Ascension

species would have decommissioned it long ago, or relegated it to the scrap heap. The quarians, short of materials and resources, had no such luxury.

Hilo wondered how much longer their makeshift repairs could keep the rover running before they'd finally have to admit defeat and strip it down for parts. Hopefully a few more months at least. Maybe another year if they were lucky.

Lucky⁹s not a concept usually associated with us quarians, he thought as the rover rolled to a stop beneath the loading doors.

Three figures jumped out. One was using hand gestures, signaling to the ship to open the loading bay doors so they could drive the cargo container inside. Hilo got up from his chair and made his way down to the hold so he could help get everything stored away. He was halfway there, squeezing his way past the table and chairs of their tiny mess hall, when he heard the sounds of gunfire and screaming.

Grabbing the pistol at his belt, he kicked aside the chairs in his way and raced to the aid of his crew-mates. He half-climbed, half-slid down the ladder leading to the cargo hold, his mind never stopping to think that he might get there too late.

He burst into the hold and froze, boggled by the scene before him.

The cargo container was open, but there was nothing inside. The crew were dead, scattered about the hold where they had been gunned down. Several armed and armored figures, too large to be quarian, were searching the room, looking for other survivors. All of this his mind registered in an instant. What threw him, however, was the sight of Feda, Lige, and Anwa standing with their weapons drawn and pointed at him. Even up close, it took him a second to realize they were imposters.

By then it was too late. One fired, the bullet shredding the meat of the muscle as it tore through his thigh. He screamed and dropped his weapon. Then they were on him, two of the figures pinning him to the floor while the third loomed above him, gun drawn and ready. Hilo thrashed wildly against them, his grief- numbed mind oblivious to the agonizing pain shooting up from his thigh or the implied threat of the pistol pointed at his head.

'Stop and we'll let you live,' the figure standing over him said in flawless quarian.

Even in his agitated state, his mind was able to piece together who was speaking. Feda had warned them about the man they were going to meet: an exile who had betrayed his own people. Now the crew of the Idenna had fallen into his trap. Hilo's body went limp as his mind gave in to hopelessness and despair.

The quarian leaned down close to him, his gun held casually in his hand. 'Who are you?'

He didn't answer.

'I asked your name,' he repeated, slamming the butt of his pistol against the side of Hilo's head. His vision filled with stars.

'Who are you?' Again, he didn't answer.

The pistol slammed his head again, and his teeth bit down on his tongue. He tasted blood in his mouth, but he didn't lose consciousness.

'I am Golo'Mekk vas Usela. I will ask you one last time. Who are you?'

Golo, crew of the Usela.

'You have no right to that name!' Hilo shouted, his words echoing inside his helmet. 'You are vas Nedas! Golo nar Tasi!'

Crew of nowhere; Golo child of no one. Outcast. Alone. Reviled.

This time the pistol smashed into the faceplate of his helmet, hard enough to crack the glass. The unfamiliar, terrifying scent of unfiltered air — air infected with bacteria and germs — flooded in.

An adrenaline surge of pure, instinctive fear gave new strength to Hilo's limbs, and he bucked himself free of his captors. He spun to his knees and tried to stand and run, but the bullet he had taken in his thigh had turned the muscle into a useless mass of pulp and tissue. He fell forward instead, slamming face-first into the steel deck of the landing bay.

Someone landed on his back, hard enough to knock the wind out of him. A second later he felt a sharp pinprick of pain in the back of his neck, and then his mind was drowning in a warm, blue haze.

He felt himself being rolled over, but he was powerless to resist. He lay on the ground, staring up into the overhead lights, unable to move or speak. The blue haze was growing thicker, swallowing him up as the world slipped away. The last thing he heard before he slid into unconsciousness was a human speaking.

'You cracked his mask. If he catches something and dies, my boss won't be happy.'

Nine

Gillian made her way through the cafeteria with slow, uncertain steps. The other children were talking and laughing; a wall of overwhelming, terrifying, nonsensical sound she did her best to ignore.

She held her lunch tray out in front of her, carefully balancing it with each trembling step as she advanced cautiously to the empty table in the back of the room. She sat there every day, alone, as far away from the sound and fury of the other kids as possible. Occasionally a particularly loud noise — a shrill laugh, the clatter of a lunch tray falling to the floor — would cause her head to twitch abruptly, as if she had been slapped. Yet she was always careful not to drop her tray when this happened.

When she was younger she had stayed behind in the classroom when the lunch bell rang while the others ran off to the cafeteria. Hendel or Miss Sanders would bring lunch to her and she would eat at her desk in the blessed silence of solitude. But she didn't do that anymore. She was trying to fit in.

Gillian was painfully aware that she was different, and more than anything, she wanted to be normal. But the other kids scared her. They were so quick. So loud. They were always touching. The boys slapped one another on the back or traded punches in the shoulder; sometimes they pushed and shoved each other, laughing loudly at jokes she didn't understand. The girls would lean in close together, cupping a hand to their lips then pressing it against a friend's ear to whisper secrets. They would squeal and giggle, clutching one another's wrist or forearm, or clasping a friend's hand between their own. Other times she saw them braiding each other's hair. She couldn't imagine what that was like; to live in a world where physical contact didn't cause the flesh to erupt with burning fire, or sting with freezing cold.

At least nobody teased her or made fun of her — not to her face, anyway. They mostly avoided her, keeping their distance. Yet Gillian couldn't help but notice their expressions when they looked in her direction— confusion, mistrust, bewilderment. She was some kind of freak, best left alone. But she was trying. Every day she suffered the ordeal of walking across the cafeteria, carrying her tray slowly and carefully to her table in the corner. She hoped it would get easier over time, become more bearable through repetition and routine. So far it hadn't.

Reaching her destination, she sat down in the same chair she sat in every day, with her back against the wall so she could look out over the cafeteria. Then she began to eat with slow, deliberate bites, staring out at the other children with terror and yearning, unable to comprehend their world, yet hoping she could one day be like them.

***

Nick watched Gillian as she made her way down the central aisle of the cafeteria. As she passed by their table, he let out a sharp, yelping bark, like a dog that had been stepped on. The girl flinched, but otherwise didn't acknowledge him. And, much to his dismay, she didn't drop her tray.

'Ha! Told you!' Seshaun gleefully cackled.

Glumly, Nick handed over his chocolate cake, the forfeiture for losing the bet.

'What's her problem, anyway?' he asked, a general question thrown out to the half-dozen boys assembled at the table.

'She's got like a mental condition or something,' one offered. 'I heard Hendel talking about it once.'

Nick grimaced at the name. He was still mad at Hendel for putting him into lockdown.

'Why is she in our class if she's retarded?' he wanted to know.

'She's not retarded, jack-wad,' Seshaun answered. 'She's just weird.'