Chapter 24: Deals and Gambits
The Presidium was always a calm, mellow place. Located right in the middle of Citadel's ring, it boasted vibrant parkland that was exactly like what one would find on a garden world. There was a lake with fountains spewing streams of water into the air, verdant grass fields speckled with trees, even a temperate breeze generated by specialized vents. Overhead, a vast screen gave the illusion of a cloudy blue sky, complete with artificial sunlight.
Much of the appeal was lost on Din, however, as he plodded his way to the embassies. The sky on the screen appeared too bright to his eyes, he couldn't feel the breeze or the mild temperature of this atmosphere thanks to his pressure suit, and he personally found the green vegetation to be far too garish in comparison to the plant life on Irune. But, he supposed that was what happened when your race was the only one that evolved on an ammonia-base world: your aesthetics were in the ultimate minority.
In the past, Din would have simply walked in sullen silence to his shared office, wondering what scraps the Council might throw his people's way. Now, he strode with purpose, his steps long and vigorous—for a Volus, at least. No longer was he simply a diplomat, but a member of a conspiracy among the highest echelons of his government to achieve the independence of the Vol-Clan. It was actually quite exciting, something Din hadn't experienced for a long time.
A short time later, Din reached the embassy area and stepped through the sliding doors. Inside, it was a far livelier scene. Aides of all Citadel races scampered back and forth, clutching digital pads in their hands. Secretaries took calls and told visitors that they'd be right with them, who in turn complained about the lack of service. Hardly anyone paid Din any attention as he made his way through the bustling crowd, quite literally overlooking him. Normally, he would have felt embittered by that, but now the effective anonymity his stature gave him was exactly what he wanted.
After about a minute of weaving around the legs of the taller races, Din entered his office. Calyn was already there, and the Elcor looked up from the terminal at his desk to peer over at him.
"Polite greeting: Welcome back, Din," Calyn said in his low, monotonous voice. "How was your trip to Irune?"
"Pleasant enough," Din replied, taking care to assume his normal truculent posture and demeanor. Elcor were very adept at reading body language. If Calyn noticed that Din wasn't his usual surly self, he might get curious and start asking questions. "Did I miss anything important while I was gone?"
Calyn heaved his massive shoulders in a shrug. "Not really. Aside from discussions about C-Sec funding and zoning laws for the Wards, things have been quiet around here."
"Indeed," mused Din. "And I suppose nothing has changed regarding the Council's stance on the war?"
"Apologetic: Unfortunately, no," Calyn said. "The Council remains committed to their neutrality."
"Well, that's about what I expected," grumbled Din, and there was no need to feign bitterness.
Calyn gave an awkward shuffle. "Remorseful: Sorry, Din. If it's any consolation, the most senior elders of my government still condemn the Hierarchy's actions."
And I'm sure the Turians are simply devastated by that, Din thought sourly. Not that the Courts of Dekuuna could do much else, really. Even if the Elcor weren't so naturally conservative, they didn't have much in the way of leverage against the Hierarchy. Their economy was too small to impose any sanctions and they sure as hell weren't going to start trading with the Federation against the Council's wishes.
Still, the fact that the Elcor government was outright saying that the Turians were at fault was something. Din would need every advantage he could get in pursuing independence for his people and while the Elcor were unlikely to actively support the effort, they might at least not object to it.
Din trundled over to his desk and sat down, switching on his personal terminal. As was his habit, he paid a visit to the Galactic Central, an independent extranet news site. Most considered it to be a dull, boring site since its writers were focused on things like economic forecasts, scientific breakthroughs and the general goings on of the galaxy instead of the latest trends or salacious stories about how some Asari official was hosting orgies with credits skimmed off of government accounts.
Din typed in a search for reports on the war between the Hierarchy and the Federation. It yielded no less than five articles about it, detailing opinions from experts in various fields and conjecture on the part of the authors. He skimmed over them and made his way to the comments sections; in his experience, those parts often provided a relatively accurate idea of how the average person felt on a particular topic. He was pleased to note that the vast majority blamed the Turians for the whole thing.
Of course, just because the public disapproved of the Turians didn't mean they'd be rushing to support the Volus's efforts to achieve independence. Din hadn't seen so much as a blurb about his people in any of the articles he'd read. He supposed that was to be expected; after all, the Turians were undeniably the face of the war and were suffering most of its effects. But it was still galling to not see anyone talk about the Volus in some capacity.
Din sat back in his chair heavily. No, he couldn't count on public support in his endeavors. If they wanted to get this done, it would have to be in the halls of the Citadel. And that meant acquiring leverage and favors.
But first, there were his duties as ambassador to attend to. Conspiracy or no, he still had work to do; reports didn't file themselves, after all.
As he worked, Din mulled over what potential avenues he and his cohorts might pursue to remove themselves from the Hierarchy's grip. From what he understood, the Client Pact as it was set up did indeed allow for the Volus to become independent again; all that was required was a referendum in which at least two-thirds of the Protectorate's citizens voted in favor, and the support of the Primarch of Palaven, plus at least four lesser Primarchs.
The two-thirds vote would be no problem. If the polls were accurate, the majority of the Volus couldn't be rid of the Turians fast enough. It was the support of the Primarchs that was going to be the hard part. Din didn't think for a moment that one of the Primarchs might even consider the notion, let alone the Primarch of Palaven. There would be no appeals to sympathy or consideration with any of them; only with a good deal of clout could there be any hope of persuading them. The question was: how could he get it?
"Excuse me, Ambassador Korlack?"
Din snapped out of his thoughts as the voice of the receptionist for his section came out of his desk intercom. Grumbling in irritation, Din pressed the button to reply and said, "Yes, Mera, what is it?"
"There's an Asari here that wants to speak with you," came the reply.
Din frowned behind his mask. An Asari, wanting to talk to him? That was something new; if an Asari had ever visited this part of the embassy suites, it hadn't happened during his tenure.
"Did she give her name?" Din asked.
"Ireena T'esora; she says it's important."
Interesting. Din began to wonder if this was not some kind of elaborate joke at his expense; maybe some young Asari had gotten bored with dancing on tables and wanted to see if she could pull one over on the Vol-clan emissary. He pondered the thought for a moment, then gave a mental shrug.
"Send her in," Din said. If nothing else, this would make for a novel experience.
The Asari came in barely a minute later, not so much walking as gliding through the doors. By his estimation, she was somewhere in her matron years, as she carried herself with too much poise to be a maiden. She wore a pristine white dress so bright that it seemed to give off its own light. Her demeanor the very picture of beatific friendliness, assuring anyone who saw her that she meant no harm. Din, being a seasoned diplomat, knew that anyone with such a bearing warranted caution.
As she strode up to him, Din calmly sat back in his chair and rested his hands on the desktop. "Miss T'esora, I presume?"
The Asari gave an elegant nod. "I am, ambassador," she said in a voice that was brimming with charm. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything important?"
Din had to admit he was impressed. Everything about her seemed to be tailored to make others feel at ease around her, if not outright favorable. The sparkling eyes, the slightly flirtatious stance, even her smile was carefully modulated, not too wide or showing too many teeth, but simply a soft curving of the lips.
If I were of any other race, I'd probably be a flustered mess, thought Din. He wasn't sure why his people didn't possess the same feelings of desire towards the Asari that every other race seemed to have. Maybe it was the fact that physical intimacy between each other was basically impossible, or that they were too far removed from Volus ideals of attractiveness. Whatever the reason, the allure of the Asari that snagged everyone else held no sway over Din, for which he was thankful.
"Not at all," said Din, putting up his own polite front. "What can I do for you?"
Ireena didn't answer immediately. Instead, she turned to look at Calyn, who had been watching the scene with rapt interest.
"Forgive me, Ambassador Calyn, but could you please give us the room? The matter I wish to discuss with Ambassador Korlack is a private one."
Her question was layered with such sweetness it could have served as a sugar substitute. Din could have told her that she needn't bother going so far; Calyn thought the whole galaxy turned on the Council races' behalf. If Ireena asked him to jump into the Presidium's lake, he'd dive right in without a second to reflect.
As predicted, Calyn bowed his head. "Courteous acquiescence: Of course. I will be in the lobby until you finish." With that, he lumbered away from his own desk and out through the doors.
Once he was gone, Ireena turned back to Din, still smiling her soft, demure smile. "That's better. Now, we can talk."
"And what might we talk about, Miss T'esora?" asked Din, sitting back in his chair. As he did, he surreptitiously activated a recording device in his suit. If there was one good thing about Volus pressure suits, it was that they could house a number of useful electronic equipment. Din had long ago gotten into the habit of keeping accounts of important conversations. They had a nasty tendency to vanish into thin air if they became inconvenient to the other party.
"The topic I wish to discuss concerns this war between the Hierarchy and the Federation," said the Asari. "I represent a number of powerful and influential members of the Citadel community, who have grown frustrated with this conflict. Ever since the ban on trade with the Turians, revenue streams that were once very profitable have dried up. Virtually every corporation in all Citadel territories has posted substantial losses each quarter, which have only grown since the war's start."
Oh, how thoughtless of us, Din snarled internally. Here we are, selfishly dying in a pointless war, when we should be concerned about whether or not some company CEO will be able to afford a new mansion.
"That's unfortunate," said Din, and it was a monumental effort to sound genuine, "but I'm afraid that there's not much I can do about it. While I can assure you that the Vol Protectorate would love nothing more than for the war to end, the Turians don't seem to share that view. If you want to make headway on that front, you should make an appointment to talk with Sparatus."
"That, I fear, would be an exercise in futility," Ireena said. "Sparatus has well and truly anchored himself to the war; the Hierarchy sunk a lot of stock into it, and they have nothing to show for their efforts except countless body bags and a major colony on the brink of falling into enemy hands. If he were to try and negotiate any kind of truce now, when the Hierarchy is losing so badly, he'd be finished in every conceivable sense of the word. He has absolutely no reason to want the fighting to stop and every reason to see it go on."
"You sound as if you don't believe the Turians can win," Din remarked.
Ireena shook her head. "I don't. Nor do my patrons. The Hierarchy may have the advantage of numbers and resources, and if they ever did somehow manage to find a way to strike at human holdings, then they possibly could win, if at great cost. However, that doesn't seem likely to happen, so it is only a question of how long it takes for the Turians to accept that.
"And therein lays the issue. At the current rate of attrition, it's estimated that the war could stretch on for many years to come, decades easily. The most dismal projections say that it could even last a full century if nothing changes and the longer the fighting goes on, the more the wider galaxy feels the pinch; the violence might even spill over into our own holdings. Needless to say, nobody wants that to happen."
"Naturally," said Din. "But I fail to see how the Protectorate can help." He stared pointedly up at Ireena. "That is why you're here, after all; it's painfully obvious. Since you can't make the Turians see reason, you're turning to us in the hopes that we can somehow convince them to come to the table and put together some kind of treaty."
To her credit, Ireena didn't seem the least bit disconcerted by his declaration. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that you'd pick up on that," she said graciously. "Yes, that is my patrons' wish."
"I see," Din mused. "Might I ask who these patrons of yours are?"
"I'm afraid not," said Ireena, actually sounding regretful. "They would prefer to remain anonymous on this matter."
And well out of the way of any potential reprisals if things go sour, thought Din.
"And how do your patrons expect us to bring the Turians to heel? Contrary to what you might think, the Vol-Clan doesn't have much sway within the Hierarchy. We are the client power after all, not them."
"My patrons don't particularly care what methods you use. Besides, your people are hardly powerless. How many major banks are owned by Volus? How many companies? Manufacturing cartels?" Ireena's smile grew a notch wider. "Most think that power only comes from how many guns and ships you have; they forget what actually makes their creation possible."
"Your point is well taken," said Din. "But that leads me to another question: if we were to go about with this little foray, how do we benefit? As I see it, my people would be the ones doing all the work and taking all the risk, while your patrons sit comfortably on the sidelines watching."
"Rest assured, my patrons don't expect you, or any Volus, to perform without compensation," Ireena said, her voice almost a purr. "In fact, I've been instructed to provide you with a token of their esteem."
So saying, she reached within a crevice hidden in her dress and drew out a single credit chit. She gently placed it on the desk and slid it across to Din, who stared down at it, but made no other move.
"A token of esteem, you say?" he murmured. "And how valuable do they consider that esteem?"
By his estimate, it was substantial. The chit before him was completely featureless and white as the Asari's dress, save for a golden credit symbol in its center. This kind of chit had no limit on how much could be stored on it and was generally used for massive purchases by governments.
"Plenty," Ireena said. "And they would be more than happy to continue to show their…appreciation for your efforts."
"No doubt." Din slid the chit back to her. Accepting it up would shackle him more thoroughly than chains to this messenger and her nameless patrons. "I will consider the offer, but make no promises."
Ireena heaved a sigh that was too heavy to be genuine. "Very well," she said, reclaiming the chit. "I'll come back some time later. I hope you will have made your decision then."
The Asari gave a short bow and then turned on her heel, gliding back out through door. When she was gone, Din sagged into his seat and stopped recording. I truth, he doubted it would be all that useful; assuming the Asari had given her real name, her clients remained in the dark, as insubstantial as the air around him. But it was still better to have it, than not.
Din played back the conversation in his head, wondering how much of what Ireena had told him was true. Oh, he could buy that many corporate executives were thoroughly disgruntled by the deficits that came from severing trade with the second-biggest economy in Citadel space. He could also believe that these same people wanted to keep the war's violence from impacting their own lives. But were those the only reasons? Din had a sneaking suspicion that these shadowed individuals had goals beyond simply seeing the war ended sooner rather than later.
Things just got a little more interesting. And a good deal riskier.
#
The rest of the day passed by uneventfully and at exactly five o'clock standard time, Din had just reached his personal domicile on the far end of the Kithoi Ward. The place wasn't anything spectacular, being little more than a dome that covered barely eight hundred square feet. That was another downside of being a Volus; building a residential-hab to support a high-pressure ammonia environment was atrociously expensive. This little building on its own had cost enough to fund the production of a dreadnought. In most cases, it was flat-out illegal to construct such places, since there weren't many who were willing to take the risk of a catastrophic blowout and subsequent contamination.
Din plodded up to the access hatch in its center and typed in his key code on a nearby terminal. The first door opened and he stepped inside, the thick metal sealing behind him with a loud sucking sound.
"Stabilizing atmosphere," the feminine electronic voice of the hab's VI sounded.
Din waited while the pressure and atmosphere adjusted to the proper level for him to survive. Roughly a minute later, there was a ping and the door on the opposite side opened.
"Atmosphere stable," the VI informed him. "Welcome home, Ambassador Korlack."
"Good to be back, Sero," said Din as he made his way inside his dwelling.
The interior wasn't any more impressive than the outside. Aside from some bits of furniture, a sleeping unit and a series of computer terminals set up on one wall, the place was empty. The utilities were likewise simplistic, with only a narrow bathroom and small kitchenette available for use.
"Home sweet home," Din muttered and began to remove his pressure suit. It was a long and laborious process, but it made the relief when it finally came off all the sweeter. He stored it in a cabinet near his bed and pulled out some casual clothes, reveling in their lightness and regretting that he couldn't enjoy them more often. Not for the first time, Din wished that his race's biology wasn't so incompatible with the rest of the galaxy.
But, in this case, it had a distinct advantage. The dome was heavily reinforced and boasted multiple redundant protective measures against a blowout from within and without, which essentially made it more durable than most bunkers. And, thanks to the ammonia atmosphere, no unwanted non-Volus visitors could let themselves in. In essence, it was the best bastion of privacy one could ask for.
And that served Din perfectly well for his needs right now.
Once dressed, he plodded over to his personal terminal and turned it on. The screen flashed a bright orange and a window popped up, asking for his password. Din typed it in, and his desktop came into view. He then clicked on an icon labeled "Secure Link" and a video screen covered the screen's middle. There was a brief pause as the line made its connection, and a video feed replaced the blackness that had previously filled the screen.
Chairman Maro Vul now appeared on Din's computer, looking just as jovial and regal as he had back on Irune. He reclined in a luxurious, well-padded chair dressed in flowing red and black robes. There was a glass of some kind of liquor in his hands, which he sipped from daintily.
"Ah, Ambassador Korlack!" he said by way of greeting. "How is it being back on the Citadel again?"
"No different than usual," Din replied. "I certainly do miss being able to breathe the open air, though."
"Oh, I don't doubt that for a minute," said Maro sympathetically. "If only our biology wasn't so damnably unique among the galaxy's inhabitants." He checked his timepiece. "Ah, excellent; the others are about to join us."
No sooner had he spoken when more video screens began to fill Din's monitor. He sat expectantly, his heart beginning to thump slightly faster in anticipation. This would be the first time he had met his fellow conspirators and wondered who they'd be. Probably some Protectorate officials and corporate magnates who had finally had enough of being beholden to the Hierarchy.
As the feeds came online, Din felt his breath catch as if he were back in his suit. Jirul Vasus, Carlot Dailos, Gol Halvek, practically the whole Board now stared back at Din from live vid feeds. This wasn't some motley assortment of random Volus; this was almost the entirety of the Protectorate's governing body, and every one of them was contributing to Maro's scheme.
"Welcome, everyone," Maro said cheerfully, as though this were nothing more than a routine meeting. "Thank you all for being here today. As you can see, we have a new addition to our assembly: Ambassador Din Korlack has chosen to aid us in our endeavors to free the Vol-Clan from the Hierarchy's clutches."
The administrators applauded, as if Din had just been given some great accolade. Still stunned by the revelation of just who had thrown their lot in with Maro, he could only nod dumbly. Maro noticed Din's shocked expression and smiled beatifically.
"You seem surprised, Din. Not quite the company you were expecting, I take it?"
Din swallowed, making every effort to compose himself. "You could say that, Chairman. Though to be perfectly honest, I didn't really know what to expect."
"Well, as you can see, this little plan of mine is no mere whim. In fact, it's something I've been working on for some time now. Now, thanks to the Turians' attention being focused on more pressing matters, we can finally put it into motion." Maro settled down into his chair.
"So, without further ado, let's get started." He held up a finger. "The most important thing we need to keep in mind is that our separation from the Hierarchy must be legal; or, at least, legal enough for the Council not to argue." His gaze turned to Carlot. "Administrator Dailos, I believe this is your field of expertise."
"Yes, Chairman," said Carlot. She held up a datapad and began flicking through whatever was on its screen. "I've been going over the conditions of our client status, and there's a bit of fine print regarding separating from the Hierarchy: if the vote tally to end our pact comes out to eighty percent or more in favor of terminating it, then there is no need to get the approval of any Primarchs." She smiled slightly. "It seems that Kwunu had the foresight to write in an escape clause just in case things didn't work out."
There were some excited mutterings among the Volus. Din, however, didn't share that optimism.
"Eighty percent is still a huge number," he said. "Is the anti-Hierarchy sentiment among the Protectorate really strong enough to grant us that many votes?"
Carlot was silent for a moment as she considered the question. Finally, she said, "It's possible, but at the moment, I can't say for certain."
"Then for the time being, we must assume that we don't have enough votes for that to be a viable option," declared Maro. He shrugged as if it were of no importance. "Well, no matter. We'll just have to find a way to gain the support of some Primarchs."
"Easier said than done," Jirul grumbled.
"Oh, it might be tricky, but certainly possible. Turians might be more disciplined than other species, but they're far from incorruptible. In fact," said Maro, looking quite pleased with himself, "I already have two candidates picked out."
"You have?" asked Gol, eyes wide with surprise. "Who?"
"The first is Kaias Letho, Primarch of Altakiril. He has a daughter who suffers from Corpalis Syndrome, a rare, but quite severe neurological degenerative disease among Turians. Moreover, she's barely into her teen years, so you can imagine how distraught her father must be. Right now, she's still in the early stages, but it advances rapidly if left untreated.
"Those treatments, however, are atrociously expensive. My sources tell me that he's running out of money to pay for them. So, we will offer to pick up the tab for his daughter's medical bills, and in exchange, all he needs to do is perform some favors for us."
"Such as, throw his support behind our efforts to achieve independence?" Gol asked, somewhat hesitantly.
"Precisely," Maro beamed. "I'd consider that quite the deal, eh?"
Though it went unsaid, Din heard the other part of Maro's idea: if Kaias didn't play along, then those funds would be pulled in a heartbeat. In essence, he'd be indebted to the Volus for as long as his daughter lived, and Din very much doubted that Maro would be content with only his support for Volus independence. He knew how expensive Corpalis treatments were; it was going to cost a lot of favors. Despite his bitterness towards the Turians in general, Din wasn't nearly heartless enough not to feel guilty about that.
What did you expect? a colder, more callous part of him asked. This was going to be a very messy business, and you knew that when you signed up. If you really want to make the Vol-Clan independent again, you're going to have to be prepared to get your hands dirty.
If Maro felt any guilt over the idea, it certainly didn't show, and simply moved on. "The other is Primarch Marius Valerian, of Thracia. Like Kaias, he's also having some financial trouble, though his are a bit less…noble. It seems that the old boy has some rather expensive addictions; gambling, narcotics and a fondness for Asari call-girls, to name a few."
Jirul let out a snort of disgust. "How did someone like that become Primarch?"
Maro shrugged. "Turians might have a rigid government structure, but they have a good deal of personal freedom. As long as they do their job and don't prevent others from doing theirs, they can do whatever they want."
"He's right," said Din. "Marius's indulgences are far from uncommon among Turians. He just seems to lack a sense of restraint."
"In any case, his troubles are our blessings," said Maro cheerfully.
"So that's two down," mused one of the other administrators. "We still need one more, and Draxon. I don't see how we'll get him on board; he's the very embodiment of an honorable, duty-bound Turian."
"A matter to be resolved later," said Maro, as though it was a foregone conclusion. Din had to wonder if it was supreme confidence, or simply arrogance on his part. "Now, let's discuss the actual process of becoming independent again. Gol, I believe that this is where you step in."
Gol cleared his throat and folded his hands in front of himself. "Well, first of all, we need to make sure we have secured our own finances. Separating from the Hierarchy is going to cause all kinds of havoc in the galactic economy, which will affect us as well. So we need to shore up our coffers, or else we're going to be starting our independence with giant deficits on our accounts.
"Second, we'll have to settle up with the Turians. That means honoring any and all contracts, paying fees, and generally making sure that everything is handled properly. We'll also have to make sure that foreign investors don't get scared off; otherwise, our own economy will be hit even harder. In addition, we'll have to negotiate on assets owned by Vol-Clan, privately or otherwise, in Hierarchy space and vice versa."
Maro nodded. "But this can be done, correct?"
"Yes, but it won't be easy or quick," said Gol. "We've been part of the Hierarchy for over a thousand years now and become well-entrenched in its inner workings. I don't even want to think about the nightmare of figuring out work visas."
"How long will this process be?"
"Years, at least; possibly even decades."
"Then it sounds like we'd best get started," said Maro.
"By which you mean, 'me,' right?" grumbled Gol
"Well, that is your whole portfolio, after all," Maro replied pleasantly.
Gol let out a long, slow sigh. "That's going to mean a lot of long nights." He seemed to almost deflate in his seat at the thought.
"Your labors will be remembered," said Maro. "Carlot, do the Turians have any legislative means to prevent us from leaving?"
"Nothing beyond the Primarchs not giving their support," she replied. "So long as we get the vote and enough of them grant their approval, they'll have no other recourse but to accept."
"You clearly have a higher opinion of the Turians' character than I do," Jirul spoke up. "If we do manage to pull this off, do any of you really think that they will just bid us a fond farewell? Not likely. I've shared the company of more than few higher-ups in the Hierarchy's armed forces and there are plenty of war hawks among them. They could give the Krogan a run for their money in bloodlust. If someone on their side doesn't rein them in, they'll have a task force sent our way the moment we declare independence."
Din decided that it was his turn to interject. "That would be a stupid and catastrophic mistake if they did. The very act of sending a fleet with hostile intentions into our borders would be a violation of our territorial sovereignty and effectively render any obligations we have towards them null and void. The Council won't be able to ignore this, either; it wouldn't look good to have two members of the Citadel fighting each other. We could expect to see a small army of diplomats coming to diffuse the situation."
"And if they actually attacked us?" asked Jirul.
"Then we are at war and free to respond in kind," answered Din. "If we wanted to, we could even ally with the Federation. Given that they've been deliberately avoiding hitting us directly, I daresay they'd welcome us with open arms."
A few other Volus wore concerned looks. "Maybe we should wait until after the war to put this into motion," one of them said.
"No," said Maro firmly. "Right now, the Turians are too preoccupied with fighting the Federation to pay attention to us beyond a few cursory checkups. If the war ends before we achieve independence, and the Turians retain enough military strength, then they might very well be able to intimidate enough of our people to deny us enough votes. If that happens, our plans are finished." He slapped a hand down onto his desk. "We must act now, or we may never get another chance."
Jirul nodded approvingly. "Well said, Chairman. However, I feel that we should shore up our defenses within our own territories. The Turians aren't nearly as monolithic in their loyalty to the Hierarchy as the rest of the galaxy thinks; the more hot-tempered and bloodthirsty commanders might still opt to go after us, even if ordered to stand down."
"Can this be done without raising suspicion?" asked Maro.
"Certainly," said Jirul. "I'll just say that we need to fortify our worlds better, for fear that the Federation will strike us directly." He smiled nastily. "After all, we can't expect them to do everything for us, can we? And besides, it's not as if we're planning to break away from the Hierarchy."
That brought out a few hearty chuckles from the gathered Volus. Even Din couldn't suppress the laughter that bubbled out of his mouth. Maro himself hooted uproariously, as though he had never heard a funnier joke.
"Very well, do whatever you see fit," he said, wheezing slightly from mirth. "Does anyone else have something they'd like to put forth?"
Din suddenly recalled his visit from Ireena. That was something his fellow conspirators would need to know about.
"I do, Chairman," said Din.
"Oh?" said Maro. "And what might that be?"
All eyes were on Din, and he suddenly felt uneasy at the laser-focused attention. Still, he forged on; no way was he going to be undone by a little stage fright.
"I had an unexpected visitor earlier today: an Asari by the name of Ireen T'esora, assuming that actually is her name. She claimed to represent some influential people who want the war to end as soon as possible, and wanted to enlist us to make that happen."
"I see," said Maro, stroking one of his wattles thoughtfully. "Do you believe her?"
"I certainly believe that there are those in Citadel space who are fed up with losing money because of the war and want it to stop, but I don't know if that's the only reason."
"What do you mean?" asked Carlot, frowning slightly. "That sounds like reason enough, especially for the Asari; they hate losing money even more than we do."
"Maybe," said Din, "but still, I can't help feeling that there's more to it. Perhaps I'm being too paranoid, but I can't help but feel that Ireena's patrons have other plans than just ending the war. Maybe they want the Turians rendered a non-factor in galactic politics, or maybe they just want to exploit some of their worlds under the guise of helping them rebuild." He shrugged. "In any case, they are very interested in seeing it happen; the Asari put down a white credit chit in front of me. A token of their esteem, she said."
"You didn't take it, did you?" Gol asked in alarm.
Din bristled in indignation that Gol could think him so foolish. "Of course not. The last thing I wanted was to be ensnared by a group of nameless individuals. I told her I'd consider the offer, but couldn't make any promises as yet." He looked at Maro. "Personally, I don't think we should accept any offers until we have a better of idea of just who these people are."
"My thoughts exactly," said Maro. "I'll have someone look into this Ireena and see if they can't unearth her benefactors as well." He chuckled. "Well, if nothing else, we now know that there are potential allies out there. Which reminds me." His gaze turned back to Din.
"I have a special task for you," he said. "Something that your diplomatic expertise should help with."
"What is it, Chairman?" Din asked, feeling decidedly nervous.
"I'd like for you to see if you can get us acquainted with the Federation."
Din blinked. "I'm sorry; did you say that you want me to…make contact with the humans?"
"You heard right, Din. The humans, no matter what anyone says, are going to be a big player in the galaxy soon enough; I'd like for us to be regarded as a friendly face in the interstellar community when this is all over. Besides, it would be best to establish some kind of rapport with them now, just in case Jirul's fears become reality." He continued to smile, but it was now a cold, malicious thing that made Din's skin prickle. "If the Turians really are foolish enough to try and cow us into submission, then they'll find out that economic power can be just as destructive as their precious guns."
As soon as it had come, the cold smile was gone and the warm, jovial grin was back. "I think that will do for today. We'll meet back next week to discuss our progress. May the gods watch over our labors and rewards," he intoned the traditional blessing to end a meeting.
One by one, the video screens shut off. Soon, Din was facing his own reflection in the terminal. He sat back in his chair and blew out a heavy breath.
So, Maro wanted him to get in contact with the Federation and establish some kind of rapport with them, the one thing they could do that could possibly incense the Turians even more than trying to gain independence from them. It could be done, certainly, but it would be very tricky.
Din pondered the task in silence. Obviously, he couldn't just open up a direct line of communication with the Federation to say, "Hi there, can we talk?" No, he'd need to conduct this via proxy, and the less likely they could be linked to the Protectorate, the better. In fact, it would be best if they had no ties to the Citadel at all.
But where could he possibly find a delegation like that?
#
I am going to be rich. Amazingly, fabulously rich.
The thought repeated in Nator's mind like a looped song track. He was so giddy with excitement that it was an effort to concentrate on piloting. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been in such high spirits; then again, he'd never had a big enough reason to be so excited before now.
When he and his two companions had returned to the Migrant Fleet with their haul, the Admiralty Board had been, for lack of a more impressive word, dumbfounded. Zaal'Koris had almost fainted at the sheer amount of money they'd brought back. Even Han'Gerrel couldn't muster up a snide comment, which Nator counted as something of a miracle. Their reactions paled in comparison to the celebrations that had erupted throughout the Flotilla. Nator was willing to bet that there hadn't been such festivities among the Quarians since they'd fled Rannoch.
Once things had settled down, they had forwarded the sixty percent they had offered to the Federation while keeping their share. It might not have been the full amount, but a hundred million credits would still go a long way. The Flotilla then waited anxiously for the Federation's response.
The humans had answered with surprising alacrity. Unfortunately, it wasn't exactly good news; while they certainly were impressed by the amount, they were still reluctant to start trading. Their reasoning was, since they had no official trade agreements with the Citadel or any other interstellar power, there was the concern that their products would not have copyright or any other legal protections and that foreign businesses might decide to make their own versions.
That being said, they weren't entirely against having some skin in the game; it seemed that the immense profit to be had was simply too much to pass up outright. To that end, the humans had sent over some non-branded merchandise in the form of produce, artworks and a plethora of cheap knickknacks.
Nator had managed to snag some of the best bits. Right now, his ship's cargo hold contained two freezers filled with various cuts of meat, three crates of fruits and vegetables, a few boxes of human artwork, and a veritable menagerie of tacky gewgaws. He couldn't have been happier than if he had refined element zero in his hold.
With an effort of will, Nator suppressed his joy and began to focus on how to sell off his stockpile. The perishable goods would have to go first; human products might be in high demand, but nobody wanted rotten food. Fortunately, he had just the buyer in mind.
Nator keyed in a sequence of numbers and waited as his call went out. After the second ring, a picture flashed to reveal the broad face of a Batarian, who stared curiously at the screen. When he saw who was on the other end of the call, all four of his black, beady eyes went wide before crashing down into a dark glare.
"Nator!" the Batarian snarled. "You miserable little buckethead!"
"Nice to see you too, Pratok," said Nator cheerily, ignoring the blatant hostility radiating out from the Batarian's image. "How are things at those swanky restaurants of yours?"
There were few on Illium, and even most of Citadel space, that hadn't heard of Pratok Garos. He was the big name in the restaurant business, whose establishments catered to those with very expensive tastes and deep pockets. Nothing on his menus had a price with less than three zeros attached to it. He had enlisted Nator's services on occasion when he wanted to acquire something particularly rare—or not exactly legal—and Nator also brought him some items that he felt would contribute to his profession.
It seemed, however, that he was feeling a bit dissatisfied with recent services rendered.
"Fine, no thanks to you," Pratok growled. "You know those special knife-sharpening kits you sold me? They started breaking the blades after only a couple weeks! Twenty-seven knives, ruined!"
"Really?" asked Nator. "Well, that's hardly my fault. I told you they were delicate things that needed to be handled carefully. If you want to complain to anyone, I'd suggest going to the manufacturer. They're the ones who slapped the guarantee on those kits, after all. I'm just the delivery boy."
They had also only been a startup business who had cut a few corners when making the product. But, Nator had gotten a dozen units at bargain price, and besides, what company didn't try to save time and money by skimping on certain details?
Pratok spat out some untranslatable curses in his native tongue. "They were fucking Asari-made knives! From Thessia! Do you have any idea how much those things cost?!"
"About five hundred credits apiece, if I remember correctly," answered Nator breezily. "Depending on the size and purpose, naturally. Some can be worth up to a thousand credits."
"Then you understand why it would give me immense satisfaction to stab you in the face with something blunt!"
"Oh, don't be so grumpy," chided Nator. "We both know that replacing those knives isn't an issue for you, not with your rather substantial net worth. Still, that being said, I do feel guilty about that."
"Hah!" scoffed Pratok. "You, feeling guilty about something you sold? Maybe I should check outside to see if any Krogan have learned how to fly!"
He has me there, thought Nator.
"Regardless, I have something that I think you'll go wild for."
"Like what?" Pratok grunted.
Nator smiled, even though he was certain that the Batarian couldn't see it through his visor. "How would you like your culinary establishments to be the only ones who sell actual human food?"
All four of Pratok's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "What are you talking about?"
"Why, I'm talking about a selection of prime cuts of meat and home-grown human produce that I have in storage," said Nator proudly. "For the right price, it can all be yours."
Pratok stared doubtfully at Nator. "Really? Forgive me if I'm just a little bit skeptical."
Nator shrugged. "Feel free to check them yourself. But, if you don't want them, I'm sure I can find some other buyer. Maybe Umira would be interested."
Umira Maeri was an Asari restaurateur and Pratok's biggest rival in the business. To say they despised each other would be like saying that Vorcha were a bit temperamental. The Batarian still looked unconvinced, but the thought of his sworn enemy getting her hands on something that could give her establishments an edge over his was clearly too much.
Pratok sighed in resignation. "Fine, dammit. I'll check out these so-called 'human produce.' But I swear on the Pillars, if you're just wasting my time—"
"I'm sure you'll come up with something appropriately painful for me," said Nator. "I'll be docking in Nos Astra momentarily. You know where to find me."
Pratok grunted in answer and disconnected the call. Nator made one last FTL jump and soon, he was hanging over Illium. He smiled down at the silvery orb.
"Hello, my gorgeous stronghold of wealth and avarice," Nator crooned. "So good to see you again."
He urged his ship down towards its surface, passing through the outer atmosphere and then to the gleaming points of the Nos Astra spaceport. Finding a vacant lot, he landed on the tarmac with a soft thunk. Nator finished the landing procedures and stepped out of his ship to wait for Pratok to arrive.
Fortunately, it wasn't very long until he saw an air-limo pull up in front of his ship. The right rear-door opened and Pratok stepped out. He was dressed smartly in a red and gold suit that had stylized images of some kind of creature that Nator guessed to be native to Khar'shan. He spread his arms in welcome as the Batarian strode towards him, his pace both purposeful and irritable.
"There you are, Pratok! Good to see you in person again," he declared, practically radiating charm.
Pratok's own greeting wasn't nearly so cordial; he only gave an annoyed wave. "I don't have time for your flattery, Nator. I've got a menu to set up for tonight, so just show me the goods."
"Right this way, my good sir," said Nator.
He led Pratok into his cargo hold and stopped in front of one of the freezers. Nator tapped a few keys and the thick steel top opened, thick wisps of cold air billowing out from within. There, sealed inside shrink-wrapped plastic, where two dozen hunks of meat of varying sizes and shapes.
Pratok moved up beside Nator and stared at the freezer's contents. He picked up one of the packages and pulled out a scanning tool, which he pressed against one side. The thing beeped rapidly for a few seconds, and then flashed red. Pratok's eyes went wide at that.
"No matches," he murmured. "Holy crap, this stuff is legit!"
"And you doubted me?" asked Nator, affecting a hurt tone. "I'm crushed, Pratok. Crushed!"
"Yeah, yeah, sorry about that," Pratok grumbled, tossing the package back into the freezer. "So, what exactly am I looking at here?"
"These are steaks from a human livestock animal called a 'cow'," said Nator. He pointed at one row of cuts. "The cuts here are what they call filet mignon; it's one of the more popular parts, very soft and has a mild flavor." He moved on to the next row. "These are rib eyes, more marbled than the first ones so they're a bit richer in flavor. They're not as soft, though, so you might have to tenderize them first."
Nator proceeded to list the rest of the cuts, noting their good and bad qualities, while Pratok looked them over with a thoughtful expression. No doubt he was thinking up the best ways to prepare the meat. Nator then went on to the fruits and vegetables, describing their tastes, textures and what they might go well with. Once everything had been explained, Pratok sighed and looked over at him.
"All right, Nator. Let's get down to business. How much do you want for the whole lot?"
My favorite part of any exchange: setting the price. Outwardly, Nator made a show of thinking hard, as if trying to come up with a price that was fair instead of one that was just a shade below ridiculous.
"Well, considering the rarity of these things and the fact that they were not easy to get," he began, neglecting to mention the fact that the Federation had literally just given the Quarians all this and more, "I obviously can't sell them cheap. But, for you, I suppose I could part with them for the sum of, say… two million credits?"
Pratok looked as if he was about to have a seizure. "Two million?" he squealed. "Are you out of your mind?"
"I haven't seen a psychiatrist for some time, but I'm reasonably sure that my mind is right where it should be, thank you." Nator raised his hands in mock apology. "Hey, I told you stuff like this isn't easy to come by. It's flat-out illegal in regular Citadel space and I can guarantee that you won't find better options."
"But that's insane!" Pratok objected. "None of the ingredients in my places cost anywhere near that much! How the hell am I supposed to turn a profit shelling out that kind of money?"
"Oh, don't be so dramatic," scoffed Nator. "You could make triple that easily with the steaks alone. Just carve them up into bite-sized pieces, slather them in expensive sauces and edible gold or whatever precious minerals you've got in storage, and charge fifty grand a pop. And don't try to deny it, I've seen the portion sizes you serve, and the price tags they come with."
"But…but…two million!" Pratok complained squeakily. Nator only shrugged.
"If you don't want them, I can try my luck elsewhere." He absently checked the time on his omni-tool. "I wonder if Umira is busy right now?"
"You're a price-gouging, bloodsucking prick, you know that?" Pratok growled low in his throat, before sighing in defeat. "All right, you've got a deal."
"Excellent!" Nator beamed. He tapped a few keys on his omni-tool and a credit account screen popped up. "Whenever you're ready."
Still grumbling, Pratok activated his own omni-tool and began typing in the amount owed. Nator was of the opinion that there was no sweeter sound than digital keys entering monetary digits. Within moments, his account saw itself grow quite substantially.
"Always a pleasure doing business with you, Pratok," he said cheerfully.
"Yeah, sure," the Batarian grumbled.
A short time later, Pratok had cleared out with his newly-acquired goods and Nator was now two million credits richer. Well, eight hundred thousand credits richer, really; he'd have to send sixty percent of the total back to the Federation. While it was tempting to keep the whole amount and make up some story about it, that struck Nator as a bad idea. The humans supposedly had people who could read minds as easily as everyone else read books, among other preternatural means. Besides, that was no way to maintain a good working relationship.
Always think ahead, thought Nator. That's the ticket.
He gazed admiringly at sum of money for a few more seconds, and then collapsed the screen. There would be time enough to look at his growing prosperity, but right now, he had stock to move. Nator looked around the cargo hold, pondering where the best market would be for his goods.
The artwork would definitely go to Gelinsa, he decided. Once those things got put up for auction, there would be no shortage of bluebloods feverishly throwing money at them. As for the rest, it would be best if he set up his own kiosk. Of course, that meant getting operating licenses, scheduling an inspection to make sure that he wasn't trading anything dangerous, and so on. Nator wasn't looking forward to that, but such was life.
He was just about to start getting things organized, when he heard a soft coughing sound come from behind him. Nator turned around and, to his surprise, he saw a Drell standing just outside. He was modestly dressed, just a plain black business suit and matching shoes. Despite his humble attire, the Drell practically radiated authority and power; this was someone who expected to be obeyed, and with utmost haste. A pair of Krogan flanked him like living monoliths, clad in heavy armor with heavy guns to match. They stared balefully at Nator, as though they were just waiting for the order to blow him to pieces.
"Nator'Xaeras vas Hupal nar Volsim," the Drell said, smiling slightly. "So good to see you in person."
Nator was not someone who was easily taken aback, but this time, he was. To the best of his knowledge, he had never given out the name of his birth-ship to anyone outside the Migrant Fleet. While it was possible that some other Quarian might have leaked that tidbit out in the wider galaxy, the chances of it finding its way to anyone of importance was incredibly slim.
Fortunately, from skill born of countless deals and agreements, he managed to recover his wits. Pasting on a smile of his own behind his visor, he turned to face the newcomer.
"I'm flattered, good sir," he said, all charm and warmth. "I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage, though; you know my name, but I don't know yours."
"Ah, my apologies," said the Drell, placing a hand on his chest in mock regret. "I am Nayathis Tepka. A pleasure to make your acquaintance."
"Likewise," said Nator. "Is there something I can do for you?"
"Actually, yes. Rumor has it that you have managed to get ahold of a nice selection of human products. I would be grateful if you would spare some time to discuss a business proposition."
"That sounds wonderful," said Nator. "And I'd be more than happy to talk shop. Perhaps sometime next week?"
"Actually," said Nayathis, "I was thinking more along the lines of now."
Though his tone remained light and friendly, it was obvious that he wasn't asking. Nator only needed to glance at his Krogan goons to know what refusal would bring.
"Well, looks like you're in luck," said Nator. "My schedule is wide open today."
Nayathis's smile broadened ever so slightly. "Excellent. There's a café nearby where we can talk. Follow me."
"Will do," said Nator.
Being strongarmed into an impromptu meeting was nothing new to him, of course. In fact, this was the norm when it came to most of his dealings. He rarely had the luxury of setting his own timetable, and this was no exception.
However, as he trailed behind the mysterious Drell and his Krogan bodyguards, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was about to get involved in something very perilous.
#
The café Nayathis led Nator to was named The Silver Heaven, and it very much lived up to its name. The place was the very embodiment of opulence; plush chairs sat around polished red and gold stone tables, sparkling crystal chandeliers emanated a soft white light, and a low orchestral melody wafted through the air. Nator had been in a few ritzy places in his time, but this one definitely ranked at the top.
Nayathis strode into the place as if he owned it—for all Nator knew, he did—and stood in the middle of the entrance hall. An Asari receptionist let out a soft gasp when she saw the Drell and practically tripped over herself in her haste to greet him.
"Mister Tepka, it's an honor to have you visit!" she gushed, as if simply being in his presence was the realization of her dearest dreams. Whoever this Drell was, he was clearly a very important figure.
Nayathis regarded the Asari with lofty preeminence, like a king deigning to acknowledge a lowly peasant. The Drell seemed to regard her display of fawning admiration as something that was due to him, like a fundamental law of the universe.
"A pleasure to be back," Nayathis said, offering the most perfunctory of nods. "Would you be so kind as to have the VIP room ready? I wish to talk business with my companion."
"Companion?" The Asari suddenly noticed Nator, and her expression immediately lost its charm, replaced by a look of incredulity. "The Quarian?" she asked in a tone that said Nayathis had to be mistaken.
Nator considered himself to be a thick-skinned individual. After all, he wouldn't have made it very far in his line of work if he lost his temper any time someone insulted him. But if there was one thing that rankled him more than anything, it was being demeaned simply for being a Quarian. Despite the burning desire to respond to the Asari with a scathing retort, Nator opted to keep his mouth shut.
"Yes, the Quarian," Nayathis replied, his own tone gently chiding. "I trust that won't be an issue?"
The Asari caught herself and plastered on a fresh smile. "Oh…of course not!" she declared, though the strain in her voice said otherwise. "If you will just follow me, I'll show you to the VIP lounge."
She picked up a couple of menus and strode off briskly. Nayathis followed languidly behind her, his bodyguards keeping close to him, and Nator brought up the rear. They walked by other patrons, who watched them pass with mild interest. When they saw Nator, they didn't bother hiding their disdain and sneered openly at him, as if he were a stray animal that had gotten in. He could guess their thoughts: They're letting a Quarian in here? I thought this place had standards.
A short while later, they reached the VIP room which, while no more luxurious than the rest of the place, was clearly meant to afford its occupants total privacy. Nator was willing to bet that more than a few shady deals had gone down in this room. The two Krogan took up position on either side of the door and the Asari ushered him and Nayathis inside.
"I'll have a waiter come by to take your orders presently," she said, placing a menu in front of them. "Enjoy your time here."
"Thank you, my dear," said Nayathis. If the dismissal wasn't clear enough in his voice, it certainly was by the way he no longer acknowledged her existence. Still smiling, the Asari left them to their own devices. The Drell plucked his menu from the table and began to peruse it lazily. Nator followed his lead and flicked it open to see what culinary delights they had to offer.
They certainly had an impressive selection, with equally impressive prices to match. For the amount they were charging, each cup of tea had better come with a complimentary butler and hotel suite. Nator glanced up at Nayathis, who was the very picture of bored indifference; it occurred to him that the Drell was doing this deliberately to put him off center.
Well, it's going to take a bit more than some overpriced tea selections to trip this Quarian up, Nator thought.
Nayathis, apparently having decided upon his order, set the menu back down and leaned back in his seat, hands clasped in front of him. His eyes were hooded, but their gaze was as intense as a laser; Nator felt as if the Drell was staring into his very soul and studying its every detail.
"Tell me, Nator," Nayathis began. "How is it that you came into possession of such a quantity of human goods? From what I've been able to glean, they're not exactly easy to get in contact with."
"Actually, it wasn't all that hard," said Nator. "So long as you don't mind going to an active warzone, that is."
"Daring," said Nayathis, with a hint of approval. "Judging by the fact that you are here now, you somehow managed to convince them to hear you out."
"And they liked what they heard," Nator agreed. "If there's one thing I've learned, it's that any race who has a concept of wealth inevitably wants more of it."
"Then I assume you've succeeded in setting up some sort of trade agreement?" asked the Drell.
"Well…not exactly," said Nator. "The humans seem to have a highly-developed sense of paranoia and aren't willing to send out any of their major products without some kind of legal protection."
Their discussion was interrupted by the arrival of a Salarian waiter with sea-green skin dappled with blue specks, dressed in an immaculate black and white uniform. He stood just a pace away from their table, hands laced behind his back, and inclined his head politely.
"Gentlemen," he said primly. "Have you decided on what you would like to order?"
"Certainly," said Nayathis. "I'll have a pot of Sarlikha tea, no cream or sweeteners, and a small plate of Goldcakes."
The Salarian nodded and looked at Nator. "And for you, sir? We have a nice selection of dextro-amino drinks."
"Thank you, but I don't think I'll be having anything," he said apologetically. "We Quarians need to have everything we eat or drink thoroughly sterilized, and as well-prepared that your items surely are, I'd much prefer to play it safe."
He also didn't want to risk something being slipped into his order. Nator had no idea just who Nayathis was, but his short acquaintance with the Drell had impressed upon him a need for extreme caution. Judging by the way the receptionist had acted around him, he probably would have no issue getting a little something extra added to someone else's order.
Paranoid? Maybe. But Nator felt like airing on its side anyway.
"Oh, don't worry about that," Nayathis assured him. "This place can fulfil just about any request. An extra-sanitized drink is no trouble at all, so please, order something." His eyes took on a dangerous hardness. "I insist."
Nator knew better than to push his luck. "Well, in that case, I'll take whatever dextro-amino blend you think is best."
"Certainly," said the Salarian. "I'll be back momentarily with your orders." With that, he was gone, leaving Nator and Nayathis alone.
"Now, back to the matter at hand," said the Drell. "If I understand correctly, it seems that the only thing keeping the humans from being more active in interstellar trading is the fear that their products won't have any legal protection."
"Essentially, yes," Nator confirmed. "Though they seem to be naturally predisposed to extreme caution. I get the impression that they'd prefer to remain mostly isolated from the wider galaxy."
"I see," mused Nayathis. "I might be able to help with that."
"How so?" Nator asked, though he suspected what that might be.
"I happen to be the CEO of New Horizon Industries," Nayathis declared. "I suppose you've heard of it?"
Nator shrugged. "Not as far as I know. To be honest, there are so many big companies in the galaxy that I never bothered to keep track."
"Well, suffice to say, we are an extensive and very prosperous company. Of course, like any company, we have no shortage of rivals. One particular thorn in my side is the Dantius Corporation." Nayathis scowled as if even saying the name was offensive. "They've been edging into our markets more aggressively of late and they've proven to be quite formidable."
"I'm guessing that's where we come in?" Nator asked. Nayathis nodded.
"Precisely." He leaned forward across the table. "Here is my offer: should your people manage to establish a trade agreement with the Federation, I will personally see to it that any goods you come into possession of will find plenty of venues to be sold at here on Illium. All I ask is that NHI is granted sole licensing rights."
"Will the humans' intellectual property and such be protected?" Nator inquired. "I can guarantee that'll be the first thing they ask."
"Of course. I'll have my legal teams draft up the documents to send over to them and they can decide whether or not they are acceptable."
"And what about the fact that Illium has banned the Migrant Fleet from entering the system?"
"The Migrant Fleet as a whole might be prohibited, but a few ships at a time won't go amiss. They let you in, after all."
Nator mulled the offer over. While having a big corporation partnering with them would be an immense benefit, it also meant that they'd be unable to sell to other companies, which could impact the profits. Plus, he knew how lax Illium was when it came to regulations; it would hardly be surprising if Nayathis's lawyers put in loopholes and clauses that favored their side. Nobody made it big on Illium by being virtuous.
At that moment, the Salarian waiter returned with their orders. He set down a cup of dark, steaming tea and a plate of vibrantly golden, bite-sized cakes in front of Nayathis. Nator's own cup held a bright red liquid that even through his suit's filters smelled absolutely tantalizing. They had even provided a metal drinking straw that looked like it had been freshly polished. Without a word, the Salarian bowed and left them to their drinks. Nayathis picked up his cup and sipped daintily.
"So, what do you say?" he asked.
"It's a very generous offer," said Nator. "But I'm afraid I can't speak for my people. I'm just a purveyor with no official standing. I'll pass it along, but I can't make any promises."
The Drell nodded, as if had expected this answer. "Of course. No one wants to rush a decision like this. I do so hope that they will accept, though." He took another sip and smiled at Nator.
"I know that we can accomplish great things together."