The negotiation hall was filled with silence. The light pouring from the narrow, small windows was insufficient to dispel the gloom of the gray walls. Only the glow of the information tablets somehow enlivened the atmosphere around the large round table, carved from a single piece of black marble from Thessia.
The councilors and the Batarian ambassador held their breath, waiting for the USSR delegation to study the draft peace agreement. This anticipation permeated the air, making it viscous and humid, as if on the eve of a thunderstorm.
"Unacceptable," Sechenov's quiet voice brought the surroundings back to life, echoing off the walls of the overly empty and impersonal hall.
The chief coordinator placed the tablet on the table, looking over his glasses at the councilors. The softness and elegance had disappeared from his speech. Now he was a ruler, not a diplomat who sacredly honored his duty.
"This document tramples on the interests of the working people and all communist principles that guide our society. No status quo."
"Didn't you tell me, Mr. Sechenov, that the USSR does not claim the Hegemony's worlds?" Telos remarked, not showing a drop of cordiality.
"The Council will not tolerate the annexation of worlds and will be forced to take decisive measures in case of renewed aggression."
"In other words, you are now rattling your weapons, threatening us with the might of your united fleet? Don't you find that ironic, Councilor?" Sergey Nechai said, not hiding his sarcasm, casually, as if he wasn't being targeted by at least ten snipers simultaneously.
"Didn't you reproach us half an hour ago, as you put it… for 'excessively militaristic sentiments'?"
His entire closed posture exuded contempt for the Asari. To Nechaev, she was too much like a delphinid. At least, she played with words just like those sentient fish.
"For you – Councilor Telos, or Ms. Telos, this is, firstly," the diplomat, who had been thrown off balance by recent events and the collapse of fundamental concepts, snapped too sharply, but immediately regained her composure.
"Secondly, I merely pointed out our decisiveness and inflexibility on this issue. Escalation of the conflict is unacceptable!"
"As if we need this stub?" the commander of "Argentum" asked himself a rhetorical question.
"That's firstly… And, secondly, we've hung our 'lords' on poles and trees for all the good they've done. Are you sure you want me to address you with the word 'madam'?" I can, but then, perhaps, you won't like it…"
The hint was undisguised. Rudeness simply oozed between the words. Telos, accustomed to a certain degree of reverence for her race, couldn't find words to reply.
Seeing her indignation, Nechaev turned his head to the Turian councilor, asking:
"Remind me, esteemed councilor, didn't we only clash in battle, and not with the united fleet?"
Sechenov, who in his heart wanted to say roughly the same thing, having received a mental image from his daughter, who was analyzing every gesture of those present in real-time, chuckled, drawing attention to himself.
"Although the words sounded excessively rude, there is a significant amount of truth in them. We do not claim the Hegemony's territories. The current situation with the military contingent stationed there suits us," the chief coordinator of the Union returned the conversation to diplomatic channels.
Councilor Viridia merely chuckled mentally, recalling the sum of credits that went daily to support her people's fleet stationed in the Hegemony. Most importantly, this operation was fully financed by the Asari Republic, placing a significant burden on the proud race's budget. It couldn't be otherwise, since the main deposits of the zero element were under the control of the blue-skinned maidens. So the Hierarchy's fleet being there cost nothing, but the Asari…
"…however, we strive for peace and do not want to burden the workers of your countries, whose duty it will be to sponsor the maintenance of… your peacekeeping forces," Sechenov found a way to describe the tax increase.
"We are ready to withdraw our troops, but in return – the creation of a neutral zone along the forty-third parallel, according to your galactic map…"
"This is outrageous!" Jha'Shira shrieked, causing her fat body to vibrate.
"Not only did your entire tribe of barbarians sweep through our planets, destroying everything in their path, not only did you destroy all our industry, disregarding civilian casualties, but you are openly robbing us!"
To the relief of everyone present, she shoved her sweaty and sticky chest back into her corset with an elbow. The tightly laced garment creaked dangerously, embracing her voluminous body. The tightly drawn ties bent the hooks even further, and the smell of a sweaty and unwashed body, creeping through the miasma of sharp perfumes, hit the olfactory senses like biological warfare.
Telos, sitting on the same side of the table as her, turned pale, swaying, but maintaining a perfect face. Viridia, holding her breath, secretly wiped away tears that had welled up. Councilor Kelox remained impassive. He had simply lost the ability to smell anything years ago.
The USSR delegation, having seen worse, merely grimaced slightly at the envoy's overtones. Her voice vibrated in time with the swaying of her body, causing her breasts, sagging in two places, to swell with each spoken word. The words themselves were hammered into the ears as if pushed by an industrial pneumatic hammer, and with a disgustingly sweet, accusatory intonation.
And when the comrades caught the indescribable smell of the unleashed Batarian's breath… The air rang, not with sounds, but with the all-pervasive stench. Even the soldiers of "Argentum," some of whom had recently taken a swim in a sewer full of filth, couldn't stand it, openly pulling out handkerchiefs.
"…you simply have no right!" the lady finally gasped, hitting the table with her hand.
"Poof." Her fist landed on the table's surface. "Thud-thud." Her two chins out of four echoed.
Jha'Shira glared threateningly, as she thought, at the USSR delegation, trying to catch her breath, her fat-swollen eyes bulging at the chief coordinator. In her mind, she wanted to strangle her political opponent. The growth on Sechenov's face was excitingly fascinating to her. The ambassador's thoughts were so loud, and her emotions so strong, that the empaths of the Union immediately regretted having eaten anything at all today. Her enhanced imagination, due to constant mental practice, painted overly realistic pictures.
On the other end of the broadcast, in the USSR, all the viewers winced at once. The AIs observing the whole spectacle froze for a few seconds, which was an enormous amount of time for supercomputers. They also imagined…
"Then name at least one colony or mining base located beyond this parallel?" the chief coordinator calmly asked, mentally dreaming of a cigarette for the first time in forty years, or better yet, a glass of cognac, to get rid of the sticky chill of alien thoughts and emotions, weakened but no less intrusive.
The Batarian tried to remember, was even about to blurt out the name of some backwater hole, but faltered. She realized where the ruler of the USSR was leading. The parallel with recent historical events, which the not-so-stupid envoy could easily draw, became too obvious.
"As was to be expected," Sechenov continued his offensive.
"I dare to assume that the help provided to you by the Citadel was not gratuitous?"
"It is so," Telos answered for Jha'Shira, perfectly understanding where the man was leading.
The ambassador of the Hegemony could only clench her fists in silence, swallowing all the dirty curses that swirled on her tongue. She saw how the Turian and Salarian councilors immediately livened up, calculation in their eyes, and they didn't care about her country.
"Then I will propose a compromise," the coordinator concluded.
"All parties will declare this region of space a demilitarized zone, and in return, the Hegemony, or any other country that takes on its role as successor, will undertake to provide access, allowing the exploitation and extraction of natural resources for the Citadel races. This solution will suit us, as we only needed to secure our borders, and the patrol squadrons of the treaty participants are not forward bases and fleet anchorages right under our noses."
Jha'Shira's eyes darkened with rage. Just now, one-sixth of the former Hegemony's territory had been taken away, and there was nothing that could be done about it. Not a single faction currently fighting for power in the ruins of the state would simply accept legal obligations, even if they won.
The Citadel would gain control over a resource-rich larder, shifting the borders of Batarian lands to those they actually controlled. The worst thing for the envoy would be that her signature would be on this disgrace. She had no choice but to sign it, as a representative of the late Hegemon's authority.
Even if her homeland did not recognize it, it would not matter to the Citadel. The Council needed to end this conflict as soon as possible and shift resources to solving internal problems and offsetting losses.
"And this solution will suit us completely," Telos summarized after a brief consultation, expressing her will and the will of her colleagues.
"On behalf of the Hegemony government, I declare – we agree," the Batarian spat out through clenched teeth, contemplating her next actions. She suddenly had too little time, and there was so much to do to save her own skin…
***
"…the Hierarchy government strongly recommends its citizens to leave Thessia at the earliest opportunity," the Turian announcer said the phrase almost like an order.
"Against the backdrop of the verdicts and the revealed details, martial law has been imposed throughout the Republic…"
"How those blue-skinned freaks have been twisted!" the Quarian admired.
"And it's only been four hours!"
"But the watch is going more briskly," his friend remarked.
The duty watch on the Migrant Fleet ships was necessary, but sometimes very boring. Without the possibility of full repairs in dry docks, the nomads' ships suffered from numerous breakdowns caused by intensive use. What could be said, even children knew how to repair life support systems and wiring if necessary. Therefore, boring watches were perceived as a necessary evil.
The watchkeepers themselves, suffering from boredom, especially during night shifts, grumbled, but at the same time rejoiced in the tediousness of this task. After all, if they were dying of idleness, it meant that everything on the ship was working normally.
The ship on which the Quarians were on watch was a typical representative of the nomad fleet – worn out, but stubbornly staying afloat. Its hull was riddled with scars from micrometeorites and old battle damage, and the paint on the armor plates had long since faded, leaving behind only worn gray-steel spots.
Inside, it smelled of ozone, burning, and a faint but persistent aroma of recycled air – a mixture familiar to anyone who had ever set foot on a ship that hadn't seen dry docks for several cycles. Somewhere deep in the hull, a faulty fan quietly tapped, and the control panels flickered with yellow indicators in places, reminding that the ship was held together by sheer will and the crew's skill.
Only sometimes the night watchkeepers simply climbed the walls from boredom. Not all ships even had holographic projectors readily available. This was not the most necessary equipment for a ship. Many even managed with an omni-tool, but using it for personal purposes on duty was strictly forbidden.
Therefore, captains turned a blind eye to watchkeepers watching news and entertainment programs on the public projector. Naturally, if malfunctions were promptly fixed.
"Things are going more briskly in the galaxy, although a week ago it seemed like it couldn't get any more brisk…" the first one remarked, looking at the picture of madness unfolding on the screen, mixed with religious hysteria.
"Killa. I never thought the Asari were so unhinged."
The holographic screen flickered, sometimes losing clarity – the wear and tear of the projection matrix was showing. The image of an Asari priestess wringing her hands before the cameras on the Citadel blurred in a bluish haze of artifacts, but her hysterical voice, full of anguish, clearly resounded through the cramped control post:
"This is all a lie! Everything we believed in is a lie! The Protheans…"
"They were just hit where it hurts, and hard," the second one replied the obvious.
"For thousands of years, they shoved their exceptionalism in everyone's face, and it turned out to be an illusion. For the Protheans, they were just laboratory material. The Salarians have already published an article. The USSR, as promised, released all their materials online, so the lizards issued their data analysis before anyone else."
"And?" the first one looked away from the screen, looking at his friend.
Somewhere deep in the ship, pumps rumbled, causing the fluorescent lamps to dim for a moment. The hologram twitched, momentarily turning the face of a screaming Salarian scientist into a pixelated nightmare before the system stabilized the image.
"The probability of authenticity is ninety-seven percent, and even then, three percent is due to a not-so-high-quality translation," the other watchkeeper did not want to upset his friend.
"Based on the obtained data, we have also decided to re-translate and decipher the old ones. It is already clear that the USSR has only released the truth. Again. And this truth has excited everyone. The lizards themselves deciphered a couple of texts in the ruins they discovered and found a cookbook on how to prepare themselves. Their liver was a delicacy for the Protheans, however!"
"Killa…" the first one drawled.
"So much for a noble civilization…"
"Are you talking about the Asari or the Protheans?"
"About everyone," the Quarian cut off.
"Some were no better than us, others fetishized them against the backdrop of their inflated exceptionalism. Now they have fallen into the same mud where they threw us with the Krogans, which is funny. Diplomats who poured shit on everyone who didn't fit their idea of a perfect galaxy have themselves plunged headfirst into the kindly poured filth. Ironically."
"And they got so worked up about it…"
"And how can you not be angry if, because of these little brats, a million and a half of ours were in slave barracks with the Batarians?" the first one exploded. "And that's with fifteen million on the Fleet, not counting pilgrims."
"That's true," the second one clenched his fists, recalling not the most pleasant moments of his biography. "These freaks caught all my comrades. I barely escaped myself. My suit was punctured, so the pirates left me to die, crushing my medkit last. Good thing I had a spare, otherwise, I would have had to shoot myself. What's the point of a sealed suit if you'll die from the infection you'll inevitably catch from a puncture within a few days of agony, without help?"
"Speaking of comrades... Did you manage to contact him? Rumors are flying around the ship that he survived, aren't they?" the first one asked cautiously.
"He survived. He's with the Soviets, like all the freed slaves. He says they provided help, treated him... but he's not quite the same. I understand that slavery only cripples, but he answers questions about his past a bit sluggishly. I'm not an idiot, I checked. What if it's a provocation by the USSR, and they're confusing everyone?"
"He's in shock," the first one cut him off. "I remember you, how you returned from the Pilgrimage. For half a year, you grabbed your gun at every rustle."
"I don't know..." the second one drawled. "Something's just not right. We'll see in six months. The Soviets won't return former slaves before then, according to the contracts. There's a clause that says all at once, and that's what the Citadel latched onto. They had more slaves than all of us combined. Like, they need to prepare places for them. Hypocrites! The insurance companies don't want to pay compensation. Payments are only possible within six months if you file claims. They're insuring themselves, the bastards..."