Interstitium

by AssaultSloth

Flashbacks, interstitial scenes, and backdoor dealings. A companion to ME2 focusing on characters and worlds, big and small.

17. Chapter 17, Polymath, Mordin Solus

Polymath – Mordin Solus

---

–

Mordin held the mixture up to the light. "Translucent brown fluid. Texture qualitatively within expectations. Removing aliquot for spectrophotometric analysis." A few drops in a clean cuvette. Polish with non-abrasive pad. Insert into spectrophotometric unit. Set to wavelength scan.

He waited.

…

…

…

Check results. "Spectrophotometric wavelength scan results… abnormal. Unexpected peak at six hundred twelve nanometers. Add…" he calculated, "twelve milligrams methyl cyclopentenolone." Mordin's skill with a scale was prodigious and he weighed out the necessary powder in a single attempt. It went in the mixture and dissolved.

Mordin nodded, satisfied. "Administering final test of quality." Taking a fresh syringe, he drew another aliquot.

"What are you doing!"

Mordin's head swiveled in an instant. "Staff Sergeant Gardner!" He said, beaming. "Glad to see you!"

Gardner did not look glad, his arms crossed over his chest in a clear gesture of human impatience. "What are ya doin' in my galley?" he demanded, gesturing to the half dozen scientific instruments Mordin had set up on the counters. "I have to make dinner!"

"Thinking," Mordin said instantly, making for Gardner, syringe held aloft. "Also reorganized spice rack by lethal dose in humans. Should help in ingredient selection. Try this." He sprayed the syringe's contents in the man's open mouth.

Gardner stumbled and coughed, caught off guard.

"Well?" Mordin asked, smiling.

"What was that?"

"Variation on Mannovian choic-stew adjusted for maximum enjoyment by humans. My specialty." He beamed. "Good, yes?"

Gardner's nose wrinkled in distaste. "Christ, no!"

Mordin frowned. In an instant he'd cleared the distance between them and jabbed his optical scope in Gardner's ear. He stared myopically into the ear canal, clicking his tongue.

Gardner was still as a statue. "Can… uhh… can I help you?"

Mordin drew back from his optical scope long enough to adjust a dial before sticking it back into Gardner's ear. "No, Mr. Gardner, thank you."

Gardner's frown creased his skin under Mordin's magnified gaze. Mordin paid it no mind, focusing and refocusing down the man's ear canal. Timpanic elasticity apparently normal. No evidence of parasites. Commendable hygiene, really. "Then is there a reason ya set yourself up in my galley and jabbed your little toy into my head?" the man tried.

"Two reasons," Mordin quipped. "Reason one, need distraction. Logistical problem in lab. Need time to think. Nothing to worry about." Mordin made a habit out of breaking up his main research with other pursuits. It wasn't wise to spend every waking moment on a single question. Restricted thinking. Blinded researcher to possibilities. Tunnel vision. So when he was struck this morning by the urge to cook salarian soups, he did not deny himself. Better to work on multiple projects simultaneously, even less intellectual pursuits.

He clicked the scope into its infrared mode and gave another look. Still nothing. It appeared Gardner was quite free of ear parasites. Pity. Ahh well. Thus was the plight of the scientist. There were other hypotheses to test.

"Reason two," he said at last, "investigating source of your problem." He leaned back, clicking his tongue as he tapped a few notes into his omni-tool.

Gardner's frown disappeared under a look of worry. "What problem? Chakwas said I was fine."

Mordin clicked his tongue again. "Hate to impugn expertise, but Doctor Chakwas clearly incorrect in this instance," he replied. "Problem obvious. My choic-stew optimized for human enjoyment. Obviously pathology interfering with sense of taste. Must only find out why, now. New hypothesis involves brain damage due to parasites in ear canal."

Gardner's frown returned as a full-blown grimace. "Christ, Mordin!" he bellowed, swatting the salarian's hands away from his head. "Nearly gave me a heart attack 'cause I didn't love your nasty salarian bug juice!"

"Not bug juice!" Mordin said, affronted. "Solution derived from Mannovian tuberous root species. Similar compounds known to be delicacy for humans. Chemical makeup consistent with human biochemistry and your individual dietary habits!"

"I'm fine, Mordin," Gardner insisted, waving an irritated finger before Mordin's bulbous eyes. "I just didn't like it. I just. Didn't. Like. It."

Gardner muscled past Mordin to look dubiously at the bubbling mixture on the stove. His face was a deep grimace that suggested he wasn't sure how safe it was to dump down the drain, his shoulders clearly set on ignoring the salarian doctor until he went away.

Mordin pondered. Impossible. Impossible! Choic-stew irresistible! Had to be an explanation. "Fine," he said at last, folding his scope and sliding it into his coat pocket. "No brain parasites. Will pursue alternate explanations for medically-impossible lack of taste."

Gardner grimaced at his rearranged ingredient shelves.

"Medically-impossible," Mordin repeated, pivoting on one booted toe and marching away.

–

Mordin returned to the lab, mind back at work. His little escapade with Gardner had taken fourteen point four one eight minutes. A little faster than expected. Not quite enough time to come up with a solution to his problem.

The laboratory lights flickered on as he stepped past the threshold, revealing the source of his distraction. One hundred forty seven thousand cell culture plates glittered from every surface. With EDI's help most could be relegated to microwell plates smaller than a thumbtack, but even stacked carefully in bays the stacks were reaching the ceiling. And that wasn't counting the many thousands of samples that had more specific growth conditions and had to be stored in incubators or chillers, gas hoods or pressure chambers, shakers or drip flow reactors or any of a dozen other instruments. Mordin had packed as densely as he could, but even after moving all of the lab's non-critical equipment to the hangar he was out of room. He could not plate out another dish unless he wanted to start throwing them away.

And he was less than half done.

"Unfortunate," he said to the empty room.

There was nothing to be done for it. He needed the space. Eight biological replicates for each type of cell he'd extracted from the collector corpses, on each of the hundreds and hundreds of conditions on which he'd try to grow them. A table's worth of plates for every growth condition, and there were many, many conditions to try. More hypothesis-driven approach would be better, but sometimes brute force exploration necessary.

Tens of thousands done, tens of thousands to go.

He did not have to ask the AI if any of the plates had grown yet. Needed time to incubate. A day, two days, a week. Hard to know how long. First one to culture Collector cells. Or try to culture, anyway. Slow going so far. Had to try. Key to understanding biology. Start small. Even failures useful. Even one hundred forty seven thousand failures. Every negative result, another piece to the puzzle.

"Response from Shepard yet?" he asked the empty room, still surveying the vast stacks of plates dominating his workspace.

The AI popped up from its console. "No, Dr. Solus. Shepard and Mr. Vakarian's away team have not yet released communications blackout. It is likely they will be unavailable until they return from the Citadel."

"Hmm…" Mordin said, tapping his chin. "Perhaps medical lab available until permanent accommodations can be arranged."

"Unlikely," EDI said. "The medical bay operates under a different decontamination protocol. It would require full processing before housing samples. Furthermore, Dr. Chakwas has officially requested that no further biohazardous samples be stored in her lab."

"Hmm…" More tapping. Helped the thinking process. "Contamination risk probably minor…"

"She fears a repeat of the ergoline incident."

Mordin narrowed his eyes and stared at EDI's expressionless face. "Isolated incident", he said, "Already apologized. Mister Hawthorne's hallucinations will stop when ergoline is fully metabolized in three to four weeks." He sighed. "Still. Dr. Chakwas may be correct. Impossible to predict risk."

Mordin's furious tapping was interrupted by a quick flash from his omni-tool. He froze, staring down at his wrist as orange panels bloomed to life and started to flicker. Tiny lights winked on and off, flashing by at blazing speed. One millisecond. Three milliseconds. One. Two. Four. One point one. Two.

In less than three seconds, the message concluded and the omni-tool quieted. It was an update from the STG, coded into flashes of light so fast that a non-salarian would take weeks to translate (and buried in enough false flashes that only someone possessing the unique wave-filter ocular flashbang and security unit implanted behind Mordin's left eye could hope to read it, even with computer assistance). Mordin's brain blazed through it, however, and in a moment he had it translated.

It was a routine update from Specialist Promect, one of his Family's STG representatives (every family clamored to get sons into the STG to get access to leaked intelligence no one else could provide). Promect was short and to the point, his report neatly annotated. Notices of fleet movements throughout the galaxy. Political readjustments on Sur'Kesh. New Dalatress from Asipi clan ascended by a margin of point two eight, two females from Gorot and Atini descended by one point one and point eight three. Progress reports on STG bio-technology projects.

Good messages. Mordin looked forward to them. Kept him abreast of new developments. No longer STG operative, but still respected salarian mind, kept informed. All standard procedure.

One line, however, was not standard.

"Are you well, Dr. Solus?"

Mordin's gaze flitted back to EDI. He must have frowned. In a second he'd banished the worry from his mind. "Yes."

"You appear to have been upset by the Salarian Special Task Group missive you just received."

Mordin was quietly impressed it had noticed at all. STG transmissions were specifically designed to be especially confounding to computer systems. Still, EDI was no ordinary computer. "No," he lied, ducking to check the electrophoretic runner he'd moved to the floor. "Routine update."

"I am obliged to report any evidence of unexplained mental anguish to Commander Shepard and Yeoman Chambers. Also, Cerberus respectfully requests you divulge any transmissions you receive while on the SR2. I am obliged to report any infractions of this rule to Commander Shepard and Operative Lawson."

Mordin shook his head. Cerberus and their clumsy fingers picking through his work. As if they could understand it. He waved a spindly hand. "Will divulge later. Busy now," Mordin said.

"Very well, Dr. Solus. Perhaps Commander Shepard will allow you to decontaminate the conference room for long-term sample storage."

Mordin's eyes widened, the message all-but-forgotten. "Excellent! Excellent! Room construction should allow total decontamination if table removed. Communication with Illusive Man not require quantum entanglement. Pointless opulence. Ship communications array should be suitable." He paced to the far end of the lab, tapping calculations into his omni-tool.

"Will need disinfectant. Forty liters of point six dilute Volatin solution. Personal stock insufficient. Will borrow excess concentrate from Dr. Chakwas." He snapped his fingers. "AI. Submit official request for permission to use conference room. Place requisition for replacement Volatin disinfectant. Adjust conference room temperature to thirty-eight degrees. Inform crew of potential biohazard risk. Request gas hood envelopes brought up from hangar storage. Request clean-room help from Miss Zorah for start of second shift. Reduce electrophoresis unit voltage to sixty-six volts. Extend homogenizer cycles by two."

"Yes, Dr. Solus."

The AI quieted and Promect's message returned to Mordin's mind.

Mission Specialist Maelon abducted on Tuchanka, in mortal danger. No rescue expected.

"All messages delivered," EDI said, interrupting his thoughts. "Anything else?"

Maelon. His student. Partner. Friend. In mortal danger. No rescue expected.

Mordin banished those thoughts from his head. Pity. But no time now. More to do. Always more to do.

"Locate the krogan."

–

Mordin was not a patient salarian. Even with years of working with aliens, their constant slowness dragged on his mind. It was not like he did not think other species had anything to teach him – far from it – but anything they taught was going to take a very long time and time was something of which Mordin never had enough. In the game of life, Mordin had long ago learned that it was easier just to lap the lesser minds around you than try to wait for them.

That said, certain aliens merited a little more patience than others. Like, say, a prepubescent krogan that outweighed him by twelve times and had decided that now was in fact not time for a health checkup, but instead time to play with his new toys again. Grunt had made it very clear that Mordin's house call could just wait until he was finished recreating the battle of Eophili (but if Garr the Battlemaster had been there, naturally).

And when phrased in the form of a threat of bodily harm, Garr the Battlemaster's semi-fictional exploits seemed quite important indeed.

So Mordin waited patiently as Grunt thundered around the lower decks, the action figures he'd bought with his shore leave money dwarfed in his armored hands.

"Wasting time!" Mordin called out, tapping one foot.

"The Battle of Eophili was not a waste." Grunt rumbled from the next room. "Warlord Kredak's assembled clans versus the High Exalted Aluvus Division under turian general Panthus. A great battle. Many krogan died. Many turians. Kredak died." Mordin knew his history, and he knew how touchy a subject the Battle of Eophili was to most krogan – it wasn't every day one of their heroes had a frigate dropped on him. Grunt, however, had been positively fixated on his borrowed memories of it for days, pacing his tiny room and muttering for many hours at a time. EDI had confirmed the krogan had not slept in two weeks, and Mordin was beginning to suspect Grunt's unusual 'upbringing' was starting to rear its ugly head. Even at his most childish, Grunt's thoughts were dominated by Okeer's radical hatreds.

Mordin sighed. "Preparing to use paralytic agent!"

"Garr fears no agents! Paralyze him and be chopped up and fed to the varren!"

There was another crash and the sound of steel-capped fingers scraping against the ship walls. 'Garr' was feeling destructive today.

Mordin sighed again. He had no real wish to force the issue. As the Normandy's unofficial ship xenobiologist, he'd taken upon himself the duty of upkeeping the health of all the non-human crewmembers, which necessarily involved a great many checkups. Interspecies environments were a complicated health nightmare and surveillance and prevention were key to keeping the team healthy. Still, everybody knew Shepard was the only one who could control Grunt, and even then only sometimes.

So be it. He would defer the krogan's checkup until later. That left only one more for the week.

Hopefully Samara did not own any action figures.

–

He didn't have to go far. Samara was seated quietly on the floor next to the elevator, her knees folded before her and a blue halo set serenely between her hands. Her eyes were lidded – and stone still – but all the same Mordin got the impression she was listening very intently to the goings-on around her.

"Shearing biotic field," he said by way of introduction, gesturing to the blue orb dancing on her fingers. "Properly balanced makes persistent corona. Understand that difficult maneuver," he observed, setting his medkit down on one of the crates Grunt had pushed out of his room to make mountain ranges for his imagined battles. He withdrew a syringe.

Samara's eyes opened. "At first," she confirmed. "In time it becomes second nature." She quieted, and for a moment Mordin thought that was all she intended to say. But then "we have not been introduced."

"Yes, sorry. Busy in lab. Professor Mordin Solus."

Samara eyed the syringe with obvious distaste. "The doctor…"

"Yes," Mordin agreed. "Specialize in non-humans. Multi-species crew. Complicated health requirements. Interconnected biotic environmental factors make disease prevention critical. Wish to evaluate your health, immunize you against likely threats. Should not be unduly painful. Consider it… initiation rite." He smiled.

Samara did not smile back. Her slate eyes did not leave the needle, their depths seeming to weigh the advantages of fighting or fleeing. Mordin hoped she chose neither – he doubted she'd respond any better to his attempts at paralysis than Grunt. "I admit to no great fondness for doctors," she said at length, "but Shepard has ordered my cooperation with his crew, and I obey." Her eyes closed again.

"Excellent," Mordin said, plunging the syringe into a bottle of clear bluish liquid and drawing a healthy dose. "First injection vaccine against Sabjes fever. Rare disease sometimes spread from humans to asari in close contact. Innocuous in humans, uncomfortable, even dangerous in asari."

"Whatever you have heard of my kind, I have no intention of getting into close contact with any of these humans," Samara said. There was no malice in her voice. Simply stating a fact.

"Surely disappointing to some," he said, chuckling as he pushed the air bubbles out of the needle, "But not my meaning. Sabjes transmitted through aerial droplets, retains virulence in air for four to eight hours. Eleven humans on this ship confirmed infected with pathogen. Risk of transmission low but real." He gestured to the needle.

Samara paused for a long moment, then finally relinquished one hand. Mordin took it and gently injected the vaccine into the purple vein beneath her wrist. "May feel slight itching, see purple discoloration. Should dissipate quickly." He patted her hand affectionately, and could not help but be struck by how very soft and dainty her digits were. Not the knobbly things humans had, but thin and sensitive.

And, of course, capable of tearing a tank in half from twenty meters. Funny how biology worked sometimes.

"Next vaccine," he began, reaching for another bottle, "against-"

"I would prefer quiet," Samara interrupted. "Do what you must."

Mordin nodded. "Very well."

Samara was quietly compliant as Mordin went through his long checklist for asari health. A half dozen immunizations, three vials of violet blood for testing, careful examination of the head frills and eyes, prodding of the muscled torso for broken bones or swollen organs. The alien woman's skin was clear and unmarred, untattooed as few asari were and unblemished by what had surely been a life of centuries of violence. Her scales were well-tended and bright, her sensory barbels un-chapped, her teeth flawless, but still Mordin inspected, taking note of the tiniest of observations. He did his work in silence, listening to Grunt's imagination destroy everything in his reach.

He was listening to Samara's heartbeat thrum from the speakers behind his head when she spoke again. "I am sorry," she said. Mordin cocked his head, inviting her to continue. "You do not deserve my contempt."

"Not offended," Mordin said, smiling as he moved onto her back. "Breathe deeply," he ordered, moving the tiny wireless microphone along the grooves. Her heartbeat's cadence changed and warped. "Asari often reluctant to accept medical help. Long lives, stable physiology. Rarely sick. Forget it's possible. Seen it before. Nothing to be ashamed of."

Samara breathed deeply and did not answer until he had moved on again. She opened her eyes to regard him. "Regardless of my reasons, I have no reason to invite my past onto you. You are very kind, as I was told."

Mordin returned to rummage through his medkit. "I was mentioned?"

"By Shepard," Samara nodded. "Yesterday evening."

"Ahh," Mordin said, drawing a tiny tap-echo generator from the bag. "Interesting. Assume he told you I was eccentric by human standards. Worked hard. Noisy. Rarely left lab. Friendly when approached but impatient. Genius. Polymath. Excellent singing voice. An ally." He rattled off each comment without much undue thinking. It was all true.

"A friend, actually."

Mordin started for the briefest moment. "Friend? Unexpected. Will think on that," he said, setting the tap-echo against Samara's stomach. He clicked it on and it started to hum.

"Are you his friend?"

Mordin typed each reading with blazing speed. "Hard to say. Ally, I said. Work for him. Believe in his cause. Owe him. Respect him professionally. Believe him affable enough personally. Still. Friendship rare for salarian doctor. Too much competition, too much politics. Difficult to be friends. Only friendly rivals." He smiled as the tap-echo finished uploading the resonance data to his omni-tool. "Suspect similar situation to your own. Not unwilling to accept friendship, simply accustomed to lone professionalism."

"I have been alone for four hundred years," Samara said. There was pity in her voice, but it was not for her. "I find Shepard's orders easier to respond to than his attempts at friendship."

"Hence meditating on hallway floor to be near the krogan," Mordin said.

"Yes," Samara admitted.

"And Miss Jack."

Samara's eyes narrowed. "She is a serpent. Little threat in the daylight hours. She will stay in her hole whether I guard it or not," Samara said, tight-lipped enough to get across just what she'd do to Jack if her oath to Shepard wasn't standing in her way.

"Sensible," Mordin agreed. "Miss Jack obliged by remote-access implant to behave. Krogan unpredictable. Requires surveillance. Shepard wise to have powerful biotic keep watch." He typed a final few commands into his omni-tool, which gave a pleased beep. "Powerful healthy biotic, in fact. No concerns to speak of. Thank you for your time." He closed his medkit with a snap.

"Of course." Samara smiled for the first time.

Note to self; Mordin added mentally, subject physically healthy but emotionally distant. Possibilities include pregnancy, philosophical turmoil, interpersonal unfulfillment. Prescribe ultrasound, documentary on Kahjean dolphins, and hypoallergenic pet, respectively. Will place requisitions. "Favor to ask, then. Perhaps you can restrain the krogan?" he said, gesturing toward the next room with his enormous eyes.

"Shepard's will is my own," Samara said, and her eyes closed again. The corona reappeared between her fingers. "And only Shepard's."

Mordin sighed. "Ah. Pity."

---

11 years previously…

–

Mordin took notes.

Not about the seminar, of course. The doctor who was speaking, one Dr. Aegohr Salta Chalan Sar'ka Adlin Frets, was droning on and on about stabilities of protein analogs in crops grown on different planets at a level Mordin himself had mastered half a decade previously. Frets was a mediocre scientist at best, but his family's dalatress was in high standing at present and that meant that salarians from across a dozen colonies had convened to hear him speak. It was the political thing to do.

But not the practical thing to do, and that fact grated at Mordin's nerves more even than Frets' voice did. Dalatress Solus could make him depart from his STG work to attend, but she couldn't make him listen.

So instead he'd chosen a seat very near the back of the crowded auditorium, set his omni-tool to record the lecture (he'd play it back later at triple speed), and resumed work on his own projects. There was no time to listen to lesser minds like Frets'. He had something big in the works. Very, very big.

He'd been a professor at this very university for seven years before his writings on galactic population genetics and the genophage had caught the STG's attention and they'd formally inducted him into their ranks. For the last few months he'd been travelling the galaxy with STG operatives, learning their trade. Of course he'd mastered guncraft and espionage as easily as he'd mastered everything else in his life, and the tasks they'd assigned him analyzing threat values for different interspecies factions were larva's play next to the genomics he'd spent his life pursuing. It had all been disappointingly easy so far.

Mordin knew why. The STG had been testing him. Waiting for him to wow them, to prove his worth. He would not disappoint.

"Professor Solus?"

Mordin's eyes flickered away from his omni-tool screen. Excuses flew to the forefront of his mind as he prepared to see yet another of his dozens of relatives, other doctors and researchers of the Solus clan, but he was relieved instead to see the short face and distinctive eye shape of an Asipi clan salarian.

"Maelon," he said with a genial nod, wordlessly inviting the younger salarian to join him. Maelon – still in the blue-and-white smock of an Asipi scientist – slid into the bench next to him. Mordin returned to his work. "Good to see you. Studies proceeding well?"

"Yes Professor," Maelon confirmed. "The sequences you suggested have been useful and my hypotheses will be added to the codexes soon. I should graduate in forty-seven days, barring unforeseen circumstance." He grinned. "Still. Cannot say I was thankful to see you leave. Your replacement professor is a cloud-head."

"Hmm… yes," Mordin agreed, frowning. "Younger half-brother Chopan Solus. Would rather see Alto Asipi or Met'ta Chal in his place." Mordin knew such hopes were futile – his Dalatress would never give up such a prestigious clan position without a fight. When Mordin was usurped for STG work, she simply pushed up the next best Solus biologist in the line. Too bad Mordin's brothers were such uninspired researchers. "Perhaps give Solus clan chair on the educational bureau as compensation for loss of professorship. Other Solus biologists… not my match. Cloud-heads. Sorry to leave you with substandard genetics professor."

"Oh no, I understand," Maelon said. "I know whatever work you're doing is very important. Surprised to see you here at all. Do they really pull people of your caliber back for this?" He gestured his disgust down at the podium.

Mordin sighed. "Yes. Surprised as well. Dalatress Solus usually respectful of time constraints of my work. Usually silent. Playing political game with Adlin clan. Probably has ulterior motives."

Maelon nodded. "Females always do."

"Strong suspicions of her actual motivations," Mordin said with a knowing wink. "Cannot share yet, but highly doubt seminar her true reason for recalling me."

Maelon's eyes widened – it was an enormously audacious risk for a salarian male – even one so famously intelligent as Mordin – to presume to understand a Dalatress. Females were groomed from hatching to think of nothing else but the delicate political web around them. No male would risk trying to predict them for fear of drawing a conclusion without all the information. It was… rude. But of course Mordin was no normal male. He grinned at Maelon but said no more, pretending to listen to the seminar.

The two salarians fell silent except for the tapping of their fingers against their omni-tools. As he waited for an encryption module, Mordin risked a swift sideways glance at Maelon's screen. His former favored student was busy at work on his third thesis in xeno-sociogenetics. Difficult field. Good to see. Making him proud. Mordin hoped Dalatress Asipi did not overlook Maelon's talents.

In the background, Frets' sermon went on and on. The orange glow of omni-tool screens bloomed across the audience, though how many of those were taking notes and how many were pursuing other projects was hard to guess.

"Fallacious argument," Maelon grunted over his thesis at one of Frets' claims. "Ethically bankrupt."

"Methodology flawed as well," Mordin said. "Have seen better dichroic spectra in batarian journals."

The two snickered at that.

–

It turned out Mordin was right and, hardly twenty minutes later (not even halfway through the results portion of Frets' lumbering talk), he was interrupted by a tap on the shoulder.

"Promect. Good to see you," he said, not bothering to look up from his work. Promect Solus – the tall, dark-skinned STG operative who'd recruited Mordin in the first place – did not show any sign he was impressed with Mordin's perceptions, but tapped again.

"Dalatress wishes to speak with you," he whispered. "Critical importance."

A satisfied grin sprouted on Mordin's face. Dismissing his omni-tool with a wave, he gave one last knowing look at Maelon before rising and sidling out of the bench to follow Promect out of the auditorium. The STG operative moved with the smooth grace of a career spy, but he did not look out of place walking out of the polished steps of one of Jahta University's lecture halls – the STG had long had a major presence at the school.

"Glad to see Dalatress Solus knows my work should not be interrupted for an Adlin clan seminar unless she wishes to see me bored to death. Wonder if her cover story fooled anyone?" Mordin said as soon as they'd left Fret's ramblings behind and stepped into the murky humidity of the open campus. A thick fog had overtaken the grounds, obscuring Promect's willowy form as the STG agent led him to a waiting shuttle.

"Please refrain from comments like that in the Dalatress' presence," Promect said humorlessly as the two strapped themselves in. "She is perturbed by recent developments with Clan Trepap and will not be in the mood to indulge your… eccentricities so much as usual." Mordin could feel Promect's gaze on the dark tattoo on his forehead. Technically, Promect was his half-brother, but beyond a slight family resemblance the two salarians couldn't be more different. Promect was silent and professional, dutiful and submissive to the political tangles of salarian society, while Mordin was free-thinking and competitive. Both of them, however, had been shining stars of the Solus clan for years and were the Dalatress' valuable servants, even if neither would ever father children.

The shuttle ride was smooth and swift, the rain pattering on its walls and the hum of the engines drowning out any attempts at conversation the two salarians might have made. The windowless craft was splashed with the Solus clan herald, but even so Mordin felt a lurch as it decelerated into the checkpoint to be verified. Silent Solus-clan inspectors, clad in the white-and-red armor of the Dalatress' guard, boarded the ship with state of the art scanners and swept its every inch, searching for hidden listening devices or anything else a rival clan might have smuggled aboard. At length the ship was cleared, but even then Mordin and Promect were escorted out and marched to the Dalatress' chamber by a small phalanx of guards equally bedecked in surveillance equipment and firearms.

The guards finally left the two of them at a vast, cream-colored door, disappearing as swiftly as they'd appeared.

"She is expecting us," Promect confirmed, opening the door with a wave of his omni-tool. Hot, wet air belched out of the chamber, and Mordin was overcome with nostalgia at the smell of mud and reeds. The two stepped into the sweltering indoor swamp just as the door slammed down behind them.

Mordin's eyes adapted to the dim light quickly as he followed Promect on a winding, tiled path. He had not been in this room for some years now, since the hacking incident with the university's clan stat monitors. It hadn't changed a bit. The sound of sala-wigs splashing around in their pools still wafted over the rows upon rows of high, waxy reeds. Masked servants – half a meter shorter than Mordin or Promect – slunk meekly about, tending the egg pools with tiny brushes.

Mordin and Promect were silent as they passed gaggles of curious sala-wigs, the next generation of Solus offspring, staring out at them from the reeds with buggy eyes and bellies still yellow with yolk. They passed the nesting pools of some of the lesser Solus females – many of Mordin's sisters among them – and headed for the Dalatress' pool, where all Solus eggs were hatched under her watchful gaze.

Promect stopped at the reed wall threshold. "Dalatress Solus. Your child Promect brings your child Mordin, as ordered."

"You may enter."

The two of them found the Dalatress waist-deep in a pool of murky green water, surrounded by pale masses of floating eggs. Salarian larvae wriggled in the water around her, tended by foot-long iridescent fish that kept them free of parasites. Dalatress Solus' head was round and hornless, but all the same she would have towered over her sons were she standing. Her orange skin was wet and smooth from a lifetime of wading in pools. Her eyes – brown and deeper than the blackest space – stared up at the dozens upon dozens of holographic panels floating above her.

She was the beating heart of the Solus clan. Until one of her daughters took her place, she was the undisputed ruler of their fates. Hers was the face every living Solus clanmember had seen on their hatching-day, and they lived to serve her wishes.

"Mordin Solus," she said, her gaze not leaving the screens. Diagrams and reports whizzed by. "Your fealty."

Mordin stooped and touched the pond surface gently. Larvae wriggled and chewed at his fingertip, staring up at him with empty eyes, and Mordin found himself trying to remember being a larvae, or even a sala-wig. He could not. "I am here, Dalatress."

"You have done as I have asked, my son," she said. "Promect speaks of your talents. You are a great asset to the Solus clan."

"Thank you, Dalatress," Mordin said, standing with the surge of pride he felt.

There was a few-second pause while the Dalatress read the newest report to pop up on her screens. "I have a new assignment for you," she said once she'd dismissed it.

"You want me to join the genophage-modification project on Tuchanka," Mordin said.

There was a long awkward pause. Out of the corner of his eye, Mordin could see Promect stiffen at his brother's forwardness. The Dalatress finally pulled her gaze away from the screens to Mordin. Her lips pursed. "How do you know this, Mordin?"

Mordin grinned. "Obvious. Have served as highest biologist posting in Solus clan for seven years. Performed excellently throughout. Only drafted to STG after publishing of controversial paper on population-level gene therapies, where I used genophage as example multiple times. Subsequent STG missions have related to threat analysis. Easy to guess I am being groomed for project in that field. As for specifics… simply informed guess. Data classified, but krogan evolution of genophage suppression inevitable given strong artificial selection and previously-reported fast krogan mutation rate."

The Dalatress was silent for several long seconds, staring into Mordin with her abyss eyes. At length she lifted a slender limb from the water and tapped a command into one of her many panels. "Your clearance is being increased," she said. "Examine the data, Mordin."

"Excellent," Mordin said, pulling up his omni-tool. "Incidentally, have already begun developing simulations for krogan population explosion. Existing simulation technology somewhat limited, does not sufficiently account for krogan clan structure and reproductive culture. New algorithms should more accurately predict intermittent breeding cycles." With a few button presses, he'd uploaded his preliminary work to the Dalatress' screens. "Work in early phase. Will be benefitted greatly by addition of classified krogan cultural data."

The Dalatress was silent again, staring without comment at the volumes of work Mordin had already produced. "Promect," she said at last. He bowed. "Leave us." Promect bowed again and excused himself through the dense reeds without another word, leaving Mordin alone with his mother. Her eyes returned to him and she favored him with a rare, tight-lipped smile. "Have you also guessed the project's codename, Mordin?"

"I have not, Dalatress," Mordin said, grinning from earhole to earhole.

"It is Project Firebreak, and it begins now."

---

Presently…

–

If there was one thing Mordin had learned from Project Firebreak, it was that krogan were not, as a rule, easy to take out. Their skin was thick and armored, their senses keen, their strength massive. It made forcing their cooperation… difficult, to say the least. Mordin had a few darts filled with a powerful krogan sedative that he'd used extensively in his STG days – but even if he could hit Grunt in one of the few vulnerable spots on his half-ton body, then all he'd have is a half-ton unconscious krogan to deal with, and that was little better.

In the end it was drugged food – an old classic, really – that caught the krogan in Mordin's web. A half-liter of an elcor sleep-aid injected into some Earth poultry had been too much for Grunt to resist, and now the drugged krogan stumbled disoriented around the room, most of his action figures scattered across the lower decks as he tried to remember what he was doing with the one still in his hand.

Mordin did not bother restraining the krogan, instead padding along beside him, darting in to gather the samples he needed and back out to a safe distance before Grunt knew what was happening.

"Very hungry," Grunt was saying to himself, staggering out into the hallway where Samara watched the pair with no hint of amusement in her eyes.

"Just ate," Mordin replied, threading a needle between two of the plates on Grunt's arm. The krogan's thick blood dripped into the vial.

Grunt lifted his arm and stared at the needle. "Garr will feed you to the varrens," he mumbled, tongue lounging outside his mouth. "Battle of Eophili. Your fault. Dishonorable. Feed you to the varrens."

"Later," Mordin promised, tucking the blood sample into his belt next to the rest of the elcor tranquilizer.

Grunt nodded, satisfied, and lurched on. Mordin let him lurch, dropping behind to prepare his final needle while Grunt reintroduced his plated face to the corridor wall. The krogan let out a tired moan, his final, most coveted toy finally dropping from his fist to rest next to the elevator exit.

"Garr… invincible…" Grunt concluded before heading off towards Zaeed's room.

Mordin clucked to himself, amused. Krogan were fascinating creatures. So immediately willful and honest. Even drugged to the eyeballs with tranquilizer that would put down a shatha, Grunt was off looking for more to amuse himself. Scientists the krogan were not, but Mordin could not fault that kind of curiosity.

There was a hum as the elevator descended into its shaft – no doubt Shepard's away team had returned from their run on the Citadel – and Mordin looked up just in time to see the doors slide open and admit Misters Vakarian, Donnelly, and Hadley, their arms laden with supplies. Donnelly was turning a fearsome looking camera over in his hands, experimentally testing each of its dozens of buttons and levers.

"You want to give that back, Donnelly?" Hadley was asking, following behind with two cameras like it.

The engineer grinned and held the camera out of reach, peering through its viewfinder at random objects around him. "Ha! Not likely. This thing is cool."

"It's a sophisticated instrument, not a toy," Hadley insisted, reaching for Donnelly's camera. "It's fragile."

Donnelly batted Hadley's hands away and darted right past Mordin. "Jesus H Christ in a handbasket, Hadley! I know how to handle sensitive equipment! Who d'you think maintains the life support systems on this ship?"

Hadley grimaced. "Daniels."

"Well, yeah. But who d'you think keeps the Normandy's engine runnin'?"

"Daniels again. And the helmet girl."

Donnelly frowned, searching for a new argument. His face lit up. "Power! Who does power?"

"How about who does heuristic scanners and EM instrumentation? And cameras? Me," Hadley said, holding out a hand. "Give it up."

"Yeah, but you're so boring!" Donnelly protested, dodging another of Hadley's lunges. "Camera that can see through walls and clothes and you just want to use it for science? There are other things to look at! Certain crewmember activities that need… monitoring." Samara ignored the lewd wink he tossed her.

"It wouldn't work on the thief, Donnelly," Hadley griped, completely missing Donnelly's innuendo. "It isn't like a ship sensor. Goto's cloaking field is a Thatax-9 geometry, designed to fool aliens, so it has a huge functional spectrum. You'd practically have to go into gamma to see through it." He snatched the camera from Donnelly's hands.

The engineer's shoulders fell. "Right," he said, sighing. "The cloaking field. 'Cuz that's totally what I meant." He stopped and stared at the ground. "What's with all the toys?"

"Grunt's," Mordin said. "Characters from Garr the Battlemaster. Animated action vid series. Poor production values but surprisingly complicated story. Enjoy it, myself."

"Mordin, got those cameras we've been talking about," Hadley said, ignoring them. "Calibrated, they should help EDI recognize your unusual metabolite problem." He approached the salarian without hesitation. Indeed, aside from Crewman Matthews, Mordin was probably the closest thing Hadley had to a friend aboard the Normandy. The man was, with the possible exception of Miss Lawson, the smartest human aboard, but his prodigy had come with an ego that had given him a bad reputation among the rest of the crew. Mordin himself found Hadley a bit lacking in inspiration, but he was one of the few aboard who could keep up with the salarian's incessant experimentation, at least enough to be useful.

And he brought Mordin new cameras. What could be better?

Mordin clucked in excitement, grabbing one of the proffered cameras and turning it this way and that in his hands. "Excellent, excellent!" he said. "Will expect them installed as soon as possible. Sentient spectrophotometric scanner of enormous potential use." Hadley nodded. "Trip to Citadel was a success, then?"

"See for yourself," Garrus replied, emerging from the elevator with an enormous rifle in each hand and two more strapped to his back. "Zaeed's arms dealer friend came through."

"Excellent," Mordin repeated, taking one of the guns and giving it a cursory examination as a courtesy only – he was more interested in talking to Shepard about spreading his work into the conference room. "Shepard back aboard, then?"

"Yeah, just talking armor with Taylor, I think," the turian said, turning to retrieve a steel crate from behind him.

"An' that's not even the best part," Donnelly interjected, holding a box above his head in triumph. "We got power couplings! Nashan Stellar Dynamics, baby!"

And that was when the situation exploded. There was an audible crack as Garrus stepped into the hallway, directly onto one of Grunt's misplaced toys. The turian's mandibles fluttered in confusion at the smashed plastic on the floor for the second or two it took Grunt to lumber back into view.

Mordin's quick mind saw what was coming next. Pity there was no time to stop it.

"MIIIIINE!" Grunt bellowed, the drugs in his system dispersed in a second under his fury. He thundered into Garrus hard enough to break the turian's armor shell. Mordin managed to sidestep out of the way just fast enough to avoid being caught in an avalanche of armored alien and fallen weapons, but Hadley and Donnelly were not so lucky and were tossed aside like chaff.

Grunt and Garrus' journey ended with a noisy clang up against the door to Grunt's storage room, the krogan's forearm smashed up against the turian's neck.

"YOU!" Grunt roared, pushing so hard they all heard one of Garrus's plates crack. "YOU TURIANS DID THIS!" It was not Grunt but Okeer they heard now. "YOU COULD NOT FACE THE WARLORD SO YOU DROPPED A SHIP ON HIM!"

Everyone was shouting – Grunt, Hadley, and Donnelly were red-faced and furious. Garrus, on the other hand, his neck wrapped in one of Grunt's massive arms, just wheezed and struggled for air. His armored feet kicked out fearsomely as he struggled to pry Grunt's grip away, but the krogan was much too strong.

Grunt just roared in anger and drew back a fist.

There was a blue flash as Samara hurled herself into battle. She'd skidded down the hallway like a blue blur, her hands wheeling up as she neared. Mordin saw the air distort around Grunt's feet as the monster's gravity reversed. The krogan was too heavy to lift completely, but where a thousand pounds had kept him rooted to the ground before, now he swayed like a balloon. He took a drunken step backwards, stumbling over his feet.

Garrus saw his chance and, slamming his feet down into the floor, pushed off with all his might. Turian and krogan alike somersaulted backwards in a drunken arc.

The blow Samara landed on Grunt's nose was so powerful Mordin suspected the whole ship heard it. If they didn't, they definitely heard her tear Grunt from the turian and hurl him back down the hallway with a spectacular crash.

Mordin was there by the time Grunt landed and darted in to point-blank range. Raising one fist he fired a tranquilizer dart into the roof of the krogan's open mouth, right behind where the armored palette ended. The big reptile's angry confusion melted away in seconds, replaced by blissful sleep even as he murmured threats against all who opposed. His thick, armored limbs went slack, thudding as they fell against the floor.

At the other end of the hall, Garrus gasped desperately for air while Donnelly struggled to drag him to his feet. The turian doubled over and vomited, heaving and clutching at the ugly blue bruise already blooming on the soft tissue of his throat.

"Mr. Vakarian. Tilt your head back," Mordin commanded, grabbing for Garrus's neck. Garrus coughed and swayed on his feet but let him examine the bruise. Mordin tapped it gently, then pressed a hand deep into the cleft of Garrus' neck to hear his lungs. He grabbed the turian by the jaw and peered down into his throat. "Don't see any permanent damage," he said, prying Garrus' fearsome mouth open further. "Forelungs luckily not harmed. Will need to do test of lung function."

"No permanent damage!" Hadley was shouting. Anger had made his face almost as red as the trickle of blood seeping from a gash on his head. "That thing almost killed us!"

"Turians hardy," Mordin said, still staring down Garrus' throat. "Hard to kill, Mr. Hadley."

Garrus warded Mordin's prying fingers away with an angry shake of his head. His voice was a wet rasp. "I'm going to kill him. I'm going to kill him." He stumbled over to where he'd dropped his rifles, pushing Mordin aside.

Hmm… Problem. Shepard would not approve. "Stop the turian, Samara," Mordin said. "Shepard will thank you later." He looked to the asari, who stood sentinel over the fallen krogan with no expression on her elegant face.

"No," she said.

"Damn right no!" Hadley was shouting. "That thing has gone too far! Shoot his head off, Garrus!"

Garrus had a furious gleam in his eye, and looked ready to do just that as he lurched over with his reassembled rifle. Mordin stepped into his path. "Cannot let you do that, Mr. Vakarian. Immoral to shoot sleeping opponent. Unacceptable."

Donnelly joined in, "I think the doctor's right actually, Garrus. You gotto take a step back, mate."

Garrus stared hatefully down at them. Mordin was not confused – Garrus dwarfed them in strength just as much as the krogan had dwarfed him. An angry turian was not a fun enemy. Still. Neither was Mordin. Garrus' armored shoulders shook with rage. "That krogan has nearly killed me three times now," he growled. "I'm finishing this. Move."

Some part of Mordin knew he was fighting a losing battle. Why defend this krogan? Grunt was a liability. A danger to the mission, a mission that might be of critical importance to the survival of trillions. Why should he allow one krogan to jeopardize that? Was he really letting his guilt about Project Firebreak affect his judgment? Was he just trying to make amends?

It was impossible to know, but still the decision came fast.

Mordin's arm flashed up, lining up a shot with Garrus' neck. "Can stop you by force if necessary, Mr. Vakarian," he threatened. "Tranquilizer unhealthy, can cause permanent liver damage in turians. Would prefer to convince you."

Garrus was not given a chance to respond as Mordin was suddenly knocked aside by Hadley, who'd charged in and tackled him about the waist. Hadley was not a big or a strong man, but he was big enough to hurt, and Mordin went down in a tangle of spindly limbs. "Do it, Garrus!" Hadley shouted, trying to press his weight down on top of Mordin's narrow chest.

"STOP!" Shepard's voice carried across the hangar as he came running in from where he'd jumped down the access shaft in the life support room on the crew deck, out of armor but carrying his assault rifle. Jacob, Thane, and Zaeed came behind, guns drawn, and darted into the fray. Jacob yanked Hadley off of an indignant Mordin with a rough shove, sparing Mordin the need to snap-freeze the man's face as a lesson.

Shepard inserted himself in front of Garrus without hesitation, grabbing his gun barrel and pointing it into the ceiling. "Stop it, Garrus. Now."

"He attacked me!" Garrus shouted, trying to wrest his gun back. "I'm done!"

"You're dismissed, Garrus! To your quarters!" Shepard shouted, red-faced.

Garrus' eyes widened dangerously. There was a long, pregnant pause interrupted only by the sound of Samara's biotics blossoming at her fingers.

"Now, Garrus!"

The tension in the room seemed to crystallize the air, but with three gun-barrels and a Justicar pointed his way, Garrus had no choice. He stared daggers down at Shepard. "Aye aye… Commander," he said, and turned to lumber away, hand clutching at his throat.

Shepard watched him leave, then turned. "What happened?" he asked, staring down at Grunt as Jacob hauled Mordin back onto his feet. Mordin brushed the dust off of his coat with as much dignity as he could salvage before dutifully stooping to check Grunt's vitals. Donnelly and Hadley stepped in, stammering explanations as fast as they could. Hadley's face was flushed with blood as he waved the shattered remains of his cameras in Shepard's view in a way he'd never have the courage to do normally, but Shepard listened to it all in a grim silence. He waited until the two men had trailed off before he spoke. "You didn't say anything to him?"

"Nothing!" Hadley claimed. "It was the damn toy!"

"Garrus mighta broken his Garr the Battlemaster action figure…" Donnelly added, staring at his toes.

"Also tranquilized Grunt for checkup," Mordin admitted, prying open the krogan's mouth to check for tongue swelling. "May have inhibited… judgment... Such as it is."

Shepard frowned. "Great. Just great." He turned to stare at Grunt's unconscious form. "You're all dismissed. Mordin, you stay." He stooped next to Mordin.

"Not until you space that monster!" Hadley insisted. "I will not work under these unsafe conditions anymore!"

"It's a suicide mission, Lawrence. Enough," Shepard said, not regarding the man. "I'll deal with him."

"I said-"

There was a thwuck as Mordin fired a second tranquilizer dart, this time into Hadley's foot. The man was asleep before he struck the ground.

Everyone stared at him.

Mordin blinked innocently. "Purely medical reasons. Undue stress damaging to humans. Prescribe rest." He retracted his dart launcher into its wrist compartment with a dramatic click and gestured at Hadley's drooling form. "Prescription delivered."

---

9 years previously…

–

Contrary to popular impression (which mostly focused on the searing equatorial deserts wherefrom Warlord Okeer and most other offworld krogan had come), much of Tuchanka was cold. Nuclear winter had disrupted weather patterns of the once-temperate world and it would be thousands of years – or even tens of thousands – before they'd returned to their rightful place. Krogan were equally hardened against burning winds or freezing, but most of Tuchanka's already-minimal plantlife had been extirpated throughout much of the planet, leaving local krogan clans scratching at the rocks for enough food.

In the meantime, however, the cold was a boon. Deep in the Krushk Wastes, blasted by sand and sub-zero winds, the best and brightest minds of the STG worked in comfort. Their mobile laboratory had all the amenities of home and, buried under a frosted dune, even the strongest wind couldn't penetrate their scientific paradise.

"Simulation one-one-one-one-four," Operative Jirin was saying, scrutinizing the holographic representation of the wastes through his eye-mounted HUD. "Population adjusted by Telath calculations." Little glowing spots speckled across the miniature landscape represented krogan villages and burgeoned or winked out as the hypothetical effects of the newest proposed genophage modification were played out in silico.

For his part, Mordin didn't need the graphic – his mind cut the trends out of the raw numbers with practiced ease – but he had to admit it made a useful demonstration, with different regions shifting colors as their local krogan populations changed. Mordin watched the display, his enormous eyes flickering from settlement to settlement as each round of calculations played out. It was a marvelously complicated program and the most scientifically controversial part of the team's work – every krogan birth or death had wide ramifications for the whole region, as other tribes advanced or retracted in response to their enemies' numbers. Krogan could be counted on to take whatever territory they could, especially if it belonged to their enemies, but whether they could hold that territory – or indeed whether spreading caused them to succumb to clanless raiders or other threats – was much harder to guess.

"Problem," he interrupted, still swirling his cup of hot tea in one hand. "Pause."

Jirin frowned but obeyed, and the simulation froze in place.

Mordin crouched next to one of the miniature villages. "This. Attug clan garrison. Supported by data?"

"Model incorporates most recent algorithms," Jirin insisted, resuming the simulation with a tired wave. "Populations adjusted by Telath calculations, but validation impossible until Kirrahe's team begins reconnaissance operations on south ridges."

"Validation unnecessary," Mordin said, still watching the Attug garrison grow. "This population clearly false. Much too large. Local resources insufficient to support four thousand krogan."

"Attug clan is one of the few still growing," Jirin said.

"Only because of willingness to adopt clanless as slaves. Assure you, slave survival unlikely. Attug garrison likely less than half of indicated value. No need to waste validation trip. Model one-one-one-one-four clearly invalid."

Jirin's eyes narrowed but he said nothing. Mordin had a frustrating habit of dismissing hours of work in a millisecond, but he also had the even-more-frustrating habit of always being right to. He wasn't the only genius at work on Project Firebreak, but he had managed, in many ways, to become the unofficial lab leader whose opinion guided the science team's direction. Egos inflated like bulta roots in any large salarian collaboration, and every scientist there had tried to dethrone Mordin, but he was simply too sharp.

"I will check the survival curves for one-one-one-five," Jirin said, calling up his calculations for what felt like the millionth time.

Mordin took another sip of his tea and sniffed, not looking up from his omni-tool, which beeped and bloomed with the newest data. "Good." Mordin glanced over the mailed results in a heartbeat.

There was the sound of tapping feet and Maelon came sliding into the room just seconds after his data, omni-tools ablaze on both hands. "Professor Solus!" he called out, tapping away with both hands simultaneously. "New development on oral solution!"

Mordin frowned. "Unsustainable solution, Maelon," he said, flipping through page after page of diagrams on his student's most recent work. His protégé had joined the project less than a year after he himself had, a fact which pleased Mordin to no end. The younger salarian had a tendency to let his passions influence his science, but when focused had the sort of flexible creativity other scientists could only dream of. Mordin wanted to see him succeed. Still, his stubbornness had not helped so far. "Not a valid solution," he said. "Compound would be metabolized in a matter of days. Sterility effects would be temporary." He dismissed Maelon's data with a wave.

"That's the point!" Maelon insisted. "This way we can introduce the compound into krogan food supplies to curtail local population explosions, without having to remodify the species as a whole! The krogan can continue to evolve and we can continue to study their numbers."

Mordin scratched his chin. He hated to stamp on his student's enthusiasm, but simulation after simulation had pointed at one solution, and one solution only. "Not parsimonious solution," he said, "Complicated. Inelegant. Expensive. Prone to failure. Difficult to track. How to control dosage? How to maintain clandestine presence on Tuchanka without risking new diplomatic incident?"

"We can even use it to help fix the damage to Tuchanka," Maelon tried. "Use it on pro-war clans, leave the offworlder friendly ones alone. In a century or two we might have a krogan population ready to rejoin the galactic community!"

"No," Mordin insisted, eyes narrowed. "No. No cultural interference. Must not repeat mistakes of the past."

"But we can undo the mistakes. Fix what we caused!"

"World exists in equilibrium, Maelon. Always in flux. Disturb equilibrium, world adjusts. Forms new equilibrium state. Stabilizes. How long before new equilibrium is natural? How long before returning to old state would constitute another disturbance? Cause additional damage. Must allow nature to adapt on its own now."

"But nature is adapting, if we'd just let it!" Maelon insisted, gesturing to the miniature holographic Tuchanka. "The krogan are recovering from the genophage we decided to inflict on them."

"Must let simulation run to conclusion," Mordin said, crossing his arms. "Krogan recovering from genophage but not from cultural damage inflicted by salarian uplifting. Need more time, more time. All simulations point to disastrous population explosion if left unchecked."

"We can't let computers decide this for us."

"Why not?" Mordin asked. "Our computers. Built by us. Guided by us. Handle bigger data sets, yes, pursue solutions to more complicated problems, yes, but still constrained by our intelligence. Tools for applying salarian thinking to enormous database of factors."

Maelon's face fell. "But…"

Mordin stopped him with a tender hand on his shoulder. "Agree, Maelon, must not use computers carelessly. Must not decide on solution, then design simulations to agree. Must be honest. But give computer all data, let simulation run to conclusion, let consider all possibilities. But then computer conclusions inescapable. Immoral – wrong – to ignore it." He patted Maelon. "Understand?"

"Yes Professor," he said, eyes downcast.

Mordin retook his seat and took another sip from his tea before resummoning his omni-tool. He and Maelon had had the same kinds of arguments many times already – a fact which he did not resent in the least. Most salarians were thinkers of many talents, equally at home discussing the empirical as the ethical, and the science team had spent many an hour around this very table dissecting the finer moral points of what they had to do. For the most part the conclusion had seemed clear from the beginning – when a dozen separately-designed simulation schemes all pointed in one direction, it was hard to escape it.

Still, it was ethically… difficult. Complicated. Not undecipherable, but complicated. Mordin's average daily sleep had gone three point eight minutes since beginning sequence testing.

There was a slam from above as the base's hidden hatch was extruded to the surface. The three salarians craned their necks at the sound of muttered curses and watched as Operative Rentola descended the narrow passageway, his entire body covered in a fine dust. Firebreak's second-in-command after Kirrahe was a pragmatic, unwaveringly negative soldier, the only one of the stealth operatives for which Mordin had found any respect yet.

Rentola dropped to the floor and clapped the sand from his hands. "Liable to dry out if we stay out much longer," he grumbled, blinking rapidly as he adjusted to the bright laboratory lights. "Updated data," he said, pulling a tiny drive from his belt. "Validation data from farther up the ridge. Kirrahe sends his regards." He tossed it.

Jirin caught the thrown drive and plugged it into the simulator display. There was a beep.

"Good. Running simulation one-one-one-one-five," he said, and the four salarians watched the numbers change. "Population adjusted by Telath calculations, adjustments to survival curves gamma-three-eight and gamma-three-nine, updated with validation data for region oh-one-one-three". Colors shifted as predicted krogan clan populations were replaced by observed counts from Kirrahe's team. The computer gave a blat as Kup village, a small canyon-town of krogan less than a mile from the Firebreak basecamp, was wiped off the map.

"What happened?" Mordin asked, eyes watching the ripples of the Kup krogan deaths move across Tuchanka.

"Slaughtered last night by Ovo clan," Rentola said, shaking his head. "Whole village destroyed, eight hundred-thirty. Females and platelings too. Kirrahe suspects Ovo clan was eliminating all perceived threats to the underground spring it captured last week. Rough business. Hate to see it."

The holographic Tuchanka had started to turn red. With the loss of a few hundred more krogan, the simulation was playing out very differently as other clans spread out to fill the power vacuum. Villages winked out one after the other, and regions darkened to a bloody red as local krogan populations died out. Clearly the current hypothetical genophage modification strain would greatly hurt the Wastes krogan cultures if used.

"Goddess…" Maelon whispered as a wave of red spread across the miniature Wastes. The salarians watched in silence as more and more of the simulated krogan they were trying to protect died off in a chain reaction of over-effective genophage strains destroying already struggling populations.

"Must… must let simulation run to completion," Mordin said, although for once he wasn't sure he wanted to.

---

Presently…

–

Mordin had never seen the Illusive Man – and didn't plan to – but all the same he liked to imagine how the Man might react seeing his expensive quantum communications room turned into a glorified incubator. Busy trying to deal with Garrus, Shepard had ceded the room to Mordin without a second's hesitation and, less than an hour later, Tali and Mordin were well into transforming it.

Miss Zorah – stripped of her veil and helmet hooked to an external oxygen tank – was as content as she could be, and hummed as she worked spraying the walls with a disinfectant vapor. Volatile disinfectant wreathed her from all sides and made the air roil with poison fumes but all the same the quarian had a skip in her step that she hadn't had since she'd left the original Normandy.

"Ahh…" she sighed contentedly, backing up to survey her work. "I love the smell of clean." She turned to Mordin. "Or I would if, you know, I could smell."

Mordin smiled behind his own gasmask as he unloaded stacks of plates gathered from his lab. "Assumed you would be familiar with decontamination procedures. Didn't guess would enjoy so much or would have hired sooner."

"It's a quarian thing," Tali said, rubbing a hand on the wall where the black-and-orange Cerberus logo had started to melt away. "'Cleanliness saves lives', they always say. 'The ship is your second suit'." She traced a finger through the melting logo and held it up to her helmet, inspecting the orange paint on her fingertips. "Can't deny I like seeing the logos go too, though."

"Ahh yes. Cerberus/quarian rivalry. Fascinating to see you on ship at all."

Tali rubbed the paint on her hip and turned away. "Yeah… well… We all have jobs to do," she mumbled, lifting her sprayer for a second coat. "What do you need this space for anyway?"

"Cell culture. Collector samples proving… difficult to grow. Completely alien conditions, difficult to guess nutritional and environmental requirements of unfamiliar biosphere. Very engaging puzzle." He held up one of his dishes, where the jelly-like media was crystal-clear, untouched by growth. "Normally this level of sterility not necessary for properly-handled plates but having difficulty avoiding denaturation. Collector cells expire quickly. Extremely fragile."

"They're dying?"

Mordin nodded. "Indeed. Explanation unknown thusfar but analysis of oxidation of protein homologs reveals cells constructed entirely of relatively fresh material. Very little residual damage or structural turnover. Perhaps lack repair mechanisms entirely. Die under slightest stress. Makes growth conditions critical for study." He set the plate down. "Next experiments will attempt variable gas environments. Familiar with anaerobic hood construction?"

Tali sighed, the light in her mouthpiece managing to look more resigned than would seem possible. "Like… a sterile bubble?" she deadpanned. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm familiar."

Mordin smiled. "Yes, figured you would be."

"Spent ten years of my life in one."

"May be critical for collector growth as well," Mordin said, ignoring her self-pity. "Dissection of corpses reveals no evidence of immune system or systemic stress response organs."

"Like the quarians again," Tali said.

Mordin gasped. "No!" he said, "Unlike quarians! Quarian immune systems intact, simply untrained due to prolonged life in near-sterile conditions, subsequent loss of skin and gut flora." He poked at Tali's mesh-covered stomach. "Lost your commensal bacteria. Lost a million years of cumulative adaptive immunity. Have no humoral immunity to contribute to children." He waggled a finger at Tali's helmet. "Entirely reversible given time."

"But-"

"This!" Mordin interrupted, holding up the cell dish again, "very different. No immune system at all. Odder yet, no repair mechanisms! Completely unique among all known life. Quarian lifespan measured in decades. Calculations suggest collector bodies expire as protein homologs oxidize. Likely lifespan measured in weeks!" Mordin gesticulated wildly – Tali was no biologist but he didn't exactly have people lining up to listen to his discoveries these days. It was a relief to have someone to share with. "Even short-lived organisms tend to evolve repair mechanisms but in Collectors… nothing. As if systems present then surgically removed! Perhaps Reapers uninterested in maintenance."

Tali shook her head. "Why would they do that? What use is a big bug that falls apart in a week?"

"Guesses! Hypotheses! Ideas!" Mordin shouted, tapping his head. "Perhaps all Collector deployments complete in that time period. Proper technology could liquefy recalled units, recycle biomass, reclaim as liquid constituents to be reintegrated into new units. Maybe more efficient than repair mechanisms in individual units. Maybe allows redistribution between different morphs as tactical situation changes. Maybe repair simply foreign concept to durable Reapers. Many possibilities, impossible to know without experimentation. If possible to talk to Reapers, would ask!"

Tali fell silent and the two of them worked without speaking for minutes. Once she'd finished soaking the walls in disinfectant, and long after the last wisps of orange from the logos had been washed down the drain, Tali set to work installing the balloon-like gas hoods. It was not until after the second hood was already being inflated that she spoke again, her voice very small behind the nitrogen tank valves she was adjusting. "I've talked to a Reaper," she said, as if she were afraid how he might react. "On Virmire."

Mordin stared at her. "Yes! Read the reports. Envious." He paused. "Not of the nuclear annihilation of your crewmember, of course," he added. "Not envious of that at all. But opportunity to speak to ancient war machine? Fascinating."

"It wasn't fascinating, Mordin," Tali admitted, voice distant. "It was scary."

"Only by virtue of being unknown."

"It's amazing how often the unknowable is trying to destroy us."

Mordin's eyes widened. "Did not say unknowable," he said, aghast. "Unknown. Reapers simply new synthetic race to be understood. Have reason to destroy you. Hard to imagine, perhaps – enjoy your company myself, do not wish death on you – but Reapers different. Must be studied. Difficult charge, but not impossible."

"Even if they are just robots, how could we understand them? You can't even get the collector cells to grow." Tali demanded.

"Not yet," Mordin agreed. "But I will."

"How do you know? Maybe they're ungrowable!"

Mordin paused for a moment, trying to decide how best to explain. Quarians were smart creatures – arguably just as smart as salarians if in different ways – but woefully fixated on the here and now. Often eschewed broad theories in favor of simple practicalities. Raw data. Functional results.

Ahh yes.

Mordin set down his plates and approached Tali, stooping to grab her hand in one of his. The quarian seemed to shrink next to him as he splayed her fingers out against his own. Tali looked on in curiosity. "Astral pollination theory," Mordin said simply, gesturing to their matched hands. "Our digits. Very similar." Indeed – Mordin's fingers were longer than Tali's, but otherwise their hands were almost identical, down to the spacing between the digits. "Why?"

"I… don't know."

"The krogan's hand similar as well. And Mr. Vakarian's. And vorcha hands. And Collectors'. Astral pollination theory famous idea by salarian biologists to explain anatomical similarity between asari and salarians. Two legs, two arms, two eyes. Theory said common ancestor – simple, monocellular lifeform – spread through space to populate distant planets. Physiology of ancestor – astral pollen – imposed constraints on evolution, resulted in similar end-points."

"Is it true?"

"No evidence to suggest truth," Mordin admitted, dropping her hand. "More commonly attributed to constraints of physics. All life faces similar challenges. Three fingered hand effective design for solving common problem. Appears independently on different biospheres." Mordin turned to return to his plates. "General explanation for similarities in unrelated organisms. Why you and I both have three fingers. Why psychologically similar enough to interact." He turned. "And why confident Collector cells can be grown in a lab. Unusual, but still life. Still vulnerable, beautiful, complicated. Still must eat and protect itself. Just in new ways. Not unknowable. Not ungrowable." He smiled.

Tali stared at her hand, haloed eyes screwed up in thought, and Mordin's smile widened. He missed teaching – seeing the look of contemplation on his students' faces as he opened new doors for them. It was a noble profession.

"So… you think the Reapers grow the Collectors from scratch?"

Mordin nodded. "Likely hypothesis. Seeker swarm and collector infantry morphs contain extensive cybernetic implantation, but no evidence of surgery. Likely tissue grown on mechanical scaffold." He hrmed and tapped his forehead. "Or very, very careful surgery. Hard to fathom for mile-long metal cephalopod. But possible."

"Have you tried growing them on scaffolds?"

Mordin paused.

Tali yelped in surprise as she was suddenly folded in a crushing salarian hug. Mordin pulled back and tapped on the visor of her helmet. "Brilliant! Very smart, Ms. Zorah!" he said, beaming. The pieces fell into place in an instant as he compressed her again.

He let go and started to pace, talking to himself at a fantastic rate. "Excellent idea. All this time, have assumed cells and machinery separate! Have assumed cells could grow independently! Foolish, foolish assumption." He turned and paced again, rubbing his chin, deep in thought. How had it not occurred to him? He had been so distracted with the biology that he'd forgotten to step back and look at it as a non-scientist. Miss Zorah's practical mind did her much credit. "Simple enough experiment. Assume important growth receptor analogs resected. Would fit other missing aspects of anatomy. So obvious! So obvious! Dissolve dead swarm morph, attempt to measure electrical fields. Replicate on silicon plates, test voltage scans."

He looked at Tali, face urgent. "Must return to lab. Must begin! Impressed, Miss Zorah. Can complete remainder of task alone?"

Tali laughed. "Go ahead."

"Excellent! Excellent!" Mordin was chattering as he marched away, leaving a very-satisfied Tali knee-deep in disinfectant suds.

–

The ship was asleep, the krogan was asleep, but Mordin was awake.

Shepard had kept Grunt's outburst quiet for a few hours while he'd pondered what to do, but the rumors flew and eventually he'd been forced to call a ship meeting. The krogan was dangerous, he'd said to the gathered crew, and was being confined to the hangar until something could be done with him. The hangar was off-limits until further notice.

Mordin chose to take a liberal interpretation of what 'off-limits' meant. It was a rare opportunity to study Okeer's 'perfect krogan' without risk to life or limb, and he was not going to pass it up. He'd spent the afternoon plating out new cells on every different electrical field he could find (which had involved confiscating more than a few of the ship's flashlights and electric toothbrushes and any other appliance in reach) until the middle of the third shift when most of the crew was asleep, then gathered his medkit and snuck his way into the maintenance shafts.

The lights were dim in the empty hangar, the krogan's noisy breathing the only sound as Mordin stepped out of the emergency egress shaft. His knees hurt from the cramped corridor and he had no great love of dust, but Samara would surely be guarding the door and so it was his only way. He found the krogan easily enough, shackled to the back of the Kodiak and still unconscious from the sedative he'd been given.

Mordin worked quickly, fingers questing along Grunt's plates, testing for bone damage. Samara's blow had cracked several of Grunt's cranial scutes, but beneath crusted blood Mordin could see the thick bone already knitting back together. Krogan were fantastic regenerators – so much so, in fact, that their bodies tended to overshoot and grow bony tumors in the wake of serious injury. Grunt was young, however, many of his plates still soft and unfused, and Mordin couldn't find the slightest nodule.

"Cranial, cervical, dorsal scutes evenly formed and healthy," Mordin muttered into his omni-tool, "No evidence of osteal scarring." Grunt gave a massive yawn that reeked of carnivore and Mordin took the opportunity to wedge the krogan's jaws open with a nearby spanner. "Splitting on upper left molars three, six, and seven, likely from blow to the head. Replacement teeth already crowning beneath."

Mordin drew a pair of forceps from his open medical box and levered them beneath one of the broken teeth. Even with the replacement tooth clearly visible, ready to displace it, Mordin had to put nearly his entire weight into yanking the broken tooth away, and even then the wicked molar split in two and had to be rescued from the back of Grunt's throat. Throughout the procedure Grunt remained still, dead to the world.

Mordin's hands were dripping with thick krogan saliva by the time he'd collected the tooth fragments into a vial and tucked them away.

"Will dissolve tooth back at lab," he said to himself. "More rigorous genetic tests. Confirm full penetration of genophage markers, search for possible genetic explanations for sudden rages. Not hopeful of results. Suspect behavioral disorder function of unusual upbringing. Not properly naturalized even by krogan standards. Recommend he not remain aboard."

"Doctor's orders?" a voice asked, and Mordin jumped in surprise to see Shepard, face haggard and arms crossed.

"Medically?" Mordin asked, burying his surprise. "Yes. Krogan require space, dangerous on small ships already. Compounded with possible mental or behavioral disorder, interspecies crew, and uncommon strength and stamina of this particular krogan, may be recipe for disaster."

Shepard was still, mind clearly elsewhere. Easy enough to guess why.

"Mr. Vakarian refused further treatment," Mordin said. "Did not pursue issue as did not perceive it medically necessary, but trust you have seen to his health?"

Shepard sighed, dropping to a seat on a nearby crate as Mordin administered a second sedative to Grunt. "He isn't talking to me either. He just needs time to cool off, he'll be fine," Shepard said, though whether he was trying to convince himself or Mordin was hard to say. "Gets riled up. I think some part of Garrus still sees krogan as troublemakers on the Wards."

Mordin nodded absently. "Common opinion among turians," he said. "Suspect most would see krogan extinct if possible." Mordin dug through his medical bag for the right immunobooster.

"Tupari, Mordin?" Shepard asked suddenly, voice amused. "You drink Tupari?"

Mordin looked up in surprise, then down to the brightly-decorated bottle sticking halfway out of his medical bag. Tupari – it will make you like Blasto, it said on the bottle's label, Don't you want to be like Blasto? Shepard's eyebrows creaked up on his forehead. Mordin rose, deftly plucking the bottle from the bag. "No, no. Never," he insisted, inspecting the label. "Terrible nutrition. Little more than sugary poison. Addictive but nutritionally useless. Never drink it."

"Why do you have it, then?"

"Useful!" Mordin insisted. "Medical uses! Potent stimulator when injected into human heart. Can reset asymmetric heartbeat. Liquid defibrillator. Also useful as paint thinner, I believe," he added, still contemplating the bottle.

Shepard chuckled and the two lapsed back into silence, Shepard looking on as Mordin continued his work. It was many minutes before Shepard spoke again. "What am I going to do with him, Mordin?"

"Multiple possibilities," Mordin said, pulling the wrench back out of Grunt's mouth. "Could kill him, as Misters Hadley and Vakarian suggested."

"We both know I'm not going to do that, Mordin. He's… he doesn't mean to do it. He's a krogan. He's a child. He was born fully-grown with a head full of Okeer's bullshit. He's sick. I don't know."

Mordin stood. "Possible side effect of Okeer's tampering," he agreed. "Other tankborn krogan on Korlus in similar poor states."

"Yeah…"

"Also possible Grunt suffers krogan illness. Not familiar with it myself, but krogan medical knowledge is limited."

"So what do you think we should do?"

Now it was Mordin's turn to sigh. What a question. What a person to ask, the salarian responsible for their continued state of war and nihilism. Mordin had argued the ethics of dealing with the krogan so many times it had practically lost all context. "Unknown, Shepard," he said. "No advice to offer. Krogan… not animals. Not monsters. Not to be demonized for their differences. Wish to see them prosper. Wish to believe recovery possible. Krogan saved galaxy once. May again. But also destroyed the galaxy once. May again. Need data. Cannot guide you on Grunt's life. Your decision, not mine." He sighed. "Glad that it is."

Shepard was silent for many long minutes.

"So where's the nearest krogan expert?" he asked finally.

"Right here, Shepard. Specialize in krogan physiology. Had to."

Shepard's face fell. "Alright… where's the second nearest?"

"Tuchanka."

"A krogan?"

"Perhaps. Or former student Maelon. Also krogan specialist. Currently on Tuchanka." As that thought returned to Mordin's mind, the import of it finally hit him. His student. His old partner. His… friend. In the hands of the krogan. Would end poorly. Did not want to see that.

Shepard sighed again, staring down at Grunt. "Alright. Then we'll go to Tuchanka. Worst case, we leave him there."

Mordin's big eyes flitted to Shepard, and he remembered what Samara had said. Shepard considered him a friend as well. Perhaps… "Commander." Shepard met his eye. "Trip to Tuchanka wise if Grunt is to remain here. Also secondary use. Personal favor. Hate to ask."

Shepard's eyes widened in alarm. "What is it?"

"Student Maelon. May know Grunt's ailment. Not only reason I brought it up. Captured by krogan."

"When?"

"First reported today. May be dead already. Would rescue but do not wish to abandon duties. But perhaps if on Tuchanka, might take…" he calculated, "twelve hour break from work to attempt search rescue mission." He stared at Shepard for half a second. "Coincidence entirely coincidental. Will not take offense if time cannot be spared. Duty first. Research first. Understand Maelon of secondary priority. But if possible, would appreciate it."

Shepard said nothing and some part of Mordin began to panic. Foolish request. Endangered the mission. Waste of time. Maelon likely dead, Collector work critical. Should not have asked.

He took a deep breath as he gathered up his medical supplies with as much dignity as he could. "Work to do," he said, heading for the elevator. "Should do full checkup on Mister Vakarian as soon as possible. Tell me when decision made."

"Mordin," Shepard said, stopping the salarian with a hand on his shoulder. "Decision made."

---

4 years previously…

–

Mordin did not hate things. Hate was for the small-minded, the selfish. The galaxy was a wonderful, beautiful, awful place. Misfortune was an inevitability of the fact that he was but a blip in the greater sum. Life was a game destined for failure but he was part of something massive and eternal. No matter what happened to him, no matter what he did, the universe would go on. There was no reason to despair.

So why did he feel so terrible?

After years of work, Project Firebreak had been a success. Their subterranean lab had been exhumed a month previously and recon from multiple STG cells had confirmed that the altered genophage strains had been successfully deployed. One hundred percent penetrance local to all drop points. Expected to spread to all members of the krogan species within a decade or two. The button had been pressed.

And Mordin had pressed it.

He stood on a wind-blasted ridge, staring down at the setting Tuchanka sun. The bandages over where his left horn had once been ruffled in the cold breeze and the slash across his cheek prickled incessantly.

He thought of Maelon, who had been removed from the project a month previously. Maelon, who had fought their conclusions every inch of the way. Maelon, who had very nearly sabotaged the project and would have thrown away a successful future if Mordin hadn't caught him and persuaded him from his path. Maelon, who had tried every argument to protect the krogan from further meddling.

Maelon, who would never be a professor now. Mordin had done his best to keep his rash protégé's words off the books, but salarians talked. Word would get back to his Dalatress and Maelon would never be trusted with a real position again.

Unlike Mordin, who would be offered highest honors. Who would be given a cushy job back at his old university, or perhaps within the STG as a top analyst. Who might conceivably even get a breeding contract, even over his brothers who had been groomed for it since hatching. Who might get daughters.

Maelon. Who might have been right.

And Mordin hated being wrong.

"It's time to go, Specialist Mordin. No more samples." It was Kirrahe. Behind him, Mordin could hear the shuttle engines revving.

The words came without warning, but Mordin knew immediately they were true. "I quit."

Mordin could hear Kirrahe's eyes widen. "What? The project is over."

"No. Verification to be done. Validation. Further analysis. Consequences to measure. To see."

Kirrahe laughed. "Not for us, Specialist Mordin. We have done great things for our clans. We go home to our pools until we are needed again. I will be captain when I next check my messages. And you… curator? Emeritis? Who knows?"

"No," Mordin repeated, more forcefully this time. "Tell my Dalatress I relinquish my position. Whatever it may be."

Kirrahe was silent.

"Must let simulation run to completion," Mordin said. He stared at the desert. "I will stay."

–

---

Codex Entry: The Salarian Dalatresses

While asari have enthralled other species' scientists for centuries with their unusual reproductive habits, in many cases they have overshadowed the equally-unique sexual culture of the salarians. Like most sentients, salarians are dual-gendered and heterogametous, but that is where the similarities end. Salarians exhibit the strongest sexual dimorphism of any known sentient, both physically (female salarians stand almost three meters tall on average and outweigh their male counterparts by more than double) and mentally (the salarian brain differs so starkly between genders that they are often mistaken for separate species). Significant biological differences have led to a highly regimented society with strict gender roles.

Most salarian society is matriarchal, with political power distributed between the females of the species. Most salarians identify themselves by their clan (sometimes 'family' instead, especially outside of Union-held territory), each consisting of a single female (a Dalatress) and all of her descendants. Each Dalatress has complete autocratic control over her family, reinforced not only by a culture of extreme familial loyalty but by careful control of the salarians' intrinsic imprinting instinct.

Female salarians tend to mature slightly slower than their male counterparts, reaching sexual maturity at around age eleven. Once mature, however, a single female can lay more than two hundred eggs per spawn, and spawn four to six times per year. Eggs are jelly-like and shell-less and must be maintained in highly oxygenated water for three to four weeks while the embryos develop. Most Dalatresses rule their families from within specially-constructed nesting chambers – usually artificial swamps built within reinforced fortresses – and never leave the water, choosing instead to remain in contact with the eggs at all times. After a three week hatching period, tailed, limbless larvae emerge from the eggs and psychologically imprint on the first adult they see – as such, virtually every part of the nesting chamber is engineered to ensure only the Dalatress witnesses each hatching. Tall, dense reeds surround each pool, and in clans with enough eggs that the Dalatress cannot care for them herself, stunted males – less than half the size of regular males – tend the eggs from behind face-obscuring masks. Eggs and larvae are also kept healthy by colorful Aeogh fish, which eat dangerous parasites. While in modern times water conditioners and algaecides are generally sufficient for this purpose, Aeogh fish have become an integral part of salarian culture, and each clan maintains a pedigree of purebred fish at least as exhaustive as that kept for salarian children. Fish from the oldest lines can fetch spectacular prices at auction, and are highly sought after for the prestige they bring.

It is during the larval stage that salarians are first sorted into the classes that will dominate their adult lives. After imprinting, each is captured and moved to a new nursery pool, where different nutrition and growth conditions can be maintained. Female larvae are fed robust diets designed to speed their transformations and maximize their size as quickly as possible, while different male diets cause development into different morphs – minimal diets lead to the pygmy servant morphs, while rich diets lead to breeders and soldiers. The Dalatress and her servants care for the larvae in these pools for the four to six months it takes them to grow legs and emerge onto land as sala-wigs. Education is begun as early as possible, with female sala-wigs learning the art of business and politics from their mother and older sisters while males are taught their assigned trades by permanent teachers. By the time a sala-wig leaves the nesting chamber at about two years of age, they are eloquent speakers and well-equipped to begin work on their assigned profession.

Non-Dalatress females technically hold little power within a clan until they are old enough to lay eggs of their own. In most clans, lesser females are allowed to spawn a small number of their own offspring, for whose hatchings both they and the Dalatress will be present. This policy, unfortunately, can lead to instability within the clan when a female disagrees with her mother and the legions of imprinted males are being ordered in opposite paths, and sometimes leads to the formation of new clans. It is an important failsafe, however, as even though female salarians tend to outlive males by a decade or so, Dalatresses do die. When this happens, the most influential daughter will rise to take her mother's place and swiftly replace all of her brothers with her own sons to preserve the clan's subservience.

While rare salarians (even females) occasionally escape the rigid clan structure, the vast majority of all salarians live under this kind of political machine. There is no centralized salarian government – all major settlements belong to one clan or another. Decisions affecting the species as a whole are made by the Salarian Union (sometimes informally known as the Dalatressi Council), a forum in which all salarian Dalatresses commune on a regular basis. Every Dalatress, no matter how big or small her clan, is given a voice in the Union, but when matters are put to a vote each Dalatress is weighted by a computationally-determined score of political strength. Salarian analysts monitor every branch of society and high-technology computer systems assign value to increased populations, wealth, influence with alien species, and ten thousand other factors. As a matter of necessity the weight values are respected by all Dalatresses, but most spend the majority of their time fighting to increase their clan's value through legitimate means or otherwise. Similar systems are used to establish hierarchies in other parts of salarian culture, including within the STG (which, despite using rank names adopted from other cultures, ultimately uses their performance to assign clearance levels) and between lesser females inside a clan.

The only major part of salarian government not officially affiliated with one of the clans is the representative to the Citadel Council and his staff. These council representatives are chosen from birth and trained vigorously on all manner of political discourse. By tradition the representative will come from the Dalatress with the highest political score as an acknowledgement of her power, but the representatives' eggs will be hatched in full view of as many Dalatresses as can be gathered, so the representatives become imprinted to the Union in general, but none of its members individually. Lesser Citadel positions are filled in a similar manner. All salarian representatives have short tenures, however, as the death of any of the major Dalatresses will require a freshly-imprinted replacement.

Aside from the councilor, male salarians have no official power in salarian society. Male larvae are split into classes during development, ultimately separating them into servants, soldiers, academics, or breeders. In most cases only the latter category will breed – these breeders are well fed and trained in politics and business so they may be used in strategic breeding contracts and bargaining chips. Males of the three 'lesser classes' generally do not breed except in small clans or in cases of exceptional individual accomplishment.

–

---

A/N: Kabooooom, baby! It's about to get heavy!

Another belated chapter. Sorry again. Busy again. You know how it is.

Anyway, Mordin is just super awesome. There has never been a nerd character I liked more. The fact that he and Shepard can argue and he doesn't automatically LOSE the argument because Shepard is THE HERO just blew me away. I am just giddy every time I talk to this guy, I'm serious. An intellectual that still has a heart. So cool. Doesn't hurt that he's hilarious either.

So, this chapter kinda begins the loyalty missions. I will not be covering them all in depth. Some, like Mordin's, are so well done I could hardly add anything. Others, like Grunt's, are just not the sort of thing that's gonna read well. I do plan to touch on most of them, however, and so soon we will start seeing characters come back for their second or third chapter.

Samara fans, sorry she's so light so far. She will get a chapter, it just has to wait. I promise to deliver when I get there, but it'll be a while. I have some ideas, though, so hold on.

Finally, you gotto know who chapter 18 goes to. Who else (besides Legion! For the last time, it isn't Legion! Be patient!) could stand next to MORDIN?