Chapter 19: New Opportunities

Nator'Xaeras vas Hupal sat in the bridge of his ship as it came out of FTL transit. The stars came back into focus, glittering dots on the endless black canvass of space. It was quite a humbling sight, he thought. All this was just from one galaxy, barely a drop in the ocean of the universe. It was enough to make a Quarian feel very small.

Fortunately, Nator wasn't one for speculating about being insignificant. There were far more important things to consider; particularly things that could become profitable for him.

If Nator could think of one word that would describe himself, it would be "opportunist." Indeed, in his opinion, it was his greatest trait. If he saw a situation that looked like a good prospect, he would take it, no dithering, no second thoughts; just seize the chance and reap the rewards. And he had a knack for being at the right place at the right time. Admittedly, his intuitions weren't always right, but hey, nobody was perfect.

Nator operated in something of a gray area among the Flotilla. He was what his people called a "purveyor," a sort of mercantile Quarian who was tasked with getting things that the fleet needed. That could be anything from packs of nutrient paste to critical medical supplies. Given that most of the civilized galaxy didn't care much for the Quarians, sometimes purveyors had to go through avenues and do things that weren't strictly speaking legal. As such, Quarians who undertook such a dangerous position were held with great respect.

Unlike most other purveyors, however, Nator had a decidedly prevalent streak of self-interest. He had never tried to hide it; in fact, he was very open about that quirk of his. Since he was taking all the risks and doing all the work, he didn't think it was unfair if he got a modest portion of the rewards before it got distributed to the fleet or simply did a little side job just for himself. Unfortunately, a number of his fellow Quarians didn't agree, and so Nator was tarred with the reputation of being greedy and self-serving. Which, he had to admit, wasn't exactly false.

Ultimately, it made no difference to Nator. At the end of the day, his services were in demand and he always delivered what he promised, so the fleet was willing to overlook his forays into personal gratification. As long as there were opportunities out there, Nator would be out there, waiting for them to knock.

And, right now, he was quite convinced that the biggest one yet was hammering at the metaphorical door.

Idly, he glanced out the viewscreen of his ship's bridge. There, rapidly growing closer, was an immense parade of ships. They were of every stock and style; some were from the days when the Quarians had an actual stellar empire, others purchased or salvaged from other races.

The Migrant Fleet; his old home.

With expert handling, he swung his ship towards one of the crafts. It was a truly massive thing, as long as a dreadnought, but with a great rotating orb as its front instead of a proper bridge. On every side, it was flanked by ships, forming a protective barrier of metal and guns. Several of them were clearly well past their prime, but they still packed plenty of firepower. It would be a foolish assailant indeed who tried his luck here.

As he continued his approach, Nator activated the comms on the dashboard. "This is Nator'Xaeras vas Hupal nar Volsim, requesting permission to dock with the Rayya."

The voice of the traffic controller swiftly answered his request. "Our ship has flagged your vessel as unknown. Verify."

Nator rolled his eyes. Honestly, with all the times he'd come around, it shouldn't be a problem for the controllers to recognize his ship. Granted, he'd gone in for an upgrade or three, but really, it wasn't like he'd gone and bought a whole new ship. Still, no point in making a scene; it wouldn't do to make himself unwelcome right now.

"'After time adrift among open stars, along tides of light and through shoals of dust, I will return to where I began,'" he recited, hoping he didn't sound too bored.

"Confirmed," said the controller. "Proceed to exterior docking cradle 15. A security and quarantine team will meet you there."

As if I don't know how standard procedures here go, thought Nator sardonically. Out loud, he said, "Understood, Control. Nator out."

His ship soon made contact with the docking cradle. There was a loud thunk and a vigorous tremor rocked him as it latched on to the main airlock. No sooner had it connected when the hatch hissed open and a squad of Quarians, armed with sanitizer packs swarmed onto his ship, a cadre of armed marines keeping close watch, as though they expected the ship's interior to suddenly come alive and attack.

Nator waited patiently while the quarantine personnel disinfected every nook and cranny of his ship. When they were satisfied that all traces of microbial infestations were eradicated, he was given the go ahead to board the Liveship. Almost as soon as he entered the first junction of the ship, he found himself facing an old acquaintance.

"Rael!" he exclaimed, throwing his arms wide. "How are you, my old friend? Last I heard, you managed to gain yourself a substantial promotion. An Admiral already, and barely into your mid-thirties; that must be some kind of record, eh?"

The friendliness was not mirrored in Rael'Zorah's posture. To the contrary, he appeared wary, as though he viewed Nator as a varren that he wasn't sure was tame enough not to bite him.

"I'm well enough," said Rael in a neutral tone. "How did you find out about my appointment to the Admiralty Board? You haven't been back to the Flotilla in over a year now."

"Oh Rael, my dear, freshly-minted Admiral," Nator chided, his own tone playfully jovial. "If I didn't keep myself informed about the goings-on in the Migrant Fleet through some excellent contacts here and there, well, I wouldn't be much of a purveyor, now would I? Just because I prefer the open space of planets and the void to the cramped hulls of a starship doesn't mean I'm ignorant of the state of my people."

"No, you're just a scheming opportunist whose only concern is seeking out the next big score for his own personal gain," said a new voice. This one, in contrast to Rael's ambivalence, was decidedly cold and unwelcoming. Nator looked around to see the new arrival approaching. Unfazed by the naked aggression, he greeted him in the same amiable manner he had with Rael.

"Han'Gerrel, you old warship! Still as gruff and belligerent as ever, I see. Really, is that any way to greet an old comrade?"

"If I happen to see one, I will," said Han'Gerrel tersely, striding up to stand next to Rael, arms crossed. "You, however, are most definitely not a comrade in any sense."

Nator pressed a hand against his chest dramatically. "Han, you wound me so! Why, it's a wonder I don't break down in tears right here, my heart is so pained."

"Spare us the theatrics, Nator," Han'Gerrel growled. "You might be able to wrap others around your fingers with your pretty words, but not Rael and certainly not me."

"Oh, of course not," Nator said, voice sweet as Asari berry-cakes spiced with just a hint of insolent sarcasm. "You're much too canny for me to twist around. Hardly a wonder that you got selected to ascend the lofty ranks of the Admiralty Board as well. I always knew you both would go far."

Han'Gerrel took a step back in surprise. Clearly, he hadn't expected Nator to know about that. But that was one of his failings; Han'Gerrel might have a good head on his shoulders, but inside it was a brain that was terribly lacking in creative thinking. He would never expect Nator to know that, only a few standard months ago, the former members of the Admiralty Board had vetoed a decision by the Conclave and thus had to step down in accordance with the law of the Migrant Fleet. Indeed, that was one of the reasons he had chosen this time to come back; the new blood on the board might be more willing to listen compared to the old fossils that had been there before.

Well, maybe not so much in Han'Gerrel's case.

The Admiral collected himself and glared out at Nator through his opaque visor. It might have been a trick of the light, but Nator was almost certain that his eyes actually glowed a little brighter.

"What are you doing here, anyway?" he demanded. "Trying to find another way to line your suit with more credits?" He spat the word "credits" as though it was a foul taste in his mouth. Nator could almost see the snarl twisting his mouth. He wanted to shake his head. Why was it that so many of his fellow Quarians regarded the concept of money as offensive?

"I know you don't hold credits in the same esteem as I do, Han'Gerrel," said Nator, "but the fact is that credits are what make the galaxy turn. They put food on the table, deliver amenities to the home, and make politicians much friendlier towards your requests.

"But to answer your question, yes. I do intend to find a way to, as you say, 'line my suit' with credits. And best of all, the whole Quarian race will share in the good fortune I bring."

Han'Gerrel let out a derisive snort. "How generous of you. And what exactly is this idea of yours that's going to be so bountiful?"

"I'd like to know as well," Rael put in. "You're good at what you do, Nator, but if I'll be honest, your claim seems well outside the realm of possibility."

"Well, you'll just have to wait until the Conclave is in session, then." The smirk obviously couldn't be seen on his face, but it was more than apparent in his voice.

Without another word, he deftly sidestepped the two newly-made Admirals and sauntered off in a jaunty gait. There was precious little time; the Conclave would be assembling soon and he needed to prepare himself for his audience. All the representatives from all the ships in the fleet would be in attendance, where they would vote to decide what would be done in the immediate future.

A dreary, boring spectacle, to be sure, thought Nator as he walked. It'll be my pleasure to spice it up.

#

A few hours later, the Conclave was in full swing. The duly elected representatives of the Migrant Fleet were assembled in the meeting hall of the Rayya, arrayed in a semicircle of benches stacked three high facing a podium where the five members of the Admiralty Board stood. Nator leaned casually on a wall off to the side as one representative after another stood before the Conclave, raising whatever issues or concerns they had. It was as dull as he had imagined it would be. His turn wouldn't come for some time, Nator knew. While he waited, he took the opportunity to observe the new admirals that had been elevated alongside Han'Gerrel and Rael'Zorah.

First was Shala'Raan vas Tonbay, one of two females on the board. Nator knew from his contacts that she was a close friend of Rael, and was everything one might expect in an Admiral; level-headed, willing to listen to good advice, and an all-around competent leader. Nator placed her under the category of "potential but not guaranteed supporter" alongside Rael.

Then there was Zaal'Koris vas Qwib-Qwib—Nator had to fight the urge to snicker at the name—who was something of a radical among the Quarians. From what Nator had been able to glean, he was firmly against trying to retake Rannoch and instead wanted their people to find a new planet to settle and rebuild. That in and of itself wasn't radical; what was radical was the fact that he held the opinion that the geth didn't deserve extermination and that, since they were no less sentient than any other race, they should be able to live on the homeworld in peace.

In all honesty, Nator was quite surprised that he had gotten a seat on the Admiralty Board with views like that; on the whole, Quarians regarded the geth as the single greatest evil to ever blight the galaxy. He privately thought that it was good odds that Korris would end up suffering some sort of "accident" at some point. But, since that wasn't likely to happen in the immediate future, Nator filed him away as the most likely of the board to support him.

Finally, there was Daro'Xen vas Moreh. Now there was a tricky customer if there ever was one. What was known about her was that she was highly intelligent with a particular affinity for computer science, and was clinical almost to the point of being coldblooded. From Nator's view, she seemed to view everyone and everything around her as curiosities that needed closer examination.

Most likely strapped to a metal gurney in a lab, if her childhood pastimes of performing invasive surgeries on her toys are anything to judge by, thought Nator with a shiver. Not for the first time, he wondered if anyone did background checks on potential admirals, because that really seemed like a warning sign to him.

Nator prided himself on being able to read practically anyone, but Xen was a veritable enigma to him. There was no way of knowing how she might go about making her decisions, so he placed under "who the hell knows?"

All in all, he was confident that he could sway everyone to his side. The main focus was to get the members of the Conclave on his side. Yes, the Admiralty Board could veto its decision if they chose to, but Nator doubted that would happen. He wasn't going to propose something insane, like set up a Dyson Sphere around a sun, and in his experience, the board generally went with the consensus of the Conclave. If Nator could make them see that his proposal was in the best interests of the Migrant Fleet, then they would have no reason to veto.

Nator stood aside patiently for his turn to come. Finally, about an hour later, he heard the call he'd been waiting for.

"The Conclave recognizes Nator'Xaeras vas Hupal and invites him to come forward before the people," intoned Shala'Raan in her low, rich voice.

My public awaits me, Nator thought with a smile. Best not keep them waiting.

With long, confident strides, he strutted up to the center of the improvised amphitheater until he was facing the Admiralty Board. He gave them a short, respectful bow, ignoring the glare from Han'Gerrel.

"Thank you, honored Admirals." He spun on his heels with practiced ease to behold the whole of the Conclave. Nator stood silent, letting the suspense build. He surveyed the gathered representatives, noting their postures and whatever facial features he could see behind the mass of opaque visors. They were mostly curious, though definitely not enthralled. That would soon change, Nator vowed.

The stage is set, the audience is ready. Let the show… Nator drew himself up to his full height. Begin.

"My fellow Quarians," he began, "I come before you as a humble purveyor to bring you the greatest opportunity that we have seen in many long years." He paused to take in the reactions of his audience. A few more heads were staring at him with interest, though there were plenty others that looked unimpressed.

Not that surprising; after all, he was just getting started.

"I'm sure you're all aware of the recent upheavals in the galaxy," he went on, striding back and forth before the Conclave, one hand clasped behind his back, the other gesticulating in fluid but precise motions, the very picture of an erudite mentor educating his students.

"This war between the Turian Hierarchy and the New Earth Federation has raged on for almost three years now and has put an end to the long centuries of blissful peace. With the Turians no longer going around blowing holes in anyone that steps out of line, the Salarians and the Asari have been forced to try and keep things together. But alas, I fear it is in vain; the Terminus dominions grow ever bolder, while the associates of the Council grow ever more discontent. Yes, try as they might, the old order of Citadel space has been irrevocably unmade and cast into the bottomless pit of history. A tragic state of affairs, brought on by foolish pride and stubbornness. Truly, these are trying times for all."

He shook his head in a show of somber contemplation, as if the very thought filled him with unimaginable grief. Then, he perked up, as though he had suddenly been struck with an epiphany.

"But, although the old days are gone, we shouldn't be afraid. Not at all! In fact, I say that we should look upon this as an opportunity! Yes, my friends; opportunity knocks, and we would do well to answer its call."

"Is there a point to all this, Nator, or do you just want to hear the sound of your own voice?" asked Han'Gerrel sardonically. A slight ripple of laughter emanated from the Conclave.

Nator suppressed an irritated snort. Really, some people just had no respect for the finer art of swaying an audience. Assuming a posture of affable cheer, he turned to face the truculent admiral.

"Why, of course there is a point, my good Admiral," he proclaimed. "In fact, the war itself is the point."

"What do you mean, Purveyor?" The question came from Shala'Raan. Unlike Han'Gerrel, she was more intrigued than anything, though far from being sympathetic. Nator gave her a nod.

"I'm glad you asked." Nator activated his omni-tool and tapped a few keys. An image popped up into existence and he held it out, walking slowly around so that everyone could get a good look at it. The image in question was a helmet, and a badly damaged one at that. One eye lens was missing and the cranial dome was cracked in several places. Nator could almost see the questions forming in everyone's mind, and so opted to beat them to the punch.

"This is a helmet provided by the humans for their soldiers," Nator informed his audience. "As you can see, it's not exactly in pristine condition. This was picked up by a scavenger vessel who hoped to find something valuable from the debris of a space battle and it was placed up for auction on the extranet." He looked around the Conclave. "Would anyone like to guess as to how much it went for?"

From the shifts in posture and the scoffs from the seated Quarians, Nator could see that none of them thought it was worth the contents of a rubbish bin. He nodded in understanding.

"I can see that you all think that it's completely worthless. I myself am inclined to agree; it's clearly broken beyond repair and has no practical use at all. It is, for all intents and purposes, a piece of junk. And yet, after a short bidding war, this worthless hunk of ruined metal sold for exactly ten thousand credits." He put careful emphasis on the number. "To put that into perspective, you could almost buy a full suit of armor for that amount."

A collective gasp of shock rang out from the Conclave. Nator wasn't surprised he'd provoked such a reaction; since they had little in the way of goods and resources, Quarians didn't waste their time with anything that had no use. The idea that anyone would spend actual money on something that was clearly broken was nigh-incomprehensible to them.

"You can't be serious." This time, it was Zaal'Koris who spoke up. "Who in their right mind would even want that thing?"

Nator dismissed the image and turned back towards the Admiralty Board. "Someone with plenty of money and a desire to show off how rich they are, no doubt," he said with a shrug. "But that's what I'm getting at here: right now, anything related to humans is the most desirable commodity throughout the galaxy. They're not only a brand new face in the interstellar community, but they have a society and technological base that is completely unlike anything ever seen. If any of you have read the codexes they sent out before the war, you'll see what I'm talking about, and the races of Citadel space and beyond are fairly slavering at the thought of getting their hands on whatever human-made goodies they can.

"Thanks to the Council's official stance of neutrality, however, it is forbidden for all members to trade with either the Hierarchy or the Federation so long as the war continues. Thus, the only way to get human products is through either a lucky salvage find, as we've just seen, or through the black market, which isn't exactly a friendly or reliable organization."

"And how would this help us?" asked Rael.

"It's simple," said Nator. "There is a high demand for something, but the supply is severely limited, often in less-than stellar condition and provided by individuals with distinctly withered scruples." He spread his arms dramatically, the lead actor delivering the climax of his performance. "So what if we became a much more reliable and welcoming supplier to fulfill the demand?"

For a long moment, a blanket of complete silence fell over the entire Conclave. The ambient sounds of the Liveship suddenly seemed to ring out ten times louder. Then, after what seemed like an eternity, Shala'Raan spoke again.

"Purveryor Nator," she said, "do you mean to suggest that we…act as merchants to supply the rest of the galaxy with human goods?"

Nator's eyes smiled brightly. "That is precisely what I am suggesting, Admiral."

Han'Gerrel snorted again. That really was starting to become annoying, Nator thought with pursed lips.

"And how exactly do you propose we do that?" he asked in a patronizing tone, as if Nator was a child who had just suggested something particularly foolish. "You just said that it's illegal for anyone from Council space to buy from the Federation. I don't imagine that they'll overturn that ban just because you ask nicely."

"Actually, that's not quite right," Nator corrected him, letting just a hint of lofty condescension color his words. "The law as it is written states that they cannot buy from either the Hierarchy or the Federation directly. There's nothing in it saying that they can't buy from a middleman, which is what we would be."

"That sounds like a very nebulous loophole," said Rael. There were a fair amount of uttered agreements sounding out from the Conclave.

"It is," Nator admitted. "But laws are full of such things. As it is written now, we would not be breaking any laws or conventions by selling human goods to the galactic community. And since we would be the only legitimate source, our customer base would be very loyal and would undoubtedly get very irritable if something were to disrupt the flow of business.

"As an added bonus, as the sole source of legal trade of human products, we could essentially name whatever price we wanted on them." He turned back to the Conclave; it was time to start filling their heads with visions of prosperity.

"You all saw what a broken piece of metal can sell for. Imagine what brand new, genuine Federation merchandises might go for! It's an enterprise that could be worth tens of millions, if not hundreds of millions of credits! We have a veritable eezo mine in front of us and it's ours for the taking." He once more began to pace before the Conclave, making sure he was the sole focus of their attention.

"With that kind of money, the pathways to countless options would be laid out before us. We can purchase more ships, and not rusted clunkers that are only a few blown gaskets away from being salvaged for spare parts. These would be new, pristine vessels from any spaceport willing to sell. Frigates, cruisers, cargo ships, whatever we wanted. Why, we could even buy luxury craft for us to rest and relax on."

Nator stopped in front of a male Quarian on the first row and looked down at him indulgently. "What is your name, my good sir?"

The Quarian blinked in surprise at being addressed. "Um…Kun'Xur vas Teedor," he answered in halting tones.

Nator nodded. "What is it that you do, aside from serving as a representative in the Conclave?"

"I'm an engineer," he said. "I help make sure everything runs properly on my ship."

"That sounds like hard work," remarked Nator. "I imagine that you often find yourself feeling quite tired after performing your tasks, yes?"

"Yes," the representative said, clearly confused as to where this was going.

Nator paused to address the whole of the Conclave. "Doubtless the rest of you have similar occupations that demand much. Life aboard these ships is not an easy one, and requires constant diligence on our part." He noted several nods of agreement. Good; time for some tantalizing tastes of a better life. Nator turned back to the Quarian he had first picked out.

"Picture this: an Asari cruise liner that caters to their tourist industry. It's the size of a dreadnought, filled to the brim with every luxury one could imagine. Automated bars that offer a nigh-limitless array and supply of drinks. Actual rooms with memory-foam beds that shape themselves to your personal comfort level. Kitchens that we could staff with the finest cooks and choicest foods that we can eat. Spas and saunas that one could lounge about in, well-deserved after a hard day's work." He laid a comradely hand on the representative's shoulder. "That sounds just heavenly, doesn't it?"

He nodded dumbly, his mind clearly going into overdrive imagining such extravagance. Nator took the opportunity to glance around at the rest of the Conclave and was pleased to see that they all had adopted similar postures of deep contemplation. Nator smiled behind his visor. He had them.

Nator pivoted back towards the Admiralty Board. While they weren't nearly so besotted at the thought of the immense prosperity he was proposing to them, they did appear that they were giving it serious consideration. Even Han'Gerrel wasn't being hostile to the idea.

Time to wrap things up.

"Here is my proposal to you all," Nator said, addressing the whole of the Conclave. "Send me and some other ranking members of the Flotilla with the authority to speak on behalf of the Quarian people to the Federation. Together, we will offer our services to them as merchants that will sell their goods to the Citadel races. Ancestors willing, we'll be able to strike up a bargain that will benefit everyone. If not, well, then we will have lost nothing in the attempt.

"I must remind you all, however, that this chance will not last forever. At some point, the war will end. Maybe it will be five years from now, maybe ten, or perhaps it won't last another year, who can say? But it will end, and I can guarantee that the Council will waste no time trying to establish cordial relations with the Federation. When that happens, all those goods that were once so rare will become commonplace, and their value will plummet like a stone in water.

"This is what fortune has given to us," proclaimed Nator. His gaze swept across the benches, taking all members of the Conclave in, bright with fervor. "An age of prosperity, the likes of which we have not seen since the old days, stands before us, and it's ours for the taking if we have the will to seize it. What say you?" he demanded, his voice brimming with the full force of his charisma.

A buzz of excited murmurs echoed throughout the halls of the ship. By the sound of it, the Conclave was as good as on board with the plan. Nator waited for the votes to be announced.

The first to stand was the one whom he had painted the vivid picture of luxury. Standing tall, he declared, "I vote yes to Purveyor Nator's proposal."

A Quarian in the middle section, a female, stood next. "I vote yes," she said.

Another rose, then another, then by twos, then by threes, until the entire Conclave was on their feet. All save for a slim minority voted in favor of him. Ecstatic glee began to bubble up inside Nator, but he quickly tapped it down. The Conclave had made their decision to support him. Now, it was the Admiralty Board's turn.

Calmly, Nator faced them and gauged their demeanors. Korris looked like he was in support, judging by his excited posture. Shala'Raan looked conflicted, though leaning more towards the supportive rather than opposing. Rael seemed torn as well, while Han'Gerrel looked as if he wanted very much to rule against him. Xen gave absolutely no indication as to where her decision lay, standing there with no more reaction than a statue.

None of them spoke, whether to announce their approval or their rejection. It was obvious that they were still deciding. Finally, after several long minutes, Shala'Raan looked down at him from her podium and said, "I'm afraid we cannot come to a decision just yet. We must adjourn for a time to discuss this."

A flicker of disappointment flashed in Nator's mind. He had hoped that they would have come to a quick decision—in his favor, obviously—but apparently further discussion was required. He gave a mental shrug.

Well, nothing for it, he thought. He offered a bow to the admiral. "As you will, Admirals," he replied.

Shala'Raan gave him a nod in return. "We will reconvene in one hour with our decision. Until then, I declare this Conclave in recess."

#

The admirals filed off towards a private room, the door flanked by a pair of marines. They stood at attention as the Board made their way inside. The doors slid shut, sealing them away from prying ears while they debated the radical proposition Nator had placed before them. Han'Gerrel was the first to speak.

"I don't like it," he declared. "What he's suggesting is too good to be true."

"And what if it is true?" Koris countered, to nobody's surprise. Han'Gerrel and Zaal'Koris were almost constantly at odds with each other. Indeed, it was a rare occurrence that they ever agreed on anything. To many, it seemed that they opposed each other on general principle. "This could be the greatest opportunity we've seen in centuries, and you don't even want to consider it? Doesn't the possibility of us actually prospering for once excite you?"

"Yes, it does," Han'Gerrel admitted grudgingly. "I'd forgotten how good Nator is at spinning a tale; damn, but he's persuasive." He shook his head. "But I don't trust him. He's as slippery as a Hanar in water, and whatever pretty picture he might paint, his first concern is enriching himself."

"And we would all benefit along with him!" exclaimed Koris, clearly exasperated at Han'Gerrel's stubborn opposition. "What is wrong with that?"

"How about the fact that we would essentially be placing the fate of the Flotilla in the hands of a self-indulgent freebooter?" countered Han'Gerrel. "We have a responsibility as admirals to keep the best interests of our people at heart! We can't let someone like Nator steer them off to what could very likely be a disastrous course!"

"And what exactly do you think is in the best interest of our people, Han'Gerrel? To drift across the galaxy forever, confined on these ships, eking out a stagnant, miserable life? Is that what you want for us?" Koris asked, contempt ringing his every word. His eyes suddenly narrowed behind his visor. "Or maybe you just don't want anything to interfere with your obstinate desire to retake the homeworld. Is that it? You'd rather risk us losing everything in foolhardy attempt to reclaim Rannoch than let us prosper for once in our exile?"

"How dare you—!"

"That's enough!" Shala'Raan's voice cut through the argument between the two admirals like a physical blade. At once, they both ceased their bickering. "You are acting like petulant adolescents. This squabbling benefits no one; we have a decision to make, so let us come to it in the proper manner demanded of our positions."

Han'Gerrel and Koris sulked like children who had been told off by their mother, but they made no attempt to resume their bickering. Shala'Raan nodded.

"Now, you've both clearly proclaimed your stances on Nator's proposal." She looked over at Rael. "What do you think, Rael? Are you for or against it?"

Rael took a moment to mull the idea over before answering. "I think we should take the chance," he said.

Han'Gerrel let out an incredulous sputter as he turned to look at his friend. "Rael, what are you saying? You know what Nator is like!"

"Yes, I'm well aware of his overdeveloped sense of self-interest," Rael agreed. "But like Koris said: what if he's right about this?"

"You want him to be right," Han'Gerrel said, the statement almost an accusation.

"Of course I do," said Rael. "When the geth rose up, the Council refused to aid us in any capacity and when we fled our home system, they evicted us from the Citadel without a second thought because they felt we needed to be punished for unleashing the geth upon the galaxy; as if being reduced to a population of barely seventeen million wasn't enough!" Rael's hands balled into fists at his side as anger began to course through him, hot and heady.

"We're treated like second-class citizens in their domains, denied all but the worst jobs for even worse pay. They have even gone so far as to prevent us from colonizing other planets." He looked around at his fellow admirals. "I trust we all remember the debacle with Ekuna?"

The sudden shifts in their postures told him that they did. The Migrant Fleet had discovered the planet at the turn of the century. It wasn't a particularly good world, only ranking as a second-tier world in terms of habitation; its high gravity and average temperature of below freezing made it a rather poor choice to colonize. Still, it had decent places for agriculture, and even a subpar planet was better than nothing.

The Quarians had swiftly set about establishing the beginnings of a colonial settlement. At the peak of the effort, hundreds of thousands of would-be colonists were working on the planet. A little while later, they went to appeal to the Council to recognize their claim to Ekuna and impart full legitimacy.

The Council, however, did nothing of the sort. Instead, they pointed out that, because there had already been a few small development firms set up in its equator—even though those firms were independently operated and had no real connection to the Citadel—they could not have the planet and their colonization efforts were illegal. When the Quarian representatives tried to argue that there was no Citadel convention that made the Council's claim true, they were ignored and, at the very same meeting, the rights of ownership were signed off to the Elcor.

The Quarians were then told that they had one galactic standard month to leave the planet or else a Citadel task force would bombard them into ruins. With no other recourse, the Quarians left, having gained nothing and deprived of resources that they could ill-afford to lose. To this day, the memory of that blatant act of scorn by the Council filled the Quarians with bitter resentment.

"Now Nator comes here, telling me that the Council races are craving human goods above all else and that I could find myself in a position where I can provide them those goods for insane prices, and they'll happily pay whatever I ask?" Rael stabbed a finger at Han'Gerrel. "Yes, I want him to be right! I'd have to be insane not to want him to be right!"

Rael suddenly realized that he was panting. His rant had gotten far more worked up than he thought. He took a deep breath and looked over at Shala'Raan.

"Well, I think I've made my position clear," he said with a rueful chuckle.

"Very much so," agreed Shala'Raan. She looked over at Xen, who still remained silent. "And what of you, Daro'Xen? What are your thoughts on the matter?"

Xen's reply was almost immediate, as if her long period of silence had merely been part of her preparation to deliver her opinion. "The purveyor's idea has merit. Offering our services to the Federation would doubtless ingratiate us to them, especially if our labors prove as profitable as Nator believes. And I for one am quite intrigued to learn more about their fields of science. Friendly relations with them would make it far easier for that to happen."

Once Xen had said her piece, Shala'Rann spoke. "I too feel that Purveyor Nator's proposal is worth pursuing. We stand to gain much from establishing good relations with the Federation. They have proven to be far more powerful than any had thought possible. Forging a pact with them would mean that we might finally have an ally. And if they choose not to accept our offer?" She gave a small shrug. "Then we will have lost nothing save a little of our time, as the purveyor said."

At this, Han'Gerrel let out a deep sigh. "Well, it seems like I've been outvoted." He clucked his tongue. "All right then. For the sake of unity, I'll go along with this. I just hope we're not making a mistake here."

#

The recess ended soon enough, and the Conclave reconvened. Nator resumed his place in the center of the auditorium as he waited for the admirals to return with their decision. In his head, he ran through the potential outcomes. On the whole, he was reasonably certain that they would agree to his proposal, especially considering how popular it had been with the Conclave. He mentally congratulated himself on the bit with the luxury ship; playing to their discontent with the standard of living was a stroke of genius, if he said so himself.

There was a chance that the admirals would veto the Conclave's vote, of course. Nator wouldn't be shocked if Han'Gerrel spent the entire time trying to convince them to do just that. But it was a very small chance, he figured. And if they did, well, that was inconvenient, but not a permanent hindrance. There was always the next batch of admirals to work over.

Moments later, the Admiralty Board finally came out of their room and made for the podium, moving with such intense dignity that Nator half expected them to be preparing a funeral. Han'Gerrel looked particularly morose, as though he was about to read the eulogy.

And they said he had a flair for the dramatic.

Once the admirals had taken their places, Shala'Raan looked down at him. She took a deep breath, apparently steeling himself, and Nator readied himself for the verdict.

"Purveyor Nator'Xaeras vas Hupal," the admiral intoned, "after careful deliberation, the Admiralty Board has decided to extend our approval for your proposal."

It wouldn't be seemly for Nator to start doing a victory dance, so he settled for doing one in his mind. Around him, the Conclave erupted into cheers and excited chatter, coupled with a scattered applause, seeming to make the whole ship tremble with the intensity. Shala'Raan called out over the din for order to resume. She had to repeat herself several times before the clamor died down. As the last enthusiastic voice fell silent, Nator gave the Admiralty Board his most elegant bow.

"My thanks, Admirals," he said silkily. "You have all made a wise decision. I promise that you will not regret it."

"So you say," growled Han'Gerrel. Clearly, he was not pleased by the outcome. No surprise there, really.

"That's enough, Admiral," Shala'Raan chided firmly. She turned back to the Conclave. "Are there any further matters to be addressed?" When nothing came forth, she spread her arms wide. "Then I hereby declare this meeting of the Conclave to be concluded. Keelah se'lai."

"Keelah se'lai," the Conclave repeated.

"Keelah se'lai," Nator said along with them. In his case, the traditional Quarian invocation was a bit less solemn and a good deal more gleeful.

As the members of the Conclave filed out back to their stations, Nator stayed where he was. The first part of his plan had been accomplished. Now it was time to talk over the particulars with the admirals. A small, triumphant smile crossed Nator's face, unseen behind his visor.

The real work was about to begin.