Omega Nebula / Sahrabarik / Omega Station
If one listened closely when happening upon a moment of sheer boredom they could hear the constant drone of the vessel’s systems humming and vibrating throughout the small, compartmentalized hull. It was only annoying when it was noticed, not because it was any immediately disturbing or mind-numbing sound, rather that it was an annoyance brought on by the constant question, “When will I forget it again?” And thus begins the long game of attempting to not notice it. However, if and when it is finally out of mind, the game is never truly finished. In fact, it is lost whenever the drone is noticed again… A constant, vicious, vindictive cycle of being aggravated over the lucid thought that any attempt to win such a ridiculous game will never be realized.
Sleep is the only way to escape it; and for Declan Calaway, the pilot of the “borrowed” space craft that he found himself cramped in, that is exactly the method he chose. There is a lot to be said about experiencing the weightless sensation of sound sleep in zero gravity; and even more to be said about the tranquility of the loneliness that accompanies it. He could unfasten the safety harness that secured him in the cockpit and curl up or sprawl out in any position he desired; or have a little fun and put himself into a constant spin with his eyes closed, only to see if he’ll still be spinning eight hours later when he awakes. On a mattress at home, he would become uncomfortable or stiff after a while and find himself tossing and turning, sacrificing precious time in a vain attempt find rest without waking up with a crick in his neck. As a spacer, someone born and raised in the heavenly abyss of starlight and cosmic wonders, he slept best when his body was literally free.
The humming of the one-man space craft’s systems was not what had disturbed his slumber. Instead, it was an incessant beeping, a notification that he was being hailed. After his eyes fluttered open and the blurriness of sleep subsided, he let out a grunt as he pulled himself to an upright position in the cockpit and then pushed his body downward into the pilot’s seat. His other hand simultaneously reached out to the glowing haptic adaptive interface before him, a responsive hologram representing various controls and data feeds. Two fingers tapped the receive button to open the communications band and a female’s voice blared over a hidden speaker.
“Omega Tower to unidentified SSV bearing R-0-9-0 to D-1-1-6, respond.” There was a pause before the operator repeated herself. Declan assumed she had been trying to contact him for the past minute or two. Gazing out the cockpit window that enveloped the nose of the F-61 Trident, a Systems Alliance space vehicle meant for assault operations in ship-to-ship combat, Declan could see the massive red-glowing space station that extended in a sprawling amalgamation of metal from the hollowed out shell of an ancient asteroid. It oddly looked like a jellyfish from a distance, with its tentacles being the protruding limbs of various structures that made up a large city. Omega, it was called; the iconic nerve center of the lawless Terminus systems.
“Omega Tower to unidentified SS-…”
Tapping the mic icon at the communications controls, Declan interrupted the repeated hail and replied with a clear voice, “This is Declan Calaway operating the F-61 you’re currently barking at. I’m in the neighborhood and just wanted to stop by to say hello to a few friends and then be on my way. Permission to dock at Terminal 41?”
There was a pause of a few seconds before a new voice, also female, but with a slightly lower pitch, came over the speakers. “Welcome back, Declan. Terminal 41 is open for docking.”
“It’s been a while Trish,” the man said with a hint of enthusiasm in his voice while digging his hand into the backpack at his feet to fish out an electric razor. “How’ve you been?”
“Better than you, apparently. I hear you’re on the run… again.”
Flicking the switch, the handheld razor buzzed and he began to follow the same pattern he always used to trim down the stubble on his face. While shaving, he replied, “Oh, you know me. I like to make lots of friends. And sometimes they just can’t get enough of me.”
“Just try not to draw too much attention to yourself here,” Trish warned over the comms. “Aria doesn’t like it when riff-raff like you cause trouble on her station.”
Satisfied after running a hand over his jaw, Declan put the razor away and a smirked formed on his lips before saying, “Don’t get your panties in a bundle. Omega’s uncrowned queen won’t even know I’m here.”
He heard Trish’s mild laugh over the speaker. “Let’s not kid ourselves. I’ll see you soon.”
With that, the comm link was severed and Declan was left alone in silence to pilot the Trident the rest of the way to Omega’s docking terminals. At least, it would be silent if it weren’t for that damn humming.
Stale air grappled at Declan’s lungs as he walked around the docking terminal to stretch his legs and start adapting to Omega’s grungy atmosphere. The station itself was ancient, with new sections extending from older ones, roughly mixing together architecture and designs from all of the species that considered Omega to be home. A majority of the residents either weren’t welcome in Council space, or they never had the opportunity to travel outside of the Terminus systems. To many, it was considered the epicenter of the region, and the opposite in almost every way to the Citadel. Even corruption worked differently on Omega; it was just out in the open and no one cared. There was no police force or government protecting the interests of the citizens; only mercenary groups and gangs of thugs that ran racketeering practices.
If there had to be a form government, perhaps Aria T’Loak was considered it’s sole figure of authority. She was the defacto ruler, a queen in her own right. In her own words, she didn’t just run Omega, she was Omega. The station’s inhabitants adored her, and even Declan had to give her the respect she deserved. The two had crossed paths several times in the past, but there was hardly any bad blood between them. “Hardly” being a subjective term.
Standing in the corridor that ran alongside his vessel’s dock, the man ran through the fees relayed on his omni-tool. Docking, refueling, maintenance… He didn’t have a wealth of credits to spend, so he had to be careful and ensure he kept a tight cap on his expenses. Being on the run had a tendency to dry up a man’s wallet really fast.
When the heavy footsteps of an approaching stranger caught his attention, Declan cast his eyes to his left to see who had approached. A large krogan dressed in a maintainer’s outfit stared through the reinforced glass at Declan’s vessel. When the old alien grunted in slight disgust, the human traced his line of sight to the Systems Alliance A-shaped logo painted in navy-blue on the outside hull of the Trident. He didn’t blame the krogan for his reaction. Not many starship mechanics in the Terminus would be happy to service an Alliance war vessel. The task oozes irony.
“Don’t get your quad in a knot, big guy,” Declan said while deactivating his omni-tool and pushing away from the wall he had been leaning on. “She’s not mine. I’m just borrowing her for a while.”
The krogan stopped just in front of Declan and his eyes narrowed, scrutinizing the human that he could very well snap in half in a split second. “What brings you to Omega?” he asked in a deep, rough voice that sounded like the low growl of an untamed beast.
Cheap talk. Such a question is one normally asked on other space stations, particularly ones outside of the Terminus. On Omega, someone’s business was theirs alone, unless it crossed paths with another who had the power to say otherwise. But krogan have a penchant for sticking their giant reptilian nose where it doesn’t belong, as evidenced by a war consigned to ancient history.
“Opportunity, my friend,” Declan replied, having chosen to keep his answer as cryptic as possible, knowing that word travels fast on Omega. “I’m a bit of a gambler in the privateering business.”
The krogan nodded his head. “Uh-huh…”
Afterlife, the most famous nightclub–or infamous, depending on who was asked–on Omega. It was not only the prime spot for entertainment, mercenary gatherings, and sneaking a glance at the best looking asari maidens, but also the “throne room” of Aria T’Loak. The main floor of the club was a circular rotunda, where booths gradually ascended up an incline that surrounded the raised dancing platform for the exclusive performers in the center. A towering, cylindrical hologram would provide an enhanced visual of each performer as they shared the limelight with their skills. The constant, steady music was a blend of underground beats that added to the already dark atmosphere.
Declan chose to sit at one of the higher tables for a good view of the entire club. He wasn’t expecting anyone to notice him… yet; but it helped to keep a watchful eye out for those that might think about approaching. In less than a minute, one of the young asari dancers that worked the tables around the club silently walked up the steps with a luring smirk on her lips. She had a bright blue tint to her skin, a vibrant and appealing shade to many. Without saying a word or even stopping to wait for his permission, she gracefully leaned over and slid onto the surface of his table, one knee at a time. Her black leather outfit didn’t reveal much; but, to the asari and other races, one’s nakedness isn’t always the prime factor of sexual appeal. It’s how they move, how they communicate, how they express themselves… all through passion. Even humans, with all of their pettiness, could appreciate the asari.
He enjoyed the dance for a time, sitting in silence while watching her move in tandem to the music’s rhythm in an erotic display of bends, twists, and curls. Several minutes later, movement in his peripheral made him cast his eyes to another asari that had stopped just at the last step up to his table. Despite the dim lighting of the club and the constant flashing of lasers and casting shadows, Declan recognized the distinct violet hue of Trish’s own asari skin. The man raised his arm and activated the omni-tool, indicating that he was ready to pay for the lovely table dance. Nodding her thanks, the young maiden accepted the generous transaction with her own omni-tool and then quietly departed.
“Enjoying yourself?” Trish asked while casting a judgemental glance toward the dancer as they briefly brushed past each other. Asari society was splintered in the way they regarded the younger generations across the galaxy, of which there were three universal stages: maiden, matron, and matriarch. At 423 years old, Trishar Rayana was well into her matron years.
“I kept my hands to myself,” Declan announced, raising up both palms to his shoulders in mocking surrender.
Trish shook her head, but with a smirk on her lips, and then moved to take a seat at the table, sitting up right with her hands clasped over tightly crossed legs. “It’s been two years, Dec. Where have you been?”
“In an Alliance military prison,” the man replied as he leaned back in his seat and stretched his arms out across the top of the booth, “waiting for an unsanctioned tribunal to determine my fate.”
“How’d you escape?”
“You don’t wanna know.” Changing the subject, Declan asked, “So, you’re working for Aria T’Loak now?”
Trish turned her eyes toward a single platform raised above and behind the center dance floor and at the back of the large room. Several guards–mostly batarian, turian, and asari–could be seen standing around with full suits of armor and primed weapons. The head of a purple-toned asari with the collar of a white jacket could be spotted just over the short wall at the front of the platform. That was Aria T’Loak, reclining on her favorite couch, and most likely conducting her usual business of overseeing Omega’s operations.
“Ever since Cerberus took Omega from her she’s been cautious with unidentified ships entering the system,” Trish explained. “I was hired as the head of her new ‘orbital security’ detail. I’m basically in charge of ID’ing suspicious people that pop up anywhere on our scanners… like you.”
Declan put on a fake insulted expression. “Touched.”
“So why are you here, Dec?” she demanded.
“Why do you work for her?”
“Not so fast. If I don’t get to know how you escaped, you don’t get to know about that.”
There was a moment of silence while the two friends stared each other down before Declan finally let it go and changed course. “I want to get the crew back together.”
Trish gave no sudden reaction, but it was evident by the slight glimmer in her eye that she had been hoping the man would say as much. After taking another moment to gather her thoughts, Trish nodded very slowly and then reclined back in the booth, finally relaxing since she had first sat down. A genuine smile could be seen below the shadow that covered her face in the club’s light.
“We’re going to need a helmsman,” she said flatly.
Declan grinned so brightly, he almost broke into a joyous laugh. “Yeah, well, we’ll need a ship first. But do you have someone in mind?”
If one listened closely when happening upon a moment of sheer boredom they could hear the constant drone of the vessel’s systems humming and vibrating throughout the small, compartmentalized hull. It was only annoying when it was noticed, not because it was any immediately disturbing or mind-numbing sound, rather that it was an annoyance brought on by the constant question, “When will I forget it again?” And thus begins the long game of attempting to not notice it. However, if and when it is finally out of mind, the game is never truly finished. In fact, it is lost whenever the drone is noticed again… A constant, vicious, vindictive cycle of being aggravated over the lucid thought that any attempt to win such a ridiculous game will never be realized.
Sleep is the only way to escape it; and for Declan Calaway, the pilot of the “borrowed” space craft that he found himself cramped in, that is exactly the method he chose. There is a lot to be said about experiencing the weightless sensation of sound sleep in zero gravity; and even more to be said about the tranquility of the loneliness that accompanies it. He could unfasten the safety harness that secured him in the cockpit and curl up or sprawl out in any position he desired; or have a little fun and put himself into a constant spin with his eyes closed, only to see if he’ll still be spinning eight hours later when he awakes. On a mattress at home, he would become uncomfortable or stiff after a while and find himself tossing and turning, sacrificing precious time in a vain attempt find rest without waking up with a crick in his neck. As a spacer, someone born and raised in the heavenly abyss of starlight and cosmic wonders, he slept best when his body was literally free.
The humming of the one-man space craft’s systems was not what had disturbed his slumber. Instead, it was an incessant beeping, a notification that he was being hailed. After his eyes fluttered open and the blurriness of sleep subsided, he let out a grunt as he pulled himself to an upright position in the cockpit and then pushed his body downward into the pilot’s seat. His other hand simultaneously reached out to the glowing haptic adaptive interface before him, a responsive hologram representing various controls and data feeds. Two fingers tapped the receive button to open the communications band and a female’s voice blared over a hidden speaker.
“Omega Tower to unidentified SSV bearing R-0-9-0 to D-1-1-6, respond.” There was a pause before the operator repeated herself. Declan assumed she had been trying to contact him for the past minute or two. Gazing out the cockpit window that enveloped the nose of the F-61 Trident, a Systems Alliance space vehicle meant for assault operations in ship-to-ship combat, Declan could see the massive red-glowing space station that extended in a sprawling amalgamation of metal from the hollowed out shell of an ancient asteroid. It oddly looked like a jellyfish from a distance, with its tentacles being the protruding limbs of various structures that made up a large city. Omega, it was called; the iconic nerve center of the lawless Terminus systems.
“Omega Tower to unidentified SS-…”
Tapping the mic icon at the communications controls, Declan interrupted the repeated hail and replied with a clear voice, “This is Declan Calaway operating the F-61 you’re currently barking at. I’m in the neighborhood and just wanted to stop by to say hello to a few friends and then be on my way. Permission to dock at Terminal 41?”
There was a pause of a few seconds before a new voice, also female, but with a slightly lower pitch, came over the speakers. “Welcome back, Declan. Terminal 41 is open for docking.”
“It’s been a while Trish,” the man said with a hint of enthusiasm in his voice while digging his hand into the backpack at his feet to fish out an electric razor. “How’ve you been?”
“Better than you, apparently. I hear you’re on the run… again.”
Flicking the switch, the handheld razor buzzed and he began to follow the same pattern he always used to trim down the stubble on his face. While shaving, he replied, “Oh, you know me. I like to make lots of friends. And sometimes they just can’t get enough of me.”
“Just try not to draw too much attention to yourself here,” Trish warned over the comms. “Aria doesn’t like it when riff-raff like you cause trouble on her station.”
Satisfied after running a hand over his jaw, Declan put the razor away and a smirked formed on his lips before saying, “Don’t get your panties in a bundle. Omega’s uncrowned queen won’t even know I’m here.”
He heard Trish’s mild laugh over the speaker. “Let’s not kid ourselves. I’ll see you soon.”
With that, the comm link was severed and Declan was left alone in silence to pilot the Trident the rest of the way to Omega’s docking terminals. At least, it would be silent if it weren’t for that damn humming.
Stale air grappled at Declan’s lungs as he walked around the docking terminal to stretch his legs and start adapting to Omega’s grungy atmosphere. The station itself was ancient, with new sections extending from older ones, roughly mixing together architecture and designs from all of the species that considered Omega to be home. A majority of the residents either weren’t welcome in Council space, or they never had the opportunity to travel outside of the Terminus systems. To many, it was considered the epicenter of the region, and the opposite in almost every way to the Citadel. Even corruption worked differently on Omega; it was just out in the open and no one cared. There was no police force or government protecting the interests of the citizens; only mercenary groups and gangs of thugs that ran racketeering practices.
If there had to be a form government, perhaps Aria T’Loak was considered it’s sole figure of authority. She was the defacto ruler, a queen in her own right. In her own words, she didn’t just run Omega, she was Omega. The station’s inhabitants adored her, and even Declan had to give her the respect she deserved. The two had crossed paths several times in the past, but there was hardly any bad blood between them. “Hardly” being a subjective term.
Standing in the corridor that ran alongside his vessel’s dock, the man ran through the fees relayed on his omni-tool. Docking, refueling, maintenance… He didn’t have a wealth of credits to spend, so he had to be careful and ensure he kept a tight cap on his expenses. Being on the run had a tendency to dry up a man’s wallet really fast.
When the heavy footsteps of an approaching stranger caught his attention, Declan cast his eyes to his left to see who had approached. A large krogan dressed in a maintainer’s outfit stared through the reinforced glass at Declan’s vessel. When the old alien grunted in slight disgust, the human traced his line of sight to the Systems Alliance A-shaped logo painted in navy-blue on the outside hull of the Trident. He didn’t blame the krogan for his reaction. Not many starship mechanics in the Terminus would be happy to service an Alliance war vessel. The task oozes irony.
“Don’t get your quad in a knot, big guy,” Declan said while deactivating his omni-tool and pushing away from the wall he had been leaning on. “She’s not mine. I’m just borrowing her for a while.”
The krogan stopped just in front of Declan and his eyes narrowed, scrutinizing the human that he could very well snap in half in a split second. “What brings you to Omega?” he asked in a deep, rough voice that sounded like the low growl of an untamed beast.
Cheap talk. Such a question is one normally asked on other space stations, particularly ones outside of the Terminus. On Omega, someone’s business was theirs alone, unless it crossed paths with another who had the power to say otherwise. But krogan have a penchant for sticking their giant reptilian nose where it doesn’t belong, as evidenced by a war consigned to ancient history.
“Opportunity, my friend,” Declan replied, having chosen to keep his answer as cryptic as possible, knowing that word travels fast on Omega. “I’m a bit of a gambler in the privateering business.”
The krogan nodded his head. “Uh-huh…”
Afterlife, the most famous nightclub–or infamous, depending on who was asked–on Omega. It was not only the prime spot for entertainment, mercenary gatherings, and sneaking a glance at the best looking asari maidens, but also the “throne room” of Aria T’Loak. The main floor of the club was a circular rotunda, where booths gradually ascended up an incline that surrounded the raised dancing platform for the exclusive performers in the center. A towering, cylindrical hologram would provide an enhanced visual of each performer as they shared the limelight with their skills. The constant, steady music was a blend of underground beats that added to the already dark atmosphere.
Declan chose to sit at one of the higher tables for a good view of the entire club. He wasn’t expecting anyone to notice him… yet; but it helped to keep a watchful eye out for those that might think about approaching. In less than a minute, one of the young asari dancers that worked the tables around the club silently walked up the steps with a luring smirk on her lips. She had a bright blue tint to her skin, a vibrant and appealing shade to many. Without saying a word or even stopping to wait for his permission, she gracefully leaned over and slid onto the surface of his table, one knee at a time. Her black leather outfit didn’t reveal much; but, to the asari and other races, one’s nakedness isn’t always the prime factor of sexual appeal. It’s how they move, how they communicate, how they express themselves… all through passion. Even humans, with all of their pettiness, could appreciate the asari.
He enjoyed the dance for a time, sitting in silence while watching her move in tandem to the music’s rhythm in an erotic display of bends, twists, and curls. Several minutes later, movement in his peripheral made him cast his eyes to another asari that had stopped just at the last step up to his table. Despite the dim lighting of the club and the constant flashing of lasers and casting shadows, Declan recognized the distinct violet hue of Trish’s own asari skin. The man raised his arm and activated the omni-tool, indicating that he was ready to pay for the lovely table dance. Nodding her thanks, the young maiden accepted the generous transaction with her own omni-tool and then quietly departed.
“Enjoying yourself?” Trish asked while casting a judgemental glance toward the dancer as they briefly brushed past each other. Asari society was splintered in the way they regarded the younger generations across the galaxy, of which there were three universal stages: maiden, matron, and matriarch. At 423 years old, Trishar Rayana was well into her matron years.
“I kept my hands to myself,” Declan announced, raising up both palms to his shoulders in mocking surrender.
Trish shook her head, but with a smirk on her lips, and then moved to take a seat at the table, sitting up right with her hands clasped over tightly crossed legs. “It’s been two years, Dec. Where have you been?”
“In an Alliance military prison,” the man replied as he leaned back in his seat and stretched his arms out across the top of the booth, “waiting for an unsanctioned tribunal to determine my fate.”
“How’d you escape?”
“You don’t wanna know.” Changing the subject, Declan asked, “So, you’re working for Aria T’Loak now?”
Trish turned her eyes toward a single platform raised above and behind the center dance floor and at the back of the large room. Several guards–mostly batarian, turian, and asari–could be seen standing around with full suits of armor and primed weapons. The head of a purple-toned asari with the collar of a white jacket could be spotted just over the short wall at the front of the platform. That was Aria T’Loak, reclining on her favorite couch, and most likely conducting her usual business of overseeing Omega’s operations.
“Ever since Cerberus took Omega from her she’s been cautious with unidentified ships entering the system,” Trish explained. “I was hired as the head of her new ‘orbital security’ detail. I’m basically in charge of ID’ing suspicious people that pop up anywhere on our scanners… like you.”
Declan put on a fake insulted expression. “Touched.”
“So why are you here, Dec?” she demanded.
“Why do you work for her?”
“Not so fast. If I don’t get to know how you escaped, you don’t get to know about that.”
There was a moment of silence while the two friends stared each other down before Declan finally let it go and changed course. “I want to get the crew back together.”
Trish gave no sudden reaction, but it was evident by the slight glimmer in her eye that she had been hoping the man would say as much. After taking another moment to gather her thoughts, Trish nodded very slowly and then reclined back in the booth, finally relaxing since she had first sat down. A genuine smile could be seen below the shadow that covered her face in the club’s light.
“We’re going to need a helmsman,” she said flatly.
Declan grinned so brightly, he almost broke into a joyous laugh. “Yeah, well, we’ll need a ship first. But do you have someone in mind?”
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