Six standard weeks ago Lemm'Shal nar Tesleya had chosen, like many young and naive quarians before him, to visit Omega during his Pilgrimage. Foolishly romanticizing what life must be like outside the rigid confines of the Migrant Fleet, he had been fascinated by the idea of millions of inhabitants from all the different species and cultures living in such close proximity, unfettered by laws or government. He'd expected to find adventure and excitement around every corner, as well as the freedom to do whatever he wanted.
It hadn't taken him very long to discover the harsh reality: Omega was a cesspool of violence and depravity. Pointless, random death lurked in the shadows and alleys. The station was a haven for slavers, and he witnessed firsthand weeping men, women, and children being bought and sold like chattel. Within a week he'd come to understand that the so-called freedom of Omega was a perversion of the word. With no laws or government, Rule of Force was the order of the day; the strong thrived and the weak suffered horribly. But nobody can stay strong forever, and he knew that even those on top would one day find themselves brought low.
He had also learned that the inhabitants of Omega lived in constant fear, wrapping themselves in cloaks of anger and hate to keep it at bay. Driven by selfishness and greed, their lives were brutal, short, and miserable. He pitied their wretched existence, and gave thanks to his ancestors for the strong sense of belonging and community fostered among his own people. And so he had left Omega behind, continuing his journey across half a dozen worlds in the Terminus Systems.
He realized now that the new appreciation he had gained for quarian society, and its underlying tenets of altruism and sacrifice for the greater good, was at the core of the Pilgrimage. Many left the Migrant Fleet as children, inexperienced and rebellious. After seeing how other societies lived, most returned as adults: wiser and dedicated to upholding the cherished ideals of quarian culture. Of course, there were always a few who chose not to return, rejecting the flotilla's collectivism for the trials and tribulations of a lonely, solitary existence.
Lemm had no intention of being one of those, but he couldn't go back to the Fleet yet. For though he had learned an important lesson, his Pilgrimage was not yet complete. In order to return he first had to find something of significant value to quarian society, then present it as a gift to one of the ship captains. If his gift was accepted, he would lose the surname of nar Tesleya, and take the vas surname of his new captain's vessel.
That was why he had come back to Omega, despite his contempt for the place. That was why he was here prowling the streets, looking for a quarian named Golo.
The name was infamous among the inhabitants of the Migrant Fleet. Unlike those who chose to leave the flotilla of their own accord, or those who never returned from their Pilgrimage, Golo had been banished by the Admiralty. Branded a traitor to his people, Golo had gone to the one place in the galaxy that most mocked everything the quarians stood for and believed in. Somehow he had survived and even profited during his exile, though in Lemm's mind this only reaffirmed the decision to banish him. Anyone who could carve a life for themselves out of the vile fabric of Omega's tattered society had to be cruel, ruthless, and completely untrustworthy.
Lemm was traveling light. He wore a simple armored enviro-suit equipped with standard kinetic barriers, and a backpack of supplies slung over his shoulder. His most prized possession — a gift bestowed upon him before embarking on his Pilgrimage by the captain of the Tesleya—was his shotgun: a turian manufactured Armax Arsenal high-caliber weapon, customized with advanced autotargeting and reduced kickback mods.
His shotgun wasn't all he was armed with, however. Before leaving the flotilla, all quarians were given a rigorous, six-month program to prepare them for the weeks, months, or even years they might need to survive on their own before their rite of passage came to an end. The varied curriculum included weapons and combat training; lessons in the history, biology, and culture of all major known species; basic first aid; rudimentary instruction on piloting and navigation for a wide variety of common spacecraft; and specific technological skills such as decryption, electronics, and computer hacking.
Every quarian who left the safety of the Fleet was well prepared to face the dangerous situations they would encounter. More important, they were taught that the best way to survive trouble was to avoid it whenever possible. So when Lemm heard the sound of gunfire coming from several blocks away, his first instinct was to whip his shotgun off his back and dive for cover.
Crouched in the darkened doorway of what he hoped was a deserted building, he thought back to the last time he had come to this world. The streets of Omega had been busy and crowded everywhere he went, despite the constant threat of robbery, beatings, and even murder. Here, however, in a district caught in a bloody war between two rival factions, the streets were virtually empty. He had only seen a handful of people, scurrying from one building to another, hunched over and crouching low in the hopes of avoiding notice.
Their apprehension was understandable. Lemm himself had already been shot at twice by snipers hidden away in the upper floors of buildings lining the streets. The first had missed him completely, striking the ground near his feet. The second had launched a bullet that would have pierced his skull had it not been deflected by his armor's kinetic barriers. In both cases Lemm had responded with the only sane course of action — he'd ducked around the nearest corner, then fled the scene in search of a new route to his destination.
Doubling back through the twisting, confusing streets of Omega was a good way to end up lost; it was all too easy to accidentally wander down the wrong back alley and never come out again. Fortunately Lemm, like most quarians, had an excellent sense of direction. The haphazard, almost random way in which the city had been built up over the centuries was similar to the environment of his home. Many of the ships in the Migrant Fleet had evolved into convoluted mazes where every inch of available space was valued and exploited. Temporary walls were often used to transform halls or corridors into rooms, and everything was held together with makeshift repairs and jury-rigged materials.
The sound of gunfire continued, but to his relief it grew softer as the tide of battle drew the conflict to streets and buildings in the opposite direction of where he was headed. Stepping warily back out into the open street he continued on his way, weapon still drawn. A few minutes later he arrived at his destination.
The entrance to the Fortune's Den gambling hall showed evidence of several recent battles. The sign above the door was scorched with burn marks and hung at an awkward angle, as if someone had quickly replaced it after it had been shot down or blown off by an explosion. The door, made of reinforced metal, was stuck half-open. Pockmarked from the impact of stray rounds, it had been warped and twisted, probably by the same explosion that had dislodged the sign.
As a result it had jammed halfway between open and shut, unable to travel freely on its tracks.
He slid his pack off, letting it fall to the ground just outside the entrance. Taking a deep breath, and still clutching his shotgun, he turned sideways and slipped through the partially obstructed doorway. There were five batarians inside — one behind the bar, the other four seated around a table playing cards. He noticed they all had weapons either strapped to their sides or resting on the table within easy reach. On the back wall someone had mounted the head of a krogan and a volus. They looked fresh.
Every one of the batarians turned to stare at him, though none made a move for their weapons. Holding his shotgun casually in one hand, Lemm crossed the room toward the bar, trying to ignore the twenty eyes watching his every move.
"I'm looking for the owner. Olthar."
The bartender flashed a cruel grin, and nodded in the direction of the heads on the wall. "We're under new management." Behind Lemm, the other batarians laughed loudly.
"I need to find a quarian named Golo," Lemm said, unfazed, offering no reaction to the gruesome joke. He did bring his shotgun up and set it on top of the bar, keeping one hand casually resting on the stock, inches from the trigger.
The last time he'd been on Omega, he'd noticed that an air of cold certainty and unshakable confidence could make others think twice before allowing a situation to escalate into violence. It didn't always work, of course, but that was why he had brought out the shotgun.
"Golo doesn't come here anymore."
"I'll give you two hundred credits if you tell me where to find him," he offered.
The batarian tilted his head to the right — a gesture of contempt among that particular species. His two upper eyes slowly blinked, while the bottom pair continued to stare at the interloper.
"You sound young," the bartender noted. "Do you want Golo to help you on your Pilgrimage?"
Lemm didn't answer the question. Despite all their training and preparation, quarians on their Pilgrimage were generally regarded by other species as inexperienced or vulnerable. He couldn't afford to show any weakness.
"Do you want the credits or not?"
"How about instead of telling you where to find Golo, we just take your credits and that fancy weapon of yours, and mount your head up on the wall with Olthar and his pet?"
He heard more laughter behind him, and the sound of sliding chairs as the batarians rose to their feet in anticipation. Lemm didn't even bother to move; there was no way he could survive a fight in the bar. None of the batarians were wearing armor, but it was still five against one. His kinetic shields might keep him alive for a few seconds, but under a hail of gunfire they'd be drained before he even made it back out the door. He had to be smart if he was going to make it out of here alive.
Fortunately, batarians could be reasoned with. They were merchants by nature, not warriors. If this had been a room full of krogan, he'd have been dead the moment he walked in.
"You could kill me," he admitted, staring straight at the bartender's unblinking lower eyes while tapping his fingers gently on the stock of the shotgun resting on the bar. "But I'd make sure to take at least one of you down with me.
"The choice is yours. Give me Golo's location and let me leave quietly. Or everyone starts shooting and we see if you can survive a shotgun blast to the face from point-blank range. Either way, all you end up with is two hundred credits."
Both sets of the batarian's eyes drifted slowly down to the shotgun, then back up to Lemm.
"Check the markets in the Carrd district," he said.
Lemm reached into one of the exterior pockets of his enviro-suit, moving slowly so as not to startle anyone into thinking he was going for a hidden weapon, and pulled out two one-hundred-credit chips. He dropped them onto the bar, picked up his shotgun, and slowly backed out the door into the street, keeping his eyes on the batarians the entire time. There he retrieved his pack and headed back the way he had come, toward the monorail that, if it was still operational, would take him where he needed to go.
Golo wasn't surprised to find the markets in the Carrd district far busier than usual. With the ongoing war between the volus and the batarians in the neighboring district, merchants and customers alike had moved their business over to the nearby section of the station controlled by the elcor.
The extra crowds were an inconvenience, but there were few other places he could go. Quarian food was a rarity on Omega. While it was possible for him to safely consume a variety of turian products — the two species shared the same dextro-amino-acid-based biology — he still had to be wary of contamination. Bacteria and germs that were completely harmless to turians could be fatal to his own virtually nonexistent immune system.
Quarians leaving the flotilla had the option of packing travel rations: containers of highly concentrated nutrient paste they could ingest through a small, sealable feeding tube on the underside of their helmet. The paste was bland and tasteless, but it was possible to store a month's worth of rations in a single backpack, and it was commercially available throughout both the Terminus Systems and Council Space.
However, Golo, an exile with no hope of ever returning to the Fleet, didn't relish the idea of consuming nothing but tubes of paste for the rest of his life. Fortunately, he had struck a long-term deal with an elcor shopkeeper willing to bring in regular shipments of purified turian cuisine.
He had to fight his way through the crowd for several more minutes before he finally made it to the shop. Stepping inside, he was surprised to see another quarian on the premises. He was wearing armor over his enviro-suit — a surefire way to attract unwanted attention, in Golo's mind — and he had what appeared to be a very expensive shotgun strapped to his back. It was impossible to tell his age beneath his clothing and mask, but Golo suspected he was young. It wouldn't be the first time he'd encountered another of his own species who had come to Omega as part of their Pilgrimage.
He nodded by way of greeting. The other didn't speak but returned the nod. Golo proceeded to pick up his order at the counter. When he turned back he was surprised to see that the other quarian was gone.
Golo's finely honed survival instincts began to sound an alarm. His species were highly social beings. Their first inclination when seeing a fellow quarian on an alien world would be to initiate a conversation, not vanish without saying a word.
"I'll come back for these later," he said, handing his sack of groceries to the elcor shopkeeper.
"Genuine concern: is something wrong?" the elcor asked him in the deep, toneless voice common to the species.
"Mind if I leave through the back door?"
"Sincere offer: You are welcome to do so if you wish."
Golo moved to the rear of the store and slipped out the emergency exit into the alley. He hadn't gone five steps when he heard someone speaking in quarian from directly behind him.
"Don't move or I blow your head off."
Knowing the shotgun he'd seen earlier could literally decapitate him from this range, Golo froze.
"Turn around, slowly."
He did as instructed. As he'd suspected, the young quarian from inside the shop was standing in the center of the alley, pointing the shotgun squarely at his chest.
"Are you Golo?"
"You wouldn't be holding a gun on me if I was someone else," he answered, seeing no hope in trying to lie his way out of the situation.
"Do you know why I'm here?"
"No," he answered truthfully. Over the past decade he had committed dozens of acts that might have caused another quarian to hunt him down in search of vengeance. There was no point in trying to guess which one had set off this particular young man.
"A scout ship from the Idenna was brokering a deal here on Omega last week. The Cyniad. They disappeared. I think you know what happened to them."
"Who are you? Are you part of the Idenna crew?" Golo asked, stalling until he could come up with a plan.
"My name is Lemm'Shal nar Tesleya," the other replied.
Golo wasn't surprised to get an answer to his question. Even on the flotilla, quarians tended to wear their enviro-suits at all times: an extra layer of protection against hull breaches and other disasters that could befall their rickety ships. As a result, exchanging names at every meeting was a deeply ingrained habit. He'd been counting on this, and knowing his adversary's name gave him something to work with.
He didn't recognize his Shal clan name, but the nar in Lemm's surname marked him as technically still a child, which meant he was most likely here on his Pilgrimage. Furthermore, he was associated with the vessel Tesleya, not the Idenna, which meant he didn't know the crew personally. He must have heard about them secondhand, possibly from another quarian he had run into during his recent travels.
Golo quickly formed a likely scenario in his head.
Someone had mentioned the disappearance of the Cyniad to him in passing. Now Lemm believed that if he could locate the missing scout ship and its crew — or at least discover their fate — then he could give this information to the Idenncfs captain. In return, he would be accepted into the Idenna's crew and his Pilgrimage would be over.
"What makes you think I know anything about the Cyniad}" he asked, hoping to bluff the young man into backing down.
"The Migrant Fleet doesn't do business with Omega," Lemm answered, not lowering the barrel of his shotgun. "Somebody must have initiated contact with the Cyniad to propose the deal that made them come here. Only another quarian would know how to do that. And you're the most infamous quarian on this station."
Golo frowned behind his mask. The kid was simply playing a hunch; it was only dumb luck that it happened to be right. He briefly considered denying his involvement, then realized he had an easier way out.
"I guess my reputation proceeds me," he admitted. "I contacted the Cyniad, but I was only the middleman. The individual actually behind the deal was a human."
"What human?"
"He told me his name was Pel," he said with an indifferent shrug. "He was willing to pay me to contact the Cyniad, and I was happy to take his money. I didn't really want to know more than that."
"Weren't you worried he was setting the crew of the Cyniad up? Luring them into a trap?"
"The Fleet turned its back on me. Why should I care what happens to any of them as long as I get paid?"
It was the best kind of lie; one spun with a thread of unpleasant truth. By honestly owning up to his callousness and greed it made his denial of direct involvement seem more believable.
"You sicken me," Lemm said. If he hadn't been wearing his visor, Golo suspected he would have spit on the ground. "I should kill you where you stand!"
"I don't know what happened to the crew of the Cyniad," Golo said quickly, before Lemm could work up his anger enough to actually pull the trigger, "but I know how you can find out." He hesitated, then added, "Give me five hundred credits and I'll tell you."
Lemm brought the shotgun up so he could sight down the barrel, then stepped forward until it was pressed hard against the other quarian's mask.
"How about you tell me for free?"
"Pel's renting a warehouse in the Talon district," Golo sputtered out. Lemm took a half step back, lowering the shotgun.
"Take me there. Now."
"Don't be stupid," Golo snapped, emboldened now that the weapon was no longer pointing directly at him. "What if he has lookouts? What do you think they'll do when they see two quarians strolling down the street toward their hideout?
"If you want to do this, you have to be smart," he said, his voice slipping into a slick merchant's patter. "I can tell you where the warehouse is, but that's the easy part. You'll need to scout it out. Figure out what's going on before you try to get inside. You need a plan, and I can help."
"I thought you didn't care what happened to the Migrant Fleet. Why do you suddenly want to help?" Lemm asked, clearly suspicious.
"I could pretend it's because I feel guilty that I might have accidentally led the Cyniad into a trap," Golo explained, spinning another half-truth. "But honestly, I just figure this is the best way to keep you from shoving that shotgun in my face again."
Lemm seemed satisfied with the explanation. "Okay, we'll try it your way."
"Let's get off the street," Golo suggested. "Find somewhere more private. Like my apartment."
"Lead the way," Lemm answered, collapsing his shotgun and slapping it once again into the clip on the small of his back.
Golo smiled under his mask as he led the young man from the alley.
Pel and his team will rip you apart, boy. Especially when I warn them that you re coming.