The morning did not start with coffee. I managed to cheer up differently – it was enough to lower my gaze and discover a sniffing Miranda. As a not very comfortable pillow, she chose my torso, which looked cute and quickly brought me out of drowsiness. Passionate night it was...
We had a great time and fell asleep hugging after a tiring marathon... Idyll. But it ends quickly when you remember the purpose of the visit to Omega. Therefore, waiting for the sleeping beauty to open her eyes, I began preparing to go out. Together we took a cool shower, dressed, and left the hotel room in search of a relatively safe place to grab a bite. With this, however, there is trouble on Omega. A dose of red sand – please, this crap is sold on every corner. But to find something edible, we had to wander quite a bit through the criminal streets. In the end, we bought military rations from a smuggler, which somehow guaranteed safety of consumption. Unless, of course, we were slipped a fake. Yeah, it's complicated. But at least we entered the slums not as locals ready to drop dead from hunger, but almost like aristocrats – simply because we were full.
— Well, well, well. Look who's here?! - a turian in blue armor approached us. Armor that immediately indicated his belonging to a specific group. The Blue Suns. Something like elite mercenaries who managed to gain a foothold in the galaxy, despite a relatively short period of existence – about thirty years. True, now many call them a shadow of their former greatness. Once they were focused on good goals: helping humanity explore space, escorting merchant ships, and acting as a security agency for wealthy businessmen from Earth. Back then, only humans could get membership in their ranks. But due to internal strife among the leadership, a serious split occurred. Priorities changed, as did goals. Now the Blue Suns work even with batarians and engage in slave trade, extortion, and hitman contracts. They sometimes delegated the latter to me – at least those elimination contracts for which they could pay decently.
— Vikees, - I remembered the name of the turian with bluish-green skin coloring and a noticeable scar near his left eye. — Working on Omega?
— What do you think? - he shook his head irritably, gripping his assault rifle tighter. — Once I aimed for the top, and now I shake the last credits out of old men, saved for a posthumous crematorium. Not how I imagined the future, but one unsuccessful trip to the casino – and that's it, life is over.
— Gambling leads to no good, - I was forced to agree. — But it's not for me to judge you. I myself recently participated in a gambling adventure ramming a huge cruiser.
— Yeah, definitely more reckless than blowing up a military complex with your bare hands, - he smirked, remembering my past. — What brought you to Omega, and even more so to this hole? If you want to kill our commander, he's in that direction.
Mercenaries, contrary to romanticization, are still assholes...
— Just for old times' sake. Can you escort us to Mordin Solus? A salarian, he has a clinic here.
— Ha-ha-ha! - he laughed. — And who ordered him?! However, better refuse – a doomed cause. The salarian, strangely enough, is one of the rare doctors. The best on all of Omega, if you don't recall the lack of competition. For killing the doctor, I assure you, they won't say thank you. Who knows? Even the Blue Suns might take revenge. If not with an elimination contract, then with dirty rumors. And you are now even a Spectre! And it will turn out ugly. Half of ours pass through Solus.
— Tell me honestly, do I look like a thug?
— Well yes, Starkillers don't look like killers at all. Even by nickname, - waving his hand, the turian still agreed to lead us to the clinic. Which, by the way, helped a lot. Mercenaries didn't cling to us, racketeers averted their eyes, and the local rabble only briefly lingered their gaze on Miranda. The girl, after all, is prominent and very beautiful. Such in these places are quickly kidnapped for fun or sale to some perverted tycoon.
Saying goodbye to the escort, I entered the clinic and was quite surprised by the unsanitary conditions. You can come with one sore, and leave with three new ones. Traces of blood on the floor, walls riddled as if shot in a shooting range. Garbage, trash, and scraps of flesh are lying everywhere. Maybe things are better in the operating room. Or maybe worse. "The doctor is loved here," right?
— Where do you think you're going without queueing! - a krogan roared, blocking the passage.
— I just need to ask, - I waved my hand, using hypnosis.
— Yes... just to ask... - he obediently returned to his place, allowing us to go further. This time I had to step over a couple of corpses. Deceased patients?
— Painkillers! - a turian tied to the operating table pleaded.
— Ran out. Had some, but all supplies went, new ones weren't delivered. Annoying. Sent a request – no answer followed. Conclusion? We will open up without anesthesia, - the salarian spoke in less than a couple of seconds, clearly participating in a speed pronunciation competition. Using a plasma cutter, he began to point-melt a section of armor in the wound area. He worked surgically precisely, only slightly scorching the skin. But those were just flowers. Then the autopsy began. Even without alcohol...
— Cerberus acted more humanely during interrogations, - Miranda whispered so as not to distract the doctor. But he, apparently, heard everything perfectly. Without looking up from his work, Mordin glanced over his shoulder:
— Humanity manifests when the patient survives, not when it is convenient for him. Cerberus might be more humane, but their patients rarely breathe after procedures.
The salarian took untreated instruments and proceeded to cut tissues.
— Turian metabolism is too fast. Slow down, he dies immediately. Thinking a little, the doctor offered with a cordial smile:
— Although, if you want, I can sing. Helps some.
Without waiting for consent or refusal, Mordin continued working with a singing hum, only muttering under his breath a minute later:
— Interesting case. Non-standard eezo nodules in the nervous system. Rare in turians. If he survives, he will be grateful. If not... well, I learned something new. Then he turned to Miranda, but more seriously:
— If you want to help, hold him. The patient will soon go into convulsions.
— I hear everything, bastard! - the poor guy wheezed, no longer holding back tears. Using the Force, I fixed him, not giving him the opportunity to even open his mouth.
— Strange biotic field. Loosen a little in the wound area, - the doctor asked. I agreed, slightly loosening control.
— Convenient. Are you looking for a job?
— Rather ready to offer it at the Citadel Research Institute. Your colleagues from the STG have already gathered, but cannot advance in creating a secret development without your participation, - tried to choose words with a witness. Mordin's quick and precise movements slowed down. Afterwards, he slowly placed the instruments on the surgical table and headed to the back room, from where he returned with a bizarre device. Connecting wires to the turian, Mordin began to thoughtfully read data from the scanner.
— Toxins reached the heart muscle... - falling silent, the salarian took off his medical gloves and threw them aside.
— Vain autopsy?
— Never in vain. Each case – new data, and death – a new lesson. But yes, I did not expect to encounter the use of poison rounds. Rare, expensive, ineffective. Taking a pistol from his holster, Mordin shot the hopeless patient twice exactly in the head. The second shot, rather, a control one.
— Mercy, - the salarian concluded.
— Our offer, - I reminded.
— I refuse. I'm fine in the new place. If supplies didn't disappear so often, it would be excellent, - putting away the pistol, he covered the corpse with a cloth. — I work in the clinic because here I can do what I consider right. Save lives. Correct mistakes. You get used to it quickly. In the previous place, I quickly got unused to it. Don't want to return.
— Did you leave the STG because of unethical research? - Miranda asked, gesturing for me to hand over the negotiations to her. One can always influence the result with the Force, but with scientists, especially such important ones, it is better not to risk it.
— Necessity. STG research is limited by bureaucracy, fear, politics. You can't save the galaxy if every decision must be approved by a committee. You can only turn good intentions into a catastrophe, - Mordin fell silent, and his gaze became distant, as if he was mentally going further into the past.
— New invention – Bacta Tank. With the help of genetic engineering, we are trying to breed microorganisms in the shortest possible time, accelerating tissue regeneration many times over, - Miranda moved on to negotiations. — Ahead of us lies a war, where without bacta millions will die.
— Bacta enhances regeneration? Interesting. And so, do your scientists plan to turn all creatures into regenerating zombies? Or just want soldiers to recover faster after another senseless war? I saw the news. Reapers. If we win, we will return to wars among ourselves. Regenerating zombies will appear? Costs for training soldiers will decrease. Conclusion? Smaller risks for bloodshed, greater chances for approval of a new war.
— A project of thousands of pages. You better study everything yourself before drawing conclusions. Giving consent or refusal, - a rather generous offer on her part, and also dangerous.
— A project of thousands of pages? Typical. Why explain in simple words when you can bury everyone in papers? - approaching us, he leaned slightly. — Nevertheless, refusal after reading the project details guarantees death or isolation. Consent equally leads to the same result. Almost. With a delay.
— Guarantee of complete safety. Sign confidentiality papers, that's more than enough. The project is still aimed at everyone. Ordinary citizens included, - the brunette knew how to persuade.
— If you need my help, then most likely you have already accepted defeat. Either you don't make it in time, or you try to jump above your head. And in all cases... - the salarian spreads his hands. — You need the contribution of one scientist? Cute. But I'm not a wizard.
— Leading researcher who understands mutations best of all. We don't need more.
— Can offer more. Good advice. Which one? Disperse. You – continue digging in your projects. I will continue to save those who can still be saved. Everyone wins.
— How many can your clinic on Omega accept? How many can it release alive and healthy? - I nodded towards the corpse. — The Bacta Tank can save millions without the participation of doctors. If there is evil in it, it is only trivial. Pharmaceutical companies will be forced to stop production and sale of medicines. Medical institutes will stop graduating doctors. And hospitals will have only a universal remedy for treating all diseases and wounds. Because of this, incomes in several industries at once will suffer, but not patients. I approach him almost closely. — It will take ten years to implement and establish mass production. But already now we need something that will help win the war and flow into the civil sphere. That's where everyone will win, - I smiled under the mask.
— Genophage? - he asked sharply. — Planning to create something that supposedly will help krogan heal from the consequences of the genophage too? Or is your "classic" involved here – development for everyone, but with a few bloody amendments, like those where certain races will be denied medical service?
— We received data from the Reaper spaceship. By improving space engines, we can also expand opportunities for increasing the krogan population – we will provide them with as many planets as needed. This is the first option. There is a path of genocide and complete extermination of this race. And a path of containment by genetic intervention in their genome. Which path did the Citadel Council choose? Ruthless: if one female produces a hundred eggs, then let only every thousandth give living offspring. I believe that we need to come to a balance, combine darkness and light. Reduce the number of produced eggs from a hundred to one, equating krogan with other races. Thereby their population will cease to threaten our common existence. What do you say? So far, of all three options, this one seems the fairest.
— A Spectre doesn't have enough power to reason about the fate of an entire race, - the salarian cut off.
— Of course. But at the moment I am a Spectre with special authority, and any decision of mine is "so far" supported by the Council, - I decided to keep silent before the stranger about the progress in "so far". — And I suggest you use experience and intellect not for the sake of gray morality, where it is unclear how to deal with the natural threat from krogan, but help us create a cure for all races.
The salarian sighed reluctantly and made it clear with a look that he was almost ready to try:
— Consent? Haven't decided yet. Fly far? Will take a vacation, the clinic will wait. Bunch of waste paper? Will read, love figuring out other people's mistakes. Former colleagues? - Mordin smiled broadly.
— Not glad to see them, but I can't stand aside. There is always a chance that we will ruin everything again. If ruin, then all together.