by Cole Price
For a moment, I felt very thankful that Wrex had no weapons and stood on the wrong side of the table. Certainly he appeared ready to commit murder and enjoy a nice meal of salarian liver afterward, and I could be quite certain that wasn’t an act. But then I saw a fleeting glance to his left, to see what effect the byplay had on Primarch Victus.
Linron, you may be frightfully intelligent, you may rule three billion salarians, but you have less than four decades of experience. Wrex is nearly two thousand years old, and has been watching galactic politics that entire time. He’s managed to almost completely reunify Tuchanka in less than three years. And he is playing you for a fool.
Centuries later, I still marvel that I was present, at that moment when history decisively turned on its hinge.
It began when Victus turned to the salarian, his body language suggesting an unconscious but entirely sincere rush to the krogan’s defense. “Dalatrass, you may not like him, but Wrex is right. Insulting him won’t change that.”
“I won’t apologize for speaking the truth!” Linron glared hatred and contempt at Wrex. “We uplifted the krogan to do one thing: wage war. It’s all they know, because it’s all we wanted them to know.”
No, it’s all you believe them capable of because it’s all you were concerned about at the time.
Shepard had been silent, playing the part of the polite host and letting the heads of state work through their dispute. Now he piled on. “Your people should have thought the matter through, then. Was it really a surprise that the krogan rebelled?”
“That’s precisely my point, Commander. We made a rash decision. We turned to the krogan in desperation. It’s the same mistake you’re about to make today. No good can come from curing the genophage.”
Shepard glanced down the table and caught the Primarch’s eye. The turian made a microscopic nod.
“The krogan have paid for their mistakes,” Shepard said, all his natural concern for justice ringing in his voice. “The genophage has gone on long enough.”
Wrex grunted. “One thousand, four hundred and seventy-six years. If you’re keeping track.”
“It was a thousand years of peace,” said Linron. “Free from these brutes.”
“Enough!” retorted the Primarch. “Whether or not the krogan deserve a cure is moot. It would take years to formulate one.”
“My information says otherwise,” said Wrex, with the air of someone ready to drop yet another revelation in our midst. He stalked up to the controls at the Primarch’s end of the table, and worked with his omni-tool for a moment. He called up imagery on the display screen: a dark space, hard to make out, the viewpoint scuttling along as if someone rushed about with a hand-held camera. “A little over a year ago, a salarian scientist named Maelon grew a conscience. He came to Tuchanka to test a genophage cure on our females.”
Shepard glanced over his shoulder, and our eyes met for an instant. “I remember. His methods were barbaric.”
“What you didn’t know is that a few females survived his experiments.” The imagery on the screen became clearer. We could all see salarians, using scientific instruments, working at computer consoles. Then a row of isolation chambers, each one containing a single bulky figure. Krogan females: almost never seen by outsiders, never seen off Tuchanka. “So the dalatrass here sent in a team to clean up the whole mess, and to take those survivors prisoner.”
Linron recoiled, losing control of her posture and her voice for a moment. “Where did you get this? It . . . it could be a fabrication!”
“Don’t insult me,” shouted Wrex. “Those are my people! They’re immune to the genophage, and you’re going to give them back!”
“Dalatrass, is this true?” demanded Victus.
Linron folded her arms, casting aside any pretense at deception. “How will curing the genophage benefit my people?”
Shepard growled, “How long do you think you’ll last, alone against the Reapers? Because if you don’t help, that’s how it will end up.”
“And I’ll be the last friendly turian you ever see.” Positively arctic, the Primarch’s voice.
Linron looked around at the rest of us, suddenly aware that the whole edifice of her alliance was about to crumble. She even glanced at me, where I stood in the shadows, and got no help at all.
“What’s it going to be?” Shepard demanded.
“The females are being kept at one of our STG bases on Sur’Kesh,” said the dalatrass in surrender. “But I warn you, Commander, the consequences of this . . .”
Shepard interrupted the sovereign ruler of three billion people. “Will be nothing compared to what happens if the Reapers win.”
“Let’s get the females!” crowed Wrex.
Linron shook her head. “You’re not setting foot on Sur’Kesh! This will take time to . . .”
“It happens now,” snapped Victus. “As a Council Spectre, Shepard can oversee the exchange.”
“We’re going,” said Shepard flatly. He turned and stalked out of the conference room, the rest of us in his train, Linron abandoned to stand alone in our wake.
“I won’t forget this, Commander! A bully has few friends when he needs them most.”
Well, I thought. You would certainly know about that, wouldn’t you?
* * *
24 April 2186, Special Task Group Base Terevai/Sur’Kesh
Shepard didn’t expect or want a fight. He brought along a minimal team: Wrex for the krogan, Garrus to represent the Primarch, and me.
On our way, Shepard tried to mollify Wrex. “This is the salarian homeworld we’re headed to. They aren’t used to seeing krogan here, so let’s keep this simple. We land, get the females, and leave before anyone changes their mind.”
“I still don’t trust a word they say,” Wrex rumbled.
“I can’t say I blame you. Let diplomacy play out, Wrex. You’ll get what you want.”
“These females are the best, and probably the last hope for my people.”
I stepped in. “We’ll bring them back, Wrex, don’t worry.”
“I appreciate that, Liara.” He gave me something I would have thought almost impossible: a warm smile. “I wouldn’t want anyone else along for the ride.”
I reached out and patted the old krogan’s shoulder.
We’ve come a long way since I met you, and thought you nothing but a frightening barbarian.
Garrus cleared his throat pointedly.
“I suppose I can make room for you too, Garrus.” Wrex chuckled, a deep rumble.
“Figured you’d gone soft sitting on your throne, forgot how to hold a gun.”
“That will be the day.”
Cortez called from the cockpit. “Commander, I have the STG base on sensors.”
“Set her down.”
Moments passed. The shuttle descended toward the STG installation, heading for a wide terrace on its southern edge. Wrex and Garrus compulsively checked their weapons. I exchanged a look with Shepard, each of us aware of the other’s tension.
There’s too much that can still go wrong.
Almost on cue, Cortez spoke up once more. “Commander, salarian ground control says we don’t have clearance to land.”
Shepard stepped over to the cockpit. “Tell them the dalatrass authorized this herself.”
“I knew they’d never keep their word.” Wrex strode across the passenger compartment, reaching for the hatch controls. “Let’s see them try to stop a krogan airdrop!”
“Wrex!”
The krogan slammed the hatch open and, with a roar, leaped down almost four meters to the terrace below. At once, two armed salarians swarmed up onto the terrace to block his passage.
“We have an unauthorized landing!” one soldier called into his helmet radio.
“Yeah? And who authorized you to hold my entire race hostage?” Wrex gestured, creating a blue flare of biotic force to knock the salarians off their feet. He drew his shotgun, clearly prepared to fight his way into the facility if need be.
Snipers, on an upper terrace, a whole squad of them ready to fire.
Oh Goddess, now it begins.
Shepard jumped down to follow Wrex. Garrus and I followed. More salarians arrived. The terrace began to feel very crowded.
“Stand down! Hold your fire!” shouted another voice, a salarian in a tearing hurry.
By some miracle, the voice was obeyed.
“Commander Shepard, restrain your colleague!” shouted the new salarian as he arrived on the terrace, armored all in black unlike most of his teammates, clearly a senior STG operative.
I did a double-take.
“Captain Kirrahe!” exclaimed Shepard, stepping forward to greet the newcomer.
The salarian shook Shepard’s hand, smiling broadly. “I’m pleased to see you as well, Commander. Dr. T’Soni. Propraetor Vakarian. Although it’s Major now.”
“It’s been a long way from Virmire.”
“Yes. For all of us. Although I suspected even then that we would see each other again one day. In any case, I must apologize. We only found out about this transfer a few moments ago.”
Shepard nodded, projecting calm. “I’d like to avoid a diplomatic incident.”
“As would we . . .”
“But you have something valuable to Wrex.”
“Something worth dying for,” said the krogan. “To say nothing of it being worth killing for.” He eyed Kirrahe with no evidence of warmth. I remembered that the STG officer had snubbed Wrex rather badly on Virmire.
“Please understand,” said Kirrahe, still addressing Shepard instead of Wrex. “No matter what some politician might say, we still consider krogan a hostile race.”
“I wonder why,” rumbled Wrex.
“I’m sure these matters can be resolved, but we must insist that the krogan remain under guard.”
Wrex growled.
Shepard hastily turned to him, making a calming gesture. “I can handle this, Wrex.”
The krogan watched Shepard for a moment, clearly considering whether to trust him. Then he stood down, replacing his shotgun on its attachment point. “All right. But anything else goes wrong, and all bets are off.”
Shepard, Garrus, and I moved to follow the black-armored salarian. I glanced over my shoulder and saw Wrex engaging in a dominance game with three salarian soldiers. Fortunately none of them had drawn firearms.
“I appreciate your understanding, Commander,” said Kirrahe. “With war on everyone’s mind, our people are on edge.”
Boom. Just ahead, a massive creature hurled itself against the wall of a containment unit.
“Careful! Watch the containment field!” shouted one of the salarian operators.
“Is that . . .” breathed Garrus.
“Yes, it’s a yahg.” I sighed. “I had hoped to never see one of those again.”
“You and me both.”
“As you can see, this base contains sensitive information,” said Kirrahe.
I made a mental note. If the salarians seriously considered uplifting the yahg . . .
Who are the most likely targets? Do the salarians really understand how dangerous those creatures are? Do they have any idea how to control the yahg once their objectives have been attained?
The Shadow Broker – ironically – might be forced to take a hand to stop the scheme. Assuming any of us survived the Reapers.
“What kind of work goes on here?” asked Shepard, carefully paying no special attention to the yahg in its cage.
“Evolutionary trials. Morphological simulations, exogenetic assessments.”
“Nothing is ever simple with salarians, is it?”
“Science has always been our best defense. The research we do here has kept Sur’Kesh safe for millennia.”
“Does that include studying lost krogan?”
“Please understand, Commander. The females were in very poor health when we found them on Tuchanka. Had we left them to the mercy of krogan medicine, they would certainly all have died. They were brought here to stabilize their condition.”
“I’d like to see them.”
“Of course. I’ll need to clear you for the lower levels. Wait here by the elevator, and give me a few moments to log my authorization in the system.” Kirrahe leaned close. “And Commander . . . many of us in the STG don’t care what the dalatrass have to say. When the time comes, we will help you retake Earth.”
“You would do that?”
“Not everyone has been ignoring your warnings about the Reapers all this time.” Kirrahe smiled once more. “Besides, we salarians owe a debt for Virmire, to you and Kaidan Alenko both. Don’t be shy about collecting it.”
Shepard nodded slowly, resting a comradely hand on Kirrahe’s shoulder. Then the salarian left us to wait.
“That was interesting,” I said quietly.
“I’ll say. What do you think it means?” asked Garrus.
“The STG has always been independent of the salarian feudal power structure. It’s composed entirely of males, not very interested in the schemes of the dalatrass, committed instead to the survival of the species as a whole. Many of them are among the brightest of a very intelligent species.”
“Among turians, you’d be describing something like a secret society.”
“Turians have secret societies?” asked Shepard.
“Oh yes. Sometimes they’re the bane of our civilization. Every major separatist movement starts out as a secret society of would-be rebels.”
Shepard shook his head. “I just had a very strange mental image. A turian in a tuxedo, white gloves, and top hat, wearing a white apron and a square-and-compasses emblem around his neck . . .”
I snorted, not quite able to suppress a laugh. Then again, when I saw Garrus’s face.
“I’m glad Major Kirrahe had a chance to talk to us,” said Shepard, changing the subject. “Suddenly I’m feeling better about getting some kind of alliance with the salarians. Liara, would you look further into this once we get back to the ship?”
“Of course, Shepard. I’ll issue some new tasking for the network as well. Carefully, of course. The STG are not to be engaged lightly in a game of espionage.”
“Didn’t you mention the first Shadow Broker was a salarian dalatrass?”
“Which rather proves my point,” I said, giving him a sharp-edged smile.
Just then Kirrahe returned, touching controls on his omni-tool and unlocking the elevator. “Commander, you and your associates have been cleared. Go ahead and step into the elevator. It will take you down to the laboratory levels where the krogan females are being held.”
Suddenly alarms sounded, and salarians all around us snapped to attention.
“Alert. Alert. Threat condition two has been declared. Scramble readiness teams.”
“What’s happening?” Shepard demanded.
Kirrahe opened his omni-tool again and scanned status displays, too quickly for my eye to follow. “Sensors have picked up activity on the perimeter. Hurry, Commander. Someone will meet you below.”
Shepard hesitated, looking back out to the terrace where we had come in. We all saw the salarians bustling about, obviously mustering to defend their facility. Gunships lifted off to soar out over the surrounding mountains. Soldiers formed up to receive orders and arm for battle. Off in the distance, we could see Wrex standing by the Normandy shuttle, looking around, obviously hoping for a fight against some enemy.
“Come on,” Shepard said at last. “We’d better get this done and get out of here.”
The elevator whisked us down what felt like several floors. Finally we emerged in a darkened sub-level, which I quickly realized looked familiar. This was the location we had seen in Wrex’s covert footage.
Moments after we stepped out, a salarian hurried up to us. In the dim light I found it hard to make out his features, but something about the shape of his face and head seemed familiar. Seamed skin of great age, salmon coloring fading to whit
e around his mouth, one cranial horn half missing . . .
“Shepard! Excellent timing. Good to have you here.”
“Mordin!” Shepard hurried to shake the salarian’s hand.
“Eyesight still sharp. Surprise understandable. Hadn’t expected to return to work.”
I stepped forward to greet our old friend as well. “You’re back with STG?”
“Special consultant. Had to be me. Someone else might have gotten it wrong.” Mordin looked around furtively, verifying that no other salarians were within easy earshot. He leaned close. “Helped female krogan. Fed information to Clan Urdnot. Encouraged political pressure to free females.”
“You must be Wrex’s inside source,” I deduced.
“Yes.” Mordin set out across the floor, leading us deeper into the lab facility. “Can explain later. Security warnings not normal. Need to get off-world for sake of krogan. Females had weak immune systems. Side effects of Maelon’s cure. Most didn’t survive.”
There, behind a security railing, a row of isolation chambers. Each of them was occupied by a huddled form, not moving, covered by a blanket.
“What about Maelon’s research?” asked Shepard. “I thought we saved it.”
“Indeed. Data saved, but not complete. Lacked sufficient details to reconstruct cure. Still useful for synthesizing cure from living tissue. Couldn’t save them.”
“I’m sure you did everything you could, Mordin.”
“Arrived too late.” Mordin turned decisively, led us further down the row of cages. “Cannot delay now. One survivor. Immune to genophage. Can synthesize cure from her tissue.”
“She’s still here?”
“Yes. Last hope for krogan. If she dies, genophage cure problematic.”
We reached the end of the row. There, in the last chamber, a krogan female still stood, propped up by some kind of prosthetic frame. She wore layers of robes, a great hood over her head and a veil over her face, but her eyes were visible, open and lively. Her head turned to watch us as we gathered outside her cage.
“Please be careful,” Mordin murmured. “Krogan slow to trust.”
Shepard stepped as close to the security rail as he could. “I’m Commander Shepard, Alliance Navy.”
