Chapter 27: Desperate Times, Desperate Measures
"Bad news always comes in the dead of night."
That was the first thing Quentius thought of when he was woken up by the sound of his omni-tool pinging with the sound of a new message. The Primarch roused himself, blinking away sleep from his eyes, and tapped his omni-tool to bring up the message box. The warm orange hue of the interface lit up his face as he read the words.
_ Palaemon: Quentius, we have a problem. Meet me in my quarters now. _
The cold dread that seeped into the Primarch's body banished all traces of sleep. Quentius lurched out of bed and hastily dressed himself, trying to keep himself calm. But, deep down, he knew that Palaemon would only have called him up like this if things had gone wrong. Very, very wrong.
The Primarch quickly made his way through the halls of the Castrum, nodding to the odd night guard as he went. Quentius reached the entrance to Palaemon's quarters and knocked on the door, his hands clenched into nervous fists. After a few moments, the door slid open.
Palaemon was waiting for him inside. Right off the back, Quentius could see that he was deathly worried; his mandibles were clamped firmly shut and the talons of one hand were nervously tapping against the other.
"Quentius, you're here. Good," Palaemon greeted him, his voice heavy with nerves.
"Palaemon, what is it?" Quentius asked. "What's got you so rattled?"
"One of my contacts isn't responding," Palaemon said. "I've been trying to reach him all evening, but he's not answering. Not even so much as a text message."
Quentius took a moment to process this. While it certainly wasn't exactly good news, he didn't see how it warranted being called up at such an ungodly hour.
"Okay…" he mused aloud. "That's unfortunate, but is it really a cause for alarm? Maybe he's just asleep; it's not exactly the most reasonable time to be awake right now, never mind if he's on another world."
Palaemon shook his head. "No, these would be his normal working hours. I tried at least a dozen times to get ahold of him, but I got nothing. It's like he's just... gone. Not a peep. And that scares the hell out me."
The creeping sense of foreboding that had been steadily building in Quentius since he had arrived in Palaemon's quarters now reached its zenith. "Why?" he asked.
Palaemon turned and looked him dead in the eye. "Because he's a member of the personnel on Menae."
And like that, the situation snapped into focus for Quentius. He could feel himself growing faint as the realization hit him like a charging Krogan. If Palaemon's contact on the moon was missing, that could only mean...
"Is there any reason he wouldn't be able to respond back?" he asked, more to keep himself calm than anything.
Palaemon went silent for a moment as he thought it over. "Maybe," he finally answered. "A lot of his work involves top secret projects, and the places he's stationed at don't allow any form of outside communication. He may be somewhere where his omni-tool simply won't connect."
"Think you can try again?" Quentius asked, daring to hope that this was all it was: a simple communication's blockage due to security protocols.
"Can't hurt," said Palaemon. He called up his omni-tool and tapped in a series of numbers. A soft chiming tone rang out from it, indicating that a call was going out. The tone continued to ring, but no one answered. Each second that passed made Quentius more and more agitated; with every unanswered ring, his hopes were slowly being crushed.
Then, just as the two Turians were about to give up, the line suddenly let out an electronic warble, signifying that the call had been answered. Palaemon practically sagged in relief and wasted no time in speaking.
"Ocarius, thank the Spirits!" he exclaimed. "I've been trying to reach you for hours now! Listen, I know it's probably not a good time, but—"
"No. Not Ocarius."
Palaemon abruptly stopped, his words dying in his throat as a voice spoke through the omni-tool. In all his life, Quentius had never heard a more hideous and abhorrent vocalization. The tone was harsh and raspy, a combination of a hiss and a guttural rumble with a wet, almost gelatinous undertone. It conjured up images of swarms of maggots crawling their way out of a rotten carcass, wriggling and writhing over each other, devouring whatever they could find. It was a voice that was not meant to be uttered by any mortal creature and just listening to it made Quentius feel like he was being doused in raw sewage.
Quentius and Palaemon stood completely still, staring at each other in silent horror. Palaemon was the first to break the silence.
"Who-who is this?" he demanded, though the trembling of his voice robbed it of its intended force.
The nameless thing only gave a peal of oily laughter in answer, as though the question was the most amusing joke it had ever heard. This managed to break through Palaemon's shock, and his face twisted with anger.
"Answer the question!" Palaemon barked. "Who the hell are you and what have you done with Ocarius?!"
"Ocariusssss?" The voice drew out the name into a sibilant hiss, the word coming out more like a wet exhalation of air. "Ahh, yesss... he's deaaaad. They are all dead."There was another peal of that terrible laughter.
"All dead. All mine. Flesh, bone, blood and bile. My deliciiiious feast. And I have youuuuuu to thank for it. You and yoursss. I was trapped and bound, but they freed meeee. Freed meee and fed meeeeeee!"
The more Quentius listened to the voice speaking, the more nauseous he became. It was as if each individual word was writhing around in his brain, twisting and squirming like a swarm of necrotic worms. Though the words were Turian, they were delivered in an unnatural cadence, drawing out certain words or putting too much emphasis on syllables, like a crude imitation of what they should sound like.
No, Quentius realized. This wasn't mimicry. It was mockery.
He wasn't sure where this sudden understanding had come from, but he knew it was true. The thing speaking to them was deliberately twisting and butchering the Turian tongue in a foul parody of speech to show its disdain for them and everything they represented. It viewed them as being so far beneath its contempt that they didn't even deserve to have their language spoken properly.
"What the fuck are you?" Quentius managed to gasp. The thing on the other end gave a sound that sounded like a mix between a laugh and a retch.
"You want a naammme? My naaaame?" it replied. A horrid cackle emanated from the omni-tool. "No. No, no, no, no. You shall have no name. But you will know me. Know me and fear me. I see your world. Ssseee its lights. Its citiesss. I will have them aaaallll, and those that scurry within them. You and your kind shall be the firsst. I will feast on you all and make you one with me. Your bones will be my teeth. Your ssskin my tongues. And your flesh, your precious flesssh, will be my form. I claim you all. You are mine. Mine. MINE! MIIIIIINE!"
Palaemon cut the link with a frantic swipe of his talon, plunging the room into merciful silence. He stared at the still-active omni-tool with horrified eyes, shaking with barely-restrained terror.
Quentius found himself unable to move. His entire body was frozen, paralyzed with fear. They were too late; whatever had been on the human ship was now free. If the thing that had been speaking to them was being truthful, then at the very least, it had overrun the facility it had been kept in. For all he knew, though, it might have taken over the whole moon. And now, it had its sights set on Palaven itself.
Palaemon finally closed his omni-tool and looked over at Quentius with eyes filled with despair. "Quentius," he said, his voice little more than a whimper. "What are we going to do?"
Quentius didn't answer. A thousand impulses surged through his mind like a lightning storm. He wanted to scream until his throat was raw. He wanted to fall to his knees and weep. He wanted to grab Palaemon and shake him, demanding that he tell him this was all just a bad dream and he would wake up at any moment. He wanted to run away to the furthest corners of the galaxy, beyond the reach of the thing on Menae. He even wanted to find a handgun and put a bullet through his skull, just to end this whole ordeal.
But instead, the legendary discipline of his people kicked in, smothering the tide of panic that threatened to overwhelm him. As terrifying and soul-rending as the experience was, Quentius forced himself to keep calm and think. As much as he wanted to deny it, the reality was that this was actually happening. There was no use in running away or praying that it would all go away. He had to do something, or else everyone and everything would be doomed.
"We need to alert Draxon and the rest of the Primarchs," Quentius finally said. "Call an emergency summit, and explain everything. We'll need every military asset we have to contain this."
"You think the others will believe us?" Palaemon asked, his composure slowly returning with a plan of action to focus on. "Saying that we have some kind of demonic monstrosity loose in our most secure black site isn't exactly a strong opening argument. You know Sparatus will waste no time in discrediting the whole thing."
"Anyone who doesn't believe us can go to Menae and see for themselves," Quentius growled. "I am long past the point of caring about politics and appearances. I'll punch Sparatus right in his smug face if I have to. Either they accept that this is happening or we're all fucked."
"And what happens after that?" Palaemon asked, spreading his hands in an imploring gesture. "If the Primarchs and the generals are willing to listen to us, how will we stop this thing?"
"I don't know," answered Quentius helplessly. "The best I can come up with is to blockade the moon and try to keep whatever that thing is trapped there until a better idea comes around."
But would that be enough? Quentius couldn't shake the feeling that simply blocking off Menae wasn't going to work. Did the thing actually need a ship to get off the moon, or was it capable of traveling through space unaided? And could a blockade actually contain it if it was the latter? He had a nasty suspicion that the answer was no.
Quentius snarled inwardly with frustration. There were just too many unknowns, so any plan they came up with would just be guesswork that in all likelihood would do nothing. And the consequences for failure were too terrible to contemplate.
Just then, the warning Cormac had given him rose to the forefront of his mind. The Turians had no hope of defeating whatever this thing was on their own. Only the humans had any knowledge about how to possibly deal with it. And in that instance, Quentius knew what had to be done.
He needed to contact the Federation and ask for help. If the Hierarchy was going to survive, they would need the humans' aid, and he needed to do it fast. There wasn't time to go through the proper channels and get the go ahead; he had to take action now.
But how? It wasn't like he could just go to them directly; crisis or not, they were still at war with the humans and he was too visible as a Primarch. He'd be caught and facing charges of high treason in a heartbeat. Sparatus would just love the chance to throw him in prison and lose the key. That would be the end of any chance at getting the humans' assistance.
It was obvious to Quentius that he would need a middleman to establish contact. Someone who could get the message across without being tied to him, at least long enough for the dire situation the Hierarchy was now facing to become fully apparent. Someone who wouldn't draw attention. Someone who already had a reason for making contact with the Federation. Quentius finally looked back at Palaemon, who had been waiting with nervous apprehension for him to say something more.
"Do you know anyone who can get in touch with the Migrant Fleet?"
#
Despite being as financially motivated as the next Volus, Din had never liked Illium. To be sure, it was the best place to make money; if it could be traded, this planet had a price and a buyer for it. It was also a good place to find a fresh start if things got rough in your old life. Illium was a literal world of opportunity, and anyone could go from nothing to filthy rich within the span of a day.
But, underneath its shiny exterior, Illium was as dangerous as the slums of Omega. Sign the wrong contract, get in debt to the wrong people, or just suffer a round of bad luck at the stock exchange, and you'd get swallowed up whole. The CEO who smiled and shook your hand after a successful business deal would be the same one signing the papers that would have your assets seized and leave you without a credit to your name—if you were lucky. You could just as easily become an indentured servant or a medical test subject, and no one would bat an eye; they would just say it was the law and you should have read the fine print.
Indeed, short of outright murder, almost nothing was off the table when it came to making money on Illium, and even the existing laws could be circumvented with enough guile and credits. It was a world ruled by greed and ruthlessly cutthroat business practices, where the only thing that truly mattered was profit. Ethics were wholly optional; if anything, they were discouraged. Having the moral high ground is nice until your competition decides to bury you under it.
It was a place the ambassador would have happily avoided if he could; he had known more than a few friends who'd fallen prey to the allure of Illium, and he had no desire to share their misfortune. Unfortunately, there wasn't really any other option for his task. And so, here he was.
Nos Astra was exactly like Din had remembered. Skyscrapers and massive advertising screens dominated the skyline, while lines of skycars zipped between them at blistering speeds. The walkways were crowded with a mix of species, each hurrying about their business. Some carried packages, others talked rapidly into their omni-tools, and still more were trying to sell their wares to the crowd.
To see this place, you wouldn't think that the biggest war in over thirteen-hundred years was raging right inside Council space. The rest of the civilized galaxy was gripped by economic turmoil as the Turian Hierarchy was slowly being torn apart by the Federation, but Illium seemed to be thriving as much as ever. Hell, Din wouldn't have been surprised if the world had actually profited from the war; massive interstellar conflicts, after all, were very good for business.
And that was precisely why Din was here: to see if any of the arm's manufacturers that resided on Illium would be interested in selling their weapons to the Turians or Volus. There was certainly no shortage of them, and they would probably jump at the chance. With the Turian fleets being blasted apart by the Federation's own ships and their supply chain in shambles, they could charge a premium for their stock.
At least, that was the official story.
While it was certainly true that he would be hitting up those companies for potential deals, that was mostly to prevent any Hierarchy snoops from getting suspicious. His real reason for coming to Illium was of a much more clandestine nature, something that could very well be considered treasonable to the Turians: to try and get in contact with the humans.
He'd been working on the issue for some time now. Their government was certainly amenable to diplomatic overtures; they'd made several appearances in the Council chambers stating as much, even going so far as to establish an outreach center on the Citadel itself to show the galaxy that they were open to a peace treaty.
Unfortunately, that was about as far as things had gone. Aside from the occasional informal meetings between ambassadors from both sides, the Turians flat-out refused to come to the table, which did them no favors in the eyes of the galaxy.
But Din, and by extension the Protectorate, were more than happy to accept the Federation's offer. And therein was the problem. The Hierarchy and the Protectorate were essentially one and the same, and the former didn't look like they were about to talk peace anytime soon. That meant Din would have to go through informal channels to get a meeting, and right now, there was only one group of people who had any sort of regular contact with the Federation: the Quarians.
Din wasn't sure how they had done it, but the Migrant Fleet had somehow managed to strike up a trade deal of sorts with the Federation. From what he'd been able to determine, they'd opted to serve as middlemen for delivering human goods in exchange for a cut of the profits. And if Din's information was accurate, those profits were considerable. He wasn't sure how much they were getting, but what was abundantly clear was the Quarians were making money hand over fist.
Which presented another problem. The whole reason the Quarians had such a lucrative arrangement at all was due to the war and the Council's strict stance of neutrality. If the war were to end, the various corporations and governments of Council space would be able to trade directly with the Federation without the need for intermediaries, and then they would likely find themselves out of a job.
Moreover, the Quarians had no reason to hold any love towards the Citadel races. Ever since they lost their worlds to the Geth, they had been treated as second-class citizens or worse, often being the first target of blame whenever something went wrong. The Turians in particular were often downright hostile, viewing them as little more than thieves and vagabonds that needed to be kept out of civilized space.
If Din was being honest with himself, convincing the Quarians to help him was playing long odds. His own people had certainly been no better in their treatment of them than the rest of the galaxy. But he had to try; right now, they were his best bet at getting in contact with the Federation incognito.
He plodded his way through the streets of Nos Astra, heading for the main trading district. Nobody paid Din any mind, weaving around him as though he were inanimate object. One more reason to be thankful for the pressure suit; to the eyes of other races, he was just another Vol-clan going about his business rather than the Protectorate's own ambassador on a mission of political intrigue.
As he neared his destination, Din became aware of a lively clamor off in the distance that grew louder and louder with each step he took. When he passed through the doors of the trading district, the cacophony washed over him, filling his ears with a racket of overlapping voices, footsteps, and the constant drone of advertisements.
The entire area was packed almost to bursting with people of seemingly every race in the galaxy. Asari and Salarians made up the bulk of the crowd, but there were plenty of Batarians, Hanar and even Elcor in the mix, each one busily shouting and waving their arms—or tentacles, in the case of the Hanar—in frantic gestures, desperately trying to secure the best possible deal. Even for Illium, this level of enthusiasm was a rare occurrence, and the reason was immediately obvious.-
In the middle of this throng was a maze of kiosks staffed by Quarian proprietors, each one filled with Federation goods of all types. There were articles of plastic-wrapped clothing arrayed in neat stacks with sets of mannequins displaying the attires in full. There were tables heaped with packaged foodstuffs, spices and treats, with holographic projectors showing animated depictions of human cuisine. There were bottles of wine and spirits, bearing labels proclaiming them as products of wineries and distilleries on Earth or some colony. There were baskets full of odd trinkets, baubles and knickknacks of all shapes and sizes.
For those with truly expensive tastes, there were Quarians who offered up more valuable merchandise. Human and Nazzadi-made jewelry glittered in the ambient light like tiny stars; rings, necklaces, bracelets and other ornate accessories were laid out in secured transparent boxes, fashioned of gold, silver or even platinum and encrusted with precious gemstones. Artworks from simple paintings to complex sculptures were carefully positioned so that their every angle was shown off to the best effect. Delicate porcelain dining sets decorated with intricate designs, crystal wine glasses, and gleaming silverware were set out in precise rows, their quality evident even to the untrained eye.
The Quarians hawked their wares, haggling and cajoling with prospective buyers. One salesman was loudly boasting that a dress he was peddling had been made by a famous Nazzadi fashion designer. Another claimed that a selection of candies she had were the same kind that the President of the Federation himself enjoyed. A third was proudly touting the quality of various pieces of jewelry, showing off the craftsmanship that had gone into their design. All of them declared that these wonderful products could be yours if you were willing to pay.
And pay the crowd did. Credit chits were passed back and forth with almost frantic speed as people hurriedly purchased their prizes and left with them, bearing expressions of resounding triumph on their faces. Din could only imagine how much money was being tossed around there.
One thing that was clear to Din was that there was no way he'd be able to talk with any Quarians in the middle of this chaos. He doubted he'd even be able to make it through the jostling crowd, much less have a private conversation with anyone. He needed a different approach.
As he scanned the stalls, Din suddenly caught sight of a single Quarian standing apart from the teeming throng of buyers. He was leaning against a nearby wall, idly scrolling through something on his omni-tool, his posture completely at odds with the frantic energy that surrounded him. His curiosity aroused, Din gave the nameless Quarian his full attention.
As Din watched, a Salarian approached him, hands twisting together in nervous circles. The Quarian greeted him with an extravagant flourish, clearly laying on the charm. The nervous-looking Salarian cast surreptitious glances around the area, as though afraid that someone might notice him. The Quarian seemed to find this incredibly funny; his form shook with laughter, and then he clapped the Salarian on one shoulder in a gesture of friendly reassurance.
They began to talk, about what Din had no idea, but it must have been something important, judging by the Salarian's mannerisms. His head was constantly bobbing up and down, and his arms waved frantically as he spoke, as if trying to illustrate his point. The Quarian listened, then nodded with an air of understanding, patting the Salarian on the shoulder again. He called up his omni-tool and made a few motions, giving the Salarian another nod, this one of confirmation.
The Salarian was visibly relieved and handed over a credit chit. Din caught a flash of gold as the Quarian stowed it away on his person. Whatever the Salarian had just bought, it had been very expensive. After the transaction was completed, the two exchanged a few more words and shook hands, signifying that the deal was made. The Quarian watched the Salarian depart, now looking inordinately pleased, then turned his attention back to his omni-tool.
This was his chance. Din had no idea who this Quarian was or what he was doing, but the ambassador figured it was worth a shot. It wasn't like he had many other options, after all.
He walked over to the Quarian, his stomach starting to turn into knots as the realization of what he was about to do settled down on him like a physical weight. The closer he got, the more his nervousness increased, until it was all he could do to keep his legs moving.
Get a grip, you idiot! He mentally snarled. You came to do a job, so do it!
He reached the Quarian and waited a moment before speaking, trying to think of the best way to start. The Quarian had not noticed him, still looking at whatever it was his omni-tool was displaying.
"Excuse me," Din finally said. It was as good a way to start as any.
The Quarian jerked up in surprise and looked around for the source of the voice. When he saw the ambassador standing there, he became the very picture of welcoming cordiality.
"Oh, sorry, my good sir! Didn't see you there!" he said, all contrition. "Nator'Xaeras vas Hupal, at your service." He offered Din an elegant bow. "How can I be of assistance?"
This was it. Once Din made his request, there would be no turning back; he would well and truly be committed to Maro's scheme. If the Turians found out, he would likely be in for a treason trial followed by a swift execution—they might not even bother with the trial. He knew he could easily leave right now and return to the Citadel, never to speak of this again. No one would know, and life would continue on as usual.
But he hadn't come all this way for nothing. Din sucked in a deep, ammonia-laced breath, and began to speak.
"Forgive my presumption," he said, "but you seem to be someone who can...facilitate certain transactions concerning the Federation, yes? The kind that other Quarians might not be able to?"
Nator's eyes twinkled behind his visor. "But of course! Why, that's a specialty of mine!" He inclined his head conspiratorially at Din. "So, what is it you're after, then? Some custom-made jewelry? A commissioned piece of artwork? Or are we talking something more exotic?"
Din shook his head. "I'm afraid you have me wrong; I'm not looking to buy anything."
Nator stared down at him, confusion evident on his entire form. "Not buy anything?" he asked. "Then why—" The Quarian paused in mid-sentence and his luminescent eyes narrowed in understanding behind his visor.
"Ah, I see. You want to deal with the Federation directly, is that it?"
"In a manner of speaking, yes," Din confirmed.
"And would I be correct in assuming that this is all very much under-the-table?"
"You would be."
Nator's eyes smiled, seeming to glow brighter. "Well, now this is very interesting. I do believe that I detect a hint of political skullduggery at play. What exactly is it that you have in mind, sir?" he inquired, his tone full of barely-restrained delight.
"An audience with someone of authority in the Federation," Din told him. "The higher up, the better."
"Hmm...a tall order indeed." Nator tapped the fingers of one hand against his arm thoughtfully, his gaze wandering upward. "I suppose that I could conceivably help set up a meeting of some kind," he mused aloud. His gaze went back down to Din. "Of course, you do understand that this kind of work isn't free, right? And the fact that this must be a clandestine affair means that it will cost extra." He leaned in closer to Din. "So, what are you offering?"
Din had expected this, and had come prepared. He reached into a pocket on his suit and fished out a credit chit, colored the same golden hue as the one the Salarian had handed Nator earlier. The Quarian's eyes sparkled at the sight of it and he deftly plucked it from Din's grasp. He gave the number displayed on the chit a cursory glance, and then nodded in approval.
"A most generous sum," Nator proclaimed, his voice fairly giddy with the triumph of one who has just fattened his credit account by several zeros. "I'll see what I can do about getting you that audience." He activated his omni-tool. "Now, if you would be so kind as to forward your contact information?"
Din called up his own omni-tool and transferred a secured backchannel e-mail address to Nator, one that he'd created especially for this endeavor. As soon as the Quarian received the transmission, he bowed low, the picture of professional respect.
"It's been a pleasure doing business with you, sir. I'll be in contact."
"My thanks," said Din, and he turned away, leaving Nator behind to his business. As the ambassador plodded his way out of the trading district, his steps had a noticeable spring to them. Despite his earlier trepidation, he now felt a growing sense of accomplishment and elation that was almost euphoric. He had done it. He had taken the first steps to get in contact with the Federation. Now he just had to wait and see what happened.
Just then, Din's omni-tool started pinging incessantly, letting him know that he had an incoming call. He brought it up and checked to see who was trying to contact him. In the middle of the holographic screen, the caller's name stood out in glaring white letters: Palaemon V.
Din's first panicked thought was that he'd been found out, but quickly tamped it down. If the Hierarchy had gotten wind of his escapades, he'd have a price put on his head in a heartbeat. He certainly wouldn't be getting a courtesy call, least of all from Palaemon.
The two of them went back quite a way. Din had first met Palaemon on the Citadel when he was still climbing the tiers of the Hierarchy's government. Some quirk in the labyrinthine bureaucracy that ran the station had caused his security credentials to be revoked and the Turian found himself unable to get into the embassy suites. Din encountered him at the receptionist's desk, protesting and arguing himself sick to the unyielding Asari stationed there.
Seeing a rare opportunity to flex the little power he possessed, Din had stepped in and used his own credentials to sort things out. Palaemon and him had hit it off not long after. From then on, the two of them had developed a sort of friendship and had worked together closely on numerous occasions for the benefit of both the Hierarchy and Protectorate.
His curiosity now aroused, Din answered the call, sending it to the earpiece in his suit. "Hello?"
"Din! Thank the Spirits you answered," Palaemon's voice sounded over the comm, a choked, almost distraught tone in it. It was so unlike his normal manner that Din almost didn't believe it was the Primarch speaking.
"Palaemon? What's wrong?" Din asked. He'd never heard the Turian sound so stressed and frightened before. He sounded as if he were close to breaking down into hysterics.
The Turian didn't answer. Instead, Din heard him taking deep breaths, as though trying to psych himself up for something big. There was a brief silence, and then Palaemon spoke again.
"Din, what I'm about to ask of you is perhaps the greatest favor anyone has ever asked another. If I had any other options, I'd take them, but right now, we have nowhere else to turn and there is no one else we can trust. We need your help, Din. The Hierarchy is facing a disaster."
"Disaster?" Din repeated. "What kind of disaster?"
"The kind that might destroy it altogether," Palaemon replied. His voice now had the solemn tone of a prophet proclaiming an inevitable doom. "That's all I can tell you. Please, Din, I'm begging you to hear me out."
The sheer desperation in Palaemon's words shook Din to the core. The Primarch was the type who prided himself on being unflappable, keeping calm and level-headed even in the direst of circumstances. This sudden change in his demeanor was frightening in its implications.
"I'm listening, Palaemon. Tell me what you want," Din said, bracing himself.
"Thank you, Din." Palaemon took another deep breath, and then made his request. "I need you to get in contact with the Quarians and try to persuade them to help you speak with the Federation."
If Palaemon had asked him to get the Batarians to abolish slavery, Din couldn't have been more surprised. "You want me to do what?" he asked, convinced that he must have heard wrong.
"We need the Federation's help, and right now, the Quarians are the only ones who can arrange a meeting," Palaemon continued. "I wish there was some other way to make that happen, but I can't think of any and time is running short."
A loud sigh came from his end. "I know that what I'm asking of you is absolutely insane and dangerous, but I swear that it is a matter of life and death for us." There was another deep intake of breath. "If you do this, I'll swear a Nisthas Oath to you personally."
Just when Din thought he couldn't be more shocked, Palaemon had now gone and topped himself. A Nisthas Oath was a relic of the ancient Turian empires, a pledge of total and permanent obedience to another, but it was still legally binding and enforceable in the modern age. Palaemon was, for all intents and purposes, promising to serve Din's interests to the full extent of his abilities for the rest of his life. For him, a Primarch, to willingly go so far as to make a vow like that…whatever was going on had to be truly cataclysmic.
"A-all right," Din finally agreed in a halting voice. "I... I'll see what I can do."
"Spirits bless you, Din," Palaemon breathed. "You have no idea how much this means to us. Just contact me again when you have something. I'll be waiting." The connection ended, and the comm went dead.
For a long moment, Din just stood there as his mind processed what had just happened. If Palaemon was to be believed—and Din had no reason not to—the Hierarchy was apparently in desperate trouble beyond what the war with the Federation had wrought, bad enough to drive the Primarch to the edge of panic. And he wanted Din to seek the Quarians' help to make contact with the Federation to help his people, something that the Volus was already working on for his people's own ends. The whole thing was so absurd and surreal that Din wasn't sure whether he wanted to break down in laughter or start panicking himself.
In the end, what won out was his professionalism, and right now, it was telling him he had to act now. Anything that could affect the Hierarchy so catastrophically might very well carry over to the Protectorate, and the sooner he could get the Federation's help, the better.
Din spun around and made a beeline back towards the trading district, moving as fast as his legs could carry him. He had to inform Nator that time was now very much of the essence.
#
The Hall of Sovereignty was not a cheerful place right now. Roused from their beds at a most decidedly abhorrent hour, the assorted Primarchs shuffled and stomped into the chamber, eyes still heavy with sleep. They took their respective seats and slumped down into them, shooting sour glares at their surroundings and grumbling in irritation. Quentius noted that more than a few of those glares were directed at him, blaming him for the inconvenience.
Well, too fucking bad, he thought acidly, returning each glare that came his way. Thanks to you all letting Sparatus fill your heads with delusions of some miraculous victory over the Federation, we're now facing probably the worst crisis in our history.
The Primarchs continued to file in, and Quentius soon found himself joined by his two allies. Cora had been brought up to speed about an hour ago concerning everything, and her reaction to the news had been about what Quentius had expected: horrified, angry and ready to beat the living hell out of Sparatus if given half the chance. She now sat next to Quentius and Palaemon in a show of solidarity, eyes shooting daggers at the other Primarchs as they strode past her.
Palaemon looked tired, both physically and mentally. His eyes blinked drowsily and his shoulders were sagging. The strain of everything that was happening was clearly wearing on him, which Quentius could very much relate. But there was also a trace of relief as he leaned in towards him.
"So, got a bit of good news for you," he murmured. "My contact agreed to try and get an audience with the Federation. No promises, obviously."
"Hardly a surprise. But, we're not exactly in a position to be picky right now," Quentius replied. Even a vague hope was better than none at all right now. "It must have taken some real convincing to get him to help. What did you have to promise him for it?" Considering that Palaemon's contact would effectively be committing, at the very least, a subversive act against the Hierarchy, Quentius had no doubt that the price for his assistance would be steep.
"Well, I didn't quite pledge my immortal soul to him, but pretty damn close," said Palaemon with the bleak humor of a man facing the gallows.
"So, what exactly is the plan here, anyway?" Cora interjected. "Do we just up and tell everyone what's happening?"
"That's basically the essence of it, yes," Quentius said. "My priority is to impress upon our illustrious fellow Primarchs just how obscenely fucked we will be if we don't act. Hopefully, I can get it through their heads that this is a genuine crisis, and that we need to take immediate action."
"What about Sparatus?" Cora asked. "You know that bastard will do everything he can to trip you up. That human ship was his big score; if it ends up being a poison pill, his ass is in the sling."
"He can spit all the bile he wants at me," Quentius growled. "There's a literal demon making itself at home on Menae, and it's got Palaven in its sights. If Sparatus wants to make a stink over this whole thing, let him. As long as the others see the danger, I don't care."
No sooner had he spoken when the Councilor himself strode in, his face set in the same arrogant expression as always. As he passed Quentius, he shot him an ugly scowl, then sat down among his own supporters without so much as a word to anyone.
"Charming as ever," Cora muttered.
Draxon was the last to arrive, looking as exhausted as the rest. The Primarch of Palaven sat down on the Imperial Throne and looked out at the assembled lesser Primarchs.
"Now that we're all present, we will begin," Draxon announced, his voice ringing throughout the chamber. "Primarch Quentius, since you called this summit, the floor is yours. I think I speak for all of us when I say we would appreciate an explanation."
"Yes, Quentius," Sparatus spoke up, his voice dripping with scorn. "Do tell why you felt the need to rouse us at this ungodly hour. I'm sure it's very important."
"Mind your tongue, Councilor," Draxon growled in a low, dangerous tone.
"Forgive me, Your Eminence," said Sparatus, his voice mollified, though there was still a trace of snideness in it. "It's just that the Primarch of Tridend has stood in opposition to me since before the war with the Federation, and I strongly suspect that this whole business is just another attempt to try and impugn my honor."
Quentius was tempted to retort that he couldn't very well impugn something that didn't exist, but forced himself to keep calm. Now was not the time for petty taunts. He slowly stood up and strode into the middle of the Hall.
"Your Eminence, fellow Primarchs," he began, "I called this summit because the Hierarchy is facing an extremely dangerous situation, and we are running out of time to solve it. I do not exaggerate when I say that we are in mortal peril."
"Mortal peril, you say?" Sparatus sneered. "And what exactly is the cause of this 'mortal peril'? Please, enlighten us."
Quentius glared at the Councilor, but held his temper in check. "Your precious human ship. Turns out, it wasn't empty."
"What?" Sparatus said, the smug arrogance vanishing from his face, replaced by a look of incredulity. "Impossible! The ship was scanned top to bottom! There was nothing in it!"
"I'm afraid there was," said Quentius gravely. He turned his attention back to the assembled Primarchs. "I was contacted a short while ago by someone who had been part of the recovery effort. He claimed that when he encountered the ship, there were still human crewmembers on board and…something else. It killed them all, hence why there were no life signs detected."
"That's absurd," scoffed Sparatus, his haughty manner back in full force. "You mean to say that some kind of monster got on board the ship, slaughtered all of the crew, and left no trace?" He shook his head in pitying disbelief, as though Quentius was a poor, confused child in over his head. "Really, Quentius. I thought you had more sense than to believe in such human nonsense."
"This isn't 'human nonsense,' you fucking idiot!" Cora snapped in a voice sharp enough to cut through steel. There came a few disapproving calls from the other Primarchs at the breach of decorum, but she ignored them. "This is serious, and it's going to get all of us killed if we don't do something about it!"
"And do you have any proof?" Sparatus demanded, turning his sneer on her. "Call me old fashioned, but I prefer to have evidence in front of me when someone makes claims as outlandish as this."
"You want proof?" asked Quentius. "All you have to do is call up the facility on Menae where the ship is held. You'll get your proof, all right."
The memory of that terrible voice speaking through Palaemon's omni-tool was still fresh in his mind. Every mutilated and defiled word it had spoken was etched in his very psyche, burning like an open sore. He knew that it would haunt his dreams for years to come, if it ever faded at all.
Sparatus scoffed again, bringing Quentius back to the present. "This is ridiculous." He looked over at Draxon with an air of impatience. "Your Eminence, the Primarch of Tridend clearly has nothing to back up his wild allegations. I humbly ask that this whole farce be ended, so we can all get back to sleep."
"No." Draxon's voice was a hammer that smashed Sparatus's smugness flat. The Councilor's face became a mask of confusion, as though he couldn't believe that he was being refused.
"But, Your Eminence—"
"No," Draxon repeated, his voice even harder. "If this war has proven anything, it's that we can't ignore any potential threat from the humans, no matter how bizarre or fantastical it may sound. If there's something dangerous loose, I want to know."
So saying, the Primarch of Palaven called up his omni-tool and began entering a number. Quentius heard the soft beeping as the call was sent through, and a voice on the other end spoke.
"Menae Base Command, this is Commander Verras. How can I assist you?"
"Commander, this is Primarch Draxon. I require you to inform me as to the status of the facility where the human ship is held."
"At once, Your Eminence." The commander went silent, no doubt consulting some computer screen or other. A sudden wild hope rose up in Quentius that whatever it was that had gotten loose was already dealt with, that all his fears about the havoc it would wreak if it managed to escape from Menae would be unfounded.
That hope was swiftly dashed.
"What the…" The Commander's voice became tinged with confusion and worry. "Your Eminence, all communication lines to the facility are dead. There's no way to contact them. And—hold on..." There was another pause. "The hell? The VI is detecting severe power fluctuations and system failures in the facility. The whole place is going dark! Wait...shit!"
"Commander, what's happening?" demanded Draxon.
"Now I'm getting biohazard alerts, but they don't say what it is!" the commander replied. "What the hell's going on in there?" There was a flurry of cursing and scrabbling. "Initiate emergency lockdown of Facility 49-Delta and all sectors linked to it! Now!"
Quentius was unable to see what was happening on the other end of the call, but he could imagine: the frantic running, the desperate barking of orders, the hurried pounding of feet against the ground, the panicked screams as people were suddenly confronted with a threat the likes of which they had never seen before, trying to contain it. And Quentius knew they would fail.
As if acting on his thoughts, the commander's voice returned, his confusion now gone, replaced with cold, hard dread.
"Spirits, the lockdowns are failing! They're all failing!" Verras cried. "Biohazard alerts are all over the place! We can't stop it! Oh, fuck…it's headed this way!"
Now other voices joined the Commander's. They were raised in fear and horror, all speaking in a cacophony that drowned out the commander's voice. Then, there came a series of ear-piercing screams that seemed to go on and on.
"Commander, report!" shouted Draxon. "What's going on?"
"IT'S COMING THROUGH THE DOOR!" Verras shrieked, his voice full of pure, animal terror. There came a loud banging, the screech of tortured metal, and the screaming redoubled. "IT'S INSIDE! OH SPIRITS, IT'S INSIDE!"
The sounds that now came through the call were so horrible, Quentius couldn't believe they were real. A mixture of Turian screams, the crunching and snapping of bones, wet, meaty ripping and tearing sounds, all accompanied by gurgling snarls and growls, made up a symphony of death that filled the Hall, the speakers amplifying every last terrible noise.
Then, after what felt like hours, the screaming stopped. The last sound to be heard before the line went dead was Commander Verras's voice, now reduced to a pitiful whimper. "The mouths...oh, sweet Spirits...the mouths..."
Silence reigned supreme in the Hall. Nobody spoke, nobody moved. All eyes stared with slack jaws and bulging eyes at Draxon's omni-tool, as though they could see the horrors that had just occurred through it. Even Sparatus was struck speechless, his mouth opening and closing as he tried and failed to produce words.
Draxon collapsed his omni-tool and sat back in the Imperial Throne. His mouth was clamped shut, jaw muscles and mandibles grinding against each other, staring out into the distance with hard, furious eyes. Then, he slowly stood up and walked over to Sparatus. His stride was measured and deliberate, fists clenched at his sides. The Councilor watched him approach with the dismay of a skycar driver facing a head-on collision that he couldn't avoid.
Two more long strides and Draxon reached Sparatus. The difference in stature was immediately apparent; he loomed over the Councilor, the picture of wrathful judgment. He leaned forward until he was inches away from Sparatus's face, eyes boring holes into the hapless Turian. He quailed under Draxon's glare, shrinking back into his seat.
"Sparatus." Draxon's voice wasn't his usual deep, commanding one. It was now a soft, dangerous whisper, like the sound a knife makes when it slides across a whetstone. "Were you at any point informed about the possibility of something being onboard the human ship?"
Sparatus gulped audibly. "Y-Your Eminence, I—"
"Just answer the question." Draxon's tone would have sounded almost pleasant, if not for the undercurrent of menace.
"W-well, yes, Your Eminence, but—" Sparatus cast frantic glances around him, searching for some allies, but there were none to be found. The Primarchs who had been his supporters now seemed to find the floor or the walls to be very interesting and worthy of careful study. Those sat closest to him were trying to edge away as discreetly as possible.
For his part, Quentius found himself backing away towards his own seat. Even though Draxon's wrath wasn't directed at him, he nevertheless felt that it would be a good idea to be well away from ground zero.
"But what, Sparatus?" Draxon asked, his tone still low and deceptively pleasant.
"B-but I-I was assured by Admiral Aritox that t-there was n-nothing on the human ship," Sparatus stammered. "H-he did say that some Merchant Marine captain kept babbling about there being something on the ship, but Aritox said that the captain was delirious and didn't know what he was talking about. So, I-I dismissed those claims."
"Oh, but of course!" A smile parted Draxon's mandibles, and Quentius shivered. "Why wouldn't you? After all, that's just—what did you call it again?" He paused as if to think. "Ah, that's right: 'human nonsense,' I believe it was."
Draxon chuckled, a cold, humorless sound that was as far removed from genuine mirth as a Krogan's roar was from a bird's song. The Primarchs seated around Sparatus were no longer trying to be subtle in their retreat; they scrambled with all haste away from him as if he had a bomb strapped to his chest that could go off at any second.
"Tell me, Councilor," Draxon said. "You've read the reports about the human forces, haven't you?"
When Sparatus didn't answer, Draxon leaned in until their noses were almost touching. "That wasn't a rhetorical question."
"Y-yes, Your Eminence," the Councilor squeaked.
"Then you presumably are aware that they are capable of performing strange and seemingly supernatural feats, verified by intel and eyewitness testimonies. Correct?"
"Yes, Your Eminence," Sparatus said again. His voice was now barely audible.
"So, armed with this knowledge, surely you would at least have considered the possibility that the human ship might be carrying something dangerous, no matter how dubious a warning you got. Instead, not only did you completely dismiss the captain's words about the thing—"
Draxon paused for only a second, but that one second seemed to stretch out to an eternity, hanging in the air like a blade waiting to drop. Then, with all the fury of a star gone nova, he erupted.
"YOU BROUGHT IT INTO THE VERY HEART OF OUR EMPIRE!"
His booming roar echoed throughout the Hall, shaking the very walls. All the Primarchs present winced and cowered at the primal bellow of rage, a sound no less terrifying than a Thresher Maw's shriek. At the same time, Draxon's mighty fist rose high into the air and came crashing down on Sparatus's podium. The metal bowed inward from the force of the impact and Sparatus let out a yelp of terror, scrambling back against his seat as though it could provide some protection.
Draxon's rage-filled eyes locked onto the cringing Sparatus, the sheer weight of his stare making the other Turian tremble like a leaf. "GUARDS!" he thundered. "GET HIM OUT OF MY SIGHT! I'LL DECIDE WHAT TO DO WITH HIM LATER!"
At the order, the guards stationed at the entrance of the Hall hastily strode forward and seized Sparatus. He offered no resistance, his face a mask of shocked disbelief. The guards roughly hauled him up, then dragged him past Quentius and out the doors.
Draxon stood panting where Sparatus's seat had once been, his shoulders heaving with each breath. After several moments, he seemed to collect himself and straightened up.
"I want you all to contact your respective colonies," he said, his voice now calm and even, but with the cold note of danger behind each word. "Inform them that, as of now, I am declaring a state of emergency. Hostility against the Federation will cease immediately. All available naval forces are to be recalled and sent to blockade Menae." Draxon's gaze swept over the Primarchs. "Go. Now."
Galvanized into action by the order, the Primarchs hurriedly began to exit the Hall, their omni-tools already out and calling their worlds. Quentius and made to follow the crowd, only for Draxon's voice to halt him in his tracks.
"Quentius, hold on a moment."
Quentius motioned for Palaemon and Cora to go on without him, and then looked back. "Yes, Your Eminence?"
Draxon walked up and stared at him for a moment. The blazing fury had left his eyes; now, he looked very tired and defeated. "Quentius, I have a task for you."
"Name it, Your Eminence," said Quentius.
"I need you to do whatever it takes to get the Federation's help in dealing with the monster on Menae." He gripped Quentius by the shoulder, squeezing it imploringly. "You've been the sole voice of opposition to this damn war since the very beginning. If anyone can get the Federation to help us, it's you."
Quentius gave a guilty wince. "Um, about that, Your Eminence...I took the liberty of starting work on that front before the summit."
Draxon stared at him for a long moment, then let out a bitter laugh. "Yes, of course you would. You're probably the only Turian in the whole Hierarchy who has any sense these days." He gave a rueful shrug and then stared straight into Quentius's eyes. "I don't care what it takes; bribe them, beg them, promise them whatever they want, I don't give a damn. Just get their help."
Quentius nodded his head in understanding, then bowed low. "I'll do everything I can, Your Eminence." he said. "You have my word."
He offered up a silent prayer that it would be enough.
#
Din had to give Nator his due: whatever else might be said about the Quarian, he certainly worked quickly. Apparently taking to heart his insistence that it was vital that he get in touch with someone with authority in the Federation as soon as possible (although Din had a feeling the additional credits that he'd given him had been more convincing), Nator had wasted no time in setting up a meeting. In less than half a day, Din had received a call from Nator, informing him that he'd managed to arrange a meeting with a human admiral.
How exactly he'd managed it, Din had no clue. And frankly, he didn't really care. All that mattered was that it was happening.
Now, he was aboard Nator's personal vessel, headed towards the agreed-upon rendezvous point. His thoughts were a roiling cauldron of anticipation and anxiety, wondering what would happen once he was, in essence, face to face with the Federation.
He had no idea what sort of reception he would receive. While very much against their own will, the Vol Protectorate was still officially at war with the humans alongside the Turians, so chances were that he would be viewed as an enemy by default. He had to hope that, once he was able to explain the situation, they would at least hear him out.
Of course, there was the slight problem in that he didn't really know what the situation even was. All he did know was that Palaemon was convinced that the Hierarchy was facing a disaster the likes of which they had never seen, and was desperate enough to not only turn to their enemy for aid, but to put himself forever in Din's debt to make it happen. The thought of Palaemon, of all people, being in such a state sent a chill down his spine. What in the name of all the gods had gotten him so spooked?
The lack of information only served to add to Din's anxiety, and the fact that the meeting was to take place on the humans' terms didn't help either. They could very well decide to kill him out of hand, and there wouldn't be a damn thing he could do about it.
Nator, for his part, seemed to be taking things rather calmly. He sat in the pilot's seat, casually guiding the shuttle along its course, humming softly to himself. Din observed him with no small amount of envy; what he wouldn't give to have some of that serenity right now.
"How much longer?" Din asked, trying to ease his nerves.
"Not long," Nator replied, tapping a few keys on the console. "Perhaps another hour or so." The Quarian looked over his shoulder at Din. "Try to relax, my friend. It won't do you any good if you work yourself into a fit before we arrive."
Easy for you to say, Din thought sourly. You're not the one who has to convince the people you're at war with to agree to a ceasefire in order to help with a disaster that you don't even know the details of. He bit his tongue, not wanting to snap at the only potential ally he had right now. Instead, he simply nodded. "I'll do my best."
He lapsed back into silence, trying not to think about the enormity of what he was doing. Instead, he opted to go over the information he had on the Federation in an attempt to formulate a strategy for convincing them.
The ambassador didn't have much to work with, truthfully. Even after over two years of conflict with them, the humans were almost a complete mystery. No one really knew much about their society or culture; all anyone knew for sure was that they had strange, highly-advanced technology, lived beyond the reach of the relay network, and were powerful enough to bring the greatest military force in Citadel space to its knees.
Beyond that, it was all speculation and rumors. Even the Quarians, the only race that dealt with the Federation directly, didn't have a whole lot of concrete information. What they did remark on was that the humans were paranoid to the extreme; they were enormously cautious about giving away anything about themselves, and would usually end any discussion before the other party could ask anything they weren't comfortable with.
So, to sum things up, I'm about to meet with a race that is one of the most technologically advanced civilizations ever encountered, has beaten the Hierarchy's forces in every major engagement it's been involved in, and is so paranoid about security that even their closest contacts know almost nothing about them. And I have to try and convince them to stop fighting and help out with a massive, unknown problem. Fantastic.
Din sighed, and shook his head. There was no point in stewing over things. Whatever would happen, would happen. He was committed, and there was no going back.
Just then, his omni-tool started beeping, alerting him to an incoming message. Curious, he activated it, and found that the transmission was coming from...
Palaemon.
Din's stomach clenched, and he felt his heart hammering in his chest. He hadn't expected to hear from the Primarch again; he'd already told Din everything he could. What could possibly be important enough to warrant a call from him?
Calm down, he told himself. Maybe it's good news. Maybe this whole thing has already been resolved and he's calling to tell me. He snorted at the thought. Right. And I'm Cherk Sab in mortal guise.
Taking a breath, Din keyed the connection. "Yes?"
"Din," Palaemon said without preamble, "where are you right now?"
"Onboard a Quarian shuttle, heading to a rendezvous point to meet with the humans," Din answered.
"Already?" The surprise in Palaemon's voice was so strong that Din could practically hear his eyebrow plates rise.
"I take it you didn't expect it to happen so fast," Din remarked, feeling a smile tugging at his mouth.
"Pretty much," Palaemon admitted. "But damned if that isn't really helpful right now."
"So, I guess you're not calling to tell me that everything's been solved, then?" Din said dryly.
"Not quite, I'm afraid," Palaemon sighed. "Things have...well, let's just say this is one of those 'good news, bad news' situations."
Din groaned, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Of course. Lay it on me."
"All right, here's the good news," Palaemon began. "This little diplomatic mission of ours is no longer unofficial; we've got the blessing of the Primarch of Palaven himself."
Well, that was certainly something, though it didn't explain why he sounded so tense. "Okay. What's the bad news?"
"That's also the bad news," Palaemon replied. "That disaster I told you about? It just escalated from very bad to extremely fucked up. If we don't get the Federation's help, then we are going to be in deep fucking shit."
"Then it would be really helpful if I had a better idea of what exactly this disaster is," Din replied, a hint of irritation bleeding into his voice. "Right now, all I've got to go on is that something bad has happened and that you need the Federation's help to fix it. That's hardly what I would call sufficient information, Palaemon. I can't convince the humans to help you if I have no clue what's going on!"
"I know, I know," Palaemon sighed, sounding genuinely apologetic. He took a deep breath, then continued. "All right, here's the situation: a few days ago, one of our fleets brought in a derelict human ship that some Merchant Marines encountered and locked it away on Menae. Sparatus's doing, of course." Palaemon didn't even try to hid the contempt in his voice. "He put on a whole song and dance about it being the key to unlocking the secrets of human technology. And then..."
"Something went wrong," Din finished.
"You could say that, yeah," Palaemon muttered, and Din could picture him rubbing his temples. "Turns out, the ship wasn't quite as derelict as everyone thought. There was...something on board."
The tremor of fear that had suffused the Primarch's voice when he'd first called Din was back, and suddenly Din felt cold. "Something?" he prompted, not quite sure if he really wanted to know.
"A... being?" Palaemon seemed to be searching for the right word. "An entity? I don't know what it was. Hell, the humans crewing the damn ship didn't even know; it wiped them out and when our people tried to look inside the ship, it got loose."
Din didn't reply immediately. Palaemon had never struck him as a man prone to exaggeration, but surely, he must have misconstrued something. "An... entity," he repeated. "You mean an animal or something?"
"No." Palaemon's voice was as resolute in its conviction of the fact as refined metal. "Whatever this thing is, it's not some kind of wild beast. It's much worse. It...it..."
The Turian's voice gradually became more and more strained, until he cut off abruptly. There was a soft, keening sound coming through the omni-tool, and Din realized that Palaemon was hyperventilating.
"Palaemon?" Din asked tentatively. "Palaemon, are you all right?"
"No," Palaemon whimpered, and the terror in his voice sent a shiver down Din's spine. "That thing...it spoke to me, Din. Spirits, that voice. It was like the having the most vile and putrid things in the galaxy poured straight into my ears. It was horrible, Din. I've never been so afraid in my entire life."
Din suddenly felt his mouth go dry. It was hard enough to imagine that something had managed to rattle Palaemon's composure, but hearing him describe his terror in such vivid detail was unnerving.
"What...what did it say?" he asked hesitantly.
"Nothing worth repeating," Palaemon grumbled. He sounded like he had regained control of himself, though with great effort. "The only thing that matters is that, whatever it is, it's not friendly. And if it gets off Menae..." His voice trailed off, leaving the words unspoken, but they were clear in Din's mind.
The Hierarchy would be doomed.
"All right, all right," Din said, more to calm himself than Palaemon. "So, let me see if I got this straight: something is on Menae that's killed a bunch of people, and if it's not stopped, then it could spell the end for the entire Hierarchy. And the only way to stop it is if the humans help."
"Essentially, yes," Palaemon agreed.
Din took a moment to digest that, and then said, "Shit."
"You have my full, wholehearted agreement." Palaemon let out a weary sigh. "If it helps any, Draxon has given us a blank check, diplomatically speaking. You're free to promise the Federation whatever the hell they want as long they help us."
Din nodded, even though Palaemon couldn't see it. "And what if they demand your unconditional surrender?" he asked, not without some apprehension. He wanted to be sure that he knew exactly what the Hierarchy was willing to offer in exchange for its survival. Din also privately hoped that the Federation would be much more lenient with his people when the time for talks came.
"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it," Palaemon said grimly.
That wasn't an endorsement, but neither was it a rejection, and Din decided he could work with that.
"Good enough, I guess," he said. "Is there anything else I should know about?"
"Nothing I can think of," answered Palaemon, now sounding very weary. "Good luck, Din. We're all counting on you."
Thanks, thought Din dryly. As if my nerves weren't frayed enough already. Aloud, he said, "Thank you, Palaemon. I'll do everything I can to make this happen."
With that, he terminated the connection, and sighed. He slumped back into his seat, feeling his anxiety return, this time even stronger than before.
"Bad news?" Nator inquired.
"Let's just say I won't be dancing for joy anytime soon," Din replied.
"Ah. One of those types of situations," Nator nodded sagely. He cast a sideways glance at Din. "And I have a feeling that this is something that alien ears have no business hearing."
"I'm afraid not," Din agreed. "And believe me, you should count yourself lucky."
Nator shrugged, the picture of complete nonchalance. To look at him, you wouldn't think that anything could surprise or concern him. Din wished he had such reserves of calm.
"Fair enough" the Quarian said. "Just a heads up, we've only got about a half hour to go before we reach out rendezvous point. You might want to get yourself prepared."
"Thank you, Nator," said Din, forcing himself to sit up straight and breathe deeply. "I'll do that."
"Don't mention it," Nator replied, his faceplate turned back towards the viewport.
Din lapsed back into silence, trying to formulate some kind of strategy for his upcoming meeting, bringing his years of diplomatic expertise to the fore. He mentally compiled a list of possible scenarios, from best to worst, and how he could react in each. He forged potential arguments, flattering compliments, heartfelt apologies for inadvertent offences, and appeals to common decency like a smith worked and shaped metal. When he settled on the best of them all, he rehearsed his lines over and over again, like an actor learning his part. Din wished that he had more time to prepare, to fine-tune his approach and make sure that there were no weak points.
All too soon, however, Nator's voice broke through his concentration. "We're approaching the rendezvous point."
Din extracted himself from his seat and plodded over to the cockpit to stare out the main viewport. From it, he beheld a cluster of ships, both large and small. At the center of the cluster were three vessels that had to be at least two kilometers long, likely more. The other ships drifted alongside them, like a school of cleaner fish swimming around a shark. As Nator's ship drew in closer, Din was made aware of the many, many guns and missile ports mounted on the hulls of the vessels.
He gulped on reflex. "Well...that's quite the welcoming committee," he said.
"Yes," Nator agreed. "Rather intimidating, isn't it? I'd wager that fleet has enough firepower to glass a planet ten times over."
Looking at those ships, Din couldn't find it in himself to disagree. Those three monsters in the center seemed like they could do the job all by themselves. And they had an FTL drive that put the most advanced mass effect counterparts to shame; small wonder the Turian navy was doing so poorly against the Federation.
A voice suddenly crackled through Nator's comms and Din gave an involuntary flinch. "Unidentified vessel, this is the NSV Charlemagne. Identify yourself."
Nator tapped a few buttons on the console and spoke. "This is Nator'Xaeras vas Hupal, captain of the ship Mirah. My passenger is Ambassador Din Korlack. We are expected by Grand Admiral Silas Slade to discuss an important diplomatic matter."
There was a pause, and then the comms voice came back, sounding a little less brusque than before. "Understood. You are clear to board. Proceed to docking cradle 14. A welcoming committee will meet you when you exit the vessel."
"Affirmative. Mirah out."
With a press of a button, the comms went dead. Nator brought the ship around and lined it up with the indicated docking cradle, while Din watched from the cockpit. The Quarian executed a smooth turn, lining up his ship's airlock with the extended metal arm. Moments later, there came a low rumble and a slight tremor rocked the vessel. Nator glanced over at Din, eyes smiling merrily behind his visor.
"And here we are," he said cheerily. "I'll be right here waiting for your return. Best of luck on your mission. And don't worry; the humans aren't as scary as the rumors would have you believe." Nator paused in consideration. "Well, at least not usually," he amended himself.
"All right," Din took another deep breath, steeling himself. This was it; the moment of truth. Whatever would happen next would determine the fate of the Hierarchy—and by extension, the Vol Protectorate. "Let's get this done."