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Chapter Text

We must talk.

The message sat heavily in Aria’s inbox, mooring her attention to this matter so that she could tend to no others before relieving this one. She sipped a glass of ice water, scowling into its crystal, hating its blandness, dearly missing the bite of alcohol. When she ordered the commandos assisting her to disperse, they obeyed, leaving their boss to stoke an old competitive grudge. 

Tevos’s ploy was obvious. She would invoke some esoteric technicality within her laws, warp its interpretation just so, and drive an abortive wedge into Aria and Dantrida’s agreement. Answering the councilor’s message meant willful invitation of this future, plainly in sight. Aria was not keen to take the bait. 

But one question remained beyond anticipation. What would Tevos offer in substitute for the hostages? Millions of credits were mere days away; a dizzying sum. Did something of equivalent worth exist within the Council’s coffers? Was it Tevos’s to offer? Or would she undercut Aria with pittances?

If so, thought Aria, they’ll never see Bensa Helisir or her bodyguards again, and Dantrida will only have the councilor to blame. So will the media. I hold all the power here. I have everything to gain and nothing to lose.

Desire to respond in hostile spirit hit Aria at tidal force. Only her adept statesmanship and the caution it prescribed kept the impulse in check. 

She afforded Tevos one word, Why?

It involves your health, Tevos soon answered in a fashion become familiar to Aria: cold and remote, each word itself a compression capsule for extended meaning. 

Withholding the information Aria needed to decide whether to grant Tevos audience was ironically the most effective way of gaining her audience. She resented that Tevos maneuvered so well, consistently forcing Aria into deep strategic contemplation just to maintain the upper hand she exerted over others with half the effort. For this reason, she avoided the councilor. And for this reason, she was also drawn to her. 

Logic demanded that she speak with Tevos for the sake of information. As long as Aria kept laser sights on the hostages and expressed willingness to execute them, Tevos wouldn’t press her luck. That was the weakness of her ilk— fetters made of morals and convention, worn to appease culture. That was victory’s angle.

Aria’s fingernails curled into the armchair’s supple upholstery, relenting to key out her response. Within five minutes she was invited to an audio-only call using the councilor’s private unregulated channel.

“Thank you for taking the time to listen to what I have to say,” said Tevos. 

“We speak on the condition that you don’t use this opportunity to interfere with my deal,” Aria firmly established, speaking at the far wall where one of Liselle’s film posters hung on a magnetic mount. “Eranyla and I have found a path toward peaceful resolution. Don’t be the one to sabotage it. That would look bad.” 

Tevos replied, “That isn’t my intention. Although some things I have to share might inspire you to arrive at that decision independently.”

She rolled her eyes, doubtful. “Just get this over with.”

“This a difficult thing to say,” said Tevos, “so allow me to first ask: have you noticed anything unusual or untoward about recent events? And by that I mean, circumstances that seem peculiar beyond misfortune, impenetrable, or otherwise uncharacteristic concerning your rivals’ activities or methodology?”

A subtle quavering in Tevos’s voice gave Aria pause. Fear and anxiety were not moods the councilor readily conveyed; Aria had once mentally classified her as someone of tremendous restraint and that understanding had stood for years. Whatever Tevos spoke of unsettled her deeply. Infectious concern brought Aria to sit upright and attentive. 

“Peculiar,” Aria repeated. “That’s one word I’d use to describe things.” 

Through her memory flashed images of Olat Dar’nerah’s grisly fate, the mutilated corpses of her administration, the poisoned cocktail, and assailants who dithered and postured long enough to squander a rare golden chance to take Aria’s head off her shoulders. These were not the movements of a conventional enemy. They were a paradoxical cult of competence and precarious sentimentality. 

Tevos continued, “There have been… signs… to suggest that your enemy is not a domestic entity, but a state actor of immense power and sway. If my suspicion is correct, you are in gravest danger and will not likely survive the year.”

“If your suspicion is correct,” Aria repeated Tevos’s words once more, never failing to identify vital fragments. “Who do you suspect and what evidence are you drawing from?”

Again Tevos showed disinclination to be direct. “There is no guarantee that our conversation isn’t being monitored,” she said, speaking more for her own benefit than for Aria’s. “But I think we’re safe for the time being. I haven’t made dissenting actions, at least not those of a certain caliber. There shouldn’t be cause to risk a probe yet. If we make any indication that this conversation has taken place, however…” 

Aria sensed that Tevos was calculating and weighing a great many possibilities simultaneously. “What do you know?” She urged her. “Right now, what do you know?”

Tevos explained, “Several days ago I received a formal petition from the Council of Matriarchs. They asked me to disband my investigation into Dantrida’s smuggling operation, indirectly threatening me if I refused. I recognized a handful of signatures. When their names appear on a missive, its recipient may know that it is not a request. It is an order. A message within a message. But as asari councilor, I am, and I am not, under Thessian command. This is an important nuance. The Council is a unified organism endowed with power that supersedes the societies’ from which its power is derived—”

“The Citadel Council is the most powerful governing body in the galaxy,” Aria interjected, wishing Tevos would name the culprit faster. “Common knowledge. You bow to no one. Why would they want you to drop the Dantrida investigation?” 

“A fine question. I had the same one until my Spectres recovered Dantrida’s shipping manifests. You’re aware of their arms smuggling, but I don’t think you’re aware of the scope of it. Less than an hour ago we learned that Dantrida transported a high-yield nuclear warhead onto Omega some time ago, and I do not believe you were its recipient. Whoever commissioned this would not want it to become known.” 

Aria thoughtfully rotated her empty drinking glass in her hand, numbness sweeping over her. Looking at the floor, she said, “I need proof.”

Tevos provided a minimally-redacted copy of the report and manifests she received from her Spectre. A few minutes elapsed, during which Aria reviewed its contents. Aria had known that Eranyla was concealing Dantrida’s involvement, but she assumed Eranyla was merely acting out of personal greed. It wasn’t uncommon for people like her to exploit their status to make extra credits through backdoor deals. Putting guns in rival hands was a gesture of immense disrespect that warranted punishment, but a nuclear warhead was another matter entirely. If Aria thought she could get away with it, she’d post a substantial bounty.

“There haven’t been tensions,” Aria mused aloud, sounding dire. “We’ve made good money together. Why the hell would Dantrida want me dead?”

“They don’t want you dead,” Tevos answered with certainty. “They’re only a tool, a distraction, and a convenient scapegoat should higher plans fail or be exposed. Your aggressor chose their courier wisely. Someone easily blamed and then defended by various outer institutions. Contracted vessels, to evade liability. We exhaust ourselves pursuing them, meanwhile Dantrida’s sponsors move unobstructed through the shadows. I fear they are not disheartened by their failed attempt on your life. Even if you expel Dantrida from your station, the true threat remains. They will try again.”

Although Tevos had not named this so-called true threat, Aria was beginning to form a strong and terrible notion of who it was. Disparate fact coalesced spontaneously in her mind to paint the multitudinous face of Asari High Command.

This was, to Aria’s cold dismay, the worst case scenario for her syndicate. No other coalition could enkindle mortal fear within her heart. They were more frightening than even the Citadel Council, who were a self-normalizing tripod of different races unlikely to agree upon a foreign intervention of this kind unprovoked. Meanwhile, Asari High Command were more or less ideologically unified by principles of shared culture whose longview often mandated sudden or inscrutable acts that rippled through time and built faraway goals.

If Aria had done something to threaten High Command’s designs, she was now contending with the Republics’ provisional wartime government, those shapers of fate and mothers of conspiracy. For most, this was a death sentence.

Clamminess infected Aria’s hands. She was glad to be alone and invisible to Tevos, lest another soul witness this moment of worry. 

No, she thought, summoning immense will to persist from the core of her being. It will not end like this. There’s always a way out.

Aria investigated, “Why would your people pursue this?”

“That is the question of the hour, so to speak. I wish I knew.”

Blue eyes narrowed upon a developing suspicion. “You must benefit somehow by warning me.”

Tevos replied, “I’ll be transparent with you. They are acting unilaterally in violation of Council foreign policy. A direct countermand from my office isn’t feasible, unfortunately, so—”

“So you’ll oppose them through proxy,” Aria finished her statement with disdain. “Through me.”

“That isn’t the essence of the matter. It’s my duty to facilitate and maintain beneficial diplomatic relationships with powers abroad. If I do not aid you in some capacity, that is an injustice. Trust will break between us and all others who expect our welfare.”

Aria took offense. “Omega doesn’t need your fucking welfare. Omega needs you to keep the Thessian attack dogs on a leash. That’s your fucking job. And I know that isn’t your only reason for helping me. What else?”

Tevos paused, evidently choosing her words with care. “The dynamic between the asari councilor and the matriarchy may not be intuitive to outsiders.”

“Let me guess,” said Aria. “You’re wrestling for greater influence?”

“Precisely. You understand.”

“I do more than understand. I remember. On Nevos I watched you trade blows with them for days.”

Tevos was quiet again. Perhaps she had forgotten, willfully or otherwise. “If I permit them to carry on,” she said at length, “my office will lose considerable power. Maybe permanently, maybe beyond my term. I know their thinking; they believe me susceptible to their manipulation.”

“Have you been advertising yourself as that type of person?” 

“No. But there is an expectation cultivated by my heritage.” After a pensive beat—a common device in her punctuation this afternoon—Tevos continued, “Old families such as mine have a lot to lose and very little to gain through political nonconformism. Daughters of such families are raised to preserve what has endured for millennia, and few are bold enough to mark history as the one who capsized a bloodline. Esteem is the fulcrum relied upon here— that vague currency which the matriarchy is more or less built upon.”

Aria heard faint gloom in her voice. 

“There’s an adage you may be familiar with,” added Tevos. “A silvered lake breeds pestilence. From an old parable about a wealthy heiress who cast powdered silver into a lake to make it shine radiantly, like a mirror, so that she and her daughters could forever admire their reflections in the water. But the silver poisoned the lake’s fish and disrupted its fragile ecology. Within a year the lake became a putrid mire. The parable supposes that daughters of wealth are afflicted by weak character, for their actions are insulated and self-informed, and they are easily destroyed, often through their own vices. I have been battling that archetype my entire life, and I do not know if I have been even remotely successful.”

Silence rolled over them both like an inbound storm. Aria was engulfed by her own thoughts, suddenly thinking of Liselle. Whether she would one day assume the mantle of Omega’s ruler, Aria did not know. In fact, she doubted it. But upon Aria’s death one unknown day—potentially sooner than later, given the current war climate—Liselle would inherit and command the considerable power synonymous with the T’Loak legacy.

How would she carry it? When Aria envisioned the floor lamp broken by Liselle’s fit of emotion yesterday, urgency beset her, because Liselle was in no shape to command anything. If she continued on this current developmental trajectory, her adulthood could be tormented by vapid materialism, entitlement, fragility, impulsivity… Aria would not further expand her list due to the inner turmoil it inspired. Poverty of character, of that vital inner wealth that concerned resilience and resourcefulness, would render Liselle vulnerable to Omega’s savage wiles. They would tear her apart. 

“Suffice it to say,” said the councilor, evicting Aria from contemplation, “we must jointly defy them to satisfy our personal motivations. So, I offer you a pact. As councilor I possess a surfeit of intelligence. Articles that might contribute to your survival and surmounting of the current threat can be yours. For example, I can help you find the warhead. I have the vessel identification number and its departure and arrival times. If you review Omega Control logs, you should be able to identify whose hands it passed through. I ask very little in exchange; only that we may be allied in this venture and commit to secrecy.”

As Tevos’s offer tolled in her head, Aria was visited by a premonition. It delicately flickered past imagination’s eye and registered in her conscience as a golden moment, the shining dawn of a future shaped by this formidable alliance. The profit potential was incredible. How many loosened trade agreements, information troves, and surreptitious privileges were a deft touch of persuasion away? 

All this delivered on a silver platter. 

Abruptly, Aria sobered. She rubbed fingers against her tired eyes, thinking hard. On the surface Tevos’s offer sounded too good to be true, because it was too good to be true. No generosity in the universe arrived without its caveats and entanglements. If, with time, Aria became too dependent on Council intelligence, an addiction could facilitate leverage. She would exchange one mode of foreign domination for another: escaping Asari High Command only to land in the clutches of the Citadel Council. Denying aid freely given would be foolish, but accepting it without forethought or caution would be even more so. Especially after Tevos had proven herself a manipulator of circumstance on Nevos, eerily akin to Aria herself, except Tevos’s conventions were subtle and hidden, the most insidious kind.

It also could not be forgotten that Tevos was openly using Aria for her own political gambit. They were presently aligned because this was the direction the interstellar wind was blowing, impelling their sails toward a shared destination. But given a weather caprice or stormy conditions, and the councilor could easily revert to a threat. Aria would not let that mild temperament deceive her— Tevos was deadly. 

This alliance demanded the security of equivalent exchange. 

“I have a better idea,” Aria announced. “Dantrida is a confirmed security risk magnitudes larger than I can tolerate. Once I have their payment in hand and their hostages off Omega, I’ll drop Dantrida completely. You and I will locate the warhead and assemble a paper trail. And then I want you to bury them for this. Let’s call this project a trial phase for our… alliance.”

Tevos sought clarification. “You’ll release all three hostages? Under no further demands?”

“I got what I wanted.” Aria shrugged to herself. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s the proof I asked for. Whether it comes from you or Eranyla doesn’t matter.”

“Well, thank you. That will certainly minimize complications moving forward.”

Releasing the hostages was a worthy investment. Tevos still advocated for their release and if Aria stubbornly retained them, resentment could fester. Greed was a common undoing of many in her position, tempting as it was. It was more astute to wipe the slate clean through actions of good faith.

“That was exactly my thinking,” came Aria’s prideful remark. “And perhaps you can shed some light on something, now that we’re aligned. What do you make of High Command’s unorthodox tactics?”

“Unorthodox?” Tevos repeated. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific.”

Aria realized she did not know the breadth of Tevos’s intelligence regarding the assassinations. Her Spectres would’ve surely caught wind of them due to all the rumors obscuring or underlining the truth. But there was also a chance that Tevos knew but would not interrupt Aria’s perspective; a source much closer to the trouble’s heart. Either way, it would not benefit Aria to play coy now. 

“Their extreme sadism,” replied Aria, “and their devotion to inciting terror in my people. My first lieutenant to die was Olat Dar’nerah. They abducted and made a ghoul out of his corpse then paraded it through a crowded nightclub. Panic ensued. My officers were shaking for days. It was a catastrophe for morale, and worse yet, we don’t know how it was done. Maybe you have insight.”

Tevos’s hesitance turned ominous the longer it extended. “I thought that was a rumor,” she finally spoke. “My Spectre compiled a dozen reported variations of Dar’nerah’s murder, but I assumed this one was merely fantastical.”

“I watched an unadulterated recording of the incident myself. It was not a fantasy.”

Again, silence afflicted them. 

Aria said, “Since that day we’ve dealt with bombings and mutilations. When they came after me, they put a sword to my neck despite already getting close enough to use poison.” She felt increasingly insulted the more she pondered her brush with death. To be toyed with like that…  The widespread humiliation would have been a death in itself, had the situation’s details not been contained. Her next words carried disparagement, “Is your government really that sick, and that stupid?” 

“Forgive me,” said Tevos. “I’m having some difficulty attributing these methods to High Command. I can only interpret these actions as perverse grandstanding, which is in direct opposition to their philosophies. No, this is not their work.” After a stabilizing breath, she said, “High Command has employed proxies such as Dantrida to muddle official inquiry. We must now consider the possibility that High Command’s network of proxies do not end there. They may run deeper… all the way to Omega itself, which suffers no dearth of actors capable of such cruelty.”

The enormity of the situation had swelled beyond Aria’s expectation. Enemies were everywhere, hiding in every shadow and spying through every window, spreading like a disease. And as of the current moment, the councilor appeared to be the only panacea in sight.

* * *

Liselle softly shut the door of Iaera’s bedroom behind her, producing virtually no noise. A backpack was slung by a single strap across her chest, while her left shoulder carried a duffle bag turgid with clothes and personal articles. She drew an electromagnetic screwdriver hidden in her leg pocket and knelt before the window panel to locate its bolts and seals. 

Presently Aria was engrossed with an important conference and Iaera was preparing food, aided by the commandos. This was the sole genuine opportunity Liselle had managed to seize over the last day in a residence rife with guards and lookouts. 

She fit the adaptable socket over the recessed head of the bolt and squeezed the trigger. A high-pitched whine sounded at the removal of the first bolt, repeating as she tended to the rest. Next she wedged a flat pry bar into the seal and applied leverage until the pane popped free. The reinforced glass posed a substantial weight. Straining, Liselle retreated a step, arms outspread with both hands fastened around the horizontal edges of the pane. She lowered and carefully leaned it against the wall.  

Through the empty space Liselle beheld the Kima District. Traffic crawled across a grand auburn cityscape, its motion abated by distance. Pollutants from a nearby factory block delivered a sour odor and the industrial roar of machinery at work. In lieu of a true breeze, waves of attenuated heat exhaust generated by faraway skycar lanes feathered her cheeks.

After drawing a breath, Liselle extended one foot through the open window space, finding purchase on a ledge. 

“A valiant attempt,” said a voice behind Liselle that made her jump, “but you wouldn’t have gotten very far.”

She whirled to see Aria standing in the room, striped by a rusted band of light pouring in past Liselle’s shadow. No sight nor sound had betrayed her entry. In perfect stealth she had even managed to close the door behind her again. Liselle was devastated with as much dismay as wonder about where an individual could learn such an impressive art. 

“Look down,” said Aria. 

Liselle, gawking, obeyed. She peered down past her foot on the outer ledge to see the balcony of the apartment below. There a commando was stationed already looking up, ready to return her stare with disapproving hands on her hips. Liselle’s face burned with embarrassment. At once she withdrew her leg back into the building and aimed a defiant glare at her mother. 

Aria sat down in the chair Iaera typically occupied during her afternoon readings. Her health was improving. She was walking unassisted, albeit slowly, and the shadows around her eyes no longer telegraphed proximity to death. 

“So where would you have gone, if you had left?”

The question squirmed grotesquely in Liselle’s mind, echoing the same one Zuria asked her days ago. Faithfully, Liselle committed to the same answer: “Anywhere but here.”

From where she lurked in her chair, Aria scrutinized Liselle with piercing awareness. “Whenever you do anything, you need to have a plan,” she said. “Even the best laid plans may change or fail, but you need to have one. Improvisation can only get you so far because it concerns the present and forgets the future.”

It was an unusual morsel of wisdom to impart, and in such a serious tone of voice. Liselle didn’t understand the absence of Aria’s wrath. She stood frozen in place, a lowly animal attempting invisibility.

Aria watched her for a time, revealing no inner cogitation until she formed a decision. “You need something that can’t be given, something that a person can only take for themself. I’m granting your request to join an investigation unit. Note that it’ll be an auditing unit, so you won’t likely see violence, but the guilty are known to act drastically once their back is against the wall and they have nothing to lose. I want you to be very careful with this opportunity. If I learn that you’ve been reckless, insolent, or too burdensome I will revoke your assignment.”

Her dramatic change of heart was puzzling. Where had it come from? The source seemed divine— an outer voice compelling an answer to Liselle’s deepest prayer through miraculous sign or revelation. Like lightning from an empty sky, moving the unmovable. The sheer shock delayed her joy nearly a full minute, but when it arrived, Liselle had to stifle an urge to shriek in delight, knowing the outburst would displease Aria. 

Instead, Liselle allowed her bags to slump onto the floor and she approached Aria for a wordless embrace. No equivalent celebration lit her mother’s eyes. There was only a steely melancholy to witness as the two practitioners of dissimilar restraint met. Liselle stooped to chair height and folded her arms around Aria’s shoulders in thanks, and was both elated and disturbed to feel tight reciprocation. 

While they were close, Aria spoke low, “Protect yourself at any cost. Any. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Liselle responded. 

“Then you’ll report to Zuria in three days.”

They drew away. After nodding to convey understanding, Liselle asked, “Why did you change your mind?”

Aria seemed agitated by the question. She scoffed, rose from her chair with moderate effort, and made to leave. Once the door clicked shut, Liselle took advantage of privacy to release her bottled elation. She bounced on her toes and silently punched at the air with zeal.

* * *

She emerged from the skycar in radiance, her prismatic gown so white it burned a hole into Omega’s low ashen gloom. The jewel of her body sapped and withheld all attention from her acolytes garbed in dun slate, who flanked their lady in a diamond as though she cast four split shadows. 

As they embarked at brisk pace through the Mazat District claustrophobia, they were inundated by stares emitted by batarian market stalls, apartment balconies, and vigilant peacekeepers posted there by the collective’s leadership. All beheld the ominous passage of these five asari, wary of their strangeness and their imperious disposition. Still the low-caste throngs left generous wakes of space to grant their way, for at their crux was a matriarch. 

Legends told of ruthless cunning and wisdom amassed over centuries to produce asari horrors who kept no gods in their hearts but themselves. For any ancient creature with a visage like hers—delicate, dewy, ageless—hailed from a culture of evil rites. 

The matriarch paused at the lilt of folk music. A seated duet of batarian mendicants, male and female, were strumming instruments and singing on the side of the street, collecting credit chits in a dish. Upon noticing the matriarch standing amid the typical market bustle, studying them with hands folded behind her back, they ceased their music-making and gazed back in caution. 

Their clothes needed mending and their cheekbones showed too prominently through thin tawny skin. A malformed ankle protruded from the hem of the male’s pant leg, gnarled from damage and negligent healing. Beside him, the female’s eyes were turbid with cataracts.

“Please,” spoke the matriarch, gently, her voice as light as the air carrying it, “do not stop on my account. I adore the music of all cultures and it troubles me that silence heralds my arrival.” She reached into a waist pocket and produced a credit chit. A quick touch from her omni-tool encoded it with two thousand credits. “It’s been three hundred years since I last attended a batarian orchestra. The passion and power left a mark on my soul. Your fragment brought its memory back to me.” 

She passed the credit chit to the acolyte at her right, who stepped forward to deposit it in the dish.

The batarian pair nodded gratefully at them but declined to speak, fearful of the stories and superstitions asari matriarchs inspired. Tentatively they took up their instruments and resumed, emaciated fingers bouncing over the strings, their imperfect rhythm generating an organic warmth now rare to the matriarch’s ears in an age of intangible hologram apparition. Raspy lyrics evoked a harsh snow-capped mountain range forming a palisade around Khar’shan’s capital city, and the sovereign lineage who figuratively wore its enclosing massif like a crown. 

After listening, the matriarch and her acolytes continued to walk until they came upon an immense heavily-guarded plaza, dense with people. Mercenaries patrolled everywhere with rifles slung on their shoulders. Noise enveloped them in a mosaic of voices and vehicles and mechanized chimes. Towers wearing neon signs ablaze and buzzing stretched infinitely into distant darkness. Guests and deliveries were received and expelled in this hub of commerce with the constancy of respiration. They finally counted non-batarian faces, although they were still outnumbered fifty to one. 

They approached a building of palatial mien, broad and mighty and symmetrical. Along several stories swirled ornate fractal filigrees and every five meters along its perimeter, a batarian guard stood as stern as the pillars with bulbous cupolas at each corner of the structure. Functionally, it was a hospital. Lesser known was the headquarters occupying the domed zenith laminated by the watery mirage of kinetic shielding, ever braced for hostile impact. That fortress was their destination, past the frontline security, and upon ascending through every floor of ailing, death, and new life toward an unknown nexus.

The aged Parem Igrahal awaited her in a rich antechamber of plush furniture, gaudy delights, and a full retinue of finely-dressed advisors and personal bodyguards. 

“Please disarm,” came the deep voice of a batarian woman in full body armor. She presented a cart of magnetic racks. 

“I would gladly,” said the matriarch, “had we arms to relinquish.”

The expression on Parem’s face turned bitter. “Scan them,” she commanded, gesturing to the guard with the cart. Golden rings, bracelets, and dainty chains along her arm clicked with the motion. 

At once, the guard executed a scanning routine on her omni-tool and waved her arm over their guests’ bodies. “All clear,” she said.

“All clear,” Parem scoffed, mocking the determination. She beheld the white-gowned matriarch and her four shadows in contempt. “So you have come to Omega unarmed? No shields, no blades, no guns?”

“None,” confirmed the matriarch, unruffled. “We are biotics, as you might presume. One could argue that I am a gun for all intents and purposes. But I would not normally demean the art with such vulgarity.”

Their batarian host was not amused. “There are other biotics on Omega, you realize,” said Parem. “A great many of them. Some of nightmarish aptitude. Forgive me if suspicion sours our first meeting. You are a strange person with a strange proposition. I know not where I am being asked to tread.” She glared at the asari entourage standing silent and mysterious. “Have your followers wait outside the building. I do not like the look of them.”

“Of course. At once.”

They retreated alone into Parem’s office, where Parem sat at her large antique desk. Opposing her, the matriarch occupied a handmade chair imported from Khar’shan and spared a moment to admire its lacquered wood and metal inlays. She folded one elegant leg over the other and blithely cupped her hands over a knee. 

Parem scrutinized her. “You do not feel vulnerable without your followers in proximity?”

Realizing that her unassailable calm continued to cause Parem discomfort, the matriarch’s serene bearing faltered. “My dear,” she lamented, “I’m terribly sorry for the deception. My goal was to present myself in way that made you and your people most comfortable, but I see I’ve failed to provide that courtesy. I believed weapons would agitate first impressions. I believed a small escort would blend in well with local precautionary sensibilities. What is politeness but strict adherence to the customs of the places you visit? Its ultimate realization should be an invisible, frictionless thing. That is my philosophy. Apparently there are still customs I don’t quite grasp.”

Heuristic alarms screamed through Parem’s mind, warning of her guest’s monstrous nature. In the Terminus Systems, asari matriarchs were borderline mythical. Most never ventured beyond the outer Attican borders, preferring to bask in the respect given by a culture that revered them. On Omega they were spurned, and for good reason. Matriarchs were planners, meddlers, and manipulators of a caliber that could not be brooked in the last bastion of true free enterprise in the galaxy. They were ill omens at best, and weavers of destruction at worst. Not even Aria T’Loak donned that title, aloof to rigid relics of culture that would infringe upon an identify she preferred to keep iconic and enigmatic.

“What do I call you?” Parem asked.

She smiled warmly. “Midea.” 

“Very well. Lady Midea, consider the source of my worry. Unsolicited you contact my organization, volunteer this alarming intelligence, and claim you possess a solution. My business’s salvation, bundled in a conveniently-wrapped package. This speaks a clear trap to me.”

“I sympathize,” said Midea. “I would exercise equal caution were I in your position. But the threat to you is very real. It’s something we’ve been watching, because she poses a threat to us, too. Clairvoyance is my order’s specialty, informed by historical pattern analysis and validated through statistics and economic theory. Time is no stagnant reservoir. It is a rushing river. It demands change—ofttimes sudden, explosive change—to deliver civilization to its next natural era. Like anyone, we desire a future that favors ourselves. So do you. You value your way of life here and I wouldn’t dream of sullying it. Unfortunately, that way of life is sustained by the spoils of war, and war is coming to collect its debts whether you have my assistance or not.” 

Parem was as still as stone. “Aria is my strongest and most valuable ally and our treaties have ushered a great era of prosperity. Omega thrives in the crucible of diverse business. For me to believe what you say on faith alone… that is a very bold gamble.”

“Oh, not faith. Not that at all. You have the report I gave you, digitally sealed and watermarked, issued by one of the highest authorities in existence. Faith has no part in this.” 

“Do you know why I left Khar’shan?” She addressed Midea with a disdainful narrow gaze. “In my youth I witnessed the extinguishment of countless industrious ideas along with their proprietors, all in the name of Hegemony-ordained ‘decency’. Even those in good standing were doomed to excruciating committee review before their companies could be chartered. Bureaucracy is a disease. My medical facility here on Omega is in the business of practice and research— a cyclical, self-sustaining ecosystem of advancement. Without government to stifle our methods, I am on schedule to become the vanguard of medical technologies within twenty years. This could not have been possible elsewhere. So when you appeal to me, keep in mind that you are anathema to everything I espouse.”

“Surely we can’t conflate the Batarian Hegemony with the Asari Republics,” argued Midea. “Our ideologies are starkly different.”

“But you share the same purpose and the same soul. Your mission is control.”

They could hear the mechanical innards of a bronze antique chronometer on a shelf murmuring in a rhythm unfamiliar to the matriarch. Soft oscillating clicks and whirs counted time in traditional batarian units. 

Midea told her, “I will not coerce you to join our initiative. I extend only goodwill. In that same vein, I have a secret to share.” Following a wink and a charming smirk, she whispered, “You are not the sole appointment on my schedule today. There is another in the same position as you.”

Parem stiffened, her outrage nascent. She hissed, “You spoke to the Last Legion? Peace is gossamer between us! I should have you shot for this… this political arson! You and your kind will only bring more death to this place.”

“I wouldn’t recommend that, madam. You have such a lovely base of operations full of curated antiques and wonderfully mannered staff. I’d be loath to ruin any of it on my way out.” Midea leaned forward in her chair, bright eyes flashing delighted mischief. “But know that you will not survive without my help. Neither will Drialus Lorhan. I will have one of you, both of you, or none. So it goes. Perhaps you’re only in denial; it must soothe the psyche and help you sleep better when you don’t believe that Aria T’Loak is plotting your doom.” She rose, preparing to depart. 

As Parem likewise rose to mirror Midea, her outrage became manifest, but it was rapidly transmuting into a cold and remote aspect of fear. 

“I bid you good fortune,” said Midea, adopting a tone of pity that insulted Parem. “You’ll need it in the days to come. I wonder, now, as I look at you: what will your role be in the history of this place?” She canted her head in thought—a moment of theater, disingenuous—and withdrew on ghostlike steps toward the exit.