ARCHONA

EARTH, SOL SYSTEM

LOCAL CLUSTER

NOVEMBER 4, 2003

Louise Gayner stood at the window of her rented house in the eastern suburbs of Archona, watching the beating of rain against the glass. She wore an outfit of almost ostentatious plainness in dark red lined, no more than a single stickpin in her cravat. A statement in a way: so was the gun. Not an ornamental dress weapon. A Virkin custom job, worn higher-slung than usual and canted forward in a cutaway holster, the molded grip polished with use. A duelist's weapon, though the days of her settling affairs with other Citizens with the ultimate argument in Draka politics were behind her. There were six tiny gold stars set into the crackle-finished black metal of the slide.

And now I'll never git that seventh, she thought, partly with regret and partly with a smug satisfaction that twisted her mouth into a smirk. Eric von Shrakenberg, hero of the Eurasian War, Archon who won the Sol War – as many were starting to call the now inappropriately named 'Final War' - and the Turian War, He Who conquered the Solar System, who the ignorant majority of Citizens were showering with praises, had finally died after holding the tiller of the Domination for so long. That twisted the smirk into a cold sneer. Bastard always knew how to make hisself look good.

Gayner was only back in the capital because of the sitting Archon's death, pulled away from her command of the pacification campaign in Australasia. The corner of her mouth turned up as she snapped a thumbnail against the grip of her gun. It had seen use even there, despite her being only a decade younger than the recently departed von Shrakenberg. Never saw much fightin' up close mahself befo'. Maybe I should a' gone into War 'stead a' Security.

She turned away from the window, still spry despite being in her seventies, and flicked her wrists forward to settle the lace. Sitting patiently in one of the wingback chairs was someone even older than her, resting his hands on the ivory dragon's head of his cane. He was watching her evenly, his wrinkled face neutral and contrasting with his bald pate gleaming with the light from the flames in the marble fireplace.

"Jus' savorin' the moment, Dietrich," she apologized. "Always wanted t' see him put in a grave. Been a long time comin' – too long if y'ask me." She adjusted her gunbelt and sank into the chair opposite him.

Dietrich Pope raised one eyebrow over a face that remained otherwise expressionless. "Sho'ly he deserves some respect for the long service he provided to the State," he remarked.

Gayner waved a hand dismissively. "Yeah, sure. I heard the speeches at the funeral, and made up one of my own to 'honor the memory of one of the Domination's greatest sons'." A smirk as she leaned back in the chair and folded her hands in her lap. "But let's just git to the heart of the matter instead."

"Indeed." He leaned his cane against the side of the chair, hooking the head over the arm, and settled himself. "I was bookin' my flight to Baghdad to see home and my grandchildren when yo' invitation came. After spendin' so long on that overstuffed zoo the Council races call a station, I was lookin' fo'ward to some quiet time and open spaces." He had been pulled out of a semi-retirement for the negotiations on the Citadel and to tutor young Miz Renston; he had found the relatively quiet Landholder's life on his plantation near the shores of Lake Habbaniyah in Mesopotamia Province welcome after a life spent in the service of the main Foreign Affairs Directorate offices in Archona. Riding among the vast fields of wheat, barley and rice, the groves of date palms. Taking his yacht out on the lake for a cruise or for fishing. Proudly watching his visiting grandchildren return on horseback from a successful catsticking for marsh lion, lances in hand and lion-dogs trotting at their ankles.

Admit it, Dietrich, he told himself. You like bein' in the active service again. Being needed again. It had certainly been interesting, testing his skill against the Yankees in a brand new theatre, one where they intrigued in the shadows of Great Powers. Powers with over two thousand years of experience bein' the top dogs. Daunting, but extremely interesting.

"My apologies," Gayner replied, and actually sounded as if she meant it. "But there's so few chances for us Old Domination types to meet nowadays. So much work rebuildin' from the War and gettin' everything ready for the New Race to take over." A wry smirk. "I will admit that they've turned out better'n I thought they would, from when von Shrakenberg and I were arguin' about what structure the Final Society should take." A pause, then, grudgingly, she continued, "Perhaps for the best that we didn't follow the hive-insect specialization model. The New Race'll need t' stay dynamic to keep up with these Council races, as well as the Yankees."

Pope inclined his head in agreement. "'Sides the fact that we might've made 'em think of those rachni things them krogan killed off back durin' they Rachni Wars." A smile. "Ratha ingenious the way them salarians and turians used that genophage to control they birthrate. The krogans', I mean. O' course, that means they also geneticists of note; we don' hold the monopoly on biologicals no mo'."

Gayner nodded unhappily. "Our big trump card." Her eyes narrowed. "And they have the gall to say what we can and can't do with the drakensis, the ghouloons - even the servus!" Her Angolan accent turned harsh. "It's intolerable! And von Shrakenberg just bent over fo' them."

Dietrich nodded meditatively. "I did feel ratha... constrained in my dealin's at the summit. I'm sho' if I'd put my back up on certain issues, we'd've gotten mo' concessions than we did." A slight shrug. "But our late Archon wanted us to seem reasonable to the Council races. He had points heah and theah, but we went through the 19th Century practicin' our institutions without Britain or Europe comin' down on us. These asari and salarians seem just as... sho't-sighted as they were, in some respects, though the turians don't like us a-tall." A slow smile. "I get the feelin' it's been too long since they been whupped by the krogan, or anyone else fo' that mattah."

The female Draka's lips peeled back to show her teeth in what was only partly a grin. "That's what happens when you come up against the Race. An' it also proves what I've been thinkin'." At the questioning look Pope gave her: "We Draka may have conquered the solar system, but it ain't the end all be all of everythin'. We've built the Final Society here, but there's a whole galaxy out there, filled with aliens who're against slavery just as much as the Yankees, an' think they can tell us what to do just like Britain an' Europe thought they could befo' the Great War."

"There are the batarians," Pope pointed out.

"True," she admitted. "They not so bad, got the proper attitude 'bout a lotta things. But they people was gettin' whupped by the Yankees, and they government doesn't have the same military power as the Council races. They mo' like merchants than propah warriors. They pay others to do the raidin' and slavin', instead a' just goin' out an' conquerin' themselves." She shook her head. "Impatient too. Try an' install control devices in they slaves instead of takin' the time to break 'em to the yoke personal like."

"Mmm, yo' have a point." The older Draka pursed his lips and leaned his elbows on the arms of the chair, pressing the fingertips of each hand against each other. "They ambassador was civil enough, but Freya preserve anyone who says they can't have what they want. They diplomacy reminds me of a spoiled brat sometimes. Still, they'll prove useful allies fo' a time; they got knowledge about the galaxy that we need, an' technology that could prove useful. An' we got military power an' knowledge of the Yankees that they want."

Gayner nodded. "They think they goin' t' ride us to glory." A harsh chuckle. "Lots of people thought that befo' we slapped tattoos on they necks. But I digress." She leaned forward. "Fact o' the matter is that we seein' the destiny of the Race unfoldin' befo' our eyes. We conquered the Earth an' the solar system because any social system different to ours is a deadly threat. Sure, we've bought time fo' ourselves by kickin' the Yankees out. But who discovered the Prothean outpost? We did. What happened as soon as we set foot out in the galaxy? The turians attacked us. What do these Council races do as soon as we decide to show up at they summit? Restrict us from doin' what we will with our own people an' with our serfs!" Her eyes held his. "The galaxy is out theah, waitin' fo' us."

Pope hesitated, then replied. "Yo' realize the Citadel Fleet outweighs us. Substantially. Council space ain't goin' to be an easy nut to crack." Reluctantly: "Fact o' the mattah is, if the Council hadn't stepped into the Turian War, the fleet the Hierarchy was mobilizin' woulda squashed us flat. Sho, we coulda made 'em bleed planetside when they tried to occupy us, but we'd've ended up no bettah than the Yankee holdouts in the New Territories."

"I'm not sayin' we fly out through the relay network guns blazin' tomorrow, or even the next day." A smile twisted her mouth, slightly mocking. "They own fault they stopped the turians when they did. In the fullness of time we'll make 'em regret it. The asari may live fo' a thousand years – and wouldn't Virunga Biocontrol love to figure that one out! – but we Draka are a patient people. We'll build up our numbers, absorb they technology, build our power within the Citadel."

"Not at that system they granted us in the Serpent Nebula," Pope warned. "Only access to that cluster is through the relays around the Citadel, an' any buildup would be sho' to make 'em suspicious."

"O' course." Gayner waved that off. "I meant workin' within they power structure, gettin' the Domination mo' influence that way. I'm given to understand we have other plans fo' that system."

A nod. "That new system – I've heard we're callin' it Niddhog – we goin' to hand ovah to the Combines, make it a manufacturin' center. Persuade some of our Citizen artisans to settle there as well. Make Niddhog 2 a manufacturin' center fo' the Citadel an' the galaxy beyond. Get them used to Draka goods." Pope smiled. "I have to admit, those asari have some damn fine artisans themselves. But we make things they don't."

Gayner grinned. "That's right, we'll make 'em think we bein' nice little Draka. But meanwhile we start thinkin' long term, meanuverin', positionin' ourselves for when the time is right. With von Shrakenberg gone, the Archon the Conservatives'll replace him with won't nearly have the clout to block us as much as he did." A pause. "Speakin' of which, how's our recruitment been goin'?"

"Very well, actually." A thin smile. "Lot of the drakensis are unhappy with how high-handed the Council's been treatin' us, an' with how the Conservatives just let 'em." A raspy chuckle. "I'm sho' Miz Renston would be a fine candidate herself, but she's in a position where she don't need to know. 'Sides, she needs a bit mo' discipline, bit mo' experience undah her belt. Bein' on the Citadel should help wit' that."

"Very good." Gayner pressed a button on the intercom. A few minutes later a serf entered with two crystal wine glasses and a bottle. She raised a glass of red. "Glory to the Race!" she toasted.

"Glory to the Race!"

JEFFERSON

SAMOTHRACE, INVICTUS SYSTEM

EXODUS CLUSTER

FEBRUARY 2, 2004

Janet Lefarge strode quickly along Ontario Avenue, shoulders squared underneath her Naval Forces jacket. She was far from the only one in casual uniform on the streets of the capital with the Sixth Fleet back in-system from convoy duty from Caleston escorting a shipment of element zero back from the moon on the other side of the Attican Traverse, near the frontier with the Terminus Systems. It had been a tenser cruise than usual with everyone half-expecting a batarian attack.

"Four-eyed bastards", she muttered under her breath. The Hegemony wasn't happy that the unofficial settlements there had been seized by Samothrace during the course of their reprisals against the pirate bands. They threatened to bomb humanity back into the Stone Age every time they moved a shipment of eezo out of the gas giant moon, and people had started to take them a lot more seriously ever since they started getting friendly with the Domination.

Janet stopped in front of the window to Plaza Santa Cecilia's Cantina and ducked down to check her reflection below the painted wood sign. Pale blue eyes, dusting of freckles across nose and cheeks, black hair still cropped close to her skull at the back and sides of her head but longer at the top to produce bangs that came down near her eyes. She half-smiled as she brushed a few strands back. The hairstyle had started among the female Marines, but had quickly spread to the Fleets and seemed to be catching on among the civvies too.

Satisfied, she straightened and pushed through into Santa Cecilia's. Her ears were immediately assailed with the Ironbelly Bootstomper music roaring from the speakers, and the noise of several hundred young voices. Every table and booth was full, and the bar was packed three deep; smoke drifted under the ceiling, about half tobacco. About three quarters of the patrons were in uniform, both Naval Forces and Marines, while the rest were in civvies. A good many of the latter had the gaunt look of the first wave of former Alliance serfs released from the Domination under the watchful eye of the turian Lifebearer Brigade and the hanar aid organization Healing Waters. The scarring on their necks below their left ears confirmed it, where the Snakes' serial numbers had been removed with lasers and chemical washes.

Janet began to push through the crowd in a forward-tackle drive towards the beer taps, earning hard glares from some while others took undue liberties in the tight press. Those she answered with elbows just under the ribs and feet trodden on by her heavy military boots. One Marine with an East Asian cast to his features scowled and started to take exception to her rebuttal, but his buddies quickly grabbed him by the shoulders. "Be honest, you had that coming," one of them bawled into his ear over the music.

You're one lucky bastard, she thought. If his friends hadn't stopped him, she was prepared to make him really sorry. Dumb gyrenes think they're tougher than Naval Forcers. She'd scored top of her class in Unarmed Combat training back in Space Force Basic and had kept it up in the years since.

With a final shoulder first shove, she slid between two people at the bar and leaned an elbow onto it. She reached a hand out and tugged the bartender's sleeve as he hurried by to get his attention. "Uno cerveza, por favor," she shouted over the music. The bartender, with a swarthy complexion that spoke of Latin blood, smiled at the Spanish and turned to get a mug.

"Janet! Awer 'ere!"

Janet's head came up, blinking in surprise. There's only one person I know with that accent... "Excuse me!" she bellowed at her two nearest neighbors, putting her hands on their shoulders and levering her feet to knee-height off the ground. She caught sight of the old man sitting in one of the booths, waving. A bright grin and she nodded acknowledgment as she lowered herself back down, turned back to the bar and grabbed her beer before plunging back into the crowd worked her way steadily towards the booth.

She slid into the seat with Southwestern-patterned synthetic fabric upholstery across the table from Johnathan Winters, one of her father's old friends. A stocky figure in a blue suit with pale yellow tie. His face was Northern England, with blue eyes and dark brown hair receding from a high forehead.

"Janet, good to see ya, lass," Winters said, reaching a hand across the table to slap her on the upper arm with a smile.

"You too, Uncle John," she replied with a smile as she set her mug to the side. "Wouldn't expect to see you in a place like this. I'm meeting Iris and her new boyfriend here." Her twin sister had really gotten into writing as of late, after relatively brief forays into music, painting, and sculpting. She was always the artsy one, she thought, while I've been good with numbers and knocking heads. Oh well, to each their own. She felt a brief stab of melancholy at the thought of her sister having a boyfriend; a career in the military didn't lend itself to a healthy social life.

She brought herself back to the real world when Winters began to reply. "I actually came here to see yuh," he said, his face becoming unwontedly serious.

"Me?" Janet's brow furrowed in confusion.

Winters nodded. "Whey aye. Been hearin' in certain places that ye've been lookin' into the Institute."

Janet's expression froze, and she remained very still as she looked at her family's friend with new eyes. Samothrace had several institutes, but only one was known as the Institute. The SSI. The Strategic Studies Institute.

She glanced around the cantina quickly: there were a few very quiet, systematically inconspicuous people spread around the inside.

"Janet." She brought her attention back to the older man sitting across from her, and saw a slight smile on his lips. "Ye've been doin' good work out there in the Traverse. Up to Lieutenant now, eh?" He took a sip from the glass of water sitting in front of him. "The Institute's been watchin' ye fer a while now, lass." The smile took on an edge of sadness at her surprise. "I was in the Cumberland Borderers as an NCO when the OSS contacted me, and recruited me into their special forces." His gaze went distant as he looked back across the years. "I was with yer da in India in '76. That's how we know each other." His gaze sharpened back onto her. "And ye've been expressin' an interest yerself, eh?"

The younger woman nodded numbly. She had always fought the batarians with her utmost, but she had always wanted to fight the real enemy. The Snakes. She had missed out on the fighting back during the Fall – probably for the best, all things considered – and now they were both technically allies under the Citadel Council. Very technically, she thought. She had only vague memories of the attack on the transport Pathfinder in '82, part of what the psych people said was deliberate repression of traumatic memories. She remembered her mom being sick for a long time afterward though, and breaking into fits of unexplained panic or crying for a few years afterward.

Her fingers curled up into a fist on the seat beside her leg, but she kept her features schooled to calm. "So what is this exactly, Uncle John?" she asked evenly.

Winters smiled as he folded his hands on the tabletop. "Aboot what ye'd expect. Do ye still want the Institute?"

A stab of excitement felt in her chest. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

"I want ye to be sure aboot this, lass," he warned. "The Institute isn't like the spy flicks. Ye're da was in the OSS, so ye should have a better idea than yer average new recruit."

That's true, she admitted to herself. She had grown up in the old New America Project on Habitat Seven in the Belt after all. Her father had been fortunate enough to get on a Black Fund project, and so she had gotten to see him regularly. But it had been mostly paperwork, meetings, wrangling scientists to keep them from departmental infighting. She had always been a creature of action, herself.

But the Institute went up against the Bad Guys at levels far more important than the Naval Forces. They and the Marines fought in skirmishes, and incidents, and wars. The SSI, if it did its job right, short-circuited them altogether, and hurt the enemy in ways even more significant. In the end, she had made up her mind when she was a kid and been waiting for this opportunity all her life. She nodded.

Winters smiled and extended a hand across the table. "Then I'll be seein' ye later, Janet." She shook his hand, then quickly palmed the small piece of paper and unobtrusively looked at it, memorized the address and the letter-number combinations there. Her face turned, and her hand seemed to brush casually against her mouth; her throat worked silently.

The SSI man nodded fractionally, then slid out of the booth and headed for the door. Janet watched him go, then slid her beer back in front of her and stared down into the amber liquid. The choice had been made; she would just have to see where it went from here.

She brought her eyes back up and looked around the cantina again. Still have Iris and her new boyfriend to meet.