Chapter 08
Rasa
Rasa looked over the organisations first budget report from the comfort of her office aboard the mining facility. After they'd dropped the pirates off at an Asari outpost, they'd taken the second ship and sold it for a mere fifty thousand credits to a scrapper who delighted in buying mothballed ships, refurbishing them, and selling them on again. She'd been pleasantly surprised by the price; while not a lot, it was more than she'd expected for a Batarian shit heap. That money was going to what little it could pay for: new uniforms, new livery, and to make a start on converting the Alexander, with some pocketed for the first round of wages. Profitable as it was, though, coming away with the MAKO was the real prize, and Montez's face lit up when they rolled it onto the Alexander's hanger deck.
She leaned back in her chair and stretched, a series of joints popping a she did, her body waking up again. They couldn't get new uniforms or livery until they'd decided on what exactly would be written on that livery. She'd been tossing names around in her head since shortly after deserting Cerberus, but none had stuck around too long. The idea of following in her former employers footsteps and naming themselves something pretentious from history didn't appeal to her, and neither did taking on a more typical, blunt name akin to the various mainstream mercenary groups. She toyed, for a brief moment, with the possibility of reviving the Grim Skulls, getting a little kickstart with an established name, but quickly discarded it. This had to be a Human organisation from the ground up. And so, there she was, staring up at the ceiling with vacuum behind her eyes and barely the strength to keep them open.
Rasa stood, and again stretched. Powering through three—almost four at this point—straight days of micromanaging the operation of the Themis Mining Facility had sapped her energy and turned every thought that crossed her mind to thick, syrupy sludge that weighed her down—peak mental capacity had come and gone long ago.
She went down to the spacious, opulent apartment next door, the one she'd claimed as her own, and dropped onto the single mattress haphazardly occupying the queen-sized frame. Falling asleep under the same gas giant that guarded many of her most painful memories felt uncanny, and she was sure her younger self would crucify her for coming back, no matter the reason. Rooms as nice as this may as well have been on another planet for how likely a homeless kid like her was to inhabit one—shows what she knew.
SLAP!
"Worthless!" The voice was sharp, and sounded like a woodchipper from decades of smoking. "One measly wallet? Are you fuckin' kidding me?" Slap! "Get it into your head: earn or die alone on the street!"
Rasa cradled her stinging cheek, eyes fixed on her disintegrating shoes. It took all she could not to cry; that had long since been beaten out of her. Brocktun wasn't a bad man, she'd reminded herself, he was only doing what was necessary to help her survive. If she didn't earn, didn't prove herself useful, she should be abandoned in favour of someone capable, worthy. She'd learned her lesson. Living on the street again wasn't an option.
"I'll do better next time," she squeaked.
"You fuckin' better." He scooped up a bottle of moonshine and took a swig as he dropped into a nearby couch. "Go; get the fuck out. You meet your quota tomorrow, or you're out."
Rasa went, back to the closet in the other room, on the floor of which was a tattered, torn blanket and the only thing in the universe close to being hers. She pulled the doors shut behind her until only a thin crack remained, and wrapped herself tightly in the blanket. As was usual, sleep only found her when her body was physically too tired to stay awake, and it was often a restless, shallow slumber. Images from news broadcasts showing gleaming cities and stunning countryside vistas—on Earth, Bekenstein, Horizon—clicked through her head—what she wouldn't give to escape to such paradise.
Outside: crashing, smashing, slurred anger. Footsteps like earthquakes shambled back and forth. Occasionally another voice, or two or three or four, or more would pipe up. Someone would fuck against the closet. Someone else would get stabbed against the closet. Fights churned up the shithole of an apartment more. Drugs were the thing she hated most: the thick stench moved in like pea soup, stifling the world around her. It gave her awful headaches and inflamed paranoia, made her see hallucinations and visions, repeatedly punched her in the gut until she threw up, and she'd sit in that vomit all night for fear of the beatings—or worse. When she finally managed to grasp a shred of sleep and hold on for all she was worth, she dove headfirst into the welcoming escape it provided.
Beep beep! Beep BEEP! BEEP BEEP!
Rasa rolled over with the grace of a dancing elephant and snoozed her alarm. The apartment she inhabited now was one of the nicest on the station—a world away from Brocktun's shithole—but the familiar architecture alone was enough to plague her with unease. Brocktun had long since been recycled and turned to fertiliser, but his moon never ceased to eclipse her sun.
She rubbed her eyes. Thinking about that fat fuck wasn't good for anyone. Her list of things to do trailed over the end of the bed and out into the living room, and beyond. Today was the start of a new day, and she set her sights on cutting it down to size. Only after a shower and breakfast.
Doctor Banderas had been operating out of the rundown, abandoned husk of the facility's infirmary to get anyone who wanted to join up medically cleared for service. Rasa had been happy when the report that came across her desk showed a majority of the citizens were eager to sign up. Her job right now was to ascertain how many of them had to be rehabilitated or healed before they were capable of shooting straight. They would have the best medical care available and all the benefits expected from a high class mercenary group that took care of their own. Ruling with a friendly face proved the better option for a stable, sustainable system—after all, every dictatorial or totalitarian system on Earth eventually collapsed.
To say the infirmary had been cleaned up would be a gross overstatement: some of the debris had been put off to the side and surfaces had been cleared and cleaned, but any doctor worth their salt would rather rase the building to the ground than perform a medical procedure inside. Banderas had setup his office in the general practitioners office, and had cleaned it extensively—a world of difference from the corridor outside. Rasa passed a middle aged man shuffling from inside, and took that to mean the doctor was free. She chapped on the door.
"Come in," he said absentmindedly. "Take off any jackets or coats, and sit down on the chair." He tossed his rubber gloves in the bright yellow medical waste disposal bin and reached for another pair, freezing when he saw Rasa. "Ah… Apologise, Rasa."
She waved him off.
He sat at the desk chair positioned beside the reclining surgical chair. "What can I do for you?"
"I'm here to check on the status of the people who've decided to sign up." She sat on the recliner and shifted it into the fully seated position. "What's the diagnosis?"
"Well"—a sharp breath sucked in through his teeth—"it's about as bad as you'd think: malnutrition, rampant alcohol and drug abuse, poorly healed and treated injuries, mental health issues I'm galaxies away from being qualified to treat. The most rampant issues I've found, however, are lung related due to the failing CO-Two scrubbers and high density of dust particulates in the air owing to a nearly non-existent atmospheric filtration system."
"How bad can the drug and alcohol problems be? It's not as if there's a brewery just down the street."
"That's exactly it; in lieu of proper brewing facilities, the inhabitants have taken to repurposing old equipment to make moonshine. The stuff's all sorts of bad for them and, honestly, the alcohol is the least poisonous thing about it. As for the drugs?" He shrugged. "Crime finds a way, I guess."
"All right. I'll have the soldiers dismantle any still's they come across and get them to investigate the hole in the hull the drugs are pouring in from."
"To be perfectly honest"—he sounded apologetic—"I'm not sure how many of these people will be fit for the kind of work we'd be demanding, even with dedicated medical treatment. A lot of them are older and the few at a decent age have grown up in a harsh environment with little-to-no education, malnourished, poor medical care. Younger bodies are, obviously, more resilient, so there's always a good chance of rehabilitating them, but it's going to be an up-hill battle."
Rasa sighed, and reclined the chair to stare up at the darkened lights hanging above. "Okay," she said after a moment, "go through everyone who's applied and cut down the list to only those who're fit, or can be realistically cleared, for duty. I don't care if you only come to me with one name, I want your utmost honest diagnosis."
"Will do." Banderas noted it down on a nearby tablet, then turned soft, concerned eyes upon her. "And how's your health? It's been over a week since you got back from Cyrene, and I've not had the chance to give you a check-up. Were you injured? How's your mental health?"
"Thought you said mental health was outside your area of expertise?"
"Long-term psychiatric care is outside my area of expertise; as a physician aboard a naval ship, however, I'm trained in various forms of therapy to help soldiers, sailors, and anyone else willing deal with the stresses of day-to-day life on the frontier. Of course, should I deem any mental health crises to be of a serious enough disposition, I'll refer you to a trained professional as soon as we put into port, as well as informing the CO."
"We're hardly within the naval infrastructure anymore."
"That makes my job all the more important."
"And if something is seriously wrong?"
"I know more than enough civilian professionals—don't think you're getting off the hook that easily." He crossed his legs and sat back in the chair. "So? How are things?"
Rasa shot him a glare, then recentred her vision on the lights. "It's…been a lot," she breathed. "The mission to Cyrene was probably the most straightforward part of this whole thing. After months of running from nook to nook, hiding away from Cerberus, I'm glad to have the reprieve—even if I'm not particularly happy about being back here."
"What's the significance of this place?
She looked over to him, and realised nobody else with her knew about her background. "I…grew up here," she said. "It wasn't a glamorous life, and my 'guardian' was a massive cunt. Seeing it all again has been an odd mix of thrilling and terrifying."
"How so?"
"I'm back here having pulled myself out of the squalor. I own this place now. I beat it, and went onto to be better. It's empowering to have such command over a painful memory like that, and yet I still sometimes find myself retuning to the scared child I once was." She took a breath. "I've been throwing myself into my work to cling onto the feeling of empowerment, and it only seems to be working most of the time. Speaking of which; I don't suppose you have any ideas for names? Something snappy and marketable?"
Banderas stared off into the middle distance for a moment. "How about Hell Riders?"
Rasa glanced over to see if he was serious, and saw a huge grin. "So that's a no, then?"
"I'm afraid so. Never was much for the PR side of things; always preferred to focus strictly on the job at hand. All that politicking is for someone with a looser moral code."
"I'm offended."
"But not denying it."
"Well played."
"Gracias."
"So, how am I looking, Doc?" Rasa swung her legs off the recliner and stood, stretching. "Any imminent mental breakdowns I should be on the lookout for?"
"You're stressed, there's no denying that, but we're all on about the same level, which is fine as long as we don't get collectively worse."
"Good to know."
"And a lot of deeper issues I'm not equipped to handle, but I can—"
"Don't bother."
He held up his hands in surrender. "Just let me know if you change your mind."
"I'll think about it, and get me that list as soon as you can."
Banderas nodded.
As she went, Rasa tossed a few more names around in her head: the Talons, taken; Humanity First, too fascist; the Scalpers, too aggressive. Perhaps there was logic beyond rampant ego to the Illusive Man's decision to name Cerberus after a mythical beast. Hades? Hercules? Medusa? Odysseus? She hated all of them, and confined it to the back of her mind for use only as a last resort.
She stepped out onto the street, now clear of the heavier debris, and started back towards her office. They hadn't wanted to clean up too much in the event someone from the Alliance came sniffing around, so she still had to largely zigzag her way back. The stench from the atmospheric systems had mellowed—or she was just getting used to it—and the air of perpetual misery had lifted somewhat. The people around her had enthusiasm to their movements and uplifted spirits. This was the change she wanted to make; to give pride back to the regular Humans of the galaxy.
Volyov waited for her outside her office door when she returned. She input the locking code and waved him inside, once again trying not to snicker at his outrageous fashion sense. A white shuttle swooped past the window.
"What can I do for you, Volyov?" she wondered.
"You asked me to go through the station equipment stores and come back with an inventory," he answered. "The storage lockers are bursting with junk, but very little of it usable."
"All right. Send the data to my tablet." She rubbed one of the buttons on her shirt between her fingers. "Do you have any ideas for a name?" she asked, turning towards him. "Something we could use to unify our new company."
His brow wrinkled. "Hm… How about 'Tears at Midnight' or 'Bleeding Darkness'?"
Rasa nodded, directing her attention out the window, but watching Volyov in the reflection. "Good suggestions. I'll…take them under advisement," she said, then turned back to him. "Is there anything else?"
"We're continuing to tidy up without making it look like someone's tidied up, going through the facility section by section to lock it down, and trying to find everyone who lives here. That last one's proving difficult; there's no end to the nooks and hideaways we keep finding people squatting inside."
"Keep on it, but I want you to lead a team personally to hunt down the drugs on the station," she said. "Don't bother going through with a fine tooth comb, we're looking for a large stash. There's no need for someone to try hiding a drug smuggling or manufacturing operation, or whatever it is they're doing when this facility is practically free from oversight."
"And if we do find something?"
"Seal off the section, inventory everything, get Banderas down there to analyse it all, and I want anyone involved arrested and interrogated. We need to find out who's bringing the drugs to the station and everything related to their operation. If we're going to recruit these people and give them jobs, we need them totally and completely sober."
Volyov made a note of the order. "I'll set it in motion."
"Make it a priority, and…do whatever's necessary to extract the information."
Volyov gave a nod that told her they were on the exact same page. "Yes, ma'am."
"If there's nothing else…?"
"Not right now."
"You're free to go."
Volyov nodded, and left.
The door had barely closed when the lights dropped out to be replaced by the dull red emergency bulbs. A silhouette stepped from the corner, baring the bulky curves of a woman in armour, or, more accurately—based on the swept back cranial tentacles—an Asari in armour. The unannounced guest stepped into the light and Rasa glared at the smirk of Tela Vasir standing across her desk. His fingers twitched, glowing and pulsing blue energy in lieu of access to a firearm.
Vasir raised a hand. "Please, this rickety old bucket wouldn't survive me blasting your atoms all over the bulkheads," she told Rasa. "Besides, I'm not here of my own volition."
Rasa reluctantly let her biotics dissipate. Tela Vasir is the one Asari in the galaxy she despised more than the rest. They'd had a run-in the previous year after she was discovered attempting to download Shepard's records from Vasir's Spectre terminal on the Citadel. Things had spiralled from there, and now the Spectre had the ability to blacklist Rasa from every Council controlled settlement in the galaxy. It had been one of Rasa's few critical mission failures, and not a memory she was eager to dig up.
"What do you want?" she asked.
Vasir relaxed into smug confidence. "You requested certain items from the Shadow Broker."
Rasa chuckled. "A corrupt Spectre; why am I not surprised? And why did the Shadow Broker see fit to send one of their cronies?"
"The Andromeda Initiative is of great interest to my benefactor, and they see this as a prime opportunity to go in and dig around in their databases."
"So that's your price."
"You get a copy of the freight shuttle schematics; they keep everything else. The Broker's had many dealings with the Initiative before now—they're not as clean and shiny as those garish ads would have you believe—but they've thus far been unsuccessful in getting any information not offered up or that they could glean from contractors."
"What a shame," Rasa remarked flatly.
"The Shadow Broker knows all, and there's no better pairing to maintain that reputation than a Council Spectre and an ex-Cerberus infiltration—although, you might not be as good as they think, considering our little spat."
Rasa hoped Vasir couldn't see her fists clench in the low light. "What do you need to from me?"
"The Shadow Broker wants us to go all out; that means infiltrating the Initiative headquarters itself and stealing a copy of the master files," Vasir explained.
"And you need me because your blue ass would stick out on Earth no matter how good you are."
"Something like that."
"When do we leave?"
"As soon as possible."
"Give me a few hours."
"Don't be too long"—Vasir stared to the door—"or it might jeopardise your deal."
And she was gone. The lights came back on the instant the door chirped to notify her it was shut. Wouldn't it be a shame if an awful accident were to befall Tela Vasir on this mission? Her mind set to work formulating outlines for plans to get rid of the Spectre. Yet another situation to occupy her limited mind space. She groaned.
Rasa got her stuff together and assigned enough tasks to the personnel to keep them busy for a few days, then shot off a message to Shepard and Montez informing them of the bare minimum of her rendezvous with Vasir and their upcoming mission. Shepard called back immediately. She sat on the couch in her quarters with a towel wrapped around her torso and her hair up in a second. Her skin had the sheen of recently having been in the shower.
"I don't have time for this," Rasa told her.
"Lucky for you I'm in a position to be quick," Shepard replied. "This mission you're gearing up for; do you need some back-up?"
"I would've asked if I did."
"Would you?"
"Is that really the only reason you called me?"
"The reason I called you is because we're partners, and you can't just go running of with the barest essentials of an explanation."
Rasa sighed, then entered a command into her omni-tool to switch to a channel with harsher encryption. The only indication of the move was a split-second dip in resolution. "The job I need to do in exchange for the plans is to break into the Andromeda Initiative headquarters and copy their master database with…Tela Vasir."
"Tela—? The Spectre Tela Vasir."
"The very same."
Shepard's expression turned serious and she stared dressing. "You can't go with her alone," she said. "It's bad enough that you're directly teaming up with an agent of the Shadow Broker; for that agent to be a Spectre? No, no."
"We've got a history, so she won't try anything I can't see coming."
"That's overconfidence if ever I've heard it."
"Shepard. Please. Vasir is someone I would never underestimate; I already did that once, and I'm not eager for a repeat. Trust me, this is the best way to solve our problem and get Alexander back into shape."
Shepard froze and studied Rasa intently with brilliant green eyes as if considering all her options. "All right," she finally said. "Corrupt Spectre's shouldn't be taken lightly under any circumstance, so please be careful."
Rasa involuntarily replied with a warm smile. "I will; don't worry."
She closed the channel, and hoisted her duffel bag over her shoulder. The shuttle was waiting for her in one of the secondary hangers; a slick, curvy ship of pearlescent silver in the typical Asari design philosophy. Quite beautiful, if she was honest.
Tela had the ship warmed up and ready to go. "Got everything?"
"Let's get this over with."
A/N: We're now moving into the second arc of the story. This one took a bit more tweaking to nail down, so I hope you all enjoy the upcoming chapters.
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