Drew Karpyshyn - Ascension

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 handcasually 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 immunesystem.

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.