Chapter 3: Following the Trail

My next stop, courtesy of Chellick's information, was Dock D24. That was located on the central ring. A lot of locations can be found there. This causes a lot of confusion for newcomers and tourists—and a lot of headaches for everyone else.

The central ring houses the Presidium: the immense, tranquil, park-like complex where the various offices and departments of the Citadel Council, the embassies of every member and associate member of the Citadel Council, the more expensive and luxurious shops and restaurants and the disgustingly wealthy elite are located. And the Citadel Tower, where the Council meets and deliberates with all its infinite wisdom, of course.

In addition, the central ring also contains all of the Citadel's spaceports, docks and cargo bays. All incoming and outgoing traffic goes through there.

So yes, the Presidium is in the central ring. Yes, the spaceports are in the central ring. Yes, the docks and cargo bays are in the central ring. But they occupy different parts of the central ring.

Seems simple enough. But I've lost track of the times I had to explain that no, the embassy for so-and-so is not located outside Docking Bay such-and-such. No, the docking bay is not next to the Krogan Monument. No, the Citadel Council does not convene in the cargo bay.

And then I have to endure the inevitable question: "Aren't they both on the central ring?"

"Well, yes," I would say.

"There! You see?"

Makes you want to rip your head crest off.

I slowed to a halt as soon as I entered Bay D24—where Chellick said Vietor was working today—and looked around. No human in the immediate area matching his description. So I'd have to start questioning the dock workers and hope they could point me in the right direction. I arbitrarily picked one—a salarian—and approached him. "Excuse me?" I called out.

The salarian turned around. "Yes?"

"I'm hoping you can help me," I began. "I'm looking for Marc Vietor."

"Why?" the salarian asked, his eyes narrowing. "Who wants to know?"

Suspicious and evasive right from the start. Interesting. "Uh…"

"Come one," the salarian said, glaring at me. "Who put you up to this? Who's trying to shut us down? Because we've got rights, you know."

Where the heck was this coming from? "Right. I know. Of course you—"

"Do you know how long it's been since the Citadel Dockworkers' Union got a decent contract? Every year for the last decade, we've been getting practically nothing. Yeah. That's right. For a quarter of my life, I've watched every union get better contracts except ours. Vacation days reduced. Benefits reduced—or replaced with ridiculous crap. I mean, who in their right mind thinks swapping 500 credits of health insurance for contraception benefits is a good idea?"

"Beats me," I murmured.

"And you know what the worst part is? Our so-called representatives at the bargaining table get big fat paychecks. 'Negotiation bonuses.' What a joke!" the salarian spat bitterly.

"I'm sorry."

"For once, those lazy asses did their job. They actually got us a decent contract. All we have to do is ratify it with a vote. Which we're going to do. We won't be denied just because someone bought off C-Sec to stand in our way!"

C-Sec? What was he—oh, right. My hardsuit. "I'm not actually with C-Sec. Well, I was, but not anymore."

"Really? Is that some—"

"My name is Garrus Vakarian," I interrupted, before he could get carried away again.

"Garrus… you're Garrus Vakarian. Oh hell."

Apparently, my reputation preceded me. Thankfully, I wasn't the sort of person who'd let that go to his head. "Yes, I am," I nodded. "And you've heard of me."

The salarian nodded numbly, silent for the first time. I decided to strike while the iron was hot, as the humans say. "I'm not here to bother Mr. Vietor with unions or contracts or anything," I interrupted. "I need to talk to him about his daughter."

"Zephi?" the salarian said.

"Yes," I replied. "Zephi. So you have a choice. You could help me help Mr. Vietor—and Zephi. Or you could stand in my way, piss me off and be partly responsible for all the inevitable chaos and damage."

I let him process all that information: the realization that I wasn't interested in getting involved with any labour concerns, the fact that I only came here about a fellow union worker's daughter, and the knowledge that any further hostility could and would cause a lot of unwanted and unnecessary grief. Didn't take a genius to figure out the best course of action. "Come this way, please," the suddenly cooperative salarian invited.

As I followed him towards Dock D24, I mused over how this misunderstanding started in the first place. Wouldn't have happened if I still had my Colossus armour. Mark X. Turian variant. Beautiful, glossy black coupled with crimson red armour plates and highlights. Shields and tech/biotic countermeasure package weren't quite as good as the Predator M series, but it looked better. Besides, Shepard had bought or scrounged a set of Colossus armour for every member of the squad. We had to stay colour-coordinated, right?

That was in the past. Now… Shepard was… he… he was dead. We'd all gone our separate ways. And I sold my Colossus hardsuit. Along with the Mark X Master line of Spectre gear weaponry. Earned me a lot of credits. More than enough to get to Omega. But… the Citadel desperately needed money to rebuild the Wards. The Presidium was fine—enough politicians and CEOs to repair it. But the Wards? Where all the little people lived? They needed help. I needed the money from my C-Sec severance package for basic necessities. The rest of my credits I had available had already gone to my mother. But I still had the best hardsuit and weapons money could buy. Turned out they could fetch a decent price even at resale.

Besides, it wasn't as if I had nothing. What kind of turian would I be if I didn't have a backup set? True, they were some crap weapons from Elkoss Combine, but at least I could still shoot somebody. And my hardsuit? It was the rig I'd gotten when I first joined C-Sec. No wonder the salarian dock worker was confused.

I followed the salarian through the docks. It was pretty much what you'd expect. Brighter than the Wards, but darker than the Presidium. Lots of crates and barrels everywhere, most of them stacked up in piles. It was busy, with lots of people moving around. Passengers embarking and disembarking. Dock workers checking crates to make sure they had the right info on their digital displays, sorting through manifests on their omni-tools or datapads and moving crates to the appropriate locations. The odd security guard or two, stationed at regular intervals, keeping a careful eye on their designated sector.

It took a few minutes, but the salarian eventually found Mr. Vietor. He might have been a little shorter than the average human, but not by much. In reasonably good shape, I saw, with the kind of physique that comes with honest, regular work as opposed to strength-enhancing drugs or grey-market genetic mods. His hair was mostly white, with a few brown hairs sprinkled in. As he turned around, he gave me a smile. A warm, genuine one, that caused the corners of his eyes to crinkle. "Hello there," he greeted me. "Can I help you?"

I found myself liking him right away. He seemed like a good human. The fact that I was coming to him with potentially troubling news meant he probably was a good human. That's the way the spirits seemed to arrange my luck these days. "My name is Garrus Vakarian," I introduced myself. "I used to be with C-Sec. That's why I occasionally get jobs like this."

"Job?" Mr. Vietor asked. "What sort of job exactly?"

And here came the awkward part. "I'm here about your daughter, Mr. Vietor. It seems she's... run away."

"'Run away'?" Mr. Vietor frowned, smiles all gone. "Oh no. Not again."

He immediately activated his omni-tool and pressed a few keys. "How long has she been missing?" he asked.

"Almost five hours ago," I replied. "Your… ex-wife contacted me, requesting that I find her."

Vietor was quick, I'll give him that. "You? Personally? Not going through C-Sec?"

"It seems she wanted a more unofficial approach this time," I said, "with all the discretion that goes with it. Why don't you tell me about Zephi?"

"Not much I can tell," he said sadly, after checking his omni-tool. "I rarely get to see her. Her mother has full custody. Only time I get to see her is when she... well... when she does something like this. God, when I think of everything I've missed. Her birthdays. All those Christmases. Every single thing in her life." He checked his omni-tool again. Nothing, I gathered.

"Do you have any idea where she might have gone?"

"Anywhere that she shouldn't," he sighed. "She's a kid. I know that's strange to say. She's almost forty for crying out loud. At her age, I was holding a steady job and... well... trying to save up enough credits for another attempt at shared custody. But for asari? She's barely in her teens. They think they're invincible. Nothing bad will ever happen to them, you know what I'm saying? And God forbid that she listens to her elders or her parents. They're not cool or hip or schway or whatever they call it these days."

He checked his omni-tool for the fourth time. "Waiting for something?" I guessed.

"I sent a message to Zephi as soon as you told me she was missing," Vietor explained.

"You only sent that message two minutes ago," I pointed out. "Expecting a reply—"

Vietor was shaking his head before I finished my first sentence. "No, you don't get it," he interrupted. "Zephi always sends something back. Always. Even if it's just an acknowledgement that she received my message and would contact me later. The longest she's gone without sending something back is one minute, seven seconds."

It figured that he'd have that particular fact memorized. "Well in the meantime, can you think of any places she might have gone? Or friends she might stay with?"

"Don't know about staying with friends," Vietor sighed. "She tends to make 'friends' with people who don't stay around very long. Tourists, military brats whose parents are on temporary duty assignments, that kind of thing. I used to think she had lousy luck, but now I think she seeks them out deliberately so she doesn't get hurt as badly when they leave."

Sadly, I could see the logic behind that. Zephi only got to see her father when she ran away. If the one positive thing in her life that she could turn to or talk to was that transient and sporadic, and all the other negative and horrible parts of her life were so constant and permanent, was it really worth going to all the trouble and emotional investment to seek out friends or other people, only to have them let you down?

"Now as for places she liked to frequent… mostly clubs, from what she told me. Let me see if I can remember their names…"

Vietor's memory was pretty good, for which I was grateful. There are a lot of clubs on the Citadel. If I had to visit each and every one, there was no way I could meet Bevos's deadline. But Zephi seemed to favour half a dozen establishments. And they were all located in the same Ward, so I could stay within the same arm of the Citadel. Maybe the spirits were finally smiling down on me—

"So where do we start first?"

"Excuse me?"

"To find Zephi," Vietor said. "Do we visit each club in alphabetical order or something?"

Well… crap. While I had to respect him for his concern and dedication to his daughter, this was the last thing I needed. If things got… problematic, he'd be more likely to get us killed. "Mr. Vietor," I said cautiously, "I've done this sort of thing before. The best way for you to help your daughter is to give me as much information as you can. Now that you've done that, it's my job to use that information to find Zephi."

"But—"

"If you want to help me, do so by continuing the rest of your shift and keeping an eye on your omni-tool in case Zephi contacts you. If she does, contact me immediately. I'll find her and bring her to you."

"You're sure an extra set of eyes can't hurt?"

"I'm sure," I nodded.

"And you'll bring her right to me?" Vietor pressed.

"Absolutely," I promised.

"Well… okay, then. If you're sure."

That went well. So why was I uneasy?

I entered the PTS and found out, much to my surprise and delight, that there was a train just pulling in. Breaking into a jog, I weaved in and out of the traffic with an ease that only comes with lots and lots of practise. I slipped into the nearest train car and found a place to sit down.

Unfortunately, most of the clubs and establishments Vietor had mentioned wouldn't be open for several hours. Fortunately, there were a few things I could do to pass my time. Time to get to work. The first was to send a message to Chellick, updating him on the situation and requesting any surveillance feeds around the clubs Vietor had mentioned. The chances of C-Sec releasing those vids to a civilian were slim-to-none. The chances of C-Sec releasing them to an ex-cop with a… less-than-sterling reputation were even worse. But if anyone could find a way to get those vids to me, or even review them and send a quick sitrep, Chellick could.

Next, I needed to get in touch with any staff that might have been working when Zephi waltzed in. Bartenders, waiters, managers and so on. Activating my omni-tool, I pulled up a file containing the staff directory for every business I might have walked by or investigated during my C-Sec days. The file was out of date, but there were some contacts that were still current. I left a message with each and every one, asking them to call me back as soon as possible.

Finally, I pulled up a map to identify all the places Zephi might have gone after a long night of clubbing. Mostly restaurants and kiosks with food—greasy or otherwise—to soak up all that booze, that sort of thing. There were a lot of possible hits to visit. Especially for one lone turian, all on his own, fighting the good fight in an uncaring galaxy.

Good thing I had nothing better to do.

Looking up, I realized that we were reaching my stop. Guess all that omni-tool work took longer than I thought. I waited until the train came to a complete stop before getting up—the deceleration tends to be a little abrupt—and exiting the train.

As luck would have it, the first food kiosk on my list was just outside the Public Transit Station terminal. "Good morning," the friendly food service attendant said brightly. "What would you like—oh hell, it's you."

"Hi Nhazam," I said cheerfully. "How are you doing?"

Nhazam the formerly-friendly food service attendant glared at me. "I was doing just fine until you showed up. Do you have any idea how much business you cost me the last time we met?"

"As I recall, we met because you had accused a customer of siphoning credits from your account."

"You arrested me!"

"We took you into custody because you assaulted said customer in the midst of our questioning."

"You cost me a lot of business!"

Sometimes, there is just no reasoning with people. Maybe that could've changed if I had the time—and the patience—to humour my good 'friend'. But I didn't. Time for Plan B. I pulled up Zephi's picture. "I'm looking for this asari," I said, tilting my head towards the holo hovering over my omni-tool."

"Why? You screw her over too?"

"She's a kid who's gone missing," I said patiently. "I'm trying to find her before you get hurt. Have you seen her within the last couple hours?"

"Maybe I did, maybe I didn't. What do you have to say to that?"

"I say that you could be taken into custody again for obstruction of justice," I smiled.

…

A bit of a gamble, there. If Nhazam called my bluff, I could be in a great deal of trouble. Then again, this was the same Nhazam who thought that she needed more staff because five customers per hour—at a kiosk that sold pre-packaged food—was too much for one person to handle alone. The same Nhazam who always complained that the Citadel was a poor place to work because they didn't offer Vis to help small businesses like hers—when there was a shop specializing in VIs right next door. If things hadn't changed in the last year or so, she would rather give me grief than actually do any extra work to probe the validity of my story.

"No, I haven't seen her. I haven't seen any asari since I opened up for business today."

"Thank you for your time," I smiled. "Have a pleasant day."

I turned away, thoroughly annoyed and frustrated in spite of myself. I had to remind myself that not everyone was as charming as Nhazam. And yet my mandibles still wound up complaining from all the grinding and clenching I was doing.

Thankfully, I was right. Most of the people I questioned next were much more cooperative—well, except for the two or three or twelve people that ran screaming something along the lines of "Oh hell, it's Garrus! Run!" Some were even pleasant. Sadly, none of them had seen Zephi.

Finding a nearby bench, I plopped my ass down with a groan. I'd been on my feet for several hours going from one end of the Ward to the other, I wasn't any closer to finding Zephi and I hadn't gotten into any gunfights that might have relieved my frustration—though the inevitable attention and paperwork that would result from such incidents would undoubtedly provide a fresh source of aggravation. The only thing I had to show for all my work was a pair of very sore feet.

Sadly, this was more the norm than the exception. All those cop vids you see? Where the cast bust into rooms with guns and voices raised, solving crimes in a bullet-ridden hour or less? None of it's real. It's usually a lot of slow, methodical and relentless drudgery. Another reason why I enjoyed my time on the Normandy so much. Travelling from one system to the next, fighting geth and mercs at every other stop, culminating in one insane frenzy of a fight to save the whole damn galaxy was intense, to say the least. But I'd never felt more alive. Going back to this was hard, to say the least. Harder, in fact. I suppose if it was easy, everyone would be doing it.

I checked my chronometer. There was no way that I could make it to the PTS to catch the next train. The one after that wouldn't arrive for another half hour. So I was fully justified in taking a load of my feet for another couple minutes while I gulped down an early lunch.

The first place I visited was The Laughing Varren. I'd always thought it was poorly named. Partly because I'd never heard a varren laugh, though I'd heard far too many growls for my liking. Partly because the… creature on the sign above the door didn't look remotely like a varren.

It was surprisingly well lit for such a small establishment. Light fixtures and ventilation fixtures dangled from the roof, clearly visible without any attempt to cover them up. The chairs and tables were all made of metal mesh. Cheap, relatively sturdy and easy to clean—just grab a high-pressure hose, spray everything down and let the water run into the drains set at regular intervals in the floor.

The Laughing Varren had just opened, so there weren't too many people. The manager took one look at me and bolted for the back, leaving a disgruntled waitress and a cashier behind to suffer my supposed wrath. Little did he know that I wasn't here to cause any trouble. At least, not intentionally.

"I'm looking for this asari," I said by way of greeting. "Goes by Zephi. Have you seen her? She might've come in last night."

"Nope."

"Sorry, no."

"Are you sure? She's been missing for—" I stopped to check my chronometer. "—over ten hours now. Her parents are getting worried."

That did the trick. "Let me check the security cams," the cashier said.

"I know a couple staff who was working last night," the waitress offered. "Give me a second."

Humans have this strange superstition about attracting luck from the spirits by placing one finger over the other. I tried that out for myself while waiting for the staff to get back to me. They returned within a couple minutes.

"Checked the cams twice. Nothing."

"I tried everyone I could think of. They didn't remember anyone matching her description."

Guess I didn't cross my talons correctly. Or maybe the spirits were showing their usual disregard for my pleas. "Thanks for trying," I said.

I had no luck with the second club. Or the third.

The fourth club was also a bust, though it also reminded me of my past. The waiter dropped his dishes and bolted for the storage room. Along with the other waiter. And the maître d'. And the customers. I 'visited' this club on my last case, you see, before the so-called investigation into Saren. There was a serial killer who had the death sentence in twelve systems. I tracked him into this very establishment. And by track, I mean follow him through the front door, through the club and out the back door. Pistols may have been raised. Shots may have been fired—mostly by the dirtbag. Miraculously, no one got hurt. Not my proudest moment. It wasn't surprising to see that everyone remembered that event with crystal clarity—hence the mass scramble for shelter.

As I left the club, curses and foul language following me out the door, I noticed a figure hastily and clumsily retreat into the shadows. This wasn't the first time either. I'd been plagued by this particular individual for the last hour ever since I left The Laughing Varren, which gave one clue as to his identity. Or her, but I had a feeling it was a he.

Ignoring him for now, I went on my merry and seemingly oblivious way. I passed a hanar evangelist boring passersby with another revelation from the Enkindlers, a pair of asari earnestly discussing the logistics of various pole-dancing techniques and a human complaining to a volus about constantly being stereotyped.

Eventually, I found a quiet and relatively undisturbed alley, its sides lined with stacks of crates and shipping containers. Just what I was looking for. I turned into the alley, took enough steps into the dark to get out of my shadow's view, then hid behind some crates. Straining my ears, I heard footsteps approach... then slow to a stop. No doubt my shadow was peering into the alley, wondering where I had gone off to.

There was a long pause.

Either my shadow was making up his mind or he was trying to wait me out. Good luck if it was the latter: after years of missions where I had to wait for the right moment to take a shot and years of bureaucracy where some clerk took an eternity to file some paperwork, this was nothing.

After a minute, my shadow couldn't take it any longer and entered the alley. He walked towards my hiding spot, passed it and kept on going without bothering to check his surroundings. I, on the other hand, got a good look at him.

And all my suspicions were confirmed. I should have known. "Hello again, Mr. Vietor."

Vietor jumped and whirled around so fast I thought he'd give himself whiplash. His eyes widened as I stepped out into the open. "M-Mr. Vakarian," he stammered. "I didn't see you hiding there."

"That was sort of the point," I said. "Wish I could say the same."

"How long did you know I was—"

"Following me?" I finished. "Since I left The Laughing Varren."

"Really?"

"You stayed behind a trio of human girls giggling over some vid they saw, then hid behind a krogan. You lost me at one of the Avina VI terminals but found me again as I passed the—"

"Okay, okay." Vietor threw up his hands in defeat. "You saw me."

Not really. But I knew where the shadow might have been located and where it definitely was not. A little bit of extrapolation and a couple memories generated a reasonable account of events. I was glad he conceded so quickly, though. My memory got a little hazy after that.

Though not so hazy that I forgot to ask something: "Don't tell me your shift ended early."

"No, well, I kinda took the rest of the day off."

Of course he did.

"I couldn't wait around for you to find Zephi. What if she was in trouble?"

If she was in trouble, I think she'd need more than a union membership with the Citadel Dockworkers' Union. Unless Vietor brought friends. Solidarity...

"Did you come by yourself?"

Vietor looked at me like I'd lost my mind. A lot of people do that. Especially during my investigation of Saren. Because the crowning poster-boy for all things Spectre couldn't possiblybe involved in anything underhanded or questionable. He couldn't possibly be a traitor. He couldn't possibly be working with the geth. Oh. Wait. He was.

But that's in the past. I was right. Go me. Back to Zephi. And Vietor, who was about to answer my question. Maybe he brought backup.

"Of course I came by myself."

Or not. Figures.

"I thought you were going to wait in case Zephi called," I reminded him.

"If she calls, it'll go straight to my omni-tool," Vietor said, raising his left arm. "Which goes where I go."

Sometimes I hate technology.

"Look Mr. Vietor," I started, feeling a migraine coming on. Again. "I get that you're worried. I'm glad that you care so much about Zephi. More than her mother, from what I've seen. But you tagging along isn't going to help."

"Uh. Hey there. Sorry to interrupt."

I turned around. So did Vietor. We stared at the entrance to the alley. And up. And up.

And here I thought my day couldn't get any worse. "Hello, Torsk," I sighed.

Urdnot Torsk. Yeah, that's right: same clan as Wrex. Just as big as Wrex. Just as tough as Wrex. Just as familiar with the seedy side of galactic society as Wrex. But before you think I'm stereotyping all krogan as being the same, let me tell you that Torsk is one of the most polite and genial sapients I've ever met. Even when he was pounding my face to a pulp. Or introducing it to random solid objects like fists and crates and containers and walls and floors. Understandably, it was that last part that worried me.

"Guess this is a bad time for me to show up, huh?" Torsk asked.

"You could say that," I said. "What do you want, Torsk?"

He shuffled awkwardly. "Listen, uh, I was just on my way to the spaceport. Got a ticket back to Tuchanka. But then I got a job offer. Client contacted me on my omni-tool."

Vietor and I exchanged looks.

"Quick job, the client said. Turian nosing around clubs asking about missing asari. Tell that guy to back off, the client said. Or else. Told me to rough that turian up, too."

"I'm guessing the client didn't say that turian was me," I said wryly.

"No. Sorry, Garrus. If I'd known, I wouldn't have taken that contract. You were always nice when you were questioning me. Or trying to arrest me. I mean, if it was some schmuck like that Harkin guy, I'd be just fine. Hell, I might have even thrown in a discount."

Nope, the spirits still had it in for me. Worst part was that Torsk sincerely meant every single word.

"Couldn't you just tell your clients you couldn't find me," I suggested. "That you looked up and down the Wards and so on?"

Torsk gave me a look. "I can't do that."

"Not even for credits?" I tried. "I mean, hey, you found me. You told me to back off. Doesn't mean you have to go all the way, right?"

"Hey," Torsk frowned. "Come on, Garrus. You know you can't bribe me to lay off. I wish you weren't the target. Really. But if word got around that I could get bought off, I'd be out of work. I got a reputation to maintain. Standards."

I'd admire that work ethic more if it wasn't my ass on the line.

"Hell, I might become a target myself if I started picking and choosing like that. It's—"

"Please don't say 'It's nothing personal. It's just business'?" I groaned.

"That is kinda clichéd, isn't it?" Torsk nodded sympathetically. "Fine. Let's just get to the part where you try to fight—"

"Try?" I squawked in outrage.

"Fine. Sorry. You fight. I fight back. You get beat up bad. And..." Torsk stopped and looked at Vietor. Who's this guy, anyway?"

"Ex-husband of my client," I replied. "He was supposed to wait while I went out to find his daughter, but apparently he got a little impatient."

"Oh. Hi there! Urdnot Torsk. Pleased to meet you."

"Uh... likewise?" Vietor tried. He looked a little hesitant. I couldn't blame him.

"Listen, buddy, why don't you get out of here?" Torsk suggested. "My contract didn't say anything about bystanders."

"Even bystanders who might be witnesses?" Vietor asked.

Torsk snorted. "Maybe you didn't notice, but I have a fairly long rap sheet. Besides, if you run now, then you won't be a witness."

"You should probably take him up on his offer," I said. "Before Torsk changes his mind."

"But what about you?" Vietor protested.

"I'll be fine," I reassured him. "Torsk and I will have it out, but I'll live." I shot him a look. "I will live, right?"

"Yeah, yeah," Torsk nodded. "Contract wasn't to kill you."

I felt oh so grateful.

"That costs more."

Now more than ever. "Then he'll go to the spaceport and leave," I said, continuing as if I didn't feel a chill go down my spine. "Preferably without checking his omni-tool for any more contracts."

"Sure thing," Torsk agreed. "I'll just send a message confirming that the job was done before the transport leaves."

"And after that, I'll resume the search for Zephi. Alone." I emphasized that last part with a raised eyebrow. "I mean it this time. My job is to find your daughter and bring her to you, no matter how many bruises or broken ribs I pick up along the way. Your job is to make sure you're alive and intact so you can give her the biggest hug you can muster. Got it?"

Vietor still hesitated. My estimation of him rose a couple more notches. Of his character, not his self-preservation.

"Hey buddy, let me make it easier for you," Torsk offered. He pulled out a shotgun and aimed it at Vietor's head. One-handed. "Beat it before I mess up your face."

"Seriously," I hissed. "Take him up on his offer. Scram!"

Vietor nodded nervously. He still hesitated for a second, but then he bolted.

"Nice guy," Torsk said. "Worried about his kid. I like that. Wish I had a kid to worry about."

"I like him too," I agreed. Then a thought hit me—a rare occurrence, I'll grant you, but it does happen from time to time. "Hey, Torsk?"

"You're not trying to bribe me again, are you?"

"No, no," I assured him. "Just curious about something. Your client didn't want me looking for my client's daughter specifically? Or just 'missing asari' in general?"

"Missing asari in general," Torsk replied. "Been a lot of that going around lately."

"Really?" I asked, forgetting my impending doom and humiliation.

"Yeah," Torsk nodded, scratching his head. "For almost a month, come to think of it."

"And no one noticed a pattern?" I burst out angrily.

"I dunno," Torsk shrugged. "Happened at random spots throughout the Citadel so no one noticed, I guess. And even if they did, almost everybody showed up after a couple hours. Maybe a day, tops." All those missing asari cases solved themselves so..."

Which could easily be explained as nothing more than harmless hookups and one-night stands, hence the lack of attention. "But some asari didn't show up," I said.

"One or two, yeah," Torsk nodded. "People are worried. Word on the street is Geirk—you remember Geirk, right?"

I shuddered in spite of myself. "Yeah."

"Word is that Geirk just arrived to find one of those missing asari."

"Huh." I thought about that. "Any idea where he might be?"

"Naw," Torsk shook his head. "Sorry."

"It's okay," I sighed. "I think I know how to find him."

"Good to know."

"Yeah," I nodded. "Hey, uh... you going to lower that shotgun anytime?"

"Huh? Oh. Right." He holstered his shotgun, much to my relief. Otherwise, I'd have to dig out my guns and things would get really ugly. Uglier. And distressingly final. Probably for me. "Okay," Torsk said. "Now you try to fight back—"

"Try?"

"Sorry. Now you fight back. And lose. And get pummelled. And then I'll leave."

"Right," I said in resignation. I suppose I could've fought him. Maybe even try to kill him. But Torsk had given me a lot more information in the last couple minutes than I had gotten in the last couple hours. I guess I felt I owed him something, even if it meant helping him fulfill his contract. Even if fulfilling his contract meant getting beaten to a pulp.

"So... we gonna do this?" Torsk asked.

Of course, that didn't mean I had to make it easy for him. "Yeah," I sighed. I raised my fists slowly...

...then turned and ran like hell.

Torsk caught up with me before I took half a dozen steps.

They say pain's just a way of reminding you that you're alive. That your muscles and various other body parts are still there and in working order. 'They' are full of crap. I've felt alive plenty of times without feeling like someone laced my bones with micro-explosives and set them all off. When I came to, the pain and aches were so intense that I passed out almost immediately. Oblivion can be really soothing now and then.

Sometime later, I came to again. I tried to get up. Then I decided to enjoy the nice cool floor for a few more seconds—which became several minutes since I lost consciousness. Again.

And the third time... well, humans have this saying about the third time having the charm. Well, maybe it doesn't go exactly like that. Basic gist is that you get lucky or achieve success or something on the third time. And I did. Managed to force myself to a sitting position without blacking out. I was just about to put one foot under myself when—

"*hiss* Well look at what we have here! *hiss*"

Spirits. Guess that human saying doesn't cross the species barriers. I blearily looked up at a volus.

Oh. Good. It was just a volus. I think I could handle a volus. Though he did look oddly familiar. "Nothing to see here," I said. Or tried to say—I think it came out as a semi-audible mumble. Something along the lines of "Nuthintaseeya."

"*hiss* You don't remember me, do you? *hiss* That's all right. I remember you. *hiss* You intercepted a shipment I needed very badly. *hiss*"

Spirits. Now I knew where I'd seen him before. "I remember you," I said, managing to enunciate my words a little clearer. "Kwunla Vor. You owned a struggling pharmacy in the Lower Wards. As I recall, your shipment contained enough substances to make half a dozen illegal drug compounds... or a crude chemical weapon or two."

"*hiss* All very profitable, I assure you. Because of your interference, though, I couldn't pay my loan. *hiss* So my... creditors took my shop as collateral. But there was one bright side. *hiss* After I lost everything, I realized that I had to start over. *hiss* To rebuild myself. I started with what I'm good at—finances. Transactions. Loans. *hiss*"

"You became a debt collector?" I asked. "Your idea of starting over was to become just like the guy who took your business?"

"*hiss* No. My idea was to take the business of the guy who took my business."

Ooookaaaay.

"*hiss* I'm now bigger and badder than I ever was."

Really? 'Bigger and badder?' Do people actually say that?

"*hiss* So when I saw you in the alley, I had the resources to get my revenge."

"What, you couldn't do it yourself?"

"*hiss* Why would I do that?" Kwunla asked. "*hiss* Anyone could beat you to a pulp, rip your balls off and choke you to death with them. But some people are powerful enough to have other people do it for them."

Normally this would be the part where I'd say something witty and cutting, but I was too busy trying to keep my food in my gizzard. Damn, Torsk did a good job.

"*hiss* Boys?"

Crap. I looked around. Two humans and a turian were walking towards me. Normally I could take them. Normally I wasn't stiff from being used as a living punching bag. I reached for my pistol. Unfortunately, my stiff muscles slowed me down. All three thugs had their guns pointed at my face before I got even close.

I had to stall for time. "Oh, geez," I said. "Not the face. Whatever you do, please don't ruin my face. It's too pretty to get shot."

"Shut up," one of the humans sneered.

"Why? Don't you enjoy the melodious sounds of my voice?"

"No!" the thugs snapped back in unison.

"That hurts," I sighed. "That really hurts."

"*hiss* Boys?" Kwunla said. "Why don't you get started?"

That was when the pin dropped.

Well, actually it wasn't a pin. It was a tech mine. One that had been expertly timed to go off at just the right point to fry everyone's shields and disable everyone's weapons... except mine. Even with my bruised and battered body, I had more than enough time to pull out my sniper rifle. And at this close a range, I'd have to be completely wasted to miss.

I targeted the first human who opened his big fat mouth. The bullet had so much velocity, it went straight through his head and out the other side. Since I was still sitting on the ground, that meant the bullet went up, up and away… until it embedded itself into the ceiling. As for my target, he collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been slashed. The other human joined him a second later, courtesy of a shotgun blast to the back. As for the turian, he bolted down the alley before my mysterious rescuer—or I—could stop him.

That left Kwunla. "*hiss* That didn't go so well."

"No," my rescuer said. "It didn't."

She stepped into the alley. She was wearing a hardsuit composed of grey and dark purple—almost black—plates that completely covering her body. Even her face was hidden behind a helmet. She held a shotgun in her hands, with a confidence that only came from hard-earned experience. There was a certain simple and effortless grace about her, made more impressive by how functional and practical her hardsuit looked—the fact that it showed off her hips to perfection was just a happy bit of serendipity. In fact, the only concession to fashion was the cloth headdress of lavender whorls covering her helmet.

"Hey," I managed. "You look like Tali."

"I am Tali, you bosh'tet. Why were those people trying to kill you?"

"Uh..." I had to think about that. Only one thing came to mind.

"It was a slow night and everyone else was busy?"