Trennor Pov sat, patiently waiting, his respirator flaring rhythmically. Two very large krogan stood on either side of him, staring blankly at the increasingly-uncomfortable asari receptionist. She looked very relieved when her terminal chimed.
"Mr. Chalek will see you now."
Trennor rose out of his chair and went to the door, his bodyguards staying behind, but within earshot. "-sic- Thank you."
He entered Chalek's office. Chalek rose to greet him. "Mr. Pov, what a surprising pleasure to be able to meet you."
"Likewise, Mr. Chalek. From the sound of it, you know of me beyond our current acquaintance? -sic-"
The batarian grinned. "Of course I do! I've been reading your column for twenty years. It made me the business man I am today."
Trennor was consistently surprised at how much more well known he had become from writing articles in a mildly popular business e-magazine than he had from building a multi-billion credit company.
Is he truly a fan, as he implies? Could be useful for the negotiations, if true. ...No, more likely it's simple flattery. A man this successful does his homework.
"It's gratifying for an old man like me to know young -sic- people benefitting from my knowledge." Even batarian young people, I suppose.
"I'm pleased to here it. Now, what can I do for you sir?"
"I'm interested in buying heavy ships."
Chalek smiled. "Then you've come to the right place, Mr. Pov. We offer the most rugged, reliable, and affordable freighters in the entire Terminus-"
"I'm not interested in freighters. I'm buying warships. Show me what you have on offer, heaviest models first, please."
To his credit as a salesman Chalek didn't miss a beat. He brought up a hologram depicting a boxy, utilitarian cruiser.
"Our heaviest model, the renowned Korlus Orbital Solutions Defender-Class."
Renowned for being cheap, anyway.
The thought wasn't intended as an insult. Trennor was a rank amateur in his knowledge of starships, but he'd done his homework before coming to the Terminus. Korlus Orbital Solutions were a relative newcomer, and yet had already carved a respectable niche for themselves in the industry. While Korlus had always been known for making cheap ships (the benefits of having mountains of scrap to use as material), they had always been cheap for a damned good reason - they were of dreadful quality. The myriad of squabbling guilds and companies that built them had little incentive to improve. Then some batarian nobody had ever heard of bought out the smallest shipbuilding company of the bunch. Twenty years later, he'd bought out all of his competitors and had established a reputation for building the best affordable starships in the Terminus. A reputation so strong that the company had even broken into the "civilized" ship market, a rarity for Terminus companies. That batarian had continued to build and grow his company for another decade, before retiring and handing the reigns to his son. That son sat across from Trennor now.
The company reputation was also pristine in terms of integrity and public relations - by Terminus standards, anyway. They had none of the backstabbing, broken contracts, and underhanded dealings that were typical of Terminus companies. More importantly, they'd never once (knowingly) sold to pirates or slavers. That last fact was one of several reasons why Trennor had elected to take his business here.
"Yes, I've heard much of this ship. -sic- Sell me on it." Trennor said.
Chalek's smile widened. "Happily. The KOS Defender was our first military design, and has remained our most popular model of warship since it was launched. Given its versatility, it's easy to see why. It makes a steady and affordable frontline combatant for more tightly budgeted organizations, and a highly effective second-line warship or heavy escort for more well-funded fleets."
"You speak of its affordability, but -sic- surely there is a reason for it. What's the catch."
Chalek laughed. "No catch, just a different design philosophy. Costs are kept down in the base model Defender primarily through its drive core. The core is, naturally, the most expensive part of a ship by far. However, with careful engineering, costs can be cut down, if one is willing to compromise. In the base model's case, the compromise comes in the form of its speed. The weaker-than-average drive core is tuned in such a way that its shields are no weaker than other cruisers of comparable size. However, this takes away from the main drive, thus reducing its overall thrust output. In other words, it is noticeably slower than comparable ships. However, this tends to suit our clients just fine, as we tend to sell to colonial defense forces and armed shipping companies, who have little use for a fast patrol cruiser, but plenty of use for a highly-affordable system defense ship or convoy escort."
"Of course, we believe in meeting all of our clients' unique needs, and so we have an extensive array of upgrade and refit packages that can turn the Defender into any manner of cruiser you can dream of. There's the ever-popular flight deck upgrade, the scout upgrade with its enhanced sensor suite, the survey and exploration upgrade, and, indeed, even the patrol upgrade - which mirrors the base model and has enhanced engines at the cost of weakened shields. And that's naming only some of our options."
Trennor was quickly growing tired stringing the man along in a pointless attempt at misdirection. He'd already decided on the Defender weeks ago. The hard part would be doing it without revealing his true intentions.
"Well, Mr. Chalek, I think your Defender may be exactly what I'm looking for. -sic- How many do you have in stock?"
"Er...well, nine, but...may I ask-"
"I'll take them all. How many do you have under construction?"
"Well, the state of the galaxy being what it is, most of them are spoken for, but we have seven that are currently available-"
"Can you get all of them to a flyable state in under a week?"
"Yes, but I don't-"
"Excellent, I'll take those as well. Let's talk price-"
"No." Chalek said.
I suppose it was wishful thinking to imagine that I'd be able to bully him into not asking any questions.
"Is there a problem, Mr. Chalek?"
"Let's not be coy, Mr. Pov. You just said you wanted to buy my entire stock of available cruisers in fewer words than it took me to speak my wedding vows, and I would like to know why."
"You've seen the state of the galaxy. I have need of them."
"Forgive me if I find it hard to believe that a private citizen has need of more cruisers than the the average Terminus navy has."
"Do you always ask this many questions -sic- to paying customers?"
"Only when they give me reason to."
"Very well then. -sic- They are instruments of my revenge."
Drat. I wasn't supposed to say that. Recent events had opened up some very old wounds, and left him in a...less than stable emotional state.
That definitely surprised Chalek. "...Revenge against whom?"
"Who else? -sic- The scum who took my son from me!"
The facade of a cool, calculating businessman fell apart as the devastated father he'd always been was revealed.
The elder volus look at his feet. "Thirty years. It's been thirty years since he was murdered. -sic- Murdered for nothing. -sic- For a joke."
He'd thought the wound had healed, but it proved to be as raw and festering as the day it had happened
When he remembered how he had argued with his son, Unfett, before he'd left on that trip, he wanted to scream in disgust at himself. The last conversation he'd ever had with his son was an argument over money. The boy had gone off on a trip to a frontier world resort with his friends, mostly to get away from his father. Then a batarian slave raid had come to the world.
The anguish that Trennor felt was concealed beneath his mask, but it was unmistakable in his voice. "Slavers. -sic- Batarian slavers raided the -sic- resort world he was on. Had they -sic guessed who he -sic- was, they would've surely -sic- held him for ransom. -sic- But they couldn't be bothered to ask, and, well, slavers don't take volus. Too much trouble. So, -sic- instead, -sic- they breached his suit -sic- and laughed -sic- -sic- while my -sic- -sic- son's -sic- -sic- -sic- insides ripped themselves out."
Trennor stared ahead, seeing the images he'd seen on his son's suit cameras play out in his mind's eye, just as he had seen them in his nightmares for the past three decades.
"I threw myself into my work. I thought I had put it behind me. -sic- Then those damned -sic- humans released footage of their raid. I'd spent years doing nothing, while the scum who murdered my son walked free, -sic- protected by the Hegemony. Just like every slaver in this -sic- accursed galaxy. -sic- I'd deluded myself into believing the same nonsense everyone in Citadel space believed: that nothing could be done about it. -sic- And then some upstart race who discovered the mass effect not -sic- even fifty years ago freed more slaves and killed more slavers in a few months than the Citadel has in the past -sic- century!"
He looked up at Chalek. "And now those bastards are trying to put the humans in chains, -sic- and once again we do nothing. Well, I for one have already spent far too much of my life -sic- doing nothing."
"So, it really is true, then? You sold your company?"
Had he not been in a suit, the volus's mad grin would have been visible. "That's right. My life's work, sold for more money than the annual budget of some countries. -sic- And I intend to invest it in the future of this galaxy."
Chalek frowned. "So, these ships are really going to the humans, then?"
"Obviously." He narrowed his eyes beneath his mask. "Why? -sic- Are you some sort of 'patriot'?"
Chalek glared for a moment, and then laughed. "Mr. Pov, I have never set foot in the Hegemony. I am the son of an escaped slave. They're just as eager to see me in chains as everyone else."
He went to look out his office's small porthole, to the smog-filled sky outside. "Korlus is a miserable polluted cesspit of gang wars and corruption...but it is a free cesspit. My father came here with nothing, and he went to his grave having built the greatest shipbuilding company in the Terminus. That is the power of freedom, Mr. Pov. Even with the foul, corrupted sort of freedom a place like Korlus gives, look what one man can achieve! Imagine what my people could do if we were all free."
He turned back to Trennor. "How much did you get from selling your company?"
Trennor laughed. "Speeches aside, I'm still a business man. In what universe would it be a good idea to reveal how much I'm able to pay?"
Chalek persisted. "Can you cover eighty billion?"
"Eighty? -sic- Even if every single cruiser were fully built, that would be too much."
"Yes, but you're not getting every cruiser. You're getting every un-spoken for warship that we can make fly."
"...Go on."
"I must confess to having put on a bit of a ruse myself. I wasn't lying about being an avid reader of yours, so when you abruptly decided to sell the seventh largest private financial firm in the galaxy, I took notice. When you contacted me asking for a meeting, I took careful notice. I had you pegged for some kind of deniable government proxy, but I must admit, you surprised me. You're either an accomplished actor or those feelings were very real."
Trennor laughed. "Government proxy? -sic- The Citadel has spent the last 2000 years doing nothing about the Hegemony, why would they start now? This is all out of my own pocket."
"Nevertheless, I suspected you were intending to funnel ships to the humans, and was hoping to find a way to confirm it with you. I had my people run the numbers, and eighty billion is they lowest I can go without risking the company going under. If you can pay that, I have one hundred and fifty mostly space-worthy ships in various states of completion. Mostly frigates, but also a healthy amount of destroyers and cruisers. The humans will have to arm the majority of the ships themselves - other than the spinal mounts- and install most of the electronics, but that's still one hundred and fifty ships getting into combat far faster than if they'd had to build them from scratch."
"That is quite a lot of product to part with -sic- for eighty billion credits. I'm hardly an expert on the costs of ships, -sic- but you must be taking quite a loss."
"We've run the numbers, it's doable. I think of it as...what was it you called it? 'An investment in the future of the galaxy?'"
He smiled. "Still, I hope you'll put in a good word for me with the humans. I'd be very interested in doing further business with them in the future. At full price, of course."
Trennor left the meeting down eighty billion credits, but up one hundred and fifty warships. Plus one potentially very useful new contact.
Major Szabo, commander of the Nova Scotia class frigate Tuscon, looked at the tactical display and nearly dropped his coffee bulb.
"One hundred fifty contacts, all warship-grade drive signatures!" The tactical officer called.
The Major cursed. What were the batarians doing here? Had they gone the long way around the galaxy to send a raiding force through the Citadel-Human border?
"Um...sir? We're receiving a hail on an open channel." The confused communications tech said.
"Put it through to my terminal." Major Szabo ordered.
He tapped at his screen and one of those strange squat, pudgy aliens -...what were they called...vorcha...no, volus. - appeared.
"Greetings, human. I apologize for simply spilling out into the system like this, but coordinating fleet maneuvers with skeleton crews is proving something of a challenge for my employees. I appreciate your restraint, I know war can make things tense. Anyways, I am Trennor Pov, and I come bearing gifts."
The Major struggled not to sigh. So much for a quiet patrol.
