Blackburn/Lawson residence — New Thebes, Anhur

The moment she opened the door, Oriana found herself confronted by a pair of pale cyan eyes. Her first impression was that their owner was… singularly relaxed.

A thin amused smile appeared on Valena's lips. "Did you expect something different?"

Oriana realized she had been staring an instant too long. "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be rude," she temporized. "But yeah, I had not imagined you like this."

A puzzled frown: "Like how?"

For some reason the question embarrassed her. "Well… I, er… have read about you. Kind of expected you to be in a, um, uniform of some kind. Or wearing something a Justicar in training would wear."

Again Valena smiled, this time to put her at ease. It was true that neither the dark catsuit she was wearing —its exact color and material uncannily hard to pin down— nor the white jacket on top with some teal-green accents were clothing a commando or a Justicar would use. "You have a saying. 'In Rome, do as Romans do.'"

Oriana chuckled briefly in spite of herself. "Good point," she commended. "Please, come in. Can I get you anything? A coffee? Refreshments?"

"Why yes, I'd enjoy some tea, please." Now the grin broadened. "I've been kind of spoiled rotten by your teas. I really miss having a cup of Darjeeling when my reserve runs out."

"Oh… well, I'll see what we can do about it. I usually drink coffee. Chanelle, what kinds of tea do we have here?"

The old maid thought for a second. "I think… We should have some Assam, Earl Gray and English Breakfast. My apologies, miss Danaan. Mrs. Blackburn is the tea drinker here, but Darjeeling is not one of her preferred varieties."

"Don't trouble yourself on my account. A cup of Earl Gray will be great too."

The maid bowed slightly and scurried away. Meanwhile, Oriana and her guest sat opposite each other in the living room. "Alright, I'll admit your visit is intriguing. To put it lightly." Lawson studied the asari with interest she masked with a nonchalant glance. "What brings you to me?"

"Your excellent grades in environmental engineering," Danaan said simply. "The analysis you've submitted as part of your preliminary thesis. And your ideas for friendly terraforming."

Oriana did not allow herself to be surprised. "You've done your homework."

"You should always do your homework if you want to make the right impression," Valena replied. Not smugly, not brightly. Just pleasantly instead, as if she was quoting someone wiser than her.

And it was working. "Color me intrigued. Tell me more."

"I'm recruiting talent for a settlement initiative, the biggest since the Salarian Union joined us on the Citadel. We're looking for people with a firm grasp of the challenges posed by taming hostile worlds."

"And you would tap a student for those challenges?"

"Don't demean yourself. You should know that a lot of people are watching you with great interest. The thesis of many an ecological specialist is far narrower and more limited in scope than one of your papers. Let alone that monster of a thesis proposal you've submitted."

Oriana knew that to be true. Still, she answered from her heart: "I've grown not to care much about other people's business."

"Wise if you don't take it too far," Danaan cautioned. "The one thing you would consider to lack is practical experience. We have excellent people already to fill in that void and assist you as you get your bearings on the matter, so to speak."

Alright, if this is business, then let's treat it as such. "I suppose you wouldn't tell me much at this point, confidentiality and all that, but what kind of world do you plan to settle?"

"Not 'a' world. Worlds. In plural." The asari leaned slightly forward. "To put it in terms familiar to you—" she stopped as Chanelle walked into the living room bearing a tray. "That smells delicious."

"Oh, please, it's nothing special," the old maid smiled. "It's good tea, but nothing you can't find shopping carefully." With deftness born from decades of habit, she expertly arranged the refreshments on the small table and poured two cups. "Enjoy yourselves."

"Thank you, Chanelle," Oriana said in friendly dismissal. Once the maid was gone, she again bore into Valena's eyes. "You were saying something about terms familiar to me."

The asari sipped the tea. A brief, pleasured sigh, then she nodded pleasantly. "Your culture is fascinating. It's full of stories and parables. The tale of Noah's Ark perhaps describes best the scope of the project I want to recruit you for."

The younger Lawson leaned back on her couch, her gaze not diverting from Valena. "Sounds ambitious." How come I didn't hear of this… "The researchers in my college spend no little time scouring for news about colonization initiatives across the galaxy. This one is a big mother of a bombshell—or would be, if we had heard of it."

Danaan acknowledged her point with a nod. "Maintaining a low profile is necessary for us to succeed. If details of the initiative were leaked to the public too early on, the resulting scrutiny would hinder us. Perhaps dangerously so."

Oriana's cogs were turning, smoothly as usual. Valena's words were true on many counts, most of which she believed she already had figured out from her hints: economics, competition, need-to-know — all valid concerns. Still, she always thought it wise not to make assumptions: "How?"

The asari's mouth curved in a slight hint of a smile. "Consider the material requirements of the project. The volume of manpower required, the dimensions of our 'ark', the costs involved in shipbuilding and procurement of supplies. That's only one member of your equation." Then the smile vanished and her face took on a serious look. "Another concern is operational security. If word of this reached the wrong parties it could cause significant harm."

Her counterpart thought she understood: "Pirates and scavengers."

"A side of the problem." Now Valena's own eyes bore into Oriana's: "Potential sabotage concerns us more. Greatly so."

A frown: "Sabotage?"

Danaan's eyes did not divert from hers. Her gaze now turned into an unusually piercing glare: "The assault on the Citadel was enabled by a compromised Spectre. There are reasons to believe the same parties would seek to undermine our initiative."

The temperature of the room decreased a few degrees. The conversation was not an entertaining intellectual exercise anymore.

"Just from what you told me… I could figure out what, how, and part of where and when." And so could those listening. A brief pause for effect. "You have a lot of faith in your powers of persuasion."

The asari's glare softened a bit, but instead of putting Oriana at ease, it was chilling — albeit slightly. "This is no impromptu visit. It probably has not escaped you that I'm visiting just when your guardian travels off-world and some of your house guards are off duty."

A threat…? No… something else.

This asari knows a lot more about me and my routine than she has already let on.

Is… Is Selina in on this?

"Krios, I need a better angle."

"I cannot," the drell answered flatly. "They're in the living room. There is no nearby building from that side that I can use."

Miranda bit back a groan. Something crucially important was going on inside her sister's house and she was missing it. That Danaan had resurfaced was already big news, but that she had done it no less by visiting Oriana…

I should tell this to Sombra. She stood up. "I'm calling this one in. Maintain surveillance."

The Redoubtable — MSV Deliverance, Omega Nebula

The airlock to the Deliverance opened with a pneumatic hiss. Nihlus and Bau walked in first, weariness and irritation on their faces, followed by David Anderson and the rest of the Compact.

Shilyna T'Perro was waiting for them on the other side. "About time you returned. There's something hot waiting for you." She handed Nihlus a datapad.

The tired Spectre took it in his hands. A video recording started playing.

Tiredness gave way to suspicion. "When did you receive this?"

"Two standard hours ago."

"The source?"

"Both Sombra and the Shadow Broker, the latter via Barla Von."

Anderson approached them: "What's going on?"

"This." Nihlus handed him the datapad. He turned again to Shilyna next: "Where's Javik?"

"He hasn't called in yet," she grumbled.

"Everyone in the war room in 10 minutes. Get cracking, people," Nihlus said briskly.

"I never saw these things before," Anderson admitted later. Around him sat the assembled elite of the Compact: Jacqueline Nought, Mei-Ling Zhou, Anika Ziegler, Shilu'Vael and her mother Jaenna'Gisal, Shimada Hiroshi, Brulirea, Lumiscant, Shilyna T'Perro, Jondum Bau, and Nihlus Kryik.

"They are a rare sight," Nihlus agreed. "We don't know how they call themselves. In the Terminus worlds, they are known simply as 'collectors'. They have very obscure dealings on the slave trade." He tapped his omni-tool to bring up a file on the hologram projector on the center of the conference table. "This is one of the last reports my late colleague Gavius Surrakar submitted before being brought into the Compact. They always come with strange requests."

They were strange alright, everyone could see it. These 'collectors' seemed on the lookout for weird specimens: eleven left-handed turian biotics, a fertile albino salarian female, three krogan with two extra hearts, one of the dreaded asari Ardat-Yakshi…

"As if these practices and their looks didn't make them disturbing enough," Nihlus summarized, "they offer these things in payment."

The projector brought up a schematic of a rifle. It was unnerving to look at, not constructed out of metal and plastics like other space-faring species; instead, the choice materials were crystalline and organic-looking.

Jacqueline frowned slightly. "What the hell kinda gun is that?"

"One we can't replicate," the turian Spectre admitted. "Surrakar was always scrambling to get these things out of the hands of slavers and pirates whenever he heard of them. They are robust, don't need ammo, don't overheat, self-repair, and hit very hard. A small Collector sidearm fires projectiles that punch cleanly through shields and just eat through armor. This one doesn't shoot solid rounds, it fires a beam that literally breaks things down into dust, but we've never even figured out the basic mechanisms. It's so far ahead of anything we know…"

Mei somberly quoted Arthur C. Clarke: "'Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.'"

"'To the unlearned, the rifle is no different from the magical staff,'" Nihlus replied. "A poor man's translation, but close enough."

"A turian writer?" the Chinese scientist asked.

"Not quite. Ostorius Kandros was something of a military savant. He was equally great as an engineer, admiral, company commander, martial artist, and theoretician on both the tactical and strategic levels. I can forward you a list of recommended readings if you wish." Mei nodded politely in thanks.

"These clips were taken on Freedom's Progress, right about here." Jondum Bau brought up the galactic map and zoomed in on the Terminus worlds. "Here are also Ferris Fields and Minamo."

"We don't have the original video?" Lumiscant asked.

"No. Both Sombra and the Shadow Broker sent us different pieces of the same material."

"Some coincidence," the omnic engineer thought out loud. "Considering they aren't on speaking terms…"

T'Perro gave the omnic an aside glance. "A robot believing in coincidences. Funny."

"I used to scoff at the idea too," Brulirea answered, nonchalantly but aware as always of the ancient asari's distrust of AIs, "but scientific research has shown us that they indeed do exist. Convergent evolution is a good example."

Jaenna'Gisal frowned in turn. The quarian had never liked it there, but as her daughter Shilu'Vael had decided that staying on the Compact would be a way to repay the late Shepard for saving her life, she had had no choice but to stay as well — and so had gradually become part of it, even when many had left. "I don't like it. As she said—" she gave Lumiscant a reluctant look "—Sombra and the Broker are fierce competitors. Maybe I'm reading too much on it, but… I kind of feel something's being kept from us and we have no way of knowing."

"We're trying to find out. It's been also reported that Tali'Zorah vas Neema was on Freedom's Progress around the time the video was recorded," Shilyna said. "I tried reaching out to the Migrant Fleet but I was told she hasn't returned there yet. We'll have to wait on it."

"Bear with me here, this is too much brain hurtin' stuff at once for me, but I don't get why Sombra and the Broker'd agree to keep somethin' in the dark,'' Jacqueline said fastidiously.

Everyone was surprised when Mercy, the AI modeled after Anika Ziegler's late mother, spoke up. "The competition between Sombra and the Broker has not yet turned into an all-out war. There are lines they won't cross. The incident at Nos Astra almost turned out into a catastrophe for the Shadow Broker and I believe they don't want a repeat of that."

Nihlus could not argue with that. He had escaped death by a hair's breadth then, as the extensive cyberization he had undergone as a result showed. Still, it was puzzling — he could not disagree with Jaenna'Gisal either.

Shimada Hiroshi gave the turian a quiet brown look and saw his cogs turning. "Earlier on, you spoke of a gifted savant. What would he suggest we did in our present situation?"

Nihlus suddenly felt fed up. "He'd tell us to quit moping and get back on our feet. One or two of us should go to Freedom's Progress. The rest of us must regain the initiative. There are things going on in the galaxy and we're running blind."

"Speaking of it," Shilyna cut in, "we got a message from Tekharta Zenyatta. Garrus Vakarian visited him on the Shambali compound in the Citadel. He departed shortly afterward."

Nihlus felt a pang of guilt. His erstwhile protegé had deserted the Compact because they had failed to overcome the reluctance of both the Council and the Alliance to address the Reaper threat. "Any idea where he was headed?"

"According to C-Sec, he boarded a privateer ship that set course to Freeport 14, an isolated Zoner enclave on Sigurd's Cradle."

"Why would he visit the omnic leader?" Bau asked.

"Zenyatta himself sent us a couple of lines about it. He's after the trail of a quarian that claims to have seen a damaged Reaper."

"The one buried in Pokhara that we never saw," Shilu'Vael noted quietly.

"Anything else? Any more details?" the salarian Spectre pressed Shilyna. She shook her head.

"Zenyatta was afraid he had already shared too much, even through secure channels. In his own words, Vakarian and he were on the same mind here: 'need-to-know' is critically important on this matter. I don't like him much, but I can't blame him."

Bau turned to Nihlus next. "Maybe you can reach out and talk to Vakarian?"

The turian shook his head. "Other than the occasional message, I'm not in touch with him anymore." He sighed quietly. "I feel I have failed him." Then he breathed in deeply: "But maybe this is a good moment to get reacquainted. One of Surrakar's sources is actually an important member of the Zoners on Freeport 14. I'll ask him to get in touch with Garrus."

Freeport 14 — Watson orbit, Skepsis system

"Please put your bag down and stand still on the square."

Garrus obeyed. The omnic inspecting him was only humanoid from the waist up. The rest of its body was a sturdy four-legged frame, with multiple empty hardpoints — no doubt used to mount heavy equipment or weapons, he thought.

"You're clear," the robot said after a moment. "Do you need a refresher of the regulations?"

He shook his head. He had last been on a Freeport before his Compact days, but the law was easy enough. "No stealing, no picking fights, being a well-behaved citizen."

"Pretty much," the omnic agreed. "Welcome to Freeport 14, Garrus Vakarian. Oh, wait—" a brief pause, then: "The supervisor requests that you visit her. Please proceed to Workshop 11."

The turian veteran concealed his puzzlement with a nod. "Alright, I'll go there now."

Before the Elysium incident, Garrus had been tasked with an assignment requiring him to visit one of the first Freeports built on Terminus space, the one designated with the number 8. He remembered it as a lively and somewhat ramshackle place, with a lot of traffic coming and going owing to its status as a pit stop between Alliance territory and the de facto capital of those lawless sectors, Omega.

Freeport 14, on the other hand, was clean and quiet to the point that it reminded him of the barracks where he had been billeted as a marine on his first tour of duty. As he traversed the corridors of that station he came across people of different species — who were all scrupulously tidy and moved with the step of trained soldiers, even if they wore uniforms or overalls of different colors.

Workshop 11 was a cavernous space over a hundred meters wide, enough to accommodate four shuttles or two medium-sized freighters comfortably. The spacecraft on view were neither, though: unfinished fighters of designs he had never seen before rested on half a dozen workspaces. Technicians and omnic frames fussed over them.

A guard dressed in black approached him. The muzzle of her rifle was pointed downwards, but her right hand was on its grip as she scanned Garrus with an omni-tool. After a nod, she pointed without comment at the second fighter on the left row. The turian bowed his head in thanks in turn.

His expert eye dissected the craft as he walked them by. By displacement, they appeared to be heavy fighters, or even multi-role fighter-bombers. He speculated the human fascination with small strike craft was rooted in wars roughly eighteen decades in the past, conflicts that had laid waste to entire continents and left hundreds of millions dead. A particular anecdote came to his mind — a small island nation resisting the might of a military leviathan had seen its fate decided on the skies, their brave pilots inflicting a humiliating defeat on a hitherto invincible enemy.

That legacy was visible now. Alliance-designed fighters —and their pilots— were unsurpassed in the galaxy, and if Garrus was not mistaken on his assessment, any one of the machines in view would be a formidable opponent for almost any other fighter model of human-omnic make even.

A woman noticed him coming and approached. "Garrus Vakarian in the flesh. To think a living legend would visit us here."

Garrus snorted. "Spare me. Who am I speaking to?"

Sloe, slanted eyes on an asian face scrutinized him. "I'm Lily Trent."

Vakarian's eyes narrowed. " The Lily Trent?"

The woman smirked humorlessly. "Spare me. What brings you here?"

The turian studied Trent. She was renowned among the Zoners, who regarded her as somewhat of a leading figurehead — insofar as a bunch of isolationists, anarchists and outcasts could have a unifying leader. Daughter to a freelance trader and bounty hunter and an Alliance Navy officer who pretty much had created the Freeports and the Zoner movement by themselves, she had been groomed for the leadership role by her parents as much as she had earned the spot by brute competence and force of personality. She was short, roughly around 155 to 160cm tall, and likely would weigh in at around fifty-two kilograms. He judged human males would find her attractive given her sinuous shape. Her features were as asian as they came, but the eyes —blue— and the hair color —borderline white platinum blonde— were not.

"Information and business," he answered dryly. The woman cocked an eyebrow questioningly. He looked around and added: "These are some very fine fighters you're building. For whom?"

"We don't sell them," was the cold reply. "The people down in Watson keep us supplied in exchange for security. There's always pirates around, and now that the mineral business is booming in the system…" Trent smirked humorlessly again. "I'm kind of disappointed you don't know that. Nobody'd have guessed Garrus Vakarian's lost his edge."

The turian veteran saw in that face yet another replay of an old movie he was very tired of: people being uncooperative and dismissive of his mission… and, suddenly, he had enough. Before anyone could react he had reached for the sidearm holstered on Trent's hip and loosed a single round without looking. A beer can resting atop a tool cabinet next to her fighter was blown away.

The guards around trained their weapons on him: "DROP IT!"

Garrus and Trent stared at each other without blinking. The turian sneered: "Please excuse me for not having an intelligence agency feeding me reports. I'm doing Reaper hunting as a solo agent."

The woman said nothing, merely glaring back at him.

Then she bellowed: "Hold your fire!" Next, she grinned. "You got balls, turian. I like you."

Garrus looked slowly at the guards arrayed around him. Then, after several seconds, with soft movements, he returned the pistol grip-first to her owner. "I hope you'll forgive my discourtesy," he quipped in a deadpan tone that fooled no one. "How about we try that one again. I'm looking to do business and get some information."

Trent bowed her head. "Someone get this man a drink," she hollered.

"That was my beer, boss!" a male voice called out angrily.

Garrus refused the drink with a polite hand gesture. "Give him another can instead and charge me for it."

Trent shrugged. "Suit yourself. Now follow me."

Wary eyes followed the tall turian and the small woman as she led him to a battered bench on a corner of the workshop. She sat without ceremony, reached into a small fridge for a beer, popped it open, and took a long pull before asking: "What's your business?"

"I need to hire a pilot. Or to buy a fighter. Something fast and durable."

She eyed him oddly. "We don't have that many freelancers around."

Garrus snorted. "Weird, coming from you."

"Dad didn't let me do much of it," she replied fastidiously. "Sometimes I think he only had me so he could stick the freeport business to someone else." Another draught, then: "There'll be a couple around tomorrow, two girls inbound from Illium. If you can wait, that is."

A shrug. "If I can find a place to… to crash, I can."

"Check the guest quarters. They'll have a bunk for you." She stretched. "You said something about information."

"Do you get many quarian visitors here?"

Trent blinked twice. "Now that you mention it, we had one a couple weeks back. Rambling lunatic, he was. He arrived on an old shuttle and paid triple to have it repaired and refueled PDQ. At some point, one of our marines almost whacked him to get him to stop whining. He couldn't wait to leave. Dieter!" she called out. A tall, lanky guard approached, watching Garrus like a hawk. "You had to deal with the Eclipse bitches looking for the weird quarian."

The man rolled his eyes. "Damn right. They were four Eclipse assholes, all blueskin bitches. Their captain was, uh… Enola? Alana? Something like that. She's got a mean streak. The moment she heard their quarry had been around she started roughing up people for answers. I had to shoot her to get her to back down." The guard shivered in spite of himself. "That was a really bad standoff. Eclipse crews ain't welcome here anymore because of her."

Now the tiny woman looked piercingly at Garrus. "What's the story? First, we get a weird visitor, then one of the Terminus Big Three decides it doesn't matter being blacklisted if they get a line on this guy, and then a living legend walks in and asks about this quarian. What's going on?"

The turian shook his head, in part to conceal his discomfort. On top of her commanding presence and stance, Trent's sharp manners reminded him of Shepard. "I'm sorry. It's delicate stuff. This quarian saw something really, really big. I must get to him before Eclipse or anyone else does."

Trent kept her piercing blue eyes on Garrus for a few moments, then bowed her head. "Mom likes to say, 'need-to-know'. I hate it when she pulls that one on me, but she's usually right."

Now it was Garrus' turn to glare at her. "I hope you haven't been this forthcoming with anyone asking these questions."

"You're the first one to ask," she answered simply. "And someone else wouldn't have gotten those answers. For sure we'd have told you to scram if you'd chickened out." Then she returned his look with a serious face. "But everyone on the station knows. For sure the rest of the Zoners know. I wouldn't bet on the story not spreading."

Author's note: brokenLifeCycle's input is always appreciated, but he earns extra kudos now for taking the time to proofread my stuff while being up to his eyeballs in lectures and assignments.