Jason Hough - Mass Effect - Nexus Uprising

He said nothing. Just looked sad; not an expression she often saw on a turian face, she realized.

“I should have refused to wake him,” Sloane went on. “Protocol be damned. I never imagined anyone but Garson in charge. Never dreamed it could happen.”

“Who could have?”

“Hell, we should have given the job to Kesh. She would have been perfect. At least made her an advisor. She would have held Tann in check, that’s for sure. Hell, I should have put you in charge.”

“Me?”

He seemed genuinely surprised by the suggestion. Sloane had made it without really thinking it through, but the more it hung there between them, the more it seemed right.

“Yeah,” Sloane said. “Why not. Look at the way your people have flocked to you. Look, there’s still time. I’ll talk to Addison and Kesh if Tann won’t listen. Maybe that’s the path out of this. You become an advisor. Represent your crew.”

“And Kesh? She deserves that more than I do.”

“Tann would never allow that.”

Calix shook his head, borderline angry. “You think he’d consider me, a turian who has committed treason and caused death and damage, but not a loyal and competent krogan? That’s exactly the kind of thing we should have left behind, Sloane, and you know it. There’s no place for it here. No point.”

“I agree with you.” The vehemence in the words surprised her as much as him.

He sat there for a long moment, thinking.

A knock at the door. Three hard pounding beats. Calix opened it with his omni-tool.

“They’ve come,” Reg said.

Sloane stood, not caring that the chair came with her. “I’ll talk to them. They’re security, they’ll listen to me. I’ll explain—”

“Not security. Too many for that.”

“Who then?” Calix asked.

“No idea, but they ain’t here to talk.”

Sloane Kelly’s thoughts went from the possibility of peace to a dark, dark place in an instant. “Calix. You said there are two armed groups on the Nexus now. Equals. But that’s not true, is it?”

“Meaning?”

“There’s a third, Calix.”

And she saw the understanding dawn in his eyes, an expression quickly replaced with… not fear, but stubborn resignation. “Nakmor,” he said, in a low, terrible tone.

Sloane, her back to the giant, thrust out her hands, the chair dangling painfully. “Cut me loose and get me my omni-tool. Kesh will listen to me.”

“Kesh ain’t with them,” Reg said.

Sloane turned slowly toward him. “Who then?”

“No idea.”

“Get everyone on the barricades,” Calix said, already moving toward the door.

“Cut me loose!” Sloane shouted at his back.

One foot out the door, Calix paused. He slipped a tool from his belt and tossed it in her direction. A compact foldable blade. She couldn’t catch it, of course, so she let it bounce off her midsection and clatter to the floor. “Wait,” she said urgently. “Wait! What are you going to do?”

Calix met her eyes. “I’m going to defend my crew. That’s all I’ve ever done.” A hard statement, for all the passion around it.

“Don’t. Don’t fight. The moment you do—”

“They sent the krogan , Sloane.” He shook his head. “You don’t get much more direct than that. The time for talking is over.”

“It’s not the right way,” she argued. “Calix, if you surrender now…”

The turian’s laugh was bitter. “What, you think Tann will just accept our apologies—and clean up his act, too?” Another shake of his head, hard. “We tried, Sloane. It’s time to do what’s right.” A shrug, halfhearted at best. “Whatever the cost.”

She stared at him, stunned.

He left without another word.

The door remained open behind him.

Hell .

Sloane dropped to her knees, rolled over to get her hands on the tool, then rolled again onto her side. She fumbled with the handle, worked her numb fingers around the sides of it, and pulled until the short, sharp blade clicked into the open position.

Outside an eruption of gunfire. Hundreds of voices shouting to take cover, to return fire, to flee. The very definition of a disorganized rabble.

Biotic force shook the walls.

“No, no!” Sloane shouted. She’d been so close. A solution could have been found. No one else needed to die.

She slipped and cut her own arm, ignored the pain and kept sawing at the stupid little nylon strap. She sawed and sawed. Damn the little thing was tough . Sloane roared in frustrated anger and a growing pain as she slid the blade back and forth across the strap.

A tiny sound, barely audible with all the thunder pouring in through the doorway, signaled success. The strap fell away. Sloane came to her feet at a dead run, pushed out the door. Blood from the cut flowed into her palm. With each step she squeezed her hands into fists and then let them open. It hurt like hell, but the pain meant sensation returning and she welcomed it. It focused her thoughts.

In the space outside she skidded to a stop. Sloane had seen a lot of combat in her days. She’d put an end to brawls, started even more. She’d defended a research station until no one remained but herself when the dropship took her from the roof. She’d seen massacres, and been party to some of them. Those were doors in her mind she didn’t open anymore.

She’d never seen anything like this.

Calix’s rebels were entrenched, well-armed, and they had idealism on their side. They had numbers, they had ammo, and they’d already crossed that Rubicon known as violence.

They had a powerful desire to win.

But they weren’t krogan. The krogan didn’t have idealism. Didn’t need it.

They had joy . The joy of combat.

The assembly plant had exploded into the ugliest, meanest, largest brawl Sloane Kelly had ever seen.

“Tann, you shit, what have you unleashed?” she whispered. Not really a question, for the answer was painfully obvious.

The krogan had powered in like a battering ram, and they hadn’t come to talk. Some of Calix’s rebels lay strewn around the barricade they’d erected, and not all of them were whole.

Sloane’s brain kicked into tactical mode. The big picture was out of control, but here, in front of her…

A krogan warrior kicked a severed arm across the floor, then rushed into the shuddering barrel of an assault rifle. One meaty fist knocked the weapon aside, while the other took the asari rebel on the chin and sent her sprawling backward to slam against a dormant machine.

The krogan stepped forward again, ready to crush her under his massive foot. Sloane rushed in with her knife—her crappy little utility knife—and drove it into the eye of the krogan before she’d even realized what she’d done.

This only made him angry.

She knew better than to stop, to apologize, to plead for calm. The situation had gone well beyond that point. There would be no jogging up to them and appealing to reason. No, this was a battle now, and the krogan had the taste of sport in their mouths. Soon they would reach a state of blood rage. If that happened the massacre would be ruthless and utterly complete.

She watched herself, as if from a distance, as that punched-aside-rifle found its way into her hands and swiveled around to bark its magnificent bark at the krogan she’d wounded. The hulking worker, mad with rage, walked in even as the bullets tore through him.

Finally he fell at Sloane’s feet, and behind him she saw the faces of a dozen more. The one in the middle caught her eye. Their leader.

Not Kesh.

A moment of disbelief settled like the blood that seeped into the crevices of the floor.

“Morda,” Sloane whispered.

Tann had woken Morda. It had to have been him. Kesh would have known better, would have come here and tried to salvage the situation herself.