Luther Tull attracted looks as he walked down the street in the batarian district he was currently residing in. That was mostly due to the fact that he was wearing full armor, and was festooned with the entire arsenal of small arms he had brought with him. A pair of batarians shot him way glances as they neared him. He scowled and glared at them until they picked up their pace and gave him a wide berth before hurrying past.
He was only a couple of blocks away from the small two-story warehouse that the War Directorate's Intelligence Section and their batarian counterparts had set up as their base of operations in Omega. It was located along the edges of a small spaceport that was still being repaired after the 'ownership dispute' the batarians had had the day before with that turian gang, the Primarchs, when they had attempted to expand into it. The part of the district further into the station was still the scene of firefights, as well as random sniper fire that targeted every turian and batarian that wandered into their sights on the streets below – and a good many that weren't either.
That was one reason he was wearing the armor. The other was that the station was filled with the types of people who were unwelcome in Citadel Space: mercenaries, slavers, assassins, and criminals from all races. He was used to dealing with wild sophonts; he'd dealt with them before on the Citadel and in the more cosmopolitan cities back on Earth, where many aliens under the watchful but discreet eye of the Security Directorate could be found taking in the sights of the Domination and purchasing those of its artisan-crafted products that were rarely found in the galactic markets.
But the aliens here are positively feral!, he thought, keeping his eyes moving around. Citizens always carried a weapon with them at all times as a mark of their status, even if it was just a small pistol or knife at home. But in a place like this, surrounded with feral sophonts, he wasn't satisfied with anything less than armor, kinetic shields, and full combat gear – and even then he wasn't comfortable.
"Hey!" The voice came from behind him. Luther turned sideways so that he wouldn't be craning his head back over his shoulder and leaving his front open to an unexpected attack, then glanced back down the street to see Tarak trotting after him. The batarian was wearing armor himself, but had only a shotgun slotted into the armor at his lower back.
Luther was shaking his head as the SIU trooper slowed his pace as he neared and closed the distance at a walk. "Yo' crazy walkin' 'round here like that." He motioned his head back down the road for Tarak to walk with him, then continued down the street. "Shotguns have limited range and a low rate of fire."
"You're crazy walking out here at all," the batarian retorted. "We have a perfectly good building to wait in until the rest of the team shows up, and this district is still under dispute."
The Draka grimaced. "It may be 'perfectly good' to you, but that Loki-cursed place is too cramped, and too..." He paused as he rolled words around in his mind. "...convoluted," he finished.
The warehouse they were staying in had seemingly been built by someone with a nature rivaling that of the Trickster himself. It had been constructed as a maddening maze of corridors and stairwells. To get from one end of the building to the other, it was actually necessary to take one flight of stairs up from the common room to a landing that overlooked the garage, then back down to the ground floor, weave through several alternating left and right turns of branching hallways, then climb up another flight of stairs to the storage areas in the back.
Tarak shrugged his shoulders. "You have to get used to things being like that on Omega." Having stated what to him was a fact of life, he changed the subject. "As for the shotgun, you're the one who's going to attract unnecessary attention with all that firepower. It's a smaller chance that you'll get attacked, but you're definitely going to stick in someone's memory if someone comes around asking questions."
Luther frowned, part of his mind still concentrating on the first statement. Just accepting things as they were when they weren't to their liking just wasn't something Draka did. Most of the world had abandoned chattel slavery over the course of the 19th Century, but the Draka had persisted, going only so far as to term their subject-races 'serfs' to placate the then more powerful Britain and Europe. When they had conquered the Middle East and Central Asia during the Great War, and then Europe and China after the Eurasian War, they had thrown virtually limitless manual labor and a cold, calculating ruthlessness at reshaping the landscape of entire continents to suit their needs. They deconstructed towns and other rural settlements and sowed forests and transplanted wild animals in their place, leaving only cities, the Landholders' plantations, and lethally dangerous wilderness so that the serfs could be more easily monitored, any attempts at their escape would be impossible, and the Citizens' lust for the hunt could be satisfied.
The same thing they're doing in the New Territories, he thought. Outside of the radiation zones and the Reserves filled with bushmen, anyway.
While part of his mind worried at that, the rest of it concentrated on the conversation. "Askin' questions? Like who, the 'big bad' Primarchs?" he jeered. "If those turian bastards want to have another go, I'm happy to oblige. We'll be mo' than ready fo' them this time."
Tarak frowned himself. "I'm all for a good fight, Tull, but you have to choose your battles. Discretion is key with this kind of work. I know your people had that war with the turians, but–"
"Do you?" the drakensis suddenly cut in, expression hard. "Do you really? I was on Vritra 2 durin' the turian occupation. I saw them crater hectares of land to wipe out one stick of troops." He bared his teeth in what was only partly a grin and when he spoke again, his accent was thicker. "When ouah ships chased theirs off, I was in on ouah revenge against they ground forces. We slaughtered 'em 'til the ground was soaked blue, and I cut off mandibles with my knife 'til my belt was filled with loops of 'em." That had proven to be the turian alternative to the age old Draka custom of slicing off ears for trophies.
The batarian's face remained expressionless during the recounting. "So you don't like turians," he stated after Luther was finished. "I get it. But this isn't the time for you to indulge yourself in killing some." He glanced around briefly to see if anyone was nearby, then continued. "There are other factions on Omega besides the Primarchs that might become curious if they discovered our peoples' governments operating here. Neither of our superiors wants that. There's a reason we were meeting on an uninhabited planet in the Attican Traverse in the first place."
Luther glared at Tarak for a long moment, then growled deep in his throat as he looked away from him. I hate bein' lectured by him, he thought darkly. As he took a deep breath through his nose he consciously throttled back the physical reactions of his body that were contributing to his anger, then used a meditation technique to calm his mind. But he has a point, he finally conceded. The Will is Master. I am a Citizen of the State. I will not shame my blood befo' foreigners.
He hated the turians for what they had done, making the Draka appear weak during their occupation of the colonial outpost. That one turian making him appear weak when he had closed hand-to-hand during that one skirmish. But lettin' it interfere with my service to the State, lettin' it make me emotional, is unacceptable. It's... serfish.
Having mastered and browbeat himself back into a cool self-control, he nodded to Tarak. "Yo' right," he conceded evenly. They walked on for several more steps before he added, "I still hate that damn warehouse though."
The batarian let out a short grunt of a laugh as they continued to walk deeper into the station. Before long Luther began to have trouble telling exactly where they were. As if the warehouse were a microcosm of the station as a whole, the buildings seemed to have been constructed without plan or purpose; streets twisted and turned unexpectedly, and sometimes curled back on themselves to form infuriating dead-ends. He had heard that even residents of Omega could quickly become lost or disoriented, and the overall effect was highly unsettling for new arrivals.
While he hated the filth, the stinks and the sheer untidiness of the station, the sounds that assailed his sensitive hearing were no better. Unlike Council Space, most aliens here refused to speak the common trade language unless absolutely necessary. An endless cacophony of grunts, squawks, and squeaks assailed his ears as the two of them made their way through the crowds, his automated translator useless in the face of obscure interstellar dialects it wasn't programmed to decipher.
A hanar floated up from behind them and brushed by the Draka's shoulder, moving quickly. Luther shied away from the long, trailing tentacles, restraining an urge to reach a hand out and tear a few of them loose at the violation of his personal space.
Tarak seemed to sense his mood and led them off of the main street into the twisting side streets. Soon the racket of alien voices faded behind them and the all too familiar smell of rot and spent incendiaries filled the air. A few blocks later, they came upon the reason for it.
The buildings in this area showed evidence of recent battles. Several doorways were scorched with burn marks and doors either lay on the street nearby or hung at awkward angles, as if they had been quickly replaced after they had been shot down or blown off by an explosion. The outside of the buildings were pockmarked with the impact of stray rounds, with the edges near doorways and gaping windows chewed up by concentrated gunfire.
"Not the so't of place I had in mind when I went fo' a walk," Luther said dryly.
Tarak frowned as he took in the quiet streets. "Something's wrong. I think we should get off the–"
The two of them suddenly ducked and bolted for cover as a sniper round deflected off of the batarian's kinetic shields. They had just made it into the alley when another round ricocheted off of the street behind them.
"Sniper," the SIU soldier remarked unnecessarily.
"An' the Presidium's pricey to live in," the Draka replied, matching him in stating the obvious. "Did yo' see where it came from?"
"No. Probably the upper floors of one of the buildings." Tarak shook his head. "We'll just have to stay off the main street and double back." Realizing how risky a proposition it was to try finding a new way in the labyrinth of Omega's streets, he unclipped his Batarian State Arms shotgun from his back and held it ready in his hands.
Luther unclipped his assault rifle with a sour look. "Joy an' delight undiluted," he muttered.
The two of them began making their way through the alleyways, pausing only to take turns checking around corners before proceeding onward. The drakensis grimaced inwardly as his armored boots waded through the refuse littering the alleys. Gods, I think I'm actually gettin' used to the smell! he thought with dismay.
It was some time later when a scratching sound followed by a crash brought Luther's Holbars snapping around to point down the alley the sounds were still echoing through. His eyes narrowed as he searched for the cause, then widened slightly as a figure straightened from its crouch next to the bodies of some dead batarian gangers. It glared at him with crimson eyes centered with black pupils, letting out a sound halfway between a hiss and a snarl through an alarming amount of yellow needle-like teeth set in blackened elongated jaws. It's entire bipedal body was covered with a malformed brownish carapace that was black at its extremities and had spikes protruding from the back of its skull and at its joints.
"Go 'way," it suddenly said in a high, hissing voice. "These mine!"
"White Christ!" the Draka blurted before he could stop himself, startled. "It can talk!"
Tarak trotted back to the meeting of the two alleys as he heard Luther's exclamation. He peered at the creature, then made a sound of disgust. "It's just a vorcha, Tull. They're nothing but pests and scavengers."
"But... it can talk," the drakensis repeated, nonplussed. The creature – the vorcha – was completely unlike any other alien he had seen, and it practically exuded the word 'ugly'. But his world view as he had matured had taught him that if it spoke, it was either a Citizen, a serf, or a potential serf, be it a human, servus or ghouloon. He had expanded that viewpoint after the Domination had made contact with the Citadel. After that, aliens ranged from the turians who counted as 'enemies', the batarians who were 'allies', and the asari who were considered 'refined'. But he had never heard a sophont dismissed as a 'pest' with all the inconsequential uselessness inherent in the word.
"Barely." Tarak raised his shotgun to his shoulder casually and fired, taking off the vorcha's arm near the shoulder. It shrieked in pain and fell to its knees as it clutched at the stump where its mangled limb had been.
Luther turned his head slightly and was about to say something sharp – personally, he didn't relish pointless suffering as much as the batarians seemingly did, as well as some Draka, and the vorcha wasn't a particularly dangerous threat.
But the words died in his mouth as the blood flow stopped within seconds and he could visibly make out the flesh beginning to knit itself back together.
"Sweet mother Freya," he finally managed, watching the process with an awed fascination. Drakensis were able to heal quickly, and the krogan were said to be able to regenerate even faster and have backup organs besides. But neither healed at anything like the speed at which the vorcha was.
Tarak lowered the shotgun. "Yeah, they can heal fast and it'll regenerate its arm by the end of the week. But they're nearly as dumb as a varren, they only live around twenty years, and they breed too damn fast. The only reason they got off their homeworld is because they stowed away on visiting ships." He waved a hand in dismissal. "Like I said, they're scavengers and they'll swarm anyone trespassing on what they see as their territory if they have large numbers on their side."
He glanced around with two of his eyes, keeping the other pair on the vorcha. "Speaking of which, let's get moving. We don't know how many of his friends might be nearby."
"Right." Luther started to follow the batarian, but shot another look back at the vorcha. It watched them leaving and shot another parting hiss-snarl before crouching back next to the bodies and continuing to paw them over with its remaining arm.
From Tarak's account, the vorcha were indeed a pestilence – short-lived, fast breeding, and scavenging whatever they could find. I'm glad I'm not goin' to see what that thing is plannin' to do with those bodies, he thought a bit queasily.
But the fact that it was able to speak kept bringing back to him a term that all Draka learned from their parents and in school. A term from the Romans, an eminently practical people, that described their slaves.
Instrumentum vocale. The tool that speaks.
Janet Lefarge kept her eyes moving around warily as she walked through the streets of Omega, consciously aware of the Concord pistol at her hip. On the Spectre's advice she was only wearing her civvies on this foray into the station, leaving her armor and more powerful weapons back in the ship.
Dublo was a step behind her, covering their back and providing the pretense that she was the superior of the pair. He was as lightly dressed as she, but he was carrying an assault rifle manufactured by Elanus Risk Control Services, a turian security firm whose products were popular with mercenaries across the galaxy. His head was turning more openly to keep a careful watch, more appropriate for his underling persona.
"You sure this is a good idea?" she said over her shoulder, her voice tense. They were on their way to what they had determined was the best information broker on Omega. The problem was that she had also made a name for herself as a crime lord that with well known aspirations towards dominating the station.
Dublo nodded abruptly. "It's the only way we'll find the drakensis and batarian within a reasonable timetable. We do not need to worry too much." A brief frown. "The STG databanks had unfortunately little intelligence about this Aria T'Loak, but she does have a reputation for keeping her word alongside a ruthless practicality. As long as we do not pose a threat to her, we should be fine."
"Great," she muttered. All we have to do is not piss off an unscrupulous asari with delusions of grandeur. How hard can that be? she thought sardonically.
As they continued onward in silence, Janet marveled at the sheer size of the interior of the station. The only place she could compare it to was Ceres back before the Fall, but the planetoid in the Sol System's asteroid belt had never been completely hollowed out as this smaller one had. Ceres had been mainly cramped corridors carved out of the rock with some larger chambers. Of course, the aliens out here had centuries to work with, while we only had a few decades.
The sheer amount of lawlessness was also new to her. She had spent most of her life in the asteroid belt living in a spin habitat inhabited by scientists and soldiers, while Samothrace had a negligible crime rate that was only in recent years starting to rise as the larger settlements started developing into established cities. The closest analogue she could think of was her father's stories of New York City before he and her mother had moved into space for the New America Project. It had been full of gangs derived from the waves of immigrants that had flooded into the city since the 1890s. Mexican, Sicilian and – after the immigration wave following the first border skirmishes with the Domination around the Channel Islands – British gangsters had fought with each other for complete control of organized crime in the American capital.
You know, she suddenly realized, this place is like the mirror opposite of the Citadel. Both are places where the various species of the galaxy live alongside each other, but the Citadel is the seat and symbol of a unifying galactic government representing peace and stability, while Omega is a criminal haven divided between different factions constantly fighting each other.
She idly wondered how the Snake was dealing with the realities of Omega. Probably suffering from culture shock, she thought with a smirk. 'Bushmen' all over the place and no servus tripping over themselves to peel grapes for him. She doubted anyone who lived in within the iron framework of Domination society would be able to adapt to such a place; the hidebound Draka made even the most conservative asari matriarchs look like bomb throwing radicals. Probably kill dozens just as a reaction of the bloodlust built into their species. A glance around. Not that you'd notice it in this place.
Soon they came within sight of the massive building that housed the club that was the centerpiece of the asari's, Aria's, power, appropriately named Afterlife. There was a huge crowd of people waiting to get in: asari, turian, krogan, batarian, volus, and elcor. It was said to cater to individuals from every species. But they had learned that Aria had strict rules about crowd control, and those outside would have to wait for some of the revelers inside to leave – or be carried out – before the guards at the door would grant them access.
The line stretched the entire length of the massive building and disappeared around the corner at the end of the block. It would be hours before those at the tail end were able to get inside. Janet had no intention of waiting that long, however.
With the salarian Spectre at her back, she strode straight past the queue towards the entrance. Some of the people waiting in line shot resentful looks at them as they walked past, only to stare and talk to each other at realizing she was a type of alien none of them had seen before. That was part of what they had hoped would get them inside quickly, the sheer novelty factor of a human on Omega.
Janet marched up to the krogan bouncer at the front doors, waited for him to look up at her, and stated, "I need to see Aria T'Loak."
The reptilian alien blinked at her, its eyes narrowing as he looked her up and down, taking in her alien features. "Drakensis?" he finally asked.
"Human," she replied, and the krogan's curiosity became even more lively.
"Hmm," he grunted, then fell back onto his scripted procedure. "Name?"
The corner of her mouth quirked up. "I'm not on the list. But I think your boss will want to see me anyway. It's business."
The krogan's eyes narrowed even further to thin slits, but he reached up to activate the transmitter built into the collar of his suit.
"Relay a message to Aria," he said to someone inside the club. "There's a human out here. Says she wants to see her about business. She's not on the list."
Silence stretched for over a minute, then the krogan's went wide as he heard the orders coming from the other end. "Yeah, I'll send her right in." He turned back to the two of them. "Aria's sending someone to meet you. Head inside to the claim check."
Janet glanced back at Dublo and jerked her head towards the doors in a peremptory order to follow her, then passed through the doors. The walked through a short hall lined with couches and a sparse handful of people sitting and chatting up to a foyer where a couple of scantily clad asari stood preening behind the coat check counter. Nearby, two large, heavily armed and armored krogan flanked the sealed double doors leading to into the club itself while a batarian stood next to the outside of the counter.
Outside, the music from the club was so muted it could barely be heard over the noises of the street. Here, though, she could feel the beat from inside the club thrumming through her feet and into her bones – low, heavy, and fast.
"Put all weapons on the counter," the batarian said flatly.
Janet set her hands on her hips and tilted her head back slightly, looking down her nose at the alien. "I thought guns were allowed in Afterlife," she remarked.
"Not if you want a personal meeting with Aria."
She paused a moment, then spread her hands and shrugged her shoulders with studied nonchalance. She had expected it and had pressed the point only to uphold her image. Without taking her eyes from the batarian, she snatched the Concord from the holster at her hip, spun the pistol so it was butt first in her hand, and set it on the counter with a thunk.
She smiled back at his slight scowl, then turned her head to watch as one of the asari took her pistol and Dublo's assault rifle and headed into the back. The other handed her a claim ticket and flashed her a suggestive wink. Janet swallowed a nervous cough and nodded back, acknowledging the pass without returning it.
The asari pushed the doors open and the batarian led the two of them in. The club consisted of four levels, each one made up of a large outer ring surrounding a square dance floor suspended by wires and walkways in the center. Each of the various levels were different, appealing to different tastes with their own dance floors, unique musical styles, and custom drinks and chemical recreations.
The common theme, as befitted the club's name, was the afterlife. The commingling of myths and legends from across the galaxy were represented in the club. On each level individuals could see out the pleasures – or hedonistic debauchery – associated with the Halls of Athame, the Hollows, or any of a thousand other names for the promised realm allegedly waiting beyond mortal existence.
Janet peered around for references to any religions utilized by either her own people or the Snakes, but wasn't surprised when she didn't spot any. Both species were probably still too new for their influence to have come as far as Omega.
But she could feel the surreal and otherworldly air inside Afterlife. The electronic pulses of the music, the strobing lights, and the crowd created a palpable energy that urged you free from yourself, to unleash inhibitions and wild, dangerous desires... most of which could probably be satisfied in the lower levels of the club.
Adding to the exhilaration was the common knowledge that most of the patrons inside Afterlife were armed. Security forces were on hand to clamp down on riots and to prevent widespread chaos, but individuals were apparently expected to look out for themselves.
She could feel the allure of the place, but she was here on Institute business. Damn shame. I kinda wonder what it would be like coming here like a regular person. A smirk. If you came here like a regular person you'd still be waiting outside. Concentrate, Janet!
The entrance to the club was on the third level. A stifling heat rose up from the bodies gyrating on the dance floors below, making her halfway wish she could slip off the light jacket she was wearing. Well over a hundred patrons occupied this level, but the club was large enough to accommodate the numbers without making it feel overly crowded.
The batarian pushed through the crowd, parting the way before them. They climbed a staircase leading up to the VIP level above, the urgent atmosphere of the club fading behind them. On the topmost level of the club the music was less intense, the lights more subdued. It was less crowded, though Janet estimated the number of patrons at around fifty.
Standing on an elevated platform ringed with couches at the back was Aria T'Loak herself. She was facing away from them, using the vantage point to look out across the entire club, taking it all in like a god looking down from above.
Like all asari, she was beautiful by human standards. Unlike most, however, Aria's complexion was more violet than blue. She was clad in a form fitting black bodysuit with burgundy accents, daringly cut at her sides and chest to further accentuate every curve.
Janet scowled inwardly. The asari as a species seemed unfair to her. Though they were monogendered, they all had well proportioned feminine figures and an air of the ethereal and exotic about them, something that attracted the males of many species across the galaxy – and more than a few females as well. Which unfortunately includes human men too. And they live for a thousand years! Unfair.
The batarian led her up the small staircase onto the dais, leaving Dublo behind to stand with the other guards below, then stepped off to the side. A turian with an omni-tool took his place, holding it up towards her. "Stand still for the body scan," he said as a light flicked out over her. She stood still until it was complete, the turian turning to state, "She's clean."
Only then did Aria turn around to regard her with a cool, impersonal gaze. A glance aside showed Janet that there was one other occupant of the platform, an old krogan sitting on one of the couches off to the side, a bottle of some anonymous liquor clenched in one fist. He shot her a curious glance, then turned his attention back to the bottle, tiling it up and taking a swig.
"I've haven't seen any humans around here before," the asari remarked calmly. "From what I've heard your people are nothing but the Domination's leftovers, and you're still around only because you hide behind the turians. Why should I have anything to do with you?"
Janet's eyes narrowed involuntarily as she suppressed a rush of anger. She's poking you for reactions. Keep calm. She was already getting the sense that she was dealing with somebody formidable, with centuries of experience of dealing with the galaxy's underworld. And possibly more than that. I wish Dublo's people had been able to find out more.
She set a hand on one hip and gestured with the other as she replied, "Because the Draka are aggressive, and because they're bigger than we are. It's all about offsetting their power with someone else who isn't as much of a threat. I'm sure that's how the Hierarchy looks at it." She raised an eyebrow. "They're going to come here eventually, and I hear you're looking to run this rock. It would probably suit you to be on speaking terms with the people who've dealt with them for a couple centuries longer than you have." Her eyes flicked down over Aria's outfit, and the corner of her mouth quirked up, slightly mocking. "Nice suit."
The guards around her bristled slightly at her tone, clenching their weapons, while the krogan off to the side barked out a brief laugh. Janet knew the risk she was running, but she thought she had gotten an accurate read about the type of person she was dealing with. If I don't push back, I won't get any respect.
Aria's unreadable eyes searched hers for a moment, then her lips curved into a smile. "Why, thank you. It doesn't restrict movement, and I find its design... advantageous in certain situations. And with certain people." She shot a brief look at the old krogan as she turned and walked over the the couch, sitting smoothly and crossing her legs. "Though I have considered adding something to the ensemble." Her eyes moved over Janet's outfit, her expression becoming contemplative. "Nice jacket."
Janet shrugged her shoulders. "It works for me." At a gesture from Aria she moved to the side couch opposite the krogan and sat, the soft cushions enfolding her as she sank into them. The krogan belched over on his side of the platform as he lowered the bottle from his mouth, and the human turned a curious gaze over at him, wondering what a drunk was doing at Aria's right hand.
The asari followed her gaze and smiled. "Allow me to introduce you to Patriarch." She looked over at the krogan, her smile slightly mocking. "He used to run Omega until he and I had some... disagreements."
Patriarch glowered at her as she continued: "We settled our dispute over succession on this very spot." Her smile became smug. "I won, of course. He and I have maintained an equitable working relationship ever since. He advises me as I retake the territory and influence this organization lost during our dispute, and he gets to maintain the lifestyle he's become accustomed to."
"Hmmph," the krogan grunted, then took another drink. "I'm her trophy, she means, the reason she controls as much as she does. I know my way around this station, and all the people who respected me see me as an example that as strong as I am, she's stronger."
Aria smiled indulgently. "Yes, that too." She turned her head to look back at Janet. "Now, I don't get involved with people I don't know. So let's start with you telling me your name."
"Janet Lefarge." She wasn't particularly concerned about giving a crime lord her real name. Information brokers could find just about anything on the extranet, but the SSI kept all its information about agents on both localized networks and hard copy in clandestine high security facilities. Besides, it might be useful when the Institute has to work on Omega in the future.
"It's been an intriguing meeting so far, Janet," the asari said. "So what brings a human all the way from Samothrace to Omega?" Her eyes flicked over to Dublo briefly. "With such unexpected company, no less. A salarian isn't the first choice many would make for a bodyguard."
Janet propped a leg up onto the opposite knee. "I don't like to be conspicuous," she answered. "Turians, krogan, they're all obvious threats. Salarians aren't, or not so much. He comes in handy when I want to be discreet." She leaned forward. "As for what brings me here, I've heard you hear everything that goes on in Omega. I'm looking for a drakensis and a batarian, possibly accompanied by ghouloons. They would have arrived in the past few days."
Aria smiled. "A human chasing a drakensis and a batarian. Not unexpected, but isn't it usually the other way around?" She waved a hand. "Never mind. Yes, I have the information you want. The Draka aren't that common on Omega either." The corner of her mouth quirked up. "You made a good point earlier about why I should help you. But the establishment of new working relationships requires more incentive."
Janet nodded. "Of course." She glanced at the guards as she reached a hand to her inside jacket pocket, then produced some thousand-credit chips. The turian guard walked over and took them from her, then handed them to Aria before returning to his post.
The asari crime lord contemplated the chips resting in her hand for a long moment, then clenched her fist around them and looked back at the human. "Good enough." She nodded to the turian, who touched his communicator and spoke in a low voice. "You'll get your information. Now, why don't we celebrate our new business relationship? How about a drink? On me."
Janet hesitated a moment, then nodded. Why not? The Institute had the latest in Samothracian technology, including a nanite treatment that would prevent her from getting drunk enough to commit an indiscretion. Besides, it would help cement their deal and a further working relationship, as many small social rituals did.
The drinks arrived and Janet raised hers. "To future business." She leaned forward and extended her glass towards the asari. Aria smiled and leaned forward, extending her own glass forward in the unfamiliar ritual. Janet clinked her glass against the asari's and sat back, taking a drink. Now we've got you, Snake. You can't run for much longer.