Chapter 22: Striking a Deal
Amos Williams stood in front of a field mirror in his personal quarters, studying his reflection in its surface. There were a few more lines on his face now, and he noticed one or two gray strands peeping out from between the slicked-back brown hair on his head, but that was nothing a little rejuvenation therapy couldn't fix. All in all, the recent years had been very kind to him.
He idly traced the thin scar that started at the edge of his hairline, down over his right eyebrow and the eye underneath—which had thankfully been spared—before finally ending at his lower jaw. It was a memento from his days as a lowly footslogger during the Aeon War, the result of a raking claw from a Deep One that had been part of an ambush against his unit while they were patrolling some coastline. He had been lucky to only suffer a flesh wound; he'd watched those same claws part heads from shoulders and tear out entrails with a single swipe.
Williams had once thought about getting it removed; the procedure was simple enough with modern medicine. Ultimately, he'd decided to keep it, letting the old wound serve as a reminder of that dark time, of how close humanity had come to a violent and bloody end and the reason for why he continued to serve in uniform.
He took a step back to take in the rest of himself. His blue-gray officer's uniform was neatly pressed without even a single wrinkle to be seen. The multicolored service ribbons stood out proudly on his chest, covering a sizable portion of his left breast. Williams looked every inch the Field Marshal he was.
Field Marshal Williams, he thought. Even now, he still wasn't quite used to that title. After being recalled from Shanxi when the situation had become untenable, he'd expected to be set up as a scapegoat for losing the planet. Instead, he'd been lauded as a hero who had prevailed against all odds during the first days of what had now been termed the First Contact War, and then subsequently given a promotion and overall command of the Digeris campaign.
While Williams would have liked to think that he'd gotten the mandate solely due to his tactical and leadership skills, he knew that wasn't the only reason. Few things were more beloved by the public than a tale of a stalwart general, facing overwhelming odds and managing to give the enemy a nice bloody nose before being forced to retreat, then going back to make them pay for what they had done. The propaganda practically wrote itself.
Speaking of which, he thought grumpily, turning away from the mirror to face the man off in the corner of the room.
Charles Fletcher, Williams' appointed publicity attaché, was a tall beanpole of a man and the human embodiment of good grooming. His thick dark hair was slicked back without so much as a single strand out of place and the moustache that covered his upper lip was trimmed to near-perfection. The stone-gray suit he wore was so clean that it almost looked like it had been polished.
The man flashed a dazzling smile of porcelain-white teeth at Williams. "Oh, that is just phenomenal!" he declared. His voice carried a strong English accent. "I've worked with a lot of military bigwigs, but you take the cake when it comes to being photogenic! I wish all my projects were so easy to work with; half the time I feel like I'd be better off dressing up a pig!"
Williams resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. "Just get on with it, Fletcher. I've got a meeting with my general staff to get to."
"Oh, of course, Field Marshal," said Charles, oozing charm. "I just need a few pics to send to the lads back home. Have to keep up appearances, don't we?" He took out a control pad and tapped a few keys. A camera drone that had been hovering next to him floated in front of Williams.
"And there we are," said Charles, looking down at the viewing screen in the middle of the device. "Now, let's make magic! Give me the suave, dauntless leader that is Field Marshal Amos Williams! Give me a modern-day Julius Caesar ready to crush the Gauls under his boot!"
Groaning inwardly, Williams struck the pose the man wanted, the very same one he'd been forced to practice for hours when Charles had done his first photoshoot: ramrod straight, right hand behind his back, left hand hooked into the lapel of his coat, his expression perfectly neutral as he stared into the camera lens. There was a soft clicking sound as the drone took its picture and Charles crowed with delight.
"Oh, that is lovely! All right, time for the close up." The drone's lens whirred and then clicked again. "Perfect! Now, let's get a couple more shots of that dashing visage of yours. Look right into the camera, there we are…" There was another series of clicks. "Got it!"
Immediately, Williams sagged into his usual posture. Posing for a camera was a lot more tiring than he had thought. It was a wonder how those fashion models could do it for a living.
"Wonderful," he grumbled. "Now, if you'll excuse me Fletcher, I've got a war to manage." Without waiting for a response, Williams pushed past the man and exited the room.
Outside, the field camp was bustling with activity. Soldiers, engineers and other personnel went about their duties, whether it was patrolling the grounds or making repairs to the many vehicles and mecha around. Rainwater from the evening's light shower permeated the area and the wet ground sucked at Williams' shoes. He took extra care where he stepped; the last thing he wanted was to be tripped up by a patch of mud.
That would be quite the spectacle, wouldn't it? Williams thought. The great Field Marshal Amos Williams, avenger of Shanxi, falling face-first into the muck in the middle of his command base for all to see.
His path took him to a domed structure the size of a house in the center of the camp. The guards on either side of the main entrance stood at attention as he approached, guns held at their sides. Williams offered them a salute and then went inside.
The interior was composed of a single wide room, which was filled to the brim with various bits of technology. Computer terminals with flashing screens lined the walls, staffed by an assortment of human and Nazzadi personnel. A trio of much larger screens was attached to the far wall, displaying various bits of tactical information. In the middle of it all was a large, circular table with a holo-display in its center. Around the table were several of the most senior commanding officers of the entire campaign.
As Williams approached, someone called out, "Attention room!" In an instant, every person leapt to their feet to face him, straight as arrows with arms pressed flat against their sides.
"Carry on, people," said Williams. He took a seat in the vacant chair at the display table. "Sorry for the delay. My publicist decided to stage an impromptu photo shoot. Hopefully, he got my good side." He stroked his scar meaningfully.
There were a few good-natured chuckles from everyone and they sat back down to their allotted stations. Once they were all settled in, the jauntiness vanished and it was all business from then on. Williams laced his fingers together and looked over his general staff.
"All right ladies and gentlemen, let's have at it," he said. "What is there to report from the frontlines?"
"Things are still going in our favor," said General Kura, standing up. The Nazzadi pressed a button on the table and a holographic map flickered into existence, showing where the enemy's battle lines and their own were currently. Williams was pleased to note that their side had the lion's share of territory.
"At present, Operation Gouge remains on schedule. The important industrial areas have been seized, along with several agricultural centers, and our forces have split the main Turian army groups." Kura tapped another key to highlight the areas, which flashed bright blue. "Force Dusk has effectively destroyed enemy army group 105 and has surrounded groups 103 and 104. They are besieging all enemy-held population centers and fortifications. Aside from a few stubborn pockets of resistance, there have been no major offensives from the Turians; it seems that they've elected to hunker down and try to outlast us."
"Is that a possibility?" asked Williams.
Kura shook his head. "We've cut off all supply routes to their armies, including the major rail hubs and fabricators. In addition, their air support has been effectively crippled. Unless they can conjure supplies out of thin air, they're as good as finished. We'll keep hammering them until they give up."
"So much for the unstoppable might of the Turian Hierarchy," said another general with a smug grin. "You know, for all their bragging about being the greatest military power of the Citadel races, they've proven to be very disappointing. If things keep going the way they are, I daresay we'll be the ones doing the flag-planting."
Arthur Cunningham was the youngest of the general staff at only fifty-six, and while undeniably a brilliant commander, Williams was of the opinion that he was a bit too full of himself. Self-assurance was important to being a successful ranking officer, but there was a fine line between being confident and arrogant.
"I imagine the Germans felt the same when they attacked Stalingrad," said Williams pointedly, favoring Arthur with a cool gaze. "I suggest we hold off on popping the champagne and busting out the fine cigars until the war is actually won."
"Of course, sir," said Arthur, a distinct sullen note in his voice.
Williams turned his attention back to the map. "What about Force Dawn? What's their status?"
"Coryza remains in our hands and the other two cities have been completely encircled," said Kura without missing a beat. "Moreover, since Tager Pack Grendel destroyed the garrison's food and medical supplies, we estimate that the Turians there only have enough provisions for a couple more weeks, at most. I suspect that they'll either surrender by then, or will try and launch some kind of desperate attack in an attempt to break out."
"Those two cities don't look like they're encircled to me," remarked General Telnavy. The Nazzadi woman pointed at the area on the map, almost in accusation. "Unless my eyes have started to fail me, it looks like the turkeys have an opening behind them."
"That 'opening' is the widest and deepest river on the planet," said Kura in a dismissive tone. "The Turians there have nothing that could be considered maritime vessels, there are no bridges for them to use, and they are physically incapable of swimming. If anything, the river is more of a barrier than the army group surrounding them."
"If these were well-supplied Turians, I'd agree with you," said Telnavy. "However, these Turians are facing starvation and have very few options available to them, none of which are good. Also, in case you haven't noticed, they've got friendlies on the other side of the river. If they get desperate enough, you really think they might not take their chances?"
"That'll be the day," snorted Arthur. "I've yet to see any Turian force do anything even remotely creative when it comes to tactics."
Telnavy opened her mouth to rebuke him, but Williams cut in before she could let loose. "That's enough," he said. "You both make good points and I will take them under advisement. Kura, see to it that both task groups maintain their current positions. We've got the advantage here, and I don't want some hot-blooded officer with dreams of glory ruining it by commanding his troops into an unnecessary fight."
"Yes, sir," said Kura.
"Good," said Williams. "Now, how about we—"
"Sir, I've got an incoming transmission from the fleet. It's from Rear Admiral Hackett."
Williams' head snapped around to look at the communications officer, a blue-skinned Xenomix, who had spoken up. A feeling of apprehension began to well up inside the field marshal, but he quickly tamped it down. If the commander of the fleet orbiting the planet was calling personally, that didn't bode well.
"Put it onscreen," Williams ordered. The Xenomix nodded and tapped a few keys on his terminal. A moment later, Hackett appeared on the middle screen on the far wall.
The first thing Williams noted was that Hackett didn't seem to be alarmed, as he had expected. What he did seem to be was confused; his brow was furrowed, as if in deep thought and his eyes seemed to be focusing on something other than his surroundings. He then shook his head and stood at attention.
"Evening, Field Marshal," Hackett said. "Sorry if I'm interrupting something important, but we've got an interesting situation up here."
"Define 'interesting'," said Williams. He wasn't yet convinced that Hackett's sudden call was nothing to be concerned about. "Are the Turians trying something?"
"No, it's nothing from the Turkeys. We haven't seen so much as a freighter around here. This is something entirely different." Hackett looked back over his shoulder. "Shimura, pull up the image here!"
There was a pause and then a new window appeared on the screen. It showed a small spacefaring vessel, not even the size of a frigate, holding position a respectful distance away from the fleet guarding Digeris. Its design was of an unknown make. Williams blinked in confusion.
"What am I looking at, Admiral?" he asked.
"This vessel just popped out of whatever it is these aliens use for FTL and started hailing us," replied Hackett. "Near as we can tell, the occupants are not hostile."
"Do we know who they are?"
"Yes. Apparently, they're Quarians, and they want to set up a meeting with us."
#
Despite his best efforts, Rael'Zorah could not silence the voice that was telling him that he was insane for doing this.
When the Admiralty Board had agreed to go along with Nator's plan to establish contact with the Federation, the first order of business was to choose who among them would represent the military portion of the Quarians. Han'Gerrel would have been too taciturn and might have insulted the humans with his curt manner. Zaal'Koris, by contrast, would have been far too eager to make nice with them and might have accepted any deal they might offer, no matter how unfavorable to their own people. And Daro'Xen was…well, Daro'Xen.
That just left Rael and Shala'Raan. While either of them would have been a good choice, it was ultimately decided that she would be better off with the Flotilla, providing level-headed guidance—and keep Gerrel and Koris from each other's throats. So, the task fell to Rael.
Nator assured them that he knew of a destination to meet with the Federation. Of course, that destination happened to be an active warzone. Understandably, that had not gone over very well. Rael had no idea just how extensive Han'Gerrel's vocabulary of swear words was. But, as Nator pointed out, there wasn't any other place that they could meet them. So, then came the discussion on how they should approach the Federation.
Han'Gerrel, ever the cautious one, was of the mind that they shouldn't announce themselves outright. The Turians would likely not be very accommodating towards the Quarians trying to establish relations with their enemy, especially after over two years of being kicked around on their own turf. He proposed using one of the Turian-made ships in the Flotilla to pretend to be a surrendering vessel to get the Federation to bring them in.
Zaal'Koris, to no one's surprise, vehemently disagreed with that idea. Instead, he opted for complete and open honesty. After all, he argued, it would hardly make a good first impression if they tried to set up talks through deception. Moreover, the humans would most likely be suspicious of a single Turian ship, one that would be old and obsolete, claiming to be surrendering. They might very well blow it to pieces just to be safe.
They went back and forth for almost an hour until Shala'Raan intervened. She ultimately sided with Zaal'Koris, as she shared the belief that the best way to set up a partnership with the Federation would be to deal in good faith, without any kind of subterfuge. Either way would have carried with it some risk, so they might as well do their best to inspire confidence.
And now Rael was here, in what was perhaps the single-most dangerous area of space in the known galaxy, about to attempt to establish relations with a race that they knew practically nothing about. To say the pressure was on him would be a vast understatement.
Keep it together, Rael chided himself. You faced down Batarian raiders when you were just a trainee. You can handle a diplomatic mission.
He glanced over at his civilian counterpart. Zoh'Nulan vas Naera had been elected by the Conclave to serve as the emissary for the civilian portion of the Flotilla. He was a much older Quarian, beating Rael by at least a decade, and was a senior advisor to his ship's captain. His actual duties involved managing supplies and coordinating with other ships, and by all accounts, Zoh was one of the best in the Flotilla.
Of course, establishing relations with a foreign power was very much out of his scope, and despite his best efforts to hide it, Rael could see that he was distinctly nervous about the whole thing. Zoh kept twitching as if his suit was bothering him, shifting from one foot to another.
Meanwhile, Nator sat in the pilot's seat, looking cool as you please. There wasn't so much as a hint of anxiety or even mild agitation in his posture. To see him, you'd think this was nothing more than a trip to the Citadel. Rael glared down at him, envying his seemingly infinite composure.
As if he could feel his gaze on him, Nator turned around his seat to look up at Rael, eyes smiling. "Is everything all right, Admiral?" he asked politely. "You seem a little tense."
"I'm fine," Rael said curtly. He knew it shouldn't bother him, but the thought of admitting to Nator his uneasiness didn't sit right with him. "Just preparing myself for whatever might come next."
"Well, if you want my advice, relax," said Nator, as if nothing could be easier. "You won't do yourself any favors stressing over what may or may not happen."
"You're certainly taking your own advice," Rael remarked.
Nator let out a laugh. "My friend, in my line of work, I often have to deal with some truly mean customers. If I got all hot and bothered over every little thing that could go wrong, then I wouldn't be standing here today." He lounged back in his chair. "Relax. We've sent our message, so now we just have to wait for the humans to respond."
"Are you sure that was good idea?" asked Zoh. "What if the Turians picked it up too?"
"Not likely," Nator said with a considerable amount of smugness. "I took the liberty of installing a specialized digital stenograph program in my communication systems some time ago." He patted a section of his console affectionately. "It's quite the marvel, really; it creates a one-way message between the ship and its contact. Only the intended recipient can accept and open it. To anyone else, it would appear as nothing but gibberish and disjointed images. Even military hardware has trouble with it."
"Aren't those things illegal in Citadel space?" asked Rael.
"Oh, incredibly so," Nator said breezily. "I believe the penalty for having one installed is about the same as trafficking Minagen X3 in Citadel space. Or maybe worse, I haven't checked recently."
So not only are we parked in a battlefield, the ship has a communications plug-in that will earn the owner a one-way ticket to a Citadel prison¸ thought Rael. He could feel a headache coming on. I'm going to need some serious time with my suit's anti-stress programs after all this.
The Quarians lapsed into silence so that only the ambient noise of the ship could be heard and waited for the Federation to reply. The minutes ticked by, and still there came no response. Rael noticed that Zoh's fidgeting became more pronounced as the time passed.
"How long is it going to take for them to answer?" he demanded. "We're in complete limbo out here."
"It's only been a few minutes," said Rael. "Most likely, they're going over the message as thoroughly as possible. I doubt the humans aren't convinced this isn't some kind of trick."
"Why would they think that?" asked Zoh. He drummed his knuckles against the side of the ship. "This is just one ship, and not even a particularly impressive one."
"Hey, don't insult my darling like that!" Nator chided. He gently rubbed one of the panels in front of him. "Don't listen to him, my dear. He doesn't know you like I do."
"I'm fairly certain that doesn't matter to the humans," said Rael, ignoring Nator. "They're in the middle of a war, and only a complete idiot would welcome an unknown ship into their midst without verifying it was not a threat. Moreover, they don't strike me as the trusting type even at the best of times. If the data about them is correct, then they haven't had good experiences with other races."
He privately hoped that their distrust of aliens wouldn't lead to them deciding that it would be best to blow the Quarians to pieces on principle. Ancestors knew, nobody outside the Migrant Fleet would care if they did.
A few more minutes went by, and still no answer from the humans. Nator tapped a finger against his visor, humming thoughtfully.
"Hmm. Maybe they can't receive the message?" he mused. "The program is compatible with practically every system in the known galaxy, but then again, their technology is completely different from what I'm used to." He shrugged. "Well, let's try again and—"
Just then, there was a chime and an orange box flashed open on the main screen. Within the box, there was a single line of text. The three Quarians moved close together to read it.
Quarian vessel, this is the NSV Cyrus. Identify yourself and clarify your purpose here.
Nator's eyes smiled behind his visor. "Well, looks like they did get the message. I'd best give them an answer." His fingers danced over the keyboard before him as he typed out a response.
Greetings, vessel Cyrus; I am Nator'Xaeras vas Hupal, captain of the ship Mirah. As stated previously, I am on a diplomatic mission on behalf of the Quarian Migrant Fleet. With me are envoys from our people who wish to speak with whoever is in charge.
Nator sent the message and sat back in his seat, lacing his hands together. "Looks like things are going smoothly," he said.
"How can you tell?" demanded Zoh.
"Well, for a start, they haven't blown us to smithereens," said Nator. "And they've engaged in dialogue with us. I'd call that a good start, wouldn't you?"
No sooner had he spoken, when a new message came back from the human ship. This one was somewhat longer, but still concise and direct.
This is an active warzone. Why would you come here and risk your lives just to speak with us?
Rael knew that they would come to this question eventually. Now, they had to give a convincing answer and hope that the humans accepted it. Nator wasted no time in typing up the next reply.
Your territories remain unknown to the wider galaxy. Believe me when I say that—
"No," said Rael. Nator stopped typing, fingers poised over the keyboard, and looked over his shoulder at him.
"'No', what?" he asked.
Rael pointed at the line he had started writing out. "That sounds too confrontational. We don't want to accidentally provoke them. Make it a little more humble and less brazen."
"If you say so," said Nator with a hint of irritation in his voice work. Rael doubted that he had had many instances where someone forcibly corrected him. Despite the situation, Rael gave himself a mental pat on the back as Nator resumed typing.
We would have gladly tried to contact you in a less dangerous environment, but we unfortunately had no other options. The situation no doubt appears suspect to you, but I can assure you that we have only intentions of friendship and mutual prosperity. Feel free to use whatever means you see fit to satisfy yourselves that we mean you no harm. We will respectfully await your answer.
Rael watched as Nator sent the missive. This was it: the big moment. Either the humans would choose to accept their offer, or tell them to get lost. If it was the latter, he hoped that the rejection would come in the form of words and not gunfire.
The seconds ticked by with no reply from the humans, and Rael felt himself growing more and more anxious. With an effort of will, he forced himself to stay calm. Zoh wrung his hands nervously, alternating between looking down at the floor and back at the screen. Even Nator seemed to be getting a bit disquieted with the delay. Then, after what felt like an eternity, another message came through.
Vessel Mirah, we are willing to hear you. Approach the Cyrus slowly. Be aware: you are currently targeted by three of our ships. Do not make any sudden moves.
Upon reading the text, Zoh sagged against the bulkhead, looking as if all the energy had just been leeched out of him. Nator, meanwhile, clapped his hands together in undisguised delight. "There's our invitation. Best not keep them waiting."
Rael breathed out a long, heavy sigh, feeling lightheaded with relief. He sent out a silent prayer of thanks to whatever god or cosmic being was responsible for their success. The first part of their mission was accomplished. Now the real work was about to begin.
#
As he sat in the conference room of the Cyrus, Rear Admiral Steven Hackett reflected that getting an offer from another alien race to set up diplomatic talks had not been on his bingo card for the day. While not the strangest thing he would have expected to happen, it was certainly up there.
It was also something he was totally unprepared for. Hackett was ready to take on whatever the enemy threw at him, whether it was a fleet of warships or a cyber-attack on the ships' systems. What he was not ready for was to speak on behalf of the Federation in a political capacity. That would require actual diplomats with actual authority to do so, and unless there were some hiding among the enlisted servicemen and women, he was fresh out on that account.
But, regardless of those shortcomings, Hackett firmly believed that he couldn't turn away an offer like this, especially since humanity was sorely lacking when it came to friends at the moment. While he wouldn't be able to make any promises, he could at least hear whatever proposals these Quarians had in mind.
As he waited, Hackett went through the information he'd been given on them in his head. The only other dextro-amino race aside from the Turians in the known galaxy, they'd once been part of the Citadel, until their robotic servants—the geth, if he remembered right—rose up and drove them from their worlds a few centuries ago. If the codexes were to be believed, the Quarians had lost most of their population during that time.
To add insult to injury, the Council had promptly booted them from the Citadel and left them to fend for themselves. Since they no longer had anyplace to call home, the Quarians were forced to rely on their ships to sustain themselves. Hackett was willing to bet that they didn't hold the Citadel in particularly high regard.
His thoughts were interrupted by a ping from the room's intercom. "Admiral Hackett, the Quarians have arrived."
Hackett reached over to press the reply button. "Any trouble?"
"No, sir. We're going over their ship now to make sure they don't have any surprises. I think we should go through with the eldritch security protocols as well, just to be safe."
"Make it so," said Hackett in an approving tone. He personally didn't think there would be any otherworldly problems with these new aliens, but it never hurt to be cautious. "And the Quarians?"
"They're clean, Admiral," came the reply. "Very clean, in fact; it seems that our guests place high value on personal sanitation. Do you want to see them now?"
"Yes. Escort them up to the conference room, if you please."
Hackett ended the call and looked around at the impromptu welcoming committee he'd assembled. Williams was joining via a holo-link suite the techies had set up. Hackett made a mental note to put them up for a commendation for assembling it so fast. The image of the Field Marshal was tinged blue and slightly dulled, but held himself with quiet, ironclad resolve that was undiminished by the occasional flickers as the suite buffered its connection.
On his right sat the Cyrus's captain, Uravy. She was a short for a Nazzadi, barely coming past Hackett's shoulder, but she made up for that with a frame of whipcord muscle and sinew. Combined with her fierce scarlet eyes, she resembled a cobra preparing to strike. The image was only enhanced by the overdeveloped canines that peeked out from between her lips. A friendly face, she was not.
Not exactly an all-star cast, but it'll have to do, thought Hackett.
He idly reached to his left ear and fiddled with LRU piece inside. Damn, but these things were irritating! They were really going to have to look into those universal translators the Citadel used, because the idea of constantly having to wear a pair of high-tech earplugs was intolerable.
The door to the conference room abruptly slid open and a fresh-faced lieutenant stepped inside. Hackett sat up straight in his chair, affecting what he hoped was a steely, aloof air. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his fellow officers do the same.
The lieutenant cleared his throat, seemingly unsure as to exactly how he should proceed, but determined to do his best. He saluted, looking at each officer in turn. "Captain Uravy, Admiral Hackett, Field Marshal Williams, I present the Quarian envoys."
So saying, he stepped to one side and performed a neat half-turn, standing stiffly at attention. Moments later, the Quarians filed into the room, flanked by a pair of armored marines.
So these are Quarians, thought Hackett.
There were three of them, somewhat shorter and slighter of build than their escorts, encased in form-fitting environmental suits. He guessed that they were all male, though he wasn't familiar enough with Quarian physiology to be sure. The lower portions of their legs bowed backwards, giving them an almost avian gait. Their faces were hidden behind glass visors, so opaque that Hackett could only make out their glowing silvery eyes and some shadowed features. Like the Turians, they had three large fingers on each hand, far thicker than human digits.
Why do so many aliens have only three fingers? Hackett wondered privately.
The Quarians formed alongside each other in front of the table. The one in the middle took a step forward and gave and extravagant bow.
"Greetings, noble humans," he said in what was obviously a masculine voice. His helmet's speaker gave his voice a distinctly synthetic tone, but that did nothing to diminish the honeyed charm he layered every word. "I am Nator'Xaeras vas Hupal nar Volsim. Thank you for granting us this audience. Please, allow me to introduce my companions." He motioned to the Quarian on his left. "This is Admiral Rael'Zorah vas Neema nar Rayya, who speaks on behalf of the Migrant Fleet's Admiralty Board."
The Quarian assumed a rigid posture and snapped a salute. Hackett found himself feeling impressed by the discipline in his gesture. "An honor to meet you all," he said.
"And this is Zoh'Nulan vas Naera nar Tolath, representing the civilians of the Migrant Fleet," Nator continued, indicating the other Quarian. He gave a jerky bow, obviously trying to not make a fool of himself. Hackett didn't need to be an expert in body language to see that he was nervous as hell.
"A pleasure to meet you all," said Hackett in a neutral tone, politely inclining his head. "I am Rear Admiral Steven Hackett. With me are Captain Uravy and Field Marshal Amos Williams." Both men nodded their own heads as their names were called.
He remained seated, as did Williams and Uravy. It was a calculated move; while they might not be able to truly negotiate anything, Hackett was going to conduct these talks from a position of strength. The Federation was in charge here, not the Quarians.
When he felt that sufficient time had passed, Hackett gestured towards the seats in front of them. "Please, take a seat," he said, as if he were addressing a subordinate.
Wordlessly, the Quarians did as they were bidden. If they took umbrage with Hackett's manner, they gave no indication. Then again, it was hard to tell what they were thinking, thanks to their visors.
"Before we begin," Hackett said, "I want to make it clear that we do not have the authority to approve anything here. The best we can do is forward your proposals to our superiors back home."
"Of course, Admiral," said the Quarian called Nator, smooth as freshly-polished marble. "We have no intention of trying to force your hand. As I said before, my people only want to have a strong and mutually beneficial relationship with yours."
"That's good to hear," said Hackett, making a mental note to keep a close eye on this particular Quarian. He was obviously the brains behind the group and had a gifted tongue to back it up. Hackett dismissed the lieutenant and the marines and fixed his gaze squarely on Nator.
"So, let's cut right to the heart of the matter: what exactly do you want from us?"
The Quarian chuckled, as if Hackett had just told a rather amusing joke. "My good Admiral, you seem to have things confused. We don't want to take anything from you; we want to help you."
"Help us?" asked Williams, brow furrowed with sudden suspicion. "What do you mean?"
Nator's glowing eyes smiled. "I imagine it has escaped your notice, being preoccupied with more…important matters, but at present, your race is the biggest thing to hit Citadel space in centuries. Not only are you a new face in galactic society, you're entirely unlike anything ever encountered."
"And that matters to us why, exactly?" demanded Williams, his frown growing more pronounced.
"I'm glad you asked," said Nator brightly. "You see, you're the only race encountered in history that does not use mass effect technology as the standard of their civilization. Forgive me for seeming crass, but you humans are a most fascinating oddity from our perspective."
"I'm a Nazzadi, not a human," said Uravy with a hint of frost on her words.
"And a most impressive Nazzadi, if I'm any judge," said Nator, sounding entirely genuine with his compliment, even in the less-than stellar translation the LRUs gave.
"Are we actually fascinating?" asked Hackett. "Or frightening?"
"Both, actually," Nator admitted. "I would be lying if I said your existence didn't cause more than a few sleepless nights in some official or another. But, between the two, fascination is by far the dominant feeling, and there is no shortage of people in Citadel space that would absolutely love to start exchanging goods and services.
"However, due to this unfortunate conflict with the Turians, the Council has taken a stance of strict neutrality; that means nobody can trade with you legally. Such a shame, really." Nator shook his head sadly, as though the thought was utterly heartbreaking.
"And I suppose that's where you come in, then?" Williams posited. "The Quarians are not part of the Citadel anymore, if I understand correctly. Which means you are not bound by any of their edicts. And since you're here, I'm guessing that you intend to take advantage of that fact."
"I couldn't have said it better myself," said Nator. "So, here is what we are proposing: the Migrant Fleet will act as a mercantile intermediary between your people and the Council races. We will sell the products you give us to them, taking a percentage of the profits. Of course, you will have the greater share of the money," he assured them.
"How big of a percentage?" Hackett asked.
"Hmm," Nator hummed, tapping one finger on the table. "Perhaps a 60-40 split? That should make everyone happy."
Hackett mulled the numbers over in head. That was pretty close to an even division, and while he was no trade guru, he could guarantee every company in the Federation would want more than that.
"How much cargo could you ship?" he asked.
This time, it was Rael who spoke. "The Migrant Fleet is the largest naval fleet in the galaxy. Optimally, we could easily ship tens of thousands of tons' worth of your goods to the Citadel markets."
"That seems to be a bit low," noted Hackett. In fact, it sounded miniscule. The Federation's own cargo freighters could each carry upwards of ten thousand tons. If the Quarians had the biggest fleet in the galaxy at their disposal, surely they could move more than that?
"Unfortunately, while we do have the largest fleet, it's also the only place where we can live," said Rael. "Because of this, we do not have much in the way of free space."
"But, even that amount would surely be an improvement over your current rate, wouldn't you agree?" interjected Nator. "And I'm sure that with a little tweaking, we could increase our carrying capacity. Isn't that right, Zoh?"
The last Quarian, who had remained silent throughout the exchange, flinched in surprise at being addressed. "Oh….! Uh, yes! We have had to make alterations to our ships to adapt to new situations. Increasing our cargo space would certainly be doable, providing we have the means to do so."
"Excellent!" Nator turned back to the naval officers. "As you can see, we are in a prime position to be of service to you. By the way," he added, "you might want to inform your superiors that, since your products will be a rarity within Citadel space, they can set some very exorbitant prices."
"How exorbitant are we talking here?" asked Williams.
In answer Nator raised one arm, calling up an orange-hued gauntlet of what seemed to be solid light. An omnitool, Hackett realized. The two marines gripped their weapons in alarm, but settled down at Hackett's raised hand. Unperturbed, Nator tapped some keys and a holographic screen popped open in the air. To the officers' surprise and confusion, it displayed an image of a broken army helmet.
"This helmet was picked up by a scavenger vessel some time ago and put up for auction on the extranet," Nator explained. "As you can see, it's completely ruined, but it still went on to sell for ten thousand credits."
Now that raised some eyebrows. Hackett had no idea what the exchange rate was between the Terranote and Citadel credits, but the number still had a good amount of zeroes to it. If nothing else, it would certainly peak the interests of the corporate bigshots back home.
"All right, so, to sum up in a nutshell," said Williams, "your people want to enter a trade agreement with us, where you will serve as middlemen taking our goods to the Citadel races. In return, you will take a bit of the profits made while giving us the lion's share. Have I got it right?"
"Down to the very essence of it," said Nator happily.
Williams' image leaned back in his chair, arms crossed about his chest. "Well, I won't deny that it sounds like a reasonably good deal. But, there are a couple of problems that I can foresee." He raised a finger. "The first one is that we don't use credits. Our own currency, as far as I know, isn't even registered as part of the galactic economy."
"That shouldn't be too much of a problem," said Nator. "Once we've established the exchange rate between your currency and the credit system, we can proceed with trading. Failing that, I'm sure we could come to some other arrangement."
"Maybe," said Williams. His expression turned sober. "The second issue I have is a bit more personal."
"I think I can guess what it is," said Rael. "You want to know how you can trust us."
Williams nodded. "Exactly. Much as I would like to, I'm afraid I can't simply give you the benefit of doubt. My people are not in the habit of trusting aliens. In our experience, they seem to only want to kill and enslave us. This conflict with the Turians has not done anything to help with that perception. You've been courteous enough to not shoot us on sight, but that's not enough to gain our confidence. If you want to enter any kind of partnership with the Federation, I need some kind of guarantee that you won't stab us in the back in one way or another."
"That's simple enough," said Rael. "The fact of the matter is that we can't afford to betray you. Our people are critically endangered, and we have no friends in the galaxy. Making an enemy of you would be the worst thing we could do."
"I don't know," said Uravy dubiously. "You could make some big friends with the right gifts." The implication was clear.
Rael let out a bitter laugh. "Captain, I can assure you that my people have no love for the Citadel. When we were driven from our worlds by the geth, the Council banished us to the void of space and has made it a point to keep us there, confined to our ships. If we come to any of their worlds, we are treated like vermin, denied the rights that should be the due of any sapient race and then demonized when we have to turn to illegal means to survive. They call us thieves, liars, suit-rats, and worse." His hands balled into fists and Hackett could almost hear the material of his suit protest the treatment.
"I'd sooner slit my own throat than try to grovel my way into the Council's good graces," Rael growled, eyes blazing as he stared at Uravy. "Entering a trade partnership with you is the best chance we have of making a better life for ourselves, and getting some recompense from the Citadel for casting us out. If you want to trust in anything, trust our spite."
There was a lot of anger behind those words, Hackett could tell; hard, genuine anger at that. Uravy looked impressed, and she didn't impress easily. He definitely believed this Quarian would love nothing more than to gouge the Citadel for their eyeteeth. If the rest of his people were even half as resentful, Hackett was certain they'd follow suit.
"Well, there you have it," said Nator. "Our cards are all on the table. I know that I speak for all Quarians when I say that we dearly hope you will accept our offer. We want nothing more than to be your dearest friends." He spread his hands in a magnanimous gesture. "After all, nobody can last forever alone in a cruel universe like this. I'm sure your people appreciate that fact more than anyone."
You're a real smooth-talker, aren't you? Hackett thought. No wonder you got this job. You could probably convince a mother to give you her firstborn child and then have her buy it back. Outwardly, he put on an affable face, nodding politely.
"Very well. As I said, we can't agree to anything at present. We'll forward your proposal to the Federation as soon as we're able. If our superiors wish to pursue further talks, they'll let you know. What's the best way we can contact your fleet?"
"The fleet doesn't stay in one place for very long," said Rael. "And we prefer not to give out its location on a whim." He inclined his head in an apologetic manner. "We have trust issues of our own, Admiral."
"Looks like we have something in common," remarked Hackett wryly. "So what do you suggest instead?"
Rael thought for a moment. "If it is not too much trouble, I would propose that we grant leave of one of our own to serve as an envoy to your people. That way, if your superiors do intend to discuss things further, we can be contacted with minimal risk to the Flotilla. Will that be acceptable, Admiral?"
"I'll pass that along as well," said Hackett. "Is there anything else?"
"Actually, yes," Nator said. "I was just thinking that, if we really want to set up demand for your goods—assuming that our deal goes through, of course—then perhaps it might be a good idea to give Citadel space a little taste of what you have to offer."
"Like what?" asked Hackett. "I hope you aren't suggesting that we hand out some of our military hardware."
"Oh, no, no, no," said Nator emphatically. "Nothing like that. I was thinking more along the lines of random paraphernalia. Things like uniforms, food items, and other little knickknacks. Just a little something to whet the galaxy's appetite and make them hungry for more."
Hackett was certain that this slippery character was hatching some sort of plan, but he couldn't see what. He looked around at his two compatriots, silently asking their opinion on the matter. Williams just shrugged and said, "I don't see the harm. It's not like we'd be giving out top secret stuff."
"We have plenty of surplus uniforms and other miscellaneous items," Uravy put in. "We can easily give them some."
"All right then," said Hackett. "I'll see to it that the quartermaster gets you some gewgaws."
"That is most generous of you," said Nator, sweet as honey. "I hope that this will be the start of a most bountiful relationship between our people."
#
Sometime later, the Quarians departed from the Cyrus and made their way out of the Castellus system, headed for the Trebia relay. Nator was in a very cheery mood, humming tunelessly and tapping out a rhythm on the dashboard with his fingers. To see him, you'd think he'd just won some sort of prize.
"You seem happy," Rael noted.
Nator looked over his shoulder, eyes smiling. "I am indeed, Rael! In fact, you could say that I'm positively delighted right now!"
"What for?" asked Zoh, a sour note in his voice. "We didn't make any kind of deal from the humans. All we did get out of this trip was a mountain of junk."
He wasn't far off the mark there. As promised, the humans had loaded the Mirah almost to the brim with their trinkets. Rael was taken aback by the sheer variety of the stuff; clothing, footwear, board games, even a few examples of their cuisine in the form of ration packs.
"Oh, don't be so dramatic, Zoh," Nator chided. "You can't seriously expect a treaty to be set up in just one day. These things take time and effort, and we've already made good progress. The humans now know we are interested in being friends and that they stand to gain a great deal by partnering with us. Our foot is in the door, so to speak.
"As for our new merchandise, well, one race's trash is another's treasure, as the saying goes. This is our first step on the road to riches," Nator proclaimed with utmost confidence, as though there could be no other possibility.
Zoh picked up a human military uniform sealed in plastic and stared dubiously at it. "They sure don't look all that valuable to me."
"Value is, in many respects, purely a personal concept," said Nator. "You just need to find the right market. Speaking of, we'll be taking a slight detour on our trip. We don't want to miss out on the auction, do we?"
Rael and Zoh snapped their gazes over at him in near-perfect unison. "Auction?" asked Rael. "What auction?"
"Why, the auction on Illium, of course!" said Nator, as though it were the most obvious thing in the universe. "We've got a lot of fresh stock to unload, after all."
"But…why do we need to go to Illium?" asked Zoh. "Couldn't you just open up a bidding site on the extranet?"
"Hah!" Nator scoffed. "That's small-time stuff! I'm aiming for the big leagues, where real money gets thrown around! Plus, since Illium isn't technically part of Citadel space, nobody can complain about that pesky neutrality policy they've got."
"You never said anything about an auction," growled Rael. "When did you set this up?"
"Oh, a couple months ago, I think," said Nator nonchalantly. "This particular auction caters to some of the richest beings in the galaxy, so you need to grab an opening well in advance because they fill up fast. Don't worry; we'll make it in plenty of time."
"That's not the point!" snapped Rael. "Why didn't you tell us this earlier?"
"What difference would that have made?" asked Nator. "Besides, I'm telling you now, aren't I? Now, no distractions, please; we're coming up on the relay. A couple more jumps, and we'll be in the Crescent Nebula before you know it!"
In any other circumstance, Rael would have had Nator thrown into a brig for a few days to teach him a lesson about the virtues of humility. As it was, he could only stand there and stew in his exasperation at the purveyor's insolence. It was a good thing Han'Gerrel wasn't here; he might have tried to strangle Nator.
Some hours later, they arrived at their impromptu destination. Rael looked out through the ship's main viewport at the planet below, a great silvery orb floating in the vastness of space. He could see the cascade of lights from the cities below, winding their way across the planet's surface.
Its appearance was welcoming, but to Rael, it was in the same way that an ambush predator presented an attractive front to prey. He knew perfectly well what Illium was truly like; if you were unfortunate enough to stray into the wrong areas, you'd find that it could be as dangerous as the worst Terminus slums.
Nator, by contrast, looked at the world with undisguised glee, excited as a child presented with a new toy. "There she is, my friends," he said with an almost reverential air. "Illium: the greatest bastion of naked profit and raw ambition in the galaxy. No real government, just corporate interests all trying to grab as much money as they can, however they can."
No surprise that you would love it, thought Rael, but held his tongue.
As Nator maneuvered his ship down to Illium's surface, he opened up a call screen and typed in a number. A few seconds later, an Asari appeared on the window. She had purple tinge to her complexion and looked to be in her middle years, but with her people, it was always hard to tell.
"Gelinsa, darling!" Nator exclaimed. "Radiant as ever, I see! You don't look a day over three hundred!"
"And you're as shameless as ever," the Asari retorted dryly. "Let's skip the flattery this time around. You promised that you'd have some really hot merchandise if I got you a place in the auction house." She sat back from the screen and folded her arms imperiously. "I've kept my end of the deal, and I want to remind you that it wasn't easy; I had to call in a fair amount of favors to make it happen, so you'd better have something really good for me."
"My sweet Gelinsa, how long have we known each other?" Nator asked, affecting a wounded tone. "Haven't I always delivered on my promises?"
"Your mouth writes checks that you've been lucky enough to cash, so far," said Gelinsa, "Someday, that eloquent tongue of yours is going to write a bad one and it's going to get nailed to a wall." By the sound of it, she anticipated being the one who did the nailing, and had even set aside a frame for the occasion.
Nator, ever the imperturbable Quarian, floated over the implied threat gracefully. "Rest assured, I've got something that will absolutely sell for a staggering sum. Several things, actually. We'll be down momentarily, so if you could be a dear and alert the port authorities of Nos Astra that we're coming in, it would be much appreciated."
"I'll let them know to grant your ship a docking section," the Asari said, staring at Nator with an expression that was just a few degrees shy of absolute zero. "This cargo of yours better be as valuable as you say."
The call ended and Rael looked down at Nator. "Who was that?"
"Gelinsa Kyros," answered Nator as he gently eased his ship down towards the planet's surface. "You could say that she's a bigtime pawnbroker; trafficking in rare and exotic articles is her trade, and she's about as cutthroat as they come."
"I gathered as much," said Rael. His brief introduction to her impressed upon him the wisdom of not getting on her bad side.
Some minutes later, they had descended through Illium's atmosphere and headed to a vacant strip in the spaceport of Nos Astra. With almost careless ease, Nator landed his ship with barely a bump. His task complete, Nator stood up and clapped his hands.
"And we're here! Let's get going!"
A hatch in the rear of the Mirah opened up and a ramp descended to the tarmac. Nator strolled briskly down, snagging one of the parcels on his way. Rael and Zoh followed in his wake.
Outside, Nos Astra stretched out before them, even brighter and more colorful up close. Massive skyscrapers lined the city like gleaming monoliths, housing thousands of beings within. Great lines of aircars made their way through the city, their soft humming filling the air with an ambient thrum. For one who lived his life almost entirely aboard spaceships, Rael found the noises to be oddly comforting.
But he had no time to enjoy the sights, for he noticed a well-dressed Asari coming their way, flanked by a small cadre of guards. Eclipse mercenaries, judging by the black sun icon splashed across their yellow-hued armor. Rael recognize the Asari as the one from the call, and made a point to not draw attention to himself.
Gelinsa stopped in front of Nator, arms crossed behind her back. "All right, Nator, let's have it. What have you brought me?"
In answer, Nator held out the item he had taken with him. Rael could see that it was one of the human uniforms.
"Feast your lovely eyes on this," said Nator with the air of a god presenting a divine blessing. Gelinsa took the plastic-sealed uniform and scrutinized it. After a moment, she looked back at Nator, appearing not the least impressed.
"Is this some kind of joke?" she demanded. "You can't seriously be telling me that a scrap of clothing is the hot merchandise you promised me!"
"Ah, but it's not just any kind of clothing," said Nator. He pointed a finger at the uniform. "What you are holding in your hand is a genuine military uniform from the humans."
For a long moment, Gelinsa said nothing. Her eyes went wide and she looked back at the uniform, studying it with such intensity that it might have burst into flames. Gelinsa snapped her gaze back at Nator, all trace of her previous irritation vanished.
"This is the real thing?" she asked breathlessly. "You have proof of authenticity?"
"But of course!" proclaimed Nator. "Hard copies all, written and signed by their own hand! And that uniform is not the only thing I brought; the cargo hold is stuffed full of human products, all ready to be sold to whoever wants them."
"Goddess," Gelinsa breathed. "This is the very first human merchandise to be auctioned off in the galaxy, some even with historical significance!"
She lowered her eyes back down to the uniform she held in her hand, staring at it as if it were refined element zero. Then, she whipped around to her guards and snapped, "Don't just stand there! Get a loading crew over here! I want this stuff moved to the auction house in the next hour!"
As the guards hastened to obey, Rael felt a twinge of optimism rise within him. Maybe this side trip wouldn't turn out so bad after all.
#
When Rael imagined what an auction might look like, he pictured a cavernous room filled with all manner of opulence. People from all races would be facing a stage while some auctioneer shouted out the prices so fast they were barely perceptible.
The reality was considerably different.
The room they were in, while certainly big, was not the luxurious domicile he'd expected. Instead, it was a white, sterile place that seemed more fitting for an office than a place hosting the richest beings in the galaxy. There were a few pieces of artwork on the walls, but nothing much else. About the only thing that his imagination had gotten right was the amount of beings there; almost a hundred of them sat in tiny chairs, crammed practically shoulder to shoulder.
The majority of the gathering was Asari, but Rael also could see a fair amount of Salarians, no doubt from very important families, along with a couple dozen Batarians. A few Hanar were scattered here and there, attended to by Drell bodyguards, with some rotund Volus in the mix. There was even an Elcor present, his immense bulk making him stand out like a beacon. Still more people stood on the sides of the room, listening and whispering intently to headsets.
Nator sidled up to Rael, an amused twinkle in his eyes. "You don't seem to be very awestruck," he said.
Rael shrugged. "I guess I just expected it to be a bit more…impressive. This place looks more like a meeting of the Conclave than an auction."
"Well, don't let looks fool you," Nator laughed. "The people in here are the richest beings in the galaxy. Most of them are old money. As far as I know, nobody here has a net worth of less than ten billion credits. The Asari here are supposedly trillionaires."
"Trillionaires?" Rael gaped in shock. "How is that even possible?"
"Like I said, most of them are old money. And with Asari, when I say old, I mean extremely old. Some of them can trace their lineage all the way back to the pre-industrial nobility on Thessia, so you can imagine the sheer amount of interest they've generated." Nator swept his arm across the room. "Whole planets turn on these people's whims; they're the biggest movers and shakers around."
Rael suddenly felt very small and insignificant. Fortunately, he didn't spend very long ruminating on that fact, for at that moment an immaculately-dressed Salarian strode onto the stage in front of everyone. Nator gave him a subtle nudge.
"Let's take our seats. The auction's about to start."
The three Quarians sat down in a booth reserved for spectators, which offered them an unobstructed view of the whole scene. The Salarian took up position behind a podium, cleared his throat and addressed the crowd.
"Good afternoon, everyone, and welcome to the Nos Astra Auction Consortium. I am pleased to announce that we have some truly exotic items for you today."
He gestured off to one side and a pair of Asari came onto the stage, wheeling along a plastic display case. Rael saw that it held an assortment of the uniforms they had brought, each one on its own pedestal. A curious murmur rippled through the crowd as they watched as the case was set up beside the podium.
"Lot number one is a complete set of human dress uniforms from each branch of their military," said the Salarian. The murmurs grew louder and more excited. "The items you see are in perfect condition and possess written proof of authenticity, declaring that they are of the style currently in use at the time of the Human-Turian War. Each package contains a cap, jacket, undershirt, slacks and a pair of shoes. I will start the bidding at five million credits."
Rael suppressed the derisive snort that threatened to come out of him. The auctioneer had to be out of his mind; five million credits for a few sets of clothing? There was no way that anyone here would be willing to spend that much, even if they were—
An Asari in the front row raised her hand.
It was all Rael could do to not let loose the strangled cry of shock that threatened to burst free of him. Beside him, Zoh let out a soft, dumbstruck, "Wha…?" Rael knew they were both thinking the same thing: five million credits, right at the start? Insanity! Complete and utter insanity!
The auctioneer inclined his head towards the Asari, smiling slightly. "That's five million credits to Matriarch Reema. Again, five million credits. Do I hear five million five hundred thousand?"
No sooner had he proposed the new bid when another Asari raised her hand. Without missing a beat, the Salarian acknowledged the newest bidder, his smile now a few teeth wider. Rael felt his mouth sag open, but he couldn't close it. "Thank you. Five million five hundred to Matriarch Omara, that's five million, five hundred thousand credits. Do I hear six million?"
The amount was swiftly bid by Matriarch Reema. An amount of six million five hundred thousand was then proposed, and just as quickly accepted, this time by a Batarian in the third row. The price continued to soar; seven million, seven million five hundred, eight million. After a time, the auctioneer stopped offering up halfway amounts and just kept going up in single-million increments; nine million, ten million, eleven million, and on and on. Each time a bid was called, a hand from somewhere in the crowd would immediately be thrust into the air to claim it.
Eventually, the price reached the staggering sum of forty million credits. It was now a pitched battle between the first two Asari, each one apparently dead-set on being the one who bought the uniforms. The Salarian looked as if he could barely contain his delight; by this point, he had chosen to go up in five-million increments.
"That's forty million credits to Matriarch Reema," he said, savoring the number as if it were a fine meal. "Forty million." He looked over at the other Asari. "Do I hear forty-five million?"
Matriarch Omara seemed to think it over for a minute, began to raise her hand, but then dropped it back down, shaking her head. Her rival smiled triumphantly.
"So I have forty million credits to Matriarch for the human uniforms." The auctioneer swept the crowd with his gaze. "Do I hear forty-four million?"
This time, no one raised their hand.
"No?" asked the Salarian with a hint of disappointment. "How about forty-three?"
Still, there was no bid. It seemed that a limit had finally been reached for this lot.
"Are you sure?" he asked to no one in particular. When there came no response, he picked up a wooden gavel and raised it into the air. "It's selling here at forty million credits, fair warning now. And selling, selling, last chance…" He paused dramatically, and then brought the gavel down with a resounding bang.
"Sold, to Matriarch Reema! Thank you very much!"
At the declaration, the room erupted into applause, as if some glorious event had just transpired. The display case was wheeled away in preparation for the next lot. Rael just stared in silent captivation and shock at the spectacle. Zoh kept making soft, wheezing sounds in his helmet, so transfixed that he hadn't blinked since the bidding had started. Even Nator seemed taken aback by the price.
Forty million credits. Such an amount was nearly beyond his ability to conceptualize. No Quarian would have ever seen that much money in their lives. Nor would most other non-Quarians, for that matter. And that was just the first lot; there were at least a dozen more to come. The grand total, if this first bidding war was anything to judge by, would be absolutely astronomical.
The same porters bustled back onto the stage with the next lot. This one was a finely-honed combat knife with a broad, thick blade that was black as night. If the uniforms had intrigued the crowd, this weapon had them enraptured.
"Lot number two is a human combat knife called a 'bowie knife,'" the auctioneer said. "It features a black composite-alloy blade ten inches long and an ultra-durable rubberized handle. The knife is in perfect condition and comes with its own sheathe and storage case. Written proof of authenticity is included. I will start the bidding at six million credits."
And so it went. The knife ended up selling for even more than the uniforms, a full fifty million credits. A first aid kit went for thirty million. A survival bag brought in a whopping seventy million. For hours, human goods were displayed and sold at prices that were several steps beyond merely exorbitant.
Finally, the Salarian called the auction to an end, promising the patrons that there would be plenty more available tomorrow. They filed out with grumbles of disappointment. Rael felt dazed; never before had he seen so much money be tossed around so readily. It was enough to make his head spin.
He was roused from his stupor by the sight of Gelinsa striding towards them. She no longer seemed hostile. On the contrary, she looked absolutely charming and friendly, which made Rael distinctly nervous. She stopped in front of Nator, her face split by a wide grin.
"I have to say, Nator, you really came through here," she said. "I haven't had a windfall like this since I got ahold of a Prothean relic from Kopis!"
"I'm glad that you're pleased with the result," said Nator, the very picture of humility. "Now, would you mind if we settle up for the day?"
"Certainly." Gelinsa snapped her fingers and a Salarian scurried forward, carrying a black box in his arms. She flipped open its lid, showing its contents to the Quarians.
Black and gold credit chits lined the box, arrayed into neat stacks of ten and held in place by plastic bands, the currency marker stamped right in the middle of each rectangular piece. They looked almost as if they'd been freshly minted in a factory, with not even the faintest trace of wear and tear.
"After deducting the commission for the auction, and my own cut of the profits, your total earnings come in at two-hundred and fifty million credits," said Gelinsa casually, as if the amount was nothing to write home about.
Rael looked down at the chits in abject wonder. Two-hundred and fifty million credits, divided amongst a hundred little vouchers. Such an amount was almost mythical to him. That kind of money would have paid for a total refit for one of the Migrant Fleet's ships. A very literal fortune was right in front of him, and brought about by selling things that were, for all intents and purposes, cheap baubles.
Gelinsa closed the box, causing Rael to blink in surprise. "The chits each contain two-point-five million apiece; I trust that will be acceptable?"
"Of course," said Nator, taking the box from the Salarian porter, giddy with triumph. "I'll let you know if I happen to score another hit like this."
"I'll be waiting to hear the good news," said Gelinsa. "A pleasure doing business with you, Nator."
Without another word, she spun on her heel and strode away. Nator hugged the box to his chest as if it were a long-lost lover. "Oh, you are a wonderful little treasure trove, aren't you?" he cooed. "Let's get you back to the ship and tucked away nice and snug."
As the three Quarians walked out of the room, Rael reflected on what the Flotilla could do with such abundances of money. Suddenly, all of the promises Nator had made at the Conclave didn't seem so fanciful. Now, they seemed not only to be possible, but easily achievable. If mundane human trinkets could sell for such obscene prices, Rael could only imagine what their actually valuable merchandise would go for.
Even if they would only receive a portion of the profits, the revenue would still be absolutely immense, more than any Quarian could have ever dreamed of earning. They could do so much with that kind of money. Buy more ships, more utilities, perhaps even favors from important people. The possibilities were almost endless.
But there would be dangers involved as well. Such an influx of wealth would attract plenty of unwanted attention. The pirate raids against the Migrant Fleet would likely become even more frequent, more aggressive with the promise of greater booty. And the Turians would undoubtedly be infuriated by the Quarians profiting off of their folly, maybe even to the point of launching a retaliatory strike against them. Being the middlemen for the Federation would paint a large target on their collective backs.
We are going to have to tread carefully now, Rael thought. More than ever.