“The krogan have been denied a seat at the council for generations,” she said slowly. Suspiciously. She looked down at him from dangerously slitted eyes. “Don’t mess with the Nakmor, little man. We will eat you.”
It was so close to what Kesh had said that Spender almost laughed. Almost. The mood in the room changed palpably, then. He breathed out deliberately.
“The offer is legitimate.” Or, anyway, it would be once he talked Tann into it.
Once the krogan stomped this bloody mutiny to dust, Spender had little doubt in his ability to convince the salarian to allow it.
Morda glowered at him. “Is the entire clan awake?”
“Only the workers,” Spender said.
“I shall have my warriors at my side for this, to share in the glory. Wake them.”
“Naturally. I’ll see to it.”
“As for your offer,” she said, steamy breath in his face, “there must be witnesses.”
“Of course.”
“Yours and mine.”
“Certainly,” he said amicably. He pulled up his omni-tool communications, connected the short-range frequency to his nearest staff.
As an uneasy silence settled over the room, the stomp of boots once more preceded entry of five more bodies. Two krogan, two humans plucked from wherever they’d been found, and a third krogan trailing up the back.
Spender didn’t recognize any of them. Not by face—at least in the case of the humans—and not by designation as Morda met the first krogan by grabbing him by the front of his armor.
“Wratch,” she growled.
Whatever he may have said was lost as Morda yanked the krogan forward and delivered a solid headbutt. The sound of bone cracking bone ricocheted through the room, freezing all the non-krogan in place.
Wratch cursed as he clapped both hands to his head.
“I am your clan leader,” Morda all but roared.
Spender flinched inwardly, but held still.
The krogan didn’t let a little reeling stop him. “Yes, clan leader,” he bellowed back. The others joined in. She rounded on them, with eyes wide and lips twisted into a feral snarl.
“ I lead the clan in all battles.”
“Yes, clan leader!”
“Remember that,” she growled. “We stride into a bloody field, Nakmor. Let’s remember why we are here.” She made a fist in front of her face, tightened until the sound of popping knuckles peppered the silence. “And what we have come to do.”
Spender watched, both repulsed and fascinated as Nakmor Morda cowed her krogan into unfailing obedience. All without lessening them in any way. They all beat on their chests in some kind of primitive salute—hell if Spender knew—before falling silent behind Morda. She rounded on the human witnesses.
He was aware of one, a bookish-looking man, taking a solid two steps back.
“We will fight your battle,” Morda declared. “We will end this mutiny by tearing off its head. And when we are victorious,” she added, her voice dangerously level, “you will make good on your promise.” She prodded him with one thick finger.
Spender nodded. “Then it’s agreed—”
Morda’s fist pounded into her other hand. It cracked like bone. “Say it.”
Spender tried to find that Garson-esque confidence again, and only managed some. “If you end this mutiny, you will land your species a seat on the council, Nakmor Morda.”
One of the staff behind him gasped.
Spender didn’t turn. Morda pinned her gaze on his, holding it until the ache in his tight spine became a screaming pinch and his eyes were watering.
Behind their leader, the krogan grumbled what probably passed for victory cheers and bumped knuckles. Even the one who was nursing a squint under the dent Morda put in his forehead.
Finally, finally, Morda nodded. Once. Short. Sharp. “Consider it done.” She turned, and the krogan parted like thunderous water to let her out first. As one, they left to prepare for battle.
As the last krogan boot cleared the doorway, Spender turned to face the two workers who’d been brought in to act as witnesses. “Get back to work,” he snapped.
They glanced at one another, then quickly left the room, smartly using the other door.
William Spender watched them leave, and then stood alone for a long, steadying breath. “Nothing left to do,” he said to the empty chamber, “but see which way the wind blows.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Sloane was thrust into a chair across a narrow table from where Calix stood. Her wrists were bound behind her back, the nylon strap looped through the seat’s metal slats. The brute pulled the cord so tight she felt a warm trickle of blood down her wrists.
“That’s really not necessary,” she said, careful to keep the pain from her voice.
Reg only grunted. He moved to stand behind her, as if to grab her head and twist at the tiniest sign of trouble.
Calix took the seat across from her. He glanced up at his enforcer and jerked his chin toward the door. Reg left, and Calix tapped something on his screen. A few seconds later, Sloane heard the door click shut.
“Sorry about him,” the turian said. “I’m afraid the leadership’s favorability ratings aren’t too high at the moment.” With that he leaned forward. “You shouldn’t have come, Sloane. It’s not going to change anything.”
“Your people are very loyal to you, aren’t they.”
“Just figuring that out now?”
Sloane shook her head. “I learned that from Irida. What she did, it was all for you, wasn’t it? But this…” She would have swept her arm to indicate the small army outside the door, if she wasn’t bound at the wrists. “I never thought they’d go this far. Never thought you would, either.”
“To be honest, neither did I.” He looked away, lost in the past. “It started back home, on the Warsaw. I never expected to become their leader, or their hero. I think maybe I was even trying to get away from them when I decided to join the Initiative.”
“So what happened?”
“They insisted, and I couldn’t bring myself to decline.”
The words trailed off. Outside, Sloane heard the busy sounds of barricades being erected, and the nervous idle chatter of people waiting for fate.
“It was the same with Irida,” Calix said conversationally. “Believe it or not, but she went after that data cache entirely on her own, because she thought we might need it in the coming storm.”
“You lied to me about that.” Sloane lifted her chin a little.
“I suppose I did,” he said, unapologetic and yet clearly not proud. “But then, you lied to me, too.”
“Irida was treated—”
“I’m talking about the scouts,” Calix said. He fixed a disappointed gaze on her.
Sloane went quiet at that.
“I asked you directly, Sloane. Remember the message I sent? Any news from the scouts? And your reply? You said nothing. That was the spark, you know.”
“You’re blaming this all on me?”
“The spark,” Calix repeated. “Blame is impossible. This is the culmination of a hundred events and decisions—good and bad—which can’t be pinned on any one person.” He leaned in even closer now. “What matters is what we do now, Sloane. Not what we did.”
The whole mess flashed through her mind. The Scourge, Garson, the waking of Tann. All of it. One common trait in all the bad presented itself to her, focused by Calix’s words. The fulcrum that made every big decision fall on the side of the mission, rather than the crew.