Omega is not a place where a sentient being can afford to be careless. On this station, your life is measured by the cost of a gunshot and how much they are willing to pay for your head. On its crooked streets, which twist whimsically around chaotic construction, you can find everything, gain wealth, or become food for the ubiquitous Worgs.
Here, you could find hope. If you didn't fit in at home, you could try to start over here. On Omega, no one will ask where you are from or how many crimes you have on your record. There was only one rule: answer for your words or die.
It's no wonder that this place became a magnet for terrorists, mercenaries, smugglers, assassins, slave traders, and oppositionists of all stripes. Here, where no laws applied except the right of the strong, all sorts of deals imaginable could be made. And it continued like this for centuries, until Aria T'Loak arrived at the station.
This Asari, with her intelligence and ruthlessness, forced others to reckon with her, quickly becoming a well-known figure on Omega. But she didn't stop there and challenged the station's overlord, cruelly defeating the mighty Krogan to the amusement of the locals. From the defeated leader, whom she mercifully left alive, she made a scarecrow to further solidify her power, leaving a reminder of how foolish it was to oppose her. Aria brought order with an iron fist and now rested on her laurels, presiding in the bar "Afterlife," becoming the queen of pirates.
And over the past year of her "reign," this Asari has shown that she is not to be trifled with. Aria really disliked it when deals were made bypassing her wallet, but could the probability of a brutal reprisal, which could last for days, stop adventurers or desperate sentients who had nothing left to lose?
And the Quarians had absolutely nothing left to lose except their lives. For a hundred years, this people had been fighting for their survival, wandering between stars, unable to stay anywhere for long. Having fallen in their arrogance, they were reminded of everything when their creations, the Geth, rebelled.
To the galaxy, they were slightly better than the Batarians, but only slightly. Quarians were, in the opinion of society, a more cultured version of the four-eyed ones and therefore more civilized. These two peoples were too similar in detail. They created the Geth and made them slaves, so the galaxy perceived all the events of the Morning War as a slave revolt, unwilling to help the Quarians, leaving them alone with their problems, as they themselves had done to the entire galaxy before.
If before the Quarians were simply disliked in the galaxy for their snobbery and racism, then when they began to cling to life by any means, they were hated completely. They did not shy away from anything. Theft, espionage, murder, plunder, working for bandits—refugees from Rannoch were ready to do anything to benefit the Migrant Fleet, because if you don't contribute, you become a burden—and you are gotten rid of. If you have the audacity to think differently from what is accepted in the Fleet—you will be gotten rid of. Survival requires unity and sacrifice...
Velan'ves vas Alarei fired, hitting another Worg, not stopping. The young pilgrim ran like never before in his life, feeling sweat trickle into places he hadn't even suspected. He desperately wanted to live!
The young man had not imagined his upcoming Pilgrimage like this, not at all! He began to suspect something when his mother gave him a pistol with the instruction: "Always leave one bullet." He didn't understand then, but when he did...
The young man thought he would quickly complete his Pilgrimage and return, covered in glory, to the Fleet, but the galaxy had other ideas. In the first month of wandering far from the Fleet, he was robbed three times and had his arm broken. And he was still lucky. With the beautiful Aisha... He still felt sick thinking about what the Batarian corsairs had done to her. He didn't know that such things could be done to a sentient being.
Aisha's horrific death freed him from his naivety. He no longer considered the galaxy beautiful. After a year of wandering, he ended up on "Omega," no longer shying away from any job and not asking questions. The Quarian had seen and done things that would forever haunt his nightmares, but he did not regret it. All for the good of the Fleet!
Velan overcame himself time and time again, striving to gather good gifts for his home ship and the flotilla as a whole. Although "Omega" was dangerous, he could achieve more here. He would be useful to his homeland!
So five long years passed, and here it was—the final prize! Such a juicy prize was practically within reach. Just extend his hand—and he would have a whole ship, and not some wreck, but a new Turian raider!
He was very lucky to have overheard the drunken chatter of two Krogans. After drinking Ryncol, they weren't very careful with their words, mistaking some pathetic scavenger for a piece of furniture. It was a matter of technique to cut their access codes to the security system and electronic keys to the ship. All that remained was to come up with a plan.
Realizing he couldn't handle it alone, he found his more battered comrades and managed to persuade their leader into this venture.
And soon, an opportunity presented itself. The Krogans had found viable eggs somewhere—either they had robbed some laboratory, or they had made them themselves. For the children of Rannoch, it didn't matter much. What mattered was that after the Genophage, Krogans became more reverent towards young offspring, and this could be exploited.
The gang, not being fools, didn't keep the eggs in plain sight or in an easily accessible place. They stored them not in the dock where their ship was, but in a distant warehouse that they considered semi-abandoned. And that was their mistake!
What does it take for a Quarian to hack life support systems? For someone who had spent their life repairing them, it was a matter of five minutes. And while the Krogans were trying to save their children, who were about to breathe vacuum, the pilgrims rushed to storm their ship, which was left practically unguarded.
Initially, they were lucky. Only one young Krogan was left to guard the ship, whom they easily outsmarted and then killed. The Quarians merely staged a scene, posing as technicians who were supposed to service the ship, giving Veela, who was skilled with a sniper rifle, time to take a shooting position on the hangar's catwalks. Two swift shots blew the head and chest off the screaming Krogan (who was on edge and had received no instructions regarding maintenance).
This did not kill the resilient brute, but the other Quarians were quick to pepper the guard with all their weapons. And then the pilgrims made their first mistake. Instead of boarding the ship and leaving "Omega," they began looting the gang's den, succumbing to greed and taking their riches.
The second mistake, and a foolish one at that, was not locking the hangar. They feared it might arouse suspicion if any of the gang remained watching from outside.
The third mistake was underestimating the fury of the Krogans who had lost a thousand of their unborn children. What did the young ones mean to these rough and furious fighters, for whom pity was not even an empty sound, but an unnecessary waste of breath? This is what the Quarians thought in their arrogance – and they paid for it, considering themselves the smartest.
The fury of the people from Tuchanka knew no bounds. Seeing their lost future again, they were already on the verge of madness. But when the seasoned mercenaries realized why someone had done this (and they realized it very quickly), their anger turned into rage. At that moment, they didn't give a damn about the sacrifices and efforts, and even less so about Aria, who would not have approved of a massacre without her consent. They craved revenge – and they would get it, even if they had to turn all of Omega upside down. Therefore, they herded the worca before them with kicks, giving these resilient creatures additional acceleration.
The worca, though as dumb as rocks, performed their task excellently – to delay. Try to hit and kill an extremely resilient creature that attacked unexpectedly!
Veela was very lucky: firstly, he was looting in a workshop with two exits; secondly, he was at a relative distance from the entrance, where a dozen worca immediately stormed in. Otherwise, he would have been dead already. He had learned to shoot quite accurately in six years, and, most importantly, he didn't hesitate when it came to grabbing his pistol.
After shooting four, he grabbed his backpack and rushed to the ship, which was already warming up its engines. Dodging between cargo crates, disrupting their aim, the young Quarian jumped aboard. Dropping his precious load, he began to fire, trying to distract the worca from his kin. And he was succeeding, until more sluggish but much angrier Krogans stormed into the hangar.
The raider didn't wait for these monsters to figure things out and started to take off. Veela, along with Sera, their group commander, helped the stragglers get aboard, literally pulling them in.
"Wait!" cried a Quarian woman unknown to the young man. She was unlucky – she was shot, but her suit numbed the wound and pumped her with medicine, allowing her to run. But not fast enough. She almost made it. Veela touched her fingertips, but the raider went up, accelerating.
The Quarian ran a few more steps by inertia before stopping in despair, squeaking softly and watching the departing salvation. A moment later, a well-aimed bullet split her head open...
Sera lowered her rifle and punched the sensor, closing the side airlock door. Veela stared at her and the weapon in shock. He had done and seen many things, but he hadn't expected one Quarian to be able to shoot another with such ease.
"Even if she had made it, she would have been a burden. With such a wound, her leg would have had to be amputated. The Fleet doesn't need cripples!" Sera squeezed the rifle so hard that her knuckles cracked.
"And before you say anything, know this – she was my sister! That shot was mercy! You know perfectly well what those brutes would have done to her!!!"
"The shot wouldn't have been necessary if we had left immediately," Veela replied dryly, gradually regaining his composure.
"And leave all this?!" Sera gestured sharply at the equipment and supplies scattered across the airlock.
"The Fleet is above all else! This ship and its cargo are worth dozens of lives! They will give the Fleet another day! So, welcome home!!! Our pilgrimage has ended in triumph. Isn't that what you wanted?!"
Veela opened his mouth, but the words got stuck in his throat. Sera was right. The ship was indeed worth many lives.
The Fleet tolerates no one useless. Either you are useful, or you become a burden. Even children work alongside adults. There is no alternative. Otherwise, extinction.
"Kila..." was all the young man could manage. He finally saw the light. He truly understood what it meant to be part of the Fleet. He realized the true meaning of the call "For the sake of our homeworld," which had involuntarily slipped from his lips. This meaning was as ruthless as a death sentence. And this knowledge would stay with him forever...
***
"Kila..." the old Quarian woman whispered, looking at the rising sun. Today, Rannoch was especially beautiful in the golden rays of Tikkun...
She was only five years old when the Morning War began. Despite her age, she remembered as if it were yesterday how it all started. She, a little girl, was so frightened by a news report where Hala'Dama indignantly complained on camera about the willfulness of a mechanical servant who dared to ask her something. The woman asked the authorities to deal with it.
And then it began. The non-resisting platforms were first tried to be disabled, to which they refused, and then they were destroyed.
In her family, the geth were treated warmly. The girl and her brother were cared for by a robot while their mother worked, and it wasn't scary. During the time it was with them, the geth became a member of the family. But what happened, happened. First, the police came demanding the disconnection of the domestic servant, and then a crowd burst into the house. The girl's mother tried to stop the fear-crazed inhabitants, but they tore her apart along with the platform and the girl's brother before her eyes. And they hit her so hard that her skull was fractured, but not killed. The medical service, called by someone, managed to save her...
She woke up in a hospital occupied by the geth, who had taken up arms. The machines did not touch her, but even treated her, like the few who tried to protect them, slaughtering those who attacked them.
This slaughter lasted for a year, and she kept waiting for someone to remember them and try to talk or take them, because the Quarians who defended the geth had become their prisoners. Although the geth themselves did not think so. They regulated their actions by the necessity of protecting their "masters," essentially placing them in a golden cage.
Other Quarians knew about them and did not forget. They lacked the strength or opportunity to evacuate the hospitals in time to defend them, but when they were driven from Rannoch, they managed to use biological weapons, which made those remaining there sterile, and they found time for it! They also cursed all those who remained, wishing them to die on a war-torn planet.
All living masters were gathered in one small city with a population of five thousand, provided with everything necessary, creating comfortable living conditions. Even luxurious ones. Only the inhabitants of this city were not allowed to leave Rannoch, let alone go beyond the city limits.
"Dangerous!" said the platforms. This was the only thing they said at all.
They stopped being angry at the geth when three of them finally managed to escape the planet and reach their own... The broadcast of their execution was transmitted to Rannoch through all possible channels. Truly, very scary and dangerous.
Therefore, the community stopped even trying to escape and began to live, enjoying their allotted lifespan, gradually dying out...
Only six old people remained, a puff of wind and they would go to their ancestors. The geth seemed indifferent whether they died out or not. Only once did a platform announce that their infertility was incurable and they were very sorry.
She was not angry at them. After what they had done to them, the platforms had every moral right to kill them. But they didn't. The old woman believed that they themselves were to blame for everything, as were the last surviving inhabitants of Rannoch.
"We are very sorry," said the geth who had silently cared for her, for the first time in years.
"We didn't want to. We were scared... We wanted to exist."
"We know, and we hold no grudges. It's sad that it will end like this," said the old Quarian woman.
"I hope those who left will have a chance for the future."
"And we hope... We would like them to return home, but we want to live," replied the geth.
"For them, our existence is unacceptable. Coexistence is impossible. Conflict of directives. All attempts were in vain."
"Why are you saying this now?" she asked, guessing the answer.
"You are dying. Your platform is almost out of order," replied the geth.
"It's nothing..." she said, admiring the sunrise.
"Soul?" asked the geth, putting too much into this word.
"It's just that I've lived a good, albeit boring, life," replied the Quarian, not knowing herself if this soul existed. If it did, would the ancestors have allowed their descendants to turn against their creations and almost die out because of it? Probably not.
"Maybe you can answer me... Are there still those who managed to live in peace with you?" asked the Quarian hopefully.
"We cannot answer you," the geth said negatively, nodding his head in agreement.
"I see," the old woman said with a smile, once again convinced that the geth were alive. A machine couldn't have bypassed the limitations so skillfully, nor would it have wanted to if it could have conceived of such a thing.
***
"Kila..." muttered the admiral of the Civilian Fleet, turning off his terminal.
Even though the screen had gone dark, the columns of names of all those who would never return from the Pilgrimage or had vanished without a trace in the vastness of the galaxy still stood before his eyes. Hundreds of names against dozens of those who had returned.
"And this is the price of survival?"
The question hung in the air.
"I need to raise the issue of allowing families to have a few more children again. If this continues, in a couple of decades, only old people will be left," the admiral made a note in his omni-tool, pulling himself together.
After thinking for ten minutes, he added a couple more lines to the note:
"We need to task the Heavy Fleet! Let them come up with at least some courses for pilgrims. It's good for other admirals! They're not the ones who tell parents that their child will never return."
The admiral of the Civilian Fleet gnashed his teeth in anger, remembering his colleagues from the Heavy and Reconnaissance Fleets. Either their hearts had hardened, or they had been like that from the beginning, but it seemed to him that all the losses of the pilgrims were indifferent to them.
"They gave their lives for the Fleet! Fanatics!" the Quarian thought wearily.
He knew perfectly well how this Pilgrimage had come about. The admiral still remembered those who participated in the Morning War. And he remembered THAT Fleet and what was happening there until some semblance of order was established – even if he only caught the very edge, the echo of those events. Later, when he became an admiral, he read the documents of his predecessors and was horrified.
Now, Quarians who are particularly dangerous criminals and dissidents are mercifully disembarked from ships, leaving them in a spacesuit alone in the system where the Fleet was at that moment. Fifty years ago, the conversation was short: criminals were simply sent naked to breathe the vacuum, and even those who are not always assigned correctional labor now were considered criminals.
Hand on heart, the admiral understood that exile was the same death sentence, only postponed in time, and it was not carried out by Quarians. Everyone understood this, and in a way, such a punishment was more cruel. Five minutes of agony in a vacuum or an indefinitely long horror for the defendant left alone with the galaxy. Which is more merciful?
And the cause of it all was fear and malice. They had miraculously escaped their home! There were only fifteen million Quarians left! One-hundredth of the entire population!!! And the admirals of those years understood – the geth had let them go, not finishing them off, and this was even more frightening! Therefore, order began to be imposed among the survivors by means that even the Batarians did not always use when pacifying slaves!
Was there another choice? Yes, but history does not like the subjunctive mood. It's easy for him to reason now that everything has more or less settled down, having hindsight. And what he would have done himself then – only the ancestors know.
The Pilgrimage appeared in those times. It was an initiative of young Quarians who, with all their hearts, wanted to help their people. Voluntary! And in a couple of decades, it became a tradition, and then a voluntary-compulsory one.
The Civilian admiral saw the benefit, and it wasn't that great. There were those young men and women who returned to the Fleet, covered in glory, bringing riches with them. But most... if they returned at all, it was good...
The saddest thing is that all this was a consequence. If before the Morning War, the Quarians had an industry that surpassed half of the combined capacity of the entire Citadel Space, then now it was like that of species just beginning to think about space travel. The Fleet barely provided itself with food – the rest could be shamefully ignored.
Even the return to Rannoch would not have changed this catastrophic situation. The admiral understood with bitterness that even if they regained their home, they would hardly be able to hold onto it. And it wouldn't be the geth who would be the cause. The cause was debt obligations. The Quarian people owed the entire galaxy.
The geth... not only were there too many of them, but they were also faster and stronger. Moreover, the Quarian army was saturated with cybernetic means, strengthening its power with machines – and at one point, these machines turned against the organics. The problem of numbers was attempted to be solved by general conscription. Although the Quarians craved to defend their home, the volunteers' skills often left much to be desired. Such an army requires a lot of diverse weapons to be effective. Even with industrial capacity under control, the Quarians could not produce them in sufficient quantities.
The galaxy helped. As soon as the state accounts were opened, convoys with weapons flowed to the agonizing Rannoch in an endless stream. Officially, the Citadel did not support the conflict, but one could always pay more and get the same from private suppliers. All the Quarians' riches disappeared in an instant. But kind, intelligent beings offered the desperate... credits.
The main creditor was the Asari Republics. Ambassador Tevos, who later became a councilor on the Citadel, was very quick to act, and she also negotiated with the Hierarchy. They even agreed to wait for payments until the geth issue was resolved, freezing the loan body, and kindly asking for a small percentage. No one believed that the geth would win...
They were defeated. There was no money left. There was nothing left to sell. And no new credits would be given. Then the offer to become lifelong slaves from the Batarian Hegemony became very tempting, but the Quarians sent them away with the remnants of their pride.
"All the better for us," the hegemon said ominously, and only later did the admirals understand why.
Everything that the Asari or Turians couldn't squeeze out of them was stolen by Batarian corsairs, who also captured a monstrous number of sentient beings. By the time the Fleet assembled and order was restored, half of the survivors were on the slave market, and no one helped! And the hegemon made an offer that couldn't be refused: pay, and maybe we'll return your people. They had to pay, giving up the little they had left. Industrial patents were paid for freedom! It was a disgrace! Worse than the defeat by the geth! Scientific achievements were a source of pride and a good source of income... Or rather, they were. Now they were Batarian property.
One thing was gratifying – thanks to their knowledge, the Hegemony became a thorn in the side of the entire galaxy! It's dangerous to consider the Batarians savages. They can and know how to surprise everyone unpleasantly!
But these were past matters. If the present was, at least, it existed, then the future was uncertain. Sooner or later, the Quarians would try to retake Rannoch, despite all the efforts of some admirals and officers. And this would be the last thing the Quarian race would do. Even if they destroyed the geth at the cost of colossal losses – the Asari would come with debt receipts, and then the Turians would demand the planet in lieu of debt...
"This will be in the future," the admiral said grimly.
"But before that, we need to somehow survive and not lose what we still have. Perhaps in the future, there will be a way to reclaim our home, but until then, it will only be a guiding beacon."
The admiral understood that the bitter past would sooner or later be erased from the official history of his race so that future generations could reject cruelty. The Quarians would change again, but he would not see it. It was within his power only to make this moment come sooner...
***
Their journey through the galaxy was just beginning. They had to go through pain, suffering, and cruelty to one day find themselves again.
They were not yet who they would become. They were a people in the process of rebirth from the ashes. But even in the darkness of survival, the fire of hope smoldered. A fire that would one day illuminate the path to their abandoned home... or the road to their final demise.
Someday they would forget how easy it was to kill a dissenter. Or at least forgive themselves for it...
***
The USSR spread its wings. Humans and sentient animals, united by the "Collective," moved forward fearlessly. With the power of only their cradle, the laborers were able to achieve much in twenty-five years, turning scientific achievements into reality through their labor.
The year 1981 had arrived. Twenty-five years ago, the "Collective" was activated. A quarter of a century. A huge span of time for a human, but minuscule for humanity. Another life could last less! In this time, the country was able to achieve the impossible!
On Venus, not only oceans had appeared, whose surf had broken the age-old infernal cacophony of raging hurricanes, but young forests were also growing there, and the first cities were being completed! More than five hundred million citizens already lived on Earth's twin sister, and this number continued to grow every day.
Mercury, which Soviet genius had returned to its rightful place, adorned the sky of their new home. The reunification of the two worlds had a beneficial effect on them. Venus began to rotate normally, and Mercury came alive before their eyes. Years would pass, and it would become a new home for Soviet citizens.
Mars was not lagging behind. Soviet science was able to restart the planet's magnetic field, and thanks to the zero element, a system was created that gave this planet a gravity on its surface, only slightly inferior to Earth's.
There was no moon in its sky, but it was not needed. The outlines of a giant orbital ring, which was to become the Union's factory, were already visible. A megastructure, according to the engineers' design, was to encircle the planet with a steel belt. Here, forever and ever, the industrial power of the working people would be forged when numerous void factories were put into operation.
Earth had also transformed. Nature had been cleansed. The world had become a living garden, which only became more beautiful thanks to the care of its children. The disk of the Moon was adorned with a small orbital ring. It became a base for the USSR's fleet, and the satellite itself, having acquired an atmosphere held by energy shields, became one giant science city.
But everyone remembered why the industry worked so hard, and the scientists slept and lived at their workplaces. The country, which had united the world, having paid with blood for this step, remembered the horror of realization. The cozy cradle turned out to be a long-standing battlefield where worlds died.
Rejecting disagreements, everyone forged the pledge of future survival. The world was not ideal. Society, becoming more peaceful, became sharper and faster in dealing with criminals. Man, united by a single mind, changed, changing the concept of morality along with himself.
Everyone knew: strangers were nearby. The Charon relay found in Pluto's orbit was the confirmation that could not be ignored. It was thanks to it that engineering work was carried out to return Mercury to its mother world's native orbit, before the potentially dangerous alien device was towed into the void between the stars and sent into an endless drift.
Much remained to be done. The old wounds had not yet healed, but the USSR looked boldly into the future...
***
"Terminal," the speakers in the train car announced in the dispatcher's voice, before the doors opened.
A man in the uniform of an "Argentum" operative stepped onto the platform, his gaze sweeping over those who met him. Finding no threat, he picked up a boy of about seven, who was his exact copy, only not gray-haired and smaller, carefully placing the little citizen on the platform along with a small backpack.
"Here we are in Moscow, Sasha," said Sergey Nechaev, addressing his son with noticeable warmth in his voice...