Khaela. Tuchanka.
On another Pelican, I'm flying to visit Clan Nakmor. The third one, unfortunately, was destroyed in the battle at the arena, but there are plenty of ships in orbit and Pelicans on them. The first thousands of the most adventurous Krogan, wishing to be pioneers of a new, wild world, have begun boarding and departing for the new location. Soon it will be the turn of full-fledged Clans, and I need to get a decision from Clan Nakmor as well.
We've picked out an impressive planet for them. Only about forty degrees, jungles and deserts, with frequent and strong storms. Oxygen atmosphere, predators. Humans wouldn't even set foot there without heavy weapons, but for Krogan, it's fine. Now the main task is to have the most suitable Clans for our goals occupy the most convenient spots, becoming the leaders of the first cities and the authority to which the rest will submit.
Of course, traffic with the new world will be quite limited; there's no Mass Relay nearby. But this is a fleet project, so we'll solve the problem.
It went well with Clan Urdnot, though the number of those moving from among them wasn't that large. This is a general problem; Krogan are much more interested in piracy or fighting. The very idea of moving to who-knows-where doesn't particularly interest them. Especially considering the Krogan will have to build infrastructure there from scratch. But there are enough of those who are ready. For the most part, these are older Krogan. The logic of many of them simply sends my core into overload.
Tuchanka might be a dump, but it's a familiar one. And a Krogan will never submit to some weaklings! So we have to shoot them, these smart guys. Or just part ways. There are losses, but this is our mission and we will fulfill it. Even if the hammer is covered in a thick layer of blood and guts. Just kidding; I monitor the condition of my weapon.
Especially since there are rational Krogan too. Rational for a Krogan, of course. And here, victories and destroyed Clans help quite a bit. Krogan aren't against such a practice; moreover, for them, destroyed Clans of dissenters are an indicator of strength and an argument for listening to an opponent.
For example, Wrex easily managed to explain Bakara's death as an attack by the Pack, who didn't come to negotiate at all. Fortunately, there was plenty of evidence lying around the arena. There were more of them, so the fight from the Krogan perspective was normal. We are stronger, so we are right. The Shaman was useful, of course, but this is Tuchanka. It happens.
Especially since if we won, it means we aren't weaklings.
Drack's response to the alliance proposal took longer to arrive. He responded after four days with an invitation to visit and coordinates. So I, with my hammer, and the pilot are flying on a Pelican to a point in the desert where the Clan leader told us to arrive.
What can be said about the desert? It's a desert, literally. No ruins, no tech. Nothing. Only sand, heat, and wind-blown sand. The life support system in the Pelican's cockpit is working at full capacity, trying to protect the pilot and engines from the heat and dust. I'm protected by armor, but it's still frankly a bit hot.
The hammer, by the way, is a bit cramped in the Pelican's hold; it's long, and the ceilings aren't that high. I have to keep it horizontal in the hold. But I won't leave it behind; it's a useful tool in an argument. And going to visit Krogan without a weapon means showing disrespect. A Krogan on Tuchanka without a weapon is either a sorcerer or is mocking you, showing the opponent's impotence. A proper Krogan always has a weapon. Even if you aren't a Krogan.
"Can't see a damn thing," the pilot reported.
The Avatar chuckled.
"They have a tracking station with a bunch of satellites over the planet. It would be strange if it were otherwise. They've been hiding here for hundreds of years. Right in the storm."
The pilot replied to this:
"There's a massive magnetic anomaly under the desert here. Ferrous sand, or something like that. Half the instruments can't see anything. Plus this storm. We're going by instruments and coordinates, literally. And I'm not at all sure we're going the right way."
We sat in silence for a bit. I found an interesting coincidence in Earth's data banks and decided to share it with the pilot.
"About five hundred years ago, there was a book about a place like this. 'Dune,' it's called. Also sand, natives, and massive sandworms. A whole series, interested?"
The pilot was indignant.
"Let's just do without the worms! Wrex was saying here that the oldest Thresher Maws live for thousands of years and can swallow a small building in one go."
Um, I didn't get that.
"Are you actually afraid?"
"No!" the pilot declared, showing that he was afraid, "but my ship has been targeted by massive centipedes too often during this time. One thing saves us: flying targets don't attract them much. We're approaching, by the way. I hope there are beacons here."
A few more minutes of flight later, navigation lights suddenly appeared beneath us. Because of the dust storm, it's impossible to notice them from a long distance without illumination. The Pelican hovered, and a rectangular metal platform could be seen among the sand, which began to move. Hatches opened right in the sand, revealing a rectangular opening. Below was a platform lit by electric light. Even from a couple of hundred meters, it's easy to miss in such dust without lighting.
"And there's the entrance. Well, let's see. Nakmor, don't disappoint me. Descending; let's not keep the door open too long."
My opinion on Drack: the Krogan is effectively an heir to a past era. Post-war generations of Krogan lived among sand-blown ruins and rusted hulls in tribes. For them, that specifically is a familiar home.
A large part of...
For most of his life, Drack lived not among sand and rust, but at the peak of civilization. And later, when he became a pirate, on ships—also not among rust and sand. Where that led, I don't know yet. But one can assume he created a territory on Tuchanka where everything is as it once was, a corner of the Krogan past.
If that is the case, I understand him. Just as I understand the situation where the current Krogan way of life is alien to Drack. Partly because they have simply forgotten everything, degenerating into practically hunter-gatherers with assault rifles. Much like it was in Earth's Africa until the middle of the twenty-second century.
When the hatch closed over the Pelican, I jumped out of the vehicle and looked around.
"Not bad here," the pilot remarked, stepping out after me.
And that was a fact. Outside, the best technology consisted of the rusted hulls of ships. Some were even terrifying to walk on, falling apart under my weight, every step tearing away flakes of rust. All of it was often missing walls, partially collapsed, partially rotted, buried in sand. But here?
A gray hangar, without markings, but with electric lighting. The hum of fans, the steady light of lamps, cleanliness and order, a grate on the floor, guards at the entrance. Containers against the walls, no sand. The same stone, but painted in green colors. The containers were larger than usual, sized for the dimensions of a Krogan or a Spartan. On the containers was an emblem in the shape of a Krogan face, an assault rifle, and a hammer. I asked into the air:
"Is this the old emblem from the time of the Krogan Rebellions?"
I didn't ask for no reason; the local leader was already walking toward the Pelican. The pilot sat down on a crate, while waves of heat rose from the transport, escaping into massive ventilation slots under the ceiling. There was clearly a draft there; the system worked with a steady hum, barely perceptible to the human ear. I heard no breaks in the rhythm; the fans were working smoothly, meaning they were being maintained.
"The very one," Drack said, approaching. "This place is my memory of the past. The Tuchanka of my youth. Home."
***
A Krogan military base, indeed. Bright electric lighting in square, high corridors, containers here and there. The place was bright, wide (built for Krogan dimensions, with three-and-a-half-meter ceilings), and the temperature was around thirty degrees. The base was obviously designed for far more Krogan than were currently here, so it felt very spacious and even somewhat empty. Inscriptions on the walls were in a language unknown to me, accompanied by directional lines. Clan members occasionally passed by. Everything was dignified, calm. Wait.
"Is that... a lake?" After walking down the corridor, we stopped by a pool visible through a panoramic window that spanned the entire wall.
Rather, it was a large pool converted into a lake; on the shore stood those same crates, repurposed into containers with plants, and inside the pool, I could see fish and insects in the air. This place became more unique with every passing second. The mere fact of such a base was surprising.
And the presence on Tuchanka of not just a water source, but an artificial reservoir with an ecosystem, piqued my interest. This was a completely different level of logistics and effort, considering the humidity, pollen, spores, mold, and many other interesting things. None of which I observed in the air of the corridor. Another sign of high-quality ventilation.
On the shore, under Nakmor Norda's supervision, a pair of small Krogan, waist-high to a human, were training. The little ones were quite round and fell regularly, but they got up and continued the drill. The one on the right noticed a fish, got distracted, and took a hit to the head, after which he lunged at his comrade with a snarl. Both fell.
"Like it?" Drack asked with a raspy chuckle. "These aren't plants and animals of Tuchanka, of course. But it allows us to teach the young what we lost. Living here, it's hard to consider the dusty landfill above as home. It works."
By the way, the temperature here was much lower than on the surface, about thirty-five degrees. The greenhouse should have high humidity, but the corridors were expectedly dry.
"Amazing," I agreed, walking along the edge of the pool. "Are there other shelters like this?"
Drack grew somewhat somber.
"There were. They were found and destroyed. After the war, the Citadel forces wanted to make sure there would be no revenge. They broke the ships, the tech. Burned the bases. Drove us back into antiquity. You're not stupid; you must have noticed the problem isn't just the Genophage. We had a fleet on Tuchanka—all those ship graveyards. They were broken, blown up. Along with the shipyards and factories. And they killed those who could build new ones. Or teach those who would build them."
I nodded.
"History, knowledge, culture. Scientists, leaders. The entire first generation, from the time of the rebellion or after it."
"Exactly," Drack agreed. "They burned the towers of The Shroud, all but one. There used to be many more, and Tuchanka was cooler. They burned out any manifestation of culture or technology."
I would regret this.
"I understand, Drack. I slept through several eras. When I woke up, my people and all their knowledge had been consigned to oblivion. I am the last of my kind; the others were destroyed. The last bearer of the history of those times, undistorted by time and unforgotten."
We looked at each other. I told the truth. Yes, I am an AI. But my hatred for the Forerunners is not based on the fact of Humanity's defeat—in the end, we outlasted them. It is based on the fact that Humanity as a culture is completely forgotten, and our knowledge has been replaced by the knowledge and ideas of the Forerunners. Which is unacceptable. Therefore, every time the technology of the Boundless Will reaches the masses, it is my victory. A little more of Humanity's memory. Of course, I didn't say that.
Drack nodded, looked into my eyes, and silently led me further. We reached his office, where he pulled a five-liter flask from a cabinet, poured a glass, and drank. He offered a second one to me. Well, fine, I have a pocket in my chest cavity for this sludge. Specifically for such occasions; I'll pour it out later or give it to the chemists.
Pouring the glass of 70-degree tincture of something into myself, I simulated a cough and shortness of breath. The old Krogan snorted.
"Strong, that's good. I love a fight. I love watching meat fly apart under a shot, watching blood burst from a body, watching a Thresher Maw melt itself through holes in its chemical sac. I love the smell of Varren marinated in Thresher Maw acid and shooting at enemies. I am a Krogan."
I snorted, simulating the effect of the alcohol.
"An ordinary Krogan doesn't hide places like this from everyone. This is a full-fledged shelter. Water reserves, food, a reactor, technology. Even a biosphere, autonomous. A colossal place, and it's in very good condition."
The Krogan nodded.
"It is. But Wrex is right, Tuchanka is a cage. Sitting here, you won't get much shooting done. This place is a cage too. Sit and guard it so they don't blow it up or foul it."
I nodded, looking at the glass of Ryncol. I wonder how it feels? I cannot get physically drunk, and the alcohol is processed. I cannot feel the same as a human or a Krogan. Fortunately, Drack didn't force me to drink. So I looked at the Krogan through the glass of liquid and asked:
"What do you say about what we found?"
The answer came suddenly not from the old man himself, but from one of the two women who approached us, Nakmor Norda. It seemed the little ones had been dismissed.
"I saw much of it myself. When it all happened, the Salarians and the Turians did everything to ensure the rebellions wouldn't repeat. The Turians hit military targets, broke production. The Salarians burned places like this. It didn't become clear immediately, but it happened. I don't advise drinking much if you're not used to it. We still have a contract to sign."
"She had one glass," Drack threw in.
We talked a bit more. Norda introduced me to her companion. Drack's granddaughter, Nakmor Kesh. Quite young, without scars, and with skin that looked relatively thin compared to the virtual armor of the elders. She spoke in the same low voice as all Krogan. But her lighter armor and neat, smooth appearance gave away her age. Yes, I have seen enough Krogan to identify them visually. This one was no more than two hundred years old; besides, she clearly doesn't participate in battles personally. Scars are left from that.
Interesting. Is it her character or the upbringing of a valuable specialist?
We got to talking; the Krogan woman turned out to be a trained engineer. And not just one working with the Tomkahs traditional for Krogan, but also, albeit theoretically, with heavy-tonnage ships. A potentially ready-made superintendent if her practical skills were sharpened.
In general, I was sure this combat pensioner was driving up the price for his clan. In the office, the Vice Admiral asked:
"Your analysis of this clan?"
The hologram flicked its ears playfully.
"Drack is driving up the price. And he's doing it fairly. A developed base, generalist technical specialists. And I can't say it's just a facade. I am continuously scanning everything I see. The equipment is made with quality; they have a small foundry somewhere here, or a 3D printer. Supply lines are established; I don't think they produce lubricants or fertilizers here. But otherwise, they have a ready-made training program for their species, specialists. Sooner or later, this bunker will be found and burned from orbit, simply to deprive the Krogan of specialists. And Drack, I am sure, understands this perfectly and isn't clinging to Tuchanka."
The Vice Admiral listened and nodded.
"Then we agree. We will watch to ensure they don't become excessively independent, but you may conclude the contract."
In the Krogan bunker, we continued talking with Kesh. Her grandfather went about his business, leaving the Avatar with the female part of the group. They were much more talkative, but also asked more questions. About Humans, our culture. About the war with the Covenant. About the Gravity Hammer—Krogan women liked weapons too.
And if I showed Kesh the hammer, would she be able to work with it? Let's try.
In the end, we moved to the workshop, where we partially disassembled and cleaned the hammer. Or rather, Kesh cleaned it under my commentary. Not always successfully, but...
"You definitely have a talent for technology."
She nodded.
"I know. Unfortunately, most of my knowledge is just theory, but there's not much to do here anyway except maintain the complex. Only reading."
The Avatar snorted.
"And if I show you textbooks on our ships, can you handle it?"
I was practically bowled over! Three hundred kilograms of joyful Krogan. Moreover, her voice was low for human hearing, which created an interesting dissonance for listeners between the reaction and the tone in which it was said.
"Of course! Is it big? Does it have many guns? What's the power plant? The cooling? And..."
Carefully returning to a vertical position under the chuckles of those around, I had to cool her enthusiasm a bit.
"Human ships use a radically different technical base, engines, everything."
To this, the Krogan woman nodded.
"I know. We took parts of your transport. You shouldn't have left it near the arena; other clans already tried to take them, but we were stronger. Well, and I worked with them a bit. Come, I'll show you."
As it turned out, the Krogan had sawed off the rear part of a Pelican with a pair of engines that weren't destroyed in battle. And brought it to the base; the rest they finished breaking. The cockpit, passenger compartment, and most of the electronics were destroyed, but the mounting was intact.
"Interesting. And what did you understand?"
The Krogan woman thought for a moment.
"Well, I understood how the engines work. The fuel is different, but the principle is similar to what I saw in the manuals for our engines. But this wide plate pointing down, I don't know what that is. I've never seen such technology. I haven't found anything like it. What is it?"
An anti-gravity plate, allowing the Pelican to carry even tanks on its mounting with almost no maneuverability issues. Right now it was off, and a bit scorched. But if I thought about it and scanned it... repair was possible. It seemed the rear part hadn't suffered during the shelling; the armor held. It could be fixed without problems.
And that was a plan. At the same time, we would evaluate Kesh's own capabilities. Receiving permission through the quantum channel, I immediately suggested:
"Let's fix it and see what it does."
The Krogan woman looked at me suspiciously.
"You know what it does."
I grinned.
"Of course. But you don't? What would be more interesting: if we assemble and turn on the device, or if I just tell you what it does?"
Now we were both grinning. The social module was gradually adapting to new conditions, adopting the facial expressions of those around me as much as possible.
"Let's assemble this thing."
To start, the anti-grav had to be disassembled. It had been shot at, dragged across the sands of Tuchanka for tens of kilometers. So: maintenance, searching for suitable parts, and cleaning. It's useful to have an extensive knowledge base. It didn't turn out perfectly, but it should work.
"So you're a technician too?" Kesh asked, watching as I acted alongside her. We even involved the pilot.
I shook my head.
"More of a scientist. But space on a ship is limited, so we often work with technicians, and I know how a Pelican is built."
Not entirely true, but true enough.
"And what is a Pelican?" Kesh immediately asked.
Um. I have no idea. I had to urgently ask Black Box via the core.
"A bird; it catches fish in a pouch into which the lower part of its beak has mutated. Then it eats them."
"And why catch them first instead of eating them right away? Fish are tasty; we breed them in the pool. Did you see it? My work. Well, more accurately, it was built before Grandfather's time, but I maintain it."
Indeed, there was a water reservoir here, and fish were quite happily swimming in it. Obviously, the old mercenary had a supply line; he had far too many consumables. That was a risk of detection. But for the sake of his people's legacy living on, Drack tried.
The more time we spent at the base, the clearer the Krogan himself and his motivation became. Natural aggressiveness had entered into symbiosis with the desire to give as much as possible to his descendants. And since everyone here was more or less close, just a few families in total, Drack cared for everyone. And he understood that sooner or later, he would be found. Perhaps it would be the Citadel, deciding that technologically advanced Krogan were a problem.
And if not the Salarians, then competitors—local clans would easily start a local war of extermination for this lake. And here there was also technology and specialists. A treasury by local standards.
Strict restrictions on the import and export of technology to Tuchanka meant that anything serious could only reach the planet in single units and via smuggling. No one promised it would be easy.
All the more valuable was this corner of the past for those who built it.
"A planet has been chosen for the Krogan, Kesh. For those who leave with us. Jungle, heat, and predators. Many resources; it hasn't been developed. But you'll have to build from scratch."
The engineer waved it off.
"We'll manage. The main thing is that we can live there."
I spread my hands, helping to assemble the anti-grav.
"Oversight will still remain. We don't trust each other enough. But we are ready to risk it and help."
Kesh took this calmly.
"I know. It would be stupid if it were otherwise. This is more than we have now. More than there is outside. So, how is it supposed to work? Let's turn it on."
We hung the rear part of the Pelican on a crane, and I pushed a container under it.
"Alright, turning it on. Three, two, one."
The crate literally levitated. The Krogan woman was immediately beside it, poking it with her finger, a scanner, moving it, inspecting it.
"Anti-gravity, but without Element Zero. I've never seen anything like it! There are no Eezo plates; I checked. And the energy consumption is much lower. Interesting," she moved the crate again. "This isn't anti-gravity. I understand. It's like a Biotic push, but the vector is constant! And without Element Zero, at all! Interesting..."
She was fast. Another indicator that Krogan, when they want to be and are trained, are not idiots at all. People are just used to perceiving them that way, and there's nowhere to learn. Kesh herself enthusiastically conducted tests and applied different devices to the reverse gravity stream. I turned to Nakmor Drack, who had been standing, leaning against the door, for the last ten minutes. He was watching and smirking.
"Very capable," the Avatar pointed at the Krogan woman.
The old man nodded.
"I know. Khaela, Clan Nakmor agrees to leave with you. The Krogan of the new generations need those who will tell them who they were and who they became. And ensure the Humans fulfill their part of the contract. Not all of us will leave, but most will."
I stepped closer.
"They will. We are not Salarians."
"Time will tell," Drack countered. "Humans have their own interests. But if you help the interests of the Krogan, I will help so that your legacy doesn't vanish either."
And he extended a paw, which I shook.
"So it shall be."
And we grinned at each other.
***
Clan Nakmor was evacuated a week later. We had to scramble to drop a Frigate onto the planet, right into the anomaly, and then load the equipment, gear, everything onto it. Not everyone decided to leave, but eighty percent of the clan did.
Drack left much for those remaining, but he took most of the textbooks, as well as the high-precision equipment. The specialists had left with the Chieftain and us anyway. Without them, this place was doomed to gradual degradation. It would last for years, then simply fail, clogged with mold, spores, and dust. But Clan Nakmor would not see this, having moved on.
Others followed them; in total, about thirty thousand Krogan left Tuchanka. Not many, but for the most part, they were the elite of their people, experienced leaders and their loyal subordinates.
"Will the Krogan die out now? Without leaders?" asked the captain of the ship on which we were carrying the clans to their new planet.
I snorted, looking out the viewport.
"Don't make me laugh. There are enough of those who stayed. The Blood Pack and other military chieftains already separated themselves from those we took. This changes nothing for them. But what we do now will change things."
A few seconds later, the two Frigates, turning their bows toward the planet, shuddered, discharging their Magnetic Accelerator Cannons downward. The velocity was such that the slugs could not be tracked with the naked eye.
I turned to the screen where the Pelican was transmitting a view of the tower of The Shroud. A silvery spire, hundreds of meters high, tapering toward the top and having two supports at the base. Located in the middle of a huge Krogan amphitheater. Around the device were streams of sprayed chemicals and elements, creating a greenish halo around the tower that rose to the sky. Likely, it was meant to seem mystical.
A black dot of a slug hit the base of the tower; a few seconds later, a second one punched right through the tower. It shuddered and detonated, releasing a whole cloud of green mist, and then slowly settled on its side. Waiting until the tower collapsed, Drack snorted.
"Now re-spraying the Genophage will be harder."
"And without The Shroud, there will be no protection from the sun," Wrex countered.
Drack just waved him off.
"Krogan lived before The Shroud. They will live after. No sense making the Citadel's job easier. Maybe some will move to other places and get immunity to the Genophage there. All Krogan life is a struggle. Khaela! You don't happen to know anyone interesting to kill around here?"
I did. There was still much to do.
***
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