Just a BioWare Fan

Something’s Gotta Give

In a low voice, Kaidan told the group about the camera and microphone he’d found in Jenkins’s crushed pin. “I wasn’t about to confront Udina right there but Captain Anderson and I thought you should know.”

Pressly leaned back with a low whistle. “No wonder they always put the spike-heads on the right.” Jenkins, whose eyes were already round with surprise, turned to stare at the navigator as comprehension dawned. Pressly nodded knowingly, as though none of this were a surprise to him.

A passing wave of suspicion left Kaidan dismayed. Pressly enjoyed the way Jenkins looked up to the more-senior officers and was just playing the world-weary cynic. He didn’t exactly embrace alien relations but there was no way he was a good enough actor to have sat through all of those discussions about the insignia with Kaidan and Anderson without giving away that he knew something.

Two more relatively uneventful weeks passed, filled with work and practice and three performances. On a Thursday evening the band met in the same corridor in which they’d gathered for their first Turian-Human dinner show.

Ambassador Udina strode down the crowded hall toward them, nose first, in one of his innumerable white tunics. He gave the crew a once-over before every performance, though he’d never found reason to complain. His persistence finally paid off.

“Where’s your pin?” Udina snapped at Jenkins.

The corporal paled and fumbled with a flap on his dress blues. “Sorry, sir,” he said. “I just had my uniform cleaned and I hadn’t put it back on, yet.” His shaking hand fished out the little note but it fell from his fingers. Udina made an impatient noise that prompted Anderson to step in to help.

The men met Chakwas at the rear entrance to the hall where the first reception was held. The dim corridor bustled with people of every species, the work that went on behind the scenes that few people even considered. Jenkins kept dodging trays of one thing or another that the serving crew carried past at impressive speed.

“Turians can’t even eat real food,” Pressly observed as a passing tray of some mysterious meat left a lingering, pungent odor. “The cooks have to make two full meals.”

“Half the species in the galaxy have different metabolisms,” Kaidan said, irked a bit by the navigator’s superior attitude. “It’s not like they chose to evolve that way, any more than we did.” Pressly shrugged and they both dropped it.

Kaidan hadn’t thought about how awkward parties would be to throw on the Citadel. You’d have to make sure that the right species got the right food or all of your guests would be off to the infirmary instead of celebrating. As he pondered how much must have gone into pulling off Chakwas’s birthday party Udina strode down the hall, beak of a nose in the air, impatiently maneuvering around various aliens without ever deigning to speak to them.

After a quick stop at home, Kaidan grabbed a cab for the open park in which Dr. Chakwas's birthday party was being held. He stepped out, trumpet case in one hand and tux draped over the opposite shoulder, eying the stage visible in the distance with Joker's keyboard standing on one side. Deep blue curtains had been set up to create a small backstage area.

As he walked over he eyed the crowd, drinks and hors d'oeuvres in hand or talon, groups mixing and reforming as everyone greeted or introduced each other. It seemed the good doctor had friends of many races. A few dozen colorfully-dressed Asari chatted with white-clad Salarians and face-painted Turians in muted tunics. He saw a few enviro-suited Volus and even a Quarian standing with a trio of enormous Elcor. Humans circulated as well, most in Alliance navy but a few in civilian clothes. He hadn't expected such a crowd. The butterflies of excitement grew a little more frantic. Kaidan increased his pace and ducked behind the stage with relief.

He found Anderson already there and half-changed. “Quite a gathering out there,” he observed. Anderson grunted in agreement. It seemed Kaidan wasn't the only one intimidated by the size of their audience. As he pulled off his shirt Pressly stepped through the hanging cloth with a whistle.

The group ended up getting together every two or three days, each time pretending indifference but leaving with smiles on their faces. Chakwas had put together a fabulous set, upbeat tunes and fun songs all, classics sure to get toes tapping and hips moving. The mix of featured instruments allowed each of them to shine without anyone being overshadowed. They enjoyed showing off in the safety of their practice room, getting inventive with their solos and throwing in key and tempo changes to keep each other on their toes. Kaidan couldn’t remember a group with which he’d so quickly clicked. He hadn’t had a migraine since their second rehearsal and his staff had caught him humming in the halls on-duty more than once.

As Dr. Chakwas’s birthday drew near their nerves began to show, however. Everyone started making mistakes more frequently and Kaidan thought Jenkins might break down altogether when they met for a rehearsal the night before the party. “I’ve never played in front of strangers,” he confided afterward when he, Kaidan, and Anderson had stopped for a drink. “I mean, the families of my friends or the crew on-board, sure, but no one who wouldn’t have clapped no matter how badly I squeaked my reed.” He looked positively nauseous.