I jab my fingers into one of the turian's deep set sockets. What feels like a small, peeled grape squishes under my fingertips. Neck twisting, the alien releases my neck. He still has my thumb. My left hand slips from his face when he thrashes his head, but I catch hold of his nearest mandible and pull. Tendons holding the delicate appendage to his face tear. My thumb is free. Staggering to the left, the turian nurses the side of his face and howls. A surge of bodies heading away from C-Sec's buzzing Stingers envelops him. I wiggle my thumb. It's stiff but unbroken. Any cuts I have from the aperitif tube are superficial. While I inventory my battle-scars, the crowd reminds me why standing still too long in the midst of a contained stampede is fucking stupid.
The same wave of bodies that devoured my turian attacker bowls me over. I'm caught in a tangle of arms and legs, buoyed along on the crowd's current. I fight them. They're all headed for the Shadow Lounge's entrance—also the cabaret's main exit—which is already dammed with panicked aliens and C-Sec officers ready to stun anyone in their way. Elbowing and kicking, I free myself from the herd and pitch into a clear space near the bar.
Everyone's massed at the entrance to the Shadow Lounge or at the cabaret's two emergency exits. There's a salarian at my feet and a human woman near one of the booths. Neither moves. I hug myself and back towards the bar. I can hide in the octagonal pen until C-Sec clears the club.
Ampliflies zip over the crowd. The insectoid drones warn club-goers away from the exits. Their robot voices alert everyone that C-Sec is authorized to use their Stingers on anyone who does not comply. I've seen the kinetic batons in action. The first officers to arrive used them on anyone who got close, but their numbers were too few to bring order to the riot. Judging by the blue flashes and electric sizzles flaring at the lounge's entrance, backup has arrived en force.
An incoming battalion of C-Sec riot troops lets loose with their Stingers and the crowd floods away from the cabaret's main exit. I stumbled for the bar, but am quickly surrounded. A salarian clips me as he flees to an emergency exit. We ricochet off each other like opposing particles. I end up on my hands and knees. The salarian tumbles and rolls to his feet, his stride unfaltering. Boot heels and high heels come down all around me before I can get up. I curl into a ball and cover my head, praying the crowd passes without trampling me. Every time a footfall lands too near my body, I twitch, but for the first few seconds I'm safe. Then someone trips over me.
A boot slams into my abdomen. I wail. The kick rolls me onto my back and I see an asari casual hostess topple. She lands across me. The weight of her body knocks me breathless. Our collision sets off a domino effect of trips and tumbles. We're soon at the bottom of a dog pile.
Writhing bodies smother me. Pounding feet vibrate the floor. Shrieks and crackling reports break over muffled shouting. I try wriggling from the pile. I can't budge. Can't breathe. Someone moans.
The unbearable weight squishing me into the carpet lessens. Bodies shift above me. Roving spots from the satellite stage shine in my eyes. I squint, gasp. Cool air fills my lungs.
Figures stand over me. One of them hauls up the casual hostess draped over my middle. Disorientation passes and I see that a helmeted C-Sec officer grips the asari's arm. Barked commands radio over the officer's headgear, but the stream of humans and aliens whipping about us distracts the hostess. Her eyes are wide and wild with fear and she slips the officer's grasp, tears off like a spooked pony. A pair of ampliflies descends. Their synthetic voices demand she halt. Screaming, the asari swats at them. She makes it two more steps before the helmeted officer opens fire with his, or her, Stinger.
A violet tangle of sparking energy shoots from the end of the officer's baton. It hits the hostess between her shoulder blades. She pitches forward and hits the ground. Shimmering energy washes her body. She's motionless. Ampliflies alight on her chest, torso, and legs. Centipede-like appendages unfurl from their metallic thoraxes and embrace her. With their cargo secure they take off and airlift the stunned hostess out of the fray.
I bolt upright, eager to be off the floor where I could be easily crushed again. The business end of a Stinger meets me halfway to my feet. The helmeted officer sticks the baton in my face. Whatever the C-Sec trooper shouts at me is incomprehensible. There's a malfunction with his or her—the officer's slight build could belong to a human man or woman—helmet radio. Feedback and white noise blares from the headgear's speaker. I put my hands up and get on my knees. This isn't what Officer Malfunction wants. The cacophony spewing from the helmet gets louder, faster. My focus is on the brandished Stinger. The weapon waves in front of my face until the officer lunges forward and the baton connects with my cheek.
The blow shocks me more than it hurts. I cup my hand over my stinging skin and stare dumbly at Officer Malfunction who looms over me. The Stinger's tip fluoresces. Humming emanates from the weapon. This is it. If I keep my place, I'll be shot. If I run, I'll be shot in the back. Squeezing my eyes shut, I brace for the hit.
Hands hook under my arms. I'm lifted. Opening my eyes, I find Officer Malfunction throwing a fit. Another officer has me in a stronghold. The shape of the interloper's helmet gives away his turian heritage. Am I being rescued? Arrested? Officer Malfunction doesn't take this interference well. Aimed at us, the C-Sec trooper's drawn Stinger flares. Wild energy snaps from its tip. The turian officer holding me whips around and shields me from the blast. The impact jolts us forward. We go to our knees. Blue incandescence capsules us. A kinetic barrier generated by the turian's hardsuit absorbs most of the Stinger's discharge. Air around us smells of ozone. Charged atmosphere tickles my skin.
Gripping my arm, the turian officer drags me up. He starts for the bar—my original plan—when Officer Malfunction goes sailing overhead. Iridescent energy swathes and suspends the trooper's body in mid air. The officer travels above the pandemonium like an oversized dust mote. When the gravity defying force dissipates, Officer Malfunction crashes atop a table and lands in a heap with it and a few chairs.
"Who the hell got authorization for biotics?" The turian at my side asks himself. His helmet radio distorts his dual vocals. He's so focused on the spent biotic display that he doesn't notice the disastrous maneuver going down on our left.
A squad of officers surround an enraged krogan. It's not Zargt. This krogan wears a blood-red hardsuit not a tuxedo. Most of the officers keep their distance, but one of them, a turian, goes in with his Stinger ablaze. At close range, the krogan's kinetic barrier, if his hardsuit's equipped with one, won't activate. He takes all of the blast. Unfortunately, the incapacitating discharge isn't enough to bring the massive alien down. It just pisses him off.
Throwing back his head, the krogan roars. He charges through the surrounding officers, his battering-ram body catapulting them almost halfway across the cabaret. Clearing the squad doesn't slow him down. Anything and anyone in his path gets mowed down, crushed underfoot. Me and the turian are right in front of him.
For such big brutes krogan are nightmarishly fast over short distances. A second elapses between the roar and oh-shit-we're-dead. By the time I'm fighting out of the turian's grip and he's finally noticed the two ton lizard bearing down on us it's already too late.
The krogran hurtles towards us. My mouth opens. The turian squeezes my arm. The breath he takes hisses over his helmet radio. A gust of air blows at our backs. Wind whips my hair.
A blue flash blinds me.
I'm deafened by a sonic boom, knocked flat by a concussive wave. I land next to the turian. Like overturned, dazed crabs, we thrash our arms and legs to right ourselves. I'm up first. I rub my eyes, astounded I'm not a stain on the carpet. A dome of biotic energy encases us. The krogan's on the other side, K.O.'d by the force of his collision with the dark energy field.
"Hey there, girl."
I turn. Shia stands at the center of the dome. Shimmering flame engulfs each of her outstretched hands. Her arms tremble and sweat mists her face. A quarian woman stands on her right, the same woman from the brawl. She carries her battered companion over her shoulders. The quarian man's dead weight makes her legs wobble and she genuflects.
"How you holding up?" The asari asks and winks.
Author's Note: Hey guys, I know I keep a fairly regular Monday morning post schedule, but I will likely not post on 10/1/2012 since I'll be on vacation. I'm trying for a Thursday or Friday update. Might not happen. If it doesn't, the next chapter will be on 10/8/2012.