As if Morda wasn’t imposing enough.
Maybe more so than rumor suggested, and rumor had suggested quite a damn lot. Her eyes burned with a righteous fury as her gaze landed on Spender.
“Where the hell is my clan?” she boomed in a voice shredded by glass and granite.
“Safe,” Spender said hastily, before remembering safe wasn’t exactly in krogan vernacular. “Er, waiting for your orders!”
Morda moved like a tank. Strength and muscle forged a piledriver that pushed everything in its path out of her way. Spender’s spine went rigid as she strode up to him without slowing, barely keeping from mowing him down.
He couldn’t help himself. He flinched.
Half a second later he still found himself breathing, and cracked open an eye to find Morda’s broad, flat krogan face mere millimeters from his. She filled his vision.
Dominated it.
“Who are you?” she growled. “Where is Kesh? Or Garson? If I am not talking to Kesh, the only other I should have to suffer is Jien Garson.”
All the rigidity in Spender’s spine threatened to wilt. He forced his legs straight, made himself look her in the eye.
“My name is William Spender, chief of staff to the Nexus leadership.” Well, he would be, if she agreed. And if she didn’t agree it wouldn’t matter anyway. “Jien Garson is dead. Long story,” he added when her broad nostrils flared.
She inched that much closer. “There is only one human in this universe I consider a friend, and that is Jien Garson. So tell it. Now.”
He did. He told a shortened, much faster version. She simply stared at him, unblinking. Saying nothing. When he wound down…
She still said nothing. The silence stretched, filling the minimal space between them until Spender was positive he heard it ringing in his eardrums.
“Kesh and the council decided to awaken certain individuals,” he said, breaking the silence, “setting priority to those who could rebuild.”
The krogan’s gaze narrowed dangerously. Then, on an inhaled breath, she took one step back to give her large body room to break into graveled, guttural laughter. She thumped her uniformed chest with a knobby hand.
“Rebuild,” she snorted, the laughter fading. “Rebuild! And now look at you.” She half-turned, flinging that hand back toward the busted doors and the obvious signs of battle visible beyond.
Spender saw her point.
“How goes your rebuilding now, human?”
Rhetorical, Spender supposed. He sighed. “Yes, mistakes were made—”
More raucous laughter cut him off, and he took another deep breath before he did something he’d regret.
Like get himself killed.
When her gusty guffaws eased, he tried again.
“Clan leader, we’re asking for your help in putting down the mutiny before it gets any more out of hand.”
Her laughter, all trace of humor, abruptly vanished.
“Why isn’t your security taking them in?” she asked bluntly.
He didn’t want to tell her that even Sloane’s force was too small. That no alternative existed. Then again, he didn’t know how else to put it.
She read the truth on his face.
“So,” she said slowly, “your pitiful forces can’t handle it.” He opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off with a shrewd stare and a pointed question. “Or is it that you won’t send them against your own?”
A valid, incredibly insightful question.
Spender thought fast. “We want to end this as quickly as possible. The fact is, by sending krogan forces—your krogan force,” he amended hastily, “we’re more likely to avoid a prolonged conflict, not to mention massive loss of life.”
“So you want to throw tough krogan meat at these rebels, frightening them into submission without a fight? Do you mean to forbid combat?”
“No,” he said quickly. “Not at all. Bloodshed is, of course, to be avoided if at all possible, but should the situation warrant it, you would be given full leave to do as you see fit. Whatever it takes to secure the mission.”
Morda folded her arms over her broad chest, looking down at Spender from a distance that suddenly didn’t seem all that much better than her close proximity earlier.
She’d crush his head in a heartbeat.
Or rather, that’s what he was meant to think.
It was working.
Clearing his throat, Spender backed away under pretense of organizing the data he’d collected for this diplomatic mission. Putting a conference table between him and Nakmor Morda might not actually help, but it made him feel better.
“In short,” he finished, “this uprising is a major threat to the well-being of this station and the mission—including,” he added when she looked less than impressed, “the continued flourishing of the Nakmor clan.” That earned him a gritted-teeth growl and her full attention.
“To be clear,” she said in that bullish way he didn’t think she knew how to change, “you kept me ignorant and asleep so you could use my people as you would, and now that your people are misbehaving, you want my help? My clan’s blood?”
Spender felt himself pale. She hadn’t moved, not a step, but the imminent fury carved into her tough krogan hide wasn’t difficult to translate.
“We… we are, ah…” He wiped his sweaty hands on his thighs, hoping no one would notice. “We are prepared to compensate the Nakmor clan.”
She leaned forward. “How.”
It wasn’t so much a question as a demand.
“I—that is, we,” he corrected quickly, “are willing to formally recognize the Nakmor clan’s services in public acknowledgement, up to and including the addition of krogan statuary—”
“Screw your statues,” Morda snarled. Her fist came down on the table, causing the neat pile of his data to fan like a deck of cards. He barely kept from jumping, but his stomach didn’t get the memo. It sloshed all the way up into his throat. Then down into a petrified pit.
“Every krogan knows this story,” she continued angrily. “You so-called civilized species get in over your head and beg us for help. We shed our blood, you thank us with one hand and sanction us with the other. Do you think we do not learn?”
Spender’s mouth dropped open. “I… W-Well that was—”
“A pile of shit.” Morda leaned in so close, all he could think was that her large mouth—and larger teeth—loomed close enough to take his face off, if the krogan clan leader wanted to. And she looked very much like she wanted to. “The Rachni Wars taught us a lesson we will never forget,” she snarled, low and menacing. “You raise us up when you’re all dying and when we save your collective asses, you respond by mutilating our people. Murdering our children! And give us what? A fucking statue.” She braced enough of her weight on the table that it creaked. Alarmingly. “Different times, different wars. But we learn.” Her teeth gleamed as she stressed the words. “Do. Better.”
Spencer skipped the preambles. He’d way overstepped what little authority Tann had granted him, but results were what mattered. Results were what led to power, to recognition. He’d rolled the dice a bit with Calix, he could certainly double-down now.
“We are prepared to offer the Nakmor clan a seat at the council.” The words came out with surprising ease, and Jien Garson’s legendary confidence. He couldn’t have said it better had he practiced it a hundred times.