Chapter 13
War Rages On
Citadel
"In other news, today marks the second year of the war between the Turian Hierarchy and the New Earth Federation, undoubtedly with many more still to come. Neither side seems to be able to gain a decisive advantage over the other, but it is clear that the Turians are bearing the brunt of this terrible conflict. The death toll as of now is estimated to be easily in the tens of millions, if not hundreds of millions, and will no doubt continue to grow in the coming—"
The Asari newsreader's voice was cut off as Councilor Torbel turned off the vid screen. He didn't need the Citadel's news network telling him things he already knew; his stress levels were high enough as it was. The Councilor ran a hand over one of his horns and sank down into his chair.
Two years. Two years since this pestilential war had started, and all because the Turians were so damnably inflexible. They couldn't have compiled a more insulting settlement if they had tried; demanding that the Federation completely dismantle their entire technological infrastructure and become associates of the Citadel in exchange for what amounted to pocket change? They might as well have said they were going to put all the humans into concentration camps and tear down their cultural icons while they were at it. And of course, they had chosen the most obstinate and disdainful Turian of them all to present their terms.
Sparatus was many things, but tactful was not one of them, and he made no effort to hide his derision for the humans. In his eyes, they were just an impudent, jumped-up race who had barely started spacefaring and possessed technology far too advanced for their own good. He, however, was a Councilor, a member of a ruling body in a galactic government and whose own race had been colonizing worlds before the humans had even mastered gunpowder. As such, the humans would be in awe of how obviously superior he was to them, realize how foolish they were being and do as he said because he clearly knew better.
Turian diplomacy; an oxymoron if there ever was one.
The anchorwoman wasn't quite correct in that the humans and Turians were evenly matched. True, the Federation hadn't made any significant gains since they invaded Digeris, but the Turians were still at a severe disadvantage. The Federation had no need for the relays and could strike anywhere at any time. As a consequence, while the Turians' industrial capacity was still strong, they had to concentrate on defending their worlds, hindering their ability to launch counterattacks. And even if they did manage to push the Federation back, there was no way they could capitalize on it. STG had confirmed that there were no mass relays that reached the Federation's realm. The humans could therefore remain comfortably behind their buffer of empty space, whittling away at the Turians and churning out more of their terrible war machines.
This was another thing that kept Torbel up at night. Mass effect principles had been the groundwork for galactic civilization, the standard by which all races were measured by. Mass effect technology defined everything, from interstellar travel to basic necessities. Those who could use its principles better were by consequence more advanced than those who could not. It was a nice and logical measurement. But now these humans had come quite literally out of nowhere and introduced an entirely different technological spectrum to the galaxy at large.
Arcanotechnology they called it; a fusion of science and magic. When he had first read that from the reports, he had scoffed. No one in their right mind would have believed such a claim. The top minds of the Union shared that feeling, though with considerably more condescension. Of course, they stopped sneering pretty quickly once they realized just what this field gave to the humans. Ridiculous or not, this "arcanotechnology" was incredibly advanced and nowhere was this more apparent than when it came to weapons tech.
Direct energy weapons were nothing new to galactic society, but it was also a very limited field. Plasma had long been regarded as an ineffective weapon as it had several critical drawbacks. Such weapons required tremendous amounts of energy to fire, produced dangerous levels of heat, and were prone to meltdowns. Charged particle weaponry faced similar problems. Even lasers were not as potent weapons as mass drivers. The humans, however, seemed to face none of these problems, and no one could say why.
And then there were their feats of bioengineering. While the Salarians were highly proficient in the field themselves, the humans were in a whole other spectrum. The top geneticists Torbel had consulted told him, without a doubt, that things like their Engels could not exist. They were entirely self-sustaining, required no rest and could heal at a rate beyond normal organic creatures; in essence, they violated virtually every biological law there was. And yet, they existed, living biological impossibilities that spat in the face of reality.
And those were just the things publically available. Torbel shuddered to think what the Federation might have hidden away.
Of course, that wasn't his only concern. The recent events had not gone unnoticed by the rest of the galaxy, particularly the Terminus systems. Already they were stirring like never before; warlords were building up forces, pirate fleets were congregating in areas bordering Citadel territory and a few of the minor alien dominions had entered a truce for the moment. The powers dwelling there smelled an opportunity now that the Turians were otherwise occupied. Of course, if they thought that the Union was just going to sit around while they built up strength, they were dead wrong. STG agents embedded in the Terminus systems were already working to prevent any coherent organization, sabotaging infrastructures and carrying out assassinations of dangerous individuals; they weren't going to be doing anything big for quite some time.
Torbel laced his hands together as he sank deep into thought. Some still held onto the belief that everything would eventually go back to normal, but that was nothing more than a fanciful dream. However this all ended, things were never going to be the same again. All he and the rest of the galaxy could do was to try and adapt to the coming changes.
Hopefully, they'd be up to the task.
#
Elsewhere on the Citadel, Din Korlack, ambassador of the Vol Protectorate, was also watching the news and growing steadily more mercurial with each passing moment. The channel now presented a static-riddled video of a battle from Digeris, showing Turian soldiers exchanging fire with Federation forces. A more casual observer might have wondered how someone managed to shoot this footage, since Turians were notoriously prickly when it came to people photographing or filming warzones, but to Din Korlack, it was just another reminder that the Hierarchy had dragged his people into this war.
The ambassador had always resented his people's lot in life. The Volus had been the third race to reach the Citadel, exactly 2,358 years ago. They had created the entire galactic economy from the ground up, drafting the Unified Banking Act to make the credit the standard form of currency for interstellar trade. To this day, they monitored the galactic economy, calculating the values of local currencies, determining exchange rates, and ensuring that all commerce ran as smoothly as possible. Without his people's mercantile expertise, intergalactic trade would have been a much more chaotic ordeal.
And what was their reward for their labors? Practically nothing. Their petitions for a Council seat had been rejected time and again by the Asari and Salarians, who always gave the same reason: all potential Council races must have provided an exemplary service to the Citadel in order to prove that they are worthy and apparently, establishing a fully-functional system of interstellar commerce didn't count. Din didn't even have his own embassy office; he had to share with the Elcor ambassador, Calyn.
Centuries later, the Turians exploded onto the scene, aiding the Citadel races in defeating the Krogan during the Rebellions. Another hundred years, and they were a full member of the Council, with the largest navy and the most powerful military. And still the Volus remained on the bottom rung. Calyn would argue otherwise, though, stating that the Council had granted his race plenty of concessions and that their territory had expanded tenfold since their arrival to the Citadel. Maybe so, but what good was more territory if they still had no real say in anything?
Perhaps that was the reason why his race had appealed for client status within the Hierarchy. If they couldn't have a Council seat of their own, then maybe they could have one by proxy. And who better to join up with than the mightiest force in Citadel Space?
Din could see the reasoning behind it, but to him it was nothing short of insulting. Not only did they give up their independence, it implied that the Volus couldn't protect themselves and needed someone else to take care of them. Even the name of their government sounded pitifully meek: the Vol Protectorate; a nation controlled by another. What's more, some even took pride in this state of affairs. The Volus were in the process of making their first dreadnought and a name had already been decided upon, one belonging to a famous individual. And who was worthy of this honor? Was it Gatha Vaar, the architect of the Unified Banking Act? Or perhaps Foca Tolar, the scientist who brought the Volus onto the galactic stage with the creation of the FTL drive? No, it was Kwunu, the diplomat who had negotiated the client status of the Volus. Out of all the remarkable individuals the Volus had produced, they opted to honor the one who signed away their sovereignty. It made Din sick to think about it.
It was painfully obvious that the Turians benefitted the most from this relationship. The Volus paid a tax to them, supplied auxiliary troops and ships to their military and allowed the Hierarchy to determine their foreign policies. They had even taken its mediocre economy and elevated it to second strongest in the Citadel. In exchange, the Turians just had to extend their protection to the Volus. An attack on them would be an attack on the Turians, and would be responded to in kind.
Unfortunately, since the Turians decided their foreign affairs, that meant that the Volus had to support them in any war they might choose to pursue, no matter how much they might want to remain uninvolved. That stipulation was something Din never agreed with; allowing a foreign power to dictate who were your friends and enemies could only lead to trouble in the long run. And these recent times had proven him right.
Din had nearly fainted from shock when he heard that the Turians had declared war against the Federation. Then Sparatus had forwarded a curt memo informing him that he expected the Protectorate to draft up their own declaration of war against the Federation within the week. Din had never been so furious in his life and charged into the Councilor's office as fast as his legs could carry him. He had fairly screamed at Sparatus that the Hierarchy had gone too far, that this whole war was nothing more than a retaliation to the Turians' collective pride being bruised and had no right to involve the Volus in this egocentric crusade. Sparatus remained unmoved, and told him quite plainly that as a client race, the Volus had no choice in the matter and that was that. So now, here they were, forced to participate in a war the Turians had started.
At least the Federation seemed more focused on the Turians than his own people. No doubt they regarded the Volus as only a minor concern, which the ambassador was perfectly happy with. That wasn't to say that the Volus had gone unscathed; thousands of Volus auxiliary troops had fallen in the fighting and convoys sent to Hierarchy space often fell prey to roving Federation wolf packs. Still, Din could take some comfort in the fact that no major attacks had been launched into Volus territory. For now, anyways.
If there was one good thing that had come of this war, Din ruminated, it was that now his people were starting to seriously question whether their relationship with the Turians was still in their best interests. Din was not the only one who thought the Volus's status as a client race was less than beneficial and over the years they had slowly grown in number, though mostly confined to the lower classes. Now, even top officials in the Protectorate were expressing doubts.
The war was far from over, no one could doubt that, but it would end at some point. And then, there were going to be some changes in this relationship of theirs. The Hierarchy might have a powerful military, but the Protectorate practically ran its economy. Even if they won, the Turians would need financial expertise to rebuild, and they had neither the capacity nor the interest to effectively develop their financial infrastructure. They would need the Volus more than ever.
A sense of vindictive satisfaction began to well up in Din Korlack. Yes, there were going to be some very big changes in the future.
#
Turian Cruiser Indomitable
Captain Adrien Victus stood in the sparring ring, loosening himself up with some stretches. Across from him his opponent, one Captain Ferox Kleitos, was doing likewise with some practice jabs to the air, all the while being careful to keep his glare squarely on him. Adrien snorted; if Ferox wanted to intimidate him, he'd have to try harder than just giving him the evil eye.
Adrien supposed it was pretty much inevitable that it would come to this at some point. Both he and Ferox had been at each other's throats practically since they boarded. It was a common occurrence, even amongst the Turians. Any soldier will say that the greatest source of tension in war was the waiting, wondering what might be in store for you once you arrive at your destination. That was why the training rooms were always ready so that soldiers would be able to have an outlet for their anxiety. Even the best of friends could come to blows over the slightest things given enough time and it was best to have a way to settle things amicably.
Not that Adrien and Ferox had ever been friends. Ferox didn't like him for a number of reasons, though the main one was the fact that he was a hidebound Turian who followed set military procedures with almost religious zeal. As such, he took an almost personal offence at Adrien's unorthodox approach to tactics. It didn't matter that he had achieved several resounding triumphs thanks to his creative thinking; as far as Ferox was concerned, Adrien was a disgraceful maverick who didn't deserve his rank and was quite vocal about his opinion, often venomously so.
The final straw came earlier in the mess hall, when Ferox had implied that Adrien had managed to achieve his current rank only because his uncle, a noted general, pulled some strings, remarking that he must have had a nonconformist streak of his own. Adrien could tolerate many things, but insulting his family was not one of them. He had then promptly walked over where Ferox was sitting and told him that if he wanted to back up his words with action, they could reserve a time for the ring.
And now here they were, dressed in sparring gear, ready to engage in some wholesome violence. A crowd of Turian servicemen had gathered around the ring and Adrien could hear the sounds of bets being made on which of them would win. Behind him, his first lieutenant Siros Gratian was standing by, watching as Ferox continued to punch the air.
"You know Captain, I don't think I've ever seen someone look so eager to knock your head off," he observed as Ferox performed a vicious uppercut. He winced a little. "Spirits, it's like he found out you banged his wife or something."
"I might as well have," Adrien agreed. "So, what are the odds here?"
"From what I heard, it's about three to one, favoring Ferox."
"You're kidding me," grumbled Adrien. "He's that favored?"
"Well, just look at him, sir," said Siros, gesturing at the other captain. "He's built like a tank."
He had to admit that Siros did have a point; Adrien himself measured in at exactly six feet and Ferox topped him by almost a full head, with a frame that was mostly muscle. He definitely would have the advantage of reach over Adrien and all it would take would be one good hit to his head to put him down for the count.
"Well, at least those who are betting on me will be making some good money when I win," remarked Adrien.
Siros cocked his head curiously. "Don't you mean 'if' you win, sir?"
"Nope."
At that moment, the gym master stepped forward into the ring. He was a grizzled Turian, hard-eyed and had the bearing of someone who didn't take shit from anybody. While he may have only held the rank of a noncom officer, in the training room his word was law, imparted by the ship's captain. He glanced at the two fighters and called for them to approach the center. Once they were there, he laid down the rules.
"Alright, I understand that you two have a grudge to settle, and I'm here to make sure it gets settled properly. Neither of you are to try and inflict a serious injury; that means no aiming for the throat, eyes, or any other important areas. It goes without saying that your talons are to be kept gloved for the duration of the match and if either of you bare them, the offender will be punished accordingly. The fight will continue until one of you gives up, gets knocked out or I say it's over. Submission holds will be permitted, but if I tell one of you to release the other, you do it immediately. Am I clear?"
Both Adrien and Ferox nodded, making sure to keep their gazes locked.
"Good. Fighters, shake hands."
The captains grasped hands like old acquaintances meeting up after a long time, but there was nothing friendly about the gesture. They were squeezing so tightly it looked like they were trying to break each other's hands. After a few seconds, they released their grips and took a step back. The gym master raised a hand.
"On my word, the match will begin." His hand hovered in the air for several heartbeats before it slashed downwards. "FIGHT!"
Immediately, Adrien brought his arms up in a defensive posture. Ferox did the same and the two began circling each other like varren in a pit fight, looking for an opening to strike. The crowd began howling their support for their chosen combatant, egging them on.
As a military oriented society, the Turians had spent most of their civilized years coming up with new and better ways to fight each other, and the field of martial arts was no exception. All Turian servicemen were trained in basic hand to hand combat, but were also offered courses for a number of fighting styles. Ferox specialized in Omis Vias, a very direct fighting style that emphasized offense over defense, characterized by fast and explosive movements with a focus on physical strength, something Ferox had plenty of. The idea behind Omis Vias was to hit fast, hit hard and take your opponent down before he could take you down. It also made extensive use of a Turian's talons; a skilled practitioner could fillet most opponents into prime-cuts in a matter of minutes. Adrien was not ashamed to admit that he was glad that their sparring gloves were designed to keep that from happening.
Adrien himself didn't concentrate on any particular fighting style, preferring to branch out into multiple styles and blend them together. As such, he had working knowledge of roughly six different martial arts. A master of any one would have no problem knocking him down if he tried to match them in their field, but when mixed with techniques from other forms, his fighting style became both highly unpredictable and dangerous. Now he would see if it could carry him through this fight.
Ferox made the first move. His right fist swung towards Adrien's head in a ferocious hook punch. If that blow had connected, it would have been lights out right there. Fortunately for Adrien, he saw the punch coming and easily ducked under it, dealing a quick but sharp jab to the larger Turian's midsection as he did. As he expected, Ferox hardly seemed to notice the blow and instead attempted to retaliate with a roundhouse kick. This too Adrien dodged by hopping out of its range.
He's pretty quick for his size, Adrien thought as he put distance between himself and Ferox. But he's too obvious with his movements, too predictable.
That was a weakness of the Omis Vias style. It was almost entirely dedicated to taking down an opponent quickly before they had a chance to fight back. As a consequence, if the opponent could get down the rhythm of the style, then circumventing it was fairly easy.
He was soon very glad for that boon as he blocked another kick from Ferox. Predictable he might be, but the large Turian was putting some serious power behind his blows. Adrien was pretty sure that he was going to have a nice bruise on his arm afterwards; if it hadn't been for the sparring gear, it probably would not have fared so well. He made a note to dodge further kicks instead of blocking them.
Shaking off the numbness spreading across his arm, Adrien struck back with two sharp punches underneath Ferox's thoracic exoskeleton. Again, the large Turian took the hits with barely a wince. A triumphant gleam appeared in his eyes as he advanced on Adrien and his guard dropped visibly.
Looks like he thinks that's about as hard as I can hit him, so he doesn't have to bother with guarding, Adrien thought smugly. Well, time to show him why that's a bad idea.
As Ferox made to deliver an elbow strike to his face, Adrien suddenly dashed forward and dealt a swift chop to his neck. Turian necks lacked the extra protection of the exoskeleton and sported a nice network of nerve clusters. A hit there was going to hurt, no matter how tough you were. Sure enough, Ferox let out a loud grunt of pain and lurched back a few steps. The triumph faded from his eyes and was replaced by a look of incredulity, as if he couldn't believe that Adrien had managed to hurt him. He recovered and tried the same move again, only to be met with another quick chop to his neck. He staggered back again before recovering; this time though, his guard came back up.
Guess he finally realized that I can do some damage to him, Adrien thought. But he's still leaving himself wide open; he probably believes he can still shrug off anything I throw at his body and only needs to protect his neck.
And if there was one thing Adrien had learned throughout his training in close quarters combat, it was to never give your opponent an opening to capitalize on. From where he was standing, Adrien could see three vulnerable points that were practically screaming "hit me!" Not one to pass up such an invitation, he pressed his attack.
The first blow was solid knee to Ferox's stomach. Much like the neck, a Turian's exoskeleton was less prevalent so as to allow proper motion. As the big Turian doubled over in pain, Adrien struck him on the temple with a mean cross. His brain should have been rattling about in his skull after a hit like that, but Ferox's formidable powers of recovery once more came to his aid. Shaking off the blow, he suddenly sprang forward with a speed that caught Adrien off guard. Before he could get out of the way, Ferox's powerful arms wrapped around Adrien like a vice.
Shit! Adrien exclaimed mentally as he felt himself be lifted into the air. Ferox now had him in a solid body lock and could now use his size and strength to devastating effect. He was going to have to do something if he didn't want Ferox to suplex him. Unfortunately, his current position didn't allow for much action. His feet weren't touching the floor, so he couldn't get any leverage from there and his legs were too close to Ferox for him to kick. The only part of him that he could rely on now was his arms, which remained free.
Thinking quickly, Adrien clapped his hands on Ferox's ears. The effect was immediate: Ferox dropped him in surprise and staggered back, shaking his head. Adrien could see that his blow had had a nasty effect on the big Turian. He now seemed to find it difficult to stand straight and kept pitching sideways as he tried to maintain his balance. Adrien wasted no time in pressing his advantage; he struck from every angle while Ferox struggled to fight back.
Unfortunately for Adrien, his eagerness got the better of him. As he moved in for another strike, Ferox suddenly lashed out with a wild haymaker, catching Adrien squarely in the stomach. Even with the gloves softening the blow, it was like being hit with a sledgehammer and Adrien doubled over in pain. He immediately moved back to put some distance between himself and Ferox to get time to recover. By the time he got his wind back, Ferox had managed to stabilize himself and was now moving towards Adrien with a single-minded determination.
Adrien decided that he was going to have to finish the fight now, or Ferox was simply going to outlast him in terms of endurance. As he debated about what he was going to do put an end to the fight, he noticed that Ferox was still a bit unsteady on his feet. Adrien saw his chance, and wasted no time in taking advantage of it. Rushing forward, he swept his right arm downwards in a wide stroke, catching Ferox by his heel. Even if he had had a solid stance, the result would have been the same: his leg was whipped out from under him and he went crashing to the ground.
Though it was clear that the impact had stunned him, Adrien knew that he wouldn't be impaired for long. Wasting no time, he immediately grabbed hold of Ferox's ankle and locked it between his arms while his legs wrapped up Ferox's own. The end result was a perfect heel hook and the members of the crowd divided into roars of approval and groans of dismay.
Though he valiantly tried to find a way to break the smaller Turian's hold, Ferox quickly found it was no good. His leg might as well have been caught in a vice. Having realized his predicament, Ferox glared at Adrien with the bitter anger of one who knows he's defeated, but can't bring himself to acknowledge it. Adrien smiled inwardly.
Glare at me all you want, big guy. You're not getting out of this hold until I let you.
A few seconds later, Ferox bowed to the inevitable and tapped Adrien on the leg which was firmly planted on his waist. And with that, the fight was done. Adrien disengaged himself from his hold and stood up triumphantly as a mixture of cheers and groans filled the training room. He was definitely going to feel this fight the next day, but that didn't diminish his glee in the slightest.
Off to his side, Adrien noticed Ferox clamber to his feet, refusing the proffered hand of one of his subordinate officers. While not physically hurt, it was clear his pride had taken a bruising. He cast a last sullen glare at Adrien and then melted into the crowd. Adrien simply gave a brief shrug; it wasn't as if he expected them to suddenly become best pals after all this. Oh well, at least Ferox probably wouldn't be so openly hostile for the rest of the trip.
#
"All right, now just lay still for a moment."
Adrien did as he was told, watching as the ship's doctor subjected him to a full body scan. He was reasonably sure that aside from some nasty bruises, he was fine, but rules were rules; you spar, you get a checkup to make sure everything was at full functionality, no exceptions. There were plenty of injuries that could prove fatal and not get noticed until too late.
A series of beeps signaled that the scan had finished and now the doctor consulted a screen. Adrien twisted his head to look at him.
"So, what's the verdict? Will I ever be able to play clawball again?"
The doctor gave a snort of laughter. "You're fine, Captain. No internal injuries, hairline fractures or anything serious; just some minor bruising. You'll be a hundred percent in no time. That being said, I'd count myself lucky that Ferox couldn't use his talons or I'd probably be working overtime trying to stuff your intestines back into you."
"Believe me, no one is more grateful for that than I am," Adrien said, sitting back up. "And thank you for that lovely mental image."
The doctor shrugged. "Just telling it like it is. You pick a fight with someone who's mastered Omis Vias, and there's a good chance it'll be the last thing you ever do. Trust me; I've seen firsthand what that style can do in an all-out brawl."
"I imagine it wasn't a pretty sight, was it?" Adrien remarked.
"Might not have been the ugliest thing I've seen, but it was definitely up there," the doctor agreed. "It was a few years back; I was serving on the cruiser Relentless Fury and we had just pulled into port at Bostra after a patrol near the border of the Terminus systems for some well-earned R&R. One of the shipmen I served with knew of a good bar in the capital, so I and a few others decided to tag along. Turns out, the bar was also the favorite gathering place for a local gang. And one of the people in my group happened to be from Thracia."
Adrien winced. The Bostra and Thracia colonies had been in a perpetual state of war for nearly three hundred years until the Unification War brought them back into the fold. While most of the mutual resentment had dissipated since then, there were still groups from both worlds that clung to those old grudges.
"I take it they weren't exactly happy to see him then?" Adrien remarked.
"'Her,' actually. Annora Pax," the doctor corrected. "And no, they weren't. Three young punks, hopped up on booze and colonial pride, they decided that they weren't going to stand for, as their ringleader put it, 'some weak-waist Thracian whore wetting her craw with our liquor.'" His voice took on a pompous tone as he mimicked the erstwhile gangbanger. "Then he pulled out a knife and made it abundantly clear that he intended to use it; biggest mistake he ever made. Annora was a spec ops girl and ranked as one of the deadliest practitioners of Omis Vias in recent history. If he and his cronies had known that, they might have opted to just stay in their seats and glower at her. Then again, alcohol and deep-rooted grudges don't make for good decision-making, so things might still have gone as they did.
"What followed wasn't much of a fight; as I'm sure you've grasped, Omis Vias isn't a style overly concerned about the welfare of your opponent and Annora wasn't exactly a model of compassion. While the thug was busy waving his knife around like an idiot, she sliced clean through his throat with her talons. Poor sucker didn't even realize he'd been hit until he began choking on his own blood, she was that fast. Then he slumped down like a slab of meat and his two pals suddenly regained their sense of self-preservation. They ran like the Spirits themselves were after them while their boss bled out on the floor." The doctor shook his head in an almost despondent manner. "Stupid kid, throwing away his life like that."
"You sound pretty unhappy about that," Adrien remarked. "Most others I know would think he got what he deserved and wouldn't waste time on sympathy."
The doctor gave a snort. "Well, I'm not like most Turians. I never liked the idea of violence and bloodshed. Back in boot camp, whenever we got shown one of the many war movies in the library, I just sat quietly during the battle scenes while everyone else jumped up and down, roaring at the top of their lungs. Don't get me wrong, if someone ever tries to kill me, I'm going to do my damnedest to kill him first, but I just don't have it in me to be a soldier. It's why I became a doctor; youngsters these days grow up being told that they are part of the most powerful military in the galaxy and some get it in their heads that they're invincible. The day they find out otherwise, someone like me has to put them back together. Or at least try their best.
"I've been doing this for almost fifty years, and the hardest part of my position is that I inevitably get cases where there is no hope. And I still have to try and help them. After all, I can't just tell their loved ones 'Sorry, but this is one's a lost cause' and wash my talons of it. The worst are when it's a child, not even into their teens; a life ended before it even really began." His face bore an expression of profound melancholy for a moment before he let out a bark of laughter.
"Ha! There I go rambling off again. Well, anyway, you're free to go, Captain. No point keeping you here, depressing you with my life tales. Times are bleak enough without me adding to them."
#
When Adrien returned to his unit's bunking area, he was greeted with enthusiastic applause from his troops. With an air of mock weariness, he raised a hand to forestall the cheering.
"Okay you hoodlums, settle down," he said good-naturedly. "My ego's big enough as is." That earned him a few chuckles from his company. He caught sight of Siros, who was standing near the front and grinned. "Well, looks like my confidence wasn't misplaced, was it First Lieutenant?"
Siros gave a small grin of his own. "Indeed not, sir. Congratulations on the win. Oh, before I forget." He brought up his omni-tool and tapped a few keys. "Your winnings, Captain."
Adrien activated his own omni-tool and saw that he now had a tidy sum of three hundred credits to his name. Not bad; they were certainly well earned in his opinion.
"Thank you, Siros. A few more wins like that and I'll be able to buy myself that Tornado shotgun I've had my eye on." It was a shame that servicemen could only bet a maximum of a hundred credits on things like fights, or he'd have made a killing. But, he supposed that it wouldn't do to have someone blow their entire pay in one go if a bet went sour.
"A Haliat Tornado?" one of the gathered Turians guffawed. "Come on, boss. You know Armax is where all the good shit's at."
Adrien glanced at the speaker. Lieutenant Vigo Mattix was a big Turian, almost as big as Ferox, and was the company's resident tough guy. While he might sometimes be loud and rowdy, you could always count on him to have your back when things went down, whether it was a barroom brawl or a firefight. Adrien favored him with a smirk.
"Maybe so, but Haliat's stuff is cheaper and just as reliable. No need for anything fancy."
Viggo shrugged. "If you say so, boss. But if you want guns with some real power behind them, Armax is where it's at."
"I'll keep that in mind," Adrien assured him. He then addressed the rest of his company. "All right everyone, much as I'd like to bask in my glorious victory and have you all worship me—" he paused for a ripple of laughter from his troops—"I'm afraid we don't have the time. We'll be arriving at Digeris in a few days, so I want everyone ready; guns calibrated, armor checked, the works. You all might want to get a head start on that now. Those few days are going to go by fast."
#
Authors note: Rejoice, for the story goes on! Once again, sorry for the late update, but don't worry for I have no intention of abandoning this work. This chapter doesn't really have much in the way of action, but things still have to be fleshed out a bit. Speaking of which, I've decided to start posting other snippets that I feel would contribute to the world-building, but aren't really relevant to the story at large, on SpaceBattles. You can find the first one under the Mythos Effect thread and I'll see if I can come up with some more later on. Anyway, enjoy this chapter!