Omega 1

Someone else had gotten it wrong.

Mordin had been on Omega for just over a year now. His clinic had been running for almost ten months. When he'd first arrived in Gozu District, the locals had been hesitant. Not ungrateful for the medical services he offered, but wary of what would happen after they accepted them. They'd assumed it was only a matter of time before one of the gangs took over his clinic- the Blood Pack, perhaps, or the Talons, or Eclipse. The gang leaders had assumed much the same thing.

He'd taught them otherwise. The gangs had tried to force their way in, certainly: the krogan Blood Pack first, and then Eclipse. Tried and failed. He'd fought them off, with guile, diplomacy and - when necessary - sheer force. After their initial attempts, the big gangs had decided that control of one small salarian-run clinic in the outskirts of Omega simply wasn't worth the trouble.

He'd allowed himself to think that it was a lesson he'd only have to teach once. He'd thought the clinic would be safe in his assistants' hands for the two weeks it would take him to visit the monitoring stations on Tuchanka. But, while he'd been away, members of a minor local gang had decided that the salaran doctor's clinic was too tempting a target to pass up.

It had started small, about eight days ago. A few shipments of supplies that went missing, or arrived later than they should have done, contents ransacked, misfiled or missing. Then the clinic staff started reporting being followed home after work, shadowed by tails so obvious they had to want to be noticed.

Then they'd started turning up at the clinic, offering their services as 'security'. That was the day before yesterday, the day before he returned from Tuchanka.

There was no alternative. He was going to have to kill them.

Not only to stop them, but to set an example for the other gangs, bigger and potentially more dangerous, and for the vorcha and other scavengers. Regrettable. But necessary. On Omega, you either defended what was yours or you accepted that what you'd thought was yours was actually somebody else's.

Fortunately he still remembered a few tricks from his days in the Special Tasks Group. It helped that the gang were sloppy, unprofessional. Almost insulted by it. It was no effort at all to identify some of their members and then hack into their communications systems. That gave him the identities of the rest of the gang. It also gave him the location of their current hideout: a small warehouse only a few blocks away.

He had a few things to unpack from storage before he was ready to depart.

From the outside, the warehouse looked to have been deserted for months. But Mordin was confident in his analysis. Empty now, but this is the place. He'd brought a useful tool with him: a modified surveillance drone, equipped with a camera and some other surprises.

The drone moved almost silently throughout the warehouse, scanning and analysing. The warehouse itself was not in good repair; most likely the gang had only moved in after its previous owners had abandoned it entirely. Good. Can use that.

Once his final preparations were complete, Mordin waited patiently in his chosen hiding place. He watched as the traffic ebbed and flowed in the street outside. He tapped out a short message on his omni-tool; broadcast it over the gang's communication network.

Gang members started arriving in the warehouse within minutes of him sending out the message. When they arrived, they saw a small salarian, unarmed, standing nervously in the centre of the warehouse. Weak. Harmless. Just what they expect to see.

"Got my message? Good," said Mordin. His voice echoed throughout the warehouse. "Wanted to discuss your proposed agreement."

The gang members circled around in the darkness of the warehouse. All here yet? Not sure. Stall for time.

Mordin knew from his infiltration into the gang's communication system that their leader was a scarred turian, face unpainted and gray. As expected, the turian was out in front of the gang members in the warehouse now. Mordin recognised several of the gang's lieutenants pushing up behind him as well. Not wise. Standing operating protocol in STG was for some more senior members to always stay back from the front-lines, away from the rest of the leadership. That kept the group safe from attempted decapitation strikes: even if a determined or lucky attack took out the bulk of the leadership, somebody would be left to recover, regroup, and to organise any retaliatory action. Not this time.

"We're listening, doctor." the turian growled slowly, the usual two-toned turian vocals pitched deliberately low and menacing.

"Interference in my clinic's administration unacceptable," said Mordin simply. "Pressure on assistants intolerable. Not willing to countenance any connection with your organisation at present time. Or any future time."

The turian leader's eyes narrowed.

"Well, you've suddenly grown a carapace, doctor," he said. "Your message said you wanted to discuss surrender."

"No change in offer " Mordin countered "Perhaps misunderstanding of original intent. Meant happy to discuss your surrender."

Some of the gang members in the back laughed at that, but their leader wasn't amused. Mordin saw one of his hands reach instinctively for the pistol at his belt, talons flexing. As expected, he thought, No way to resolve this peacefully. The gang had set their sights on control of the clinic: backing down now would be a show of weakness that their leadership couldn't afford to make..

"Here's my new proposal," the turian growled, teeth bared and mandibles flaring. "You work for us now, doctor. And if you don't like that, well .. there are plenty more doctors out there."

The gang members crowded around the lone salarian figure in the shadows. Their weapons gleamed menacingly in the darkness. Mordin narrowed his eyes, identifying faces, counting and considering. All here. Good. Can begin.

"Came here to negotiate your surrender in good faith," he protested. "Didn't expect to waste time trading barbs with self-important cloacas."

The turian blinked, snarled, lifted his pistol up to the doctor's head. "Any last clever words, salarian?" he asked.

On the other side of the street, outside the warehouse, in the same place he'd been standing since before the gang arrived, Mordin smiled mirthlessly to himself. He tapped out a few commands on his omni-tool, and whispered a few words into a microphone. Back in the warehouse, the off-the-shelf hologram he'd spent an hour editing into shape shook its head and echoed them back.

"Should have scanned the warehouse for body heat on arrival," he said. "Would have been surprised by results. Serious mistake. Perhaps learn better in next life."

The turian's only response to this strange comment was to thrust his pistol into the salarian face in front of him and pull down hard on the trigger.

At this point, things started happening very quickly. Luckily the surveillance drone waiting in the warehouse and projecting Mordin's holographic image had cameras to capture it all perfectly.

First, the gang leader's shot passed harmlessly through the image of the salarian's head and pinged harmlessly off the opposite wall. Then Mordin's broadcast switched off and the hologram winked out of existence. The gang members immediately started shouting and arguing amongst themselves. Good. Just as planned.

Seconds later the security mechs Mordin had unpacked from storage earlier that day and positioned carefully around the warehouse smashed through the windows, pointed their weapons at the gang members and opened fire. And only seconds after that a spark from one of the mechs' shots ignited one of the pockets of propane gas that had been slowly filling the lower floors of the warehouse, ever since Mordin's drone had cut through a few mouldering pipes earlier in the evening.

The ensuing series of explosions brought down first one wall, then another, and then the whole warehouse came crashing down. Bricks and masonry shattered and dust and smoke billowed upwards. And still the mechs kept shooting, steadily and constantly, even as the gang members shouted, panicked, fired wildly back, tried to run, and died.

A stray bullet glanced off the drone itself, and the camera feed cut out, replaced by grey wailing static on Mordin's monitor.

A few minutes later, once the shooting had stopped and the dust had begun to settle, Mordin crawled out of his hiding place on the other side of the street and made his way carefully back to the warehouse. He inspected the scene critically. Between the mechs and the explosion, not much had been left standing. Few of the mechs were left intact, and there was no sign of any living gang members. Messy, he thought to himself. And noisy. Good reason for rarely using mechs in STG. Personal salarian touch greatly preferable.

He looked down at what remained of the body of the gang's leader. Even in death, the turian looked surprised.

Underestimated me, didn't you? The thought didn't give him as much satisfaction as it would have done in his younger days. Getting soft, maybe. Getting old.

He sighed to himself, brought up a hand to rub against the horn on his head. Over thirty now. Not middle-aged anymore. Suppose useful to be reminded occasionally.

"Professor Solus?"

He didn't recognise the new arrival, a nervous looking batarian clad in unfamiliar armour. Not one of the gang. Not hostile. He lowered his weapon, carefully.

"The boss sent me to tell you she wants a meeting," the batarian said, looking around the remains of the warehouse curiously.

No need to ask who he meant. There was only one boss on Omega. Aria.

"I got to say, doc," the batarian said, "You're not exactly what I was expecting. House call get out of hand?""

"Lots of ways to help improve society," Mordin explained patiently, "Sometimes heal patients. Sometimes execute dangerous people." He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. "Both help."

Aria ran Omega from the back rooms of Afterlife, the club she'd taken over centuries ago at the start of her rise to power. The club had been popular even before her takeover; these days it was practically a place of worship. A place where people came to be seen, to mingle with the powerful, and to pay homage to the Queen of Omega. Aria T'Loak.

Assumed name, naturally, he thought to himself. No records of any asari with that name in Council space. No mention of any asari with that name anywhere before Aria first appeared on Omega. Mordin's old friends in Special Tactics and Reconnaissance had been very clear about that, when he started planning his retirement a year ago. Hate entering negotiations with limited intel. Still, worked out reasonably well in the end.

The queue outside Afterlife stretched down the street. The batarian - Bray, he'd called himself - led Mordin to the front of the line and spoke a few words to the elcor bouncer, who ushered them both inside.

Bray led Mordin through the throngs of revellers that filled the lower floor of Afterlife. The crowds were thick, the music was loud and the atmosphere was heavy with alcoholic fumes and narcotic smoke. Above them asari dancers swayed and twisted on elevated stages and raised platforms. Aria herself had started out as such a dancer, or so it was whispered. Many asari worked as dancers, in their maiden phases, when they weren't working as mercenaries or commandos. Suspect Aria keeps a close eye on new dancers now. Wouldn't want to see anyone attempt repeat performance.

Aria was waiting in her usual spot, on a mezzanine level accessible only by either of a pair of wide stairs, flanked by bodyguards, lackeys and hangers-on. They were heading towards those stairs when a figure moved out of the crowd ahead of them, beckoning to them with the talons of one hand.

"A word, Professor?" Mordin recognised the speaker, Nyreen Kandros, from one of his rare previous visits.

"Kandros," he said, neutrally. The turian was an unknown factor, a potentially dangerous complication when dealing with Aria. A former Cabal member, the rumour was that she'd led one of the assault teams that hit Torfan in the final battles of the Hierarchy's war against the batarians four years ago. Nasty business, that. Whatever the truth, Kandros no longer worked for the Hierarchy. These days she was one of Aria's favoured enforcers, and perhaps something more than that. Romantic partners, maybe. Breaking Omega's one rule? Limited data, difficult to draw conclusions.

For the first time, Mordin wished that he'd paid more attention to the excitable rumours about Omega's self-appointed ruler that he'd occasionally heard from his patients and assistants in Gozu District. Detest gossip, but might have been potentially useful intel, he thought to himself. Still, no benefit in self-recrimination now. Move on, learn lessons for future.Salaran interpersonal relationships were much simpler, he reflected. More discussion of parental alleles, less focus on hormones, poetry or mood music.

"Aria had some bad news this morning. Nothing to do with you," said Kandros, "But try not to piss her off too much today."

"Understood," he replied. "Grateful for warning."

"No need to thank me, Professor," replied Kandros, already turning to leave. "You say something stupid and make her angry, I'm the one who'll have to clean things up."

Mordin hurried after Bray, who'd already reached the foot of the stairs. They passed by a small group, several enforcers he remembered from before and a young-looking turian he didn't recognise, standing impatiently among Aria's bodyguards.

Bray motioned Mordin up, wordlessly, then turned and greeted the turian. From the sounds of their conversation, the turian wasn't too happy about having to wait. Probably first time on Omega, thought Mordin. Not used to being pushed to back of line. Aria liked to greet new arrivals to Omega personally, if her spies thought they merited the attention. It gave her a sense of any potential threats to her rule, or of anybody likely to cause unhelpful trouble. But she liked to make them wait, too, unless they forget whose world they were visiting.

Aria was waiting at the platform on top of the stairs, bodyguards standing a discreet distance away. She lounged on a large black sofa, looking up at him thoughtfully without speaking. Dalatrasses would prefer nutrient pool to couch, but same principle. Similar situation: similar social logic called for. He bowed, respectfully. Carefully

"Bray tells me that you've been out fighting with gang members, Professor," Aria said, finally breaking the silence. Her voice was low, controlled. If she was angry, as Kandros had claimed, she was showing no outward sign of it. "Not expanding your clinic's activities to vigilante heroics, I hope?"

"Gang only brief distraction," he said, "Were attempting to take control of clinic. Found this proposition unacceptable. Problem dealt with."

"And you made certain this gang weren't working for me before you 'dealt with' them?" The asari's voice was still deceptively mild, but he thought he could sense the anger behind the surface now. Aria was happy for the gangs to fight one another, as long as they did so in the knowledge that they acted on sufferance. The Blood Pack and the Talons could squabble with each other for control of one corner of the world or another; Eclipse could deal out swift retribution to whoever dared to compete with their trade in red sand; but all of this was done only on the understanding that all of Omega, ultimately, belonged to the asari who sat in front of him. Possibly just projecting own fears, he reminded himself. Always difficult to be sure with asari.

"Gang were inexperienced," he said calmly. "Lacked discipline, training, basic professionalism. Knew if you wanted me out you would be more subtle. More effective."

She laughed softly at that, leant back on her couch and stroked her chin thoughtfully. She started to speak, then looked away, down at the dancing crowds in the open space below them.

"Very well then," she said. "Hurry back to your clinic, salarian." Briefly he wondered why she'd bothered to summon him over for this. Can't just be to enjoy the pleasure of intelligent conversation or stare at missing cranial horn. Besides, wasn't aware of action against gang until after Bray was sent, before warehouse attack.

"Just one more thing," she said, as he began to bow again. Ah, he said. The point. Her voice was deliberately nonchalant, her eyes still focused on the crowds dancing below. "You haven't seen an unfamiliar young asari in your district recently, have you? Coming by the clinic to look for work, or treatment perhaps? She'd be .. oh, about a century old, I imagine." She turned away from the dancers below and studied him carefully.

"Few asari in Gozu," he said simply. "Would remember seeing one, especially if interested in working at clinic. Always looking for new assistants, if properly trained or willing to learn. No asari looking for work. No asari seeking treatment."

"That will be all then" She waved a hand regally, dismissing him from her presence, and turning back to look out over the dance floor again. Bowing again, he backed away slowly, three slow and measured paces, before he turned to leave.

"But Professor, do remember one thing," Aria called to him as he headed down the stairs. "I'm not always subtle."

The queues outside Afterlife had grown longer while Mordin had been inside. Turains and batarians mostly, but also asari, salarians, vorcha, krogan and even one or two quarians. Mordin ran his eye past them professionally, but none of them stood out. No signs of unusual illness or contagion, no faces he recognised from his days in STG.

Omega didn't have a standard day-night cycle; the back-alleys and promenades were bathed in a perpetual twilight gloom. But it looked like one of the main work shifts had ended recently, and those lucky enough to have credits to spend had headed out to their usual spot to do exactly that.

The unpleasantness with the gang resolved, Mordin was keen to get back to his clinic and resume unpacking. He had samples to catalogue: soil, vegetation, seeds, particulates. But one of the figures loitering outside - standing by a wall, not in the queue - had caught his attention. Shorter than most space-faring species, pale skin oddly soft and defenceless, head crowned by a pelt of alien fur. A strange looking creature. A human.

Mordin always found the species fascinating, ever since the Council species had first become aware of them. Never had time for properly rigorous study though. He wondered what a human was doing waiting outside Afterlife. Combat armour shows, scars. Military. Face undecorated, so likely not working with Hierarchy. Mercenary, then. Looking for work? If Aria wasn't hiring, one of the smaller gangs was sure to be. One gang or another always was. Mordin wasn't sure they'd want to risk recruiting a human though. Few human gangs on Omega. None of them significant.

Music was spilling from Afterlife's open doors, a rumbling, pulsating beat, but the human's foot tapped out an subtly different rhythm. Mordin couldn't tell if that was deliberate or not. Maybe just poor musical instincts. He wondered if that was indicative of the species or just an individual quirk. Not wise to attempt to generalise from single subject. He liked to sing, himself, though most other salarians did not.

He watched as the human frowned, shaking her head. She narrowed her eyes, stopped tapping her foot and started rubbing at her temples.

Headache? Migraine? Symptoms of some more serious condition? He peered at the human curiously. Not enough data for reasoned diagnosis.

As he watched, a pair of drunken batarians bumped into the human - deliberately, he was sure - and walked off laughing. Had they turned around, they might have noticed the glow of blue energy that briefly flickered over the human's hands, or the angry look in her eyes as she stared after them. Ah. Biotic. Maybe the gangs wouldn't be as reluctant to hire her as he'd assumed.

Still, would not be good idea for a human to start fight with batarians outside Afterlife, he thought. There were more batarians on Omega than there had been for years, according to his assistants. Mercenaries and privateers, mostly, but also some refugees from the batarian habitats the turians had subjected to orbital bombardment during the war. They were not well disposed to humans. Not well disposed to turians, either, of course, but turians belong to Hierarchy or to gangs - can fight back. A lone human on Omega would not be so fortunate.

Mordin was moving towards the human before he'd even made the conscious decision to intervene. De-escalate, avoid conflict. Another way to help.

"Apologies for interruption," he said as he approached, not quite sure what he was going to say next. "Noticed you appeared in some discomfort earlier. Wondered if - no, wanted to ask: problems with biotic implant?"

The human looked at him warily, the faint, almost imperceptible blue glow that had surrounded her fading imperceptibly away.

"Can help," he explained. "Doctor. If symptoms persist, would happily treat at clinic. Goza District, not far from here. Easy to find: just ask locals for directions." He paused for half a second, considering. "No charge." If the human was looking for work on Omega, she was likely desperate.

"Thanks for the offer, doc." The human's voice was quieter than he'd been expecting. He couldn't interpret her tone. Embarrassed? Amused? "But my biotics are working fine. It's just been a long week. I-"

The human's next words were drowned at by the sudden frenzied beeping of Mordin's personal communicator. It was a message from one of his assistants at the clinic. He scanned it quickly. Fire in Environmental Control? Bad. Burn victims, possible problems with air recycling units? Very bad. No time to waste. Have to start emergency first reponse, triage,...

"Apologies. Have to go. Emergency." Even as he spoke was already scanning the promenade for the nearest cab. "If change mind later, don't forget: clinic in Gozu District."

He didn't wait long enough to hear if the human replied. Sixty seconds later he was airborne, back en route to Gozu District, firing off commands and advice to his assistants back in the clinic. He'd put all thoughts of Aria, Afterlife and the human out of his mind. Good to have a hobby in retirement. Keeps the mind sharp.