Mass Effect: The Complete Novels 4-Book Bundle (16 page)

Several news crews were filming the wreckage from a respectful distance away, careful not to interfere with the emergency crews but anxious to get some dramatic footage for the vids.

Saren parked his vehicle beside them, got out, and marched toward the ruins.

“Hey!” one of the batarian emergency workers called out on seeing his approach, running over to intercept him. “You can’t be here. This is a restricted area.”

Saren glared at him and produced his identification.

“Sorry, sir,” the batarian said, stopping short and tilting his head in deference. “I didn’t know you were a Spectre.”

“Any survivors?” Saren demanded.

“Only one,” he replied. “A young woman. She was outside the building when it blew. The blast took her legs, and she has critical burns to ninety percent of her body.

“She’s en route to the hospital now. It’s a miracle she survived, but I don’t think she’s going to make it through the—”

“Take your crew and go,” Saren said, cutting him off.

“What? We can’t! We’re still looking for survivors.”

“There aren’t anymore survivors. You’re done here.”

“What about the bodies? We can’t just leave them like this.”

“The bodies will still be here in the morning. Clear out. That’s an order. And take the damn vid crews with you.”

The batarian hesitated, then acquiesced with another tilt of his head and went to round up his crew. Five minutes later the rescue vehicles and media vans were pulling away, leaving Saren alone to search the wreckage for clues.

“My God,” Kahlee gasped as their rover climbed over a rise and they caught their first glimpse of what had once been the Dah’tan Manufacturing plant. “The whole place is gone!”

It was almost dusk, but Camala’s large orange sun still provided enough light for them to see the destruction clearly.

“Looks like somebody else got here first,” Anderson noted with a grim frown.

“Where are the rescue crews?” Kahlee asked. “They have to know about this by now!”

“I don’t know,” Anderson admitted, grinding the rover to a stop. “Something’s not right. Wait here.”

Hopping out of the vehicle he approached the remains of the building on foot, pistol drawn, running in a quick crouch. He was less than twenty meters away when a single shot ricocheted off the ground just in front of him.

Anderson froze. He was completely exposed and in the open; the shooter could easily have killed him if that was the intent. The shot was meant as a warning.

“Drop your weapon and walk forward!” a voice called out from somewhere in the ruins up ahead. Anderson did as he was ordered, setting his pistol on the ground and continuing on unarmed.

A second later a familiar turian figure emerged from behind the debris he’d been using for cover, his rifle trained directly on Anderson’s chest.

“What are you doing here?” the Spectre demanded.

“The same thing you are,” Anderson said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. “Trying to find out who was behind the attack on Sidon.”

Saren snorted in disgust, but didn’t lower his weapon. “You lied to me, human.” The way he said “human” made it sound like an insult.

Anderson didn’t say anything. The Spectre had found his way to the Dah’tan plant; he was smart enough to put the pieces together.

“Artificial intelligence is a violation of Citadel Conventions,” Saren continued when he didn’t respond. “I
will
report this to the Council.”

Again, Anderson remained silent. He had the impression Saren was still digging for information. Whatever the turian was looking for, Anderson wasn’t going to be the one to accidentally give it to him.

“Who was behind the attack on Sidon?” Saren asked, his voice heavy with the implied threat as he brought the rifle sight up to his eye and took dead aim at the lieutenant’s chest.

“I don’t know,” Anderson admitted, staying perfectly still.

Saren fired a shot into the ground at his feet.

He flinched, but didn’t step back. “I said I don’t know!” he shouted, letting his anger boil over. He was almost certain Saren meant to kill him, but he wasn’t going to go down begging for his life. He wasn’t going to let some turian thug intimidate him!

“Where is Sanders?” Saren barked, changing tactics.

“Somewhere safe,” Anderson snapped back. There was no way in hell he was going to let this monster get anywhere close to Kahlee.

“She’s lying to you,” Saren told him. “She knows much more about this than she’s told you. You should question her again.”

“I’ll run my investigation, you run yours.”

“Maybe I should focus on finding her, then,” he said, his voice dripping with menace. “If I do, my interrogation will uncover all her deepest secrets.”

Anderson felt his muscles tense, but he refused to say anything more about Kahlee.

Realizing the human wasn’t going to rise to the bait, the turian switched topics yet again. “How did you get here?”

“I’m done answering questions,” Anderson said flatly. “If you’re going to kill me, just do it.”

The turian took a long look at the surrounding area, scanning the horizon in the fading light. He seemed to reach some kind of decision, then lowered his weapon.

“I am a Spectre, an agent of the Council,” he declared, a timbre of nobility giving strength to his voice. “I am a servant of justice, sworn to protect and defend the galaxy. Killing you serves no purpose, human.”

Again, the word was a thinly veiled insult.

Saren turned his back and walked away, heading toward the barely visible silhouette of a small rover in the distance. “Go ahead and pick through the rubble if it makes you feel better,” he called back over his shoulder. “There’s nothing left to find here.”

Anderson didn’t make a move until Saren climbed into his rover and sped off. Once the vehicle was out of sight, he turned and retrieved his pistol from the dirt. It was almost dark; there was no point in searching the debris now. And he actually believed what the turian had said about there being nothing left to find at Dah’tan.

Moving carefully through the deepening gloom of the night, it took him several minutes to make his way back to his own rover.

“What happened?” Kahlee asked as he climbed inside. “I thought I saw you talking to someone.”

“Saren,” he told her. “That turian Spectre.”

“What’s he doing here?” she asked, alarmed by the memory of their last encounter and the mere mention of his name.

“Looking for evidence,” Anderson admitted.

“What did he say to you? What did he want?”

He briefly debated telling her a lie; something that would put her mind at ease. But she was a part of this, too. She deserved the truth. Or most of it, anyway.

“I think he was seriously considering killing me.”

Kahlee gasped in horror.

“I can’t be sure,” he added quickly. “Maybe I’m wrong. Turians are hard to read.”

“Don’t give me that crap,” she countered. “You wouldn’t say something like that if you weren’t sure. Tell me what happened.”

“He was fishing for information,” Anderson said. “He’d already figured out we were lying to him about what you were working on at the base.”

“Dah’tan’s not known for making biotic implants,” Kahlee conceded.

“I didn’t tell him anything. Once he realized I wasn’t going to help his investigation he got this hard look in his eyes. That’s when I thought he was going to kill me.”

“But he didn’t.” Her words were half statement, half question.

“He took this slow look around, like he was trying to see if there was anyone else nearby. Then he just walked away.”

“He wanted to know if you were out here alone!” she exclaimed, coming to the same conclusion he had already reached. “He couldn’t kill you if there were any witnesses!”

Anderson nodded. “Legally a Spectre has the right to do whatever he wants. But the Council doesn’t condone wanton murder. If he killed me and someone reported it, they’d step in.”

“You really think the Council would take action if he killed a human?”

“Humanity has more political significance than any of those aliens want to admit,” Anderson explained. “We’ve got enough ships and soldiers to make every other species think twice about crossing us. The Council needs to stay on our good side. If word got out that Spectres were killing Alliance officers without justification, they’d have to do something.”

“So what happens now?”

“We head back to the city. I need to send a message to Ambassador Goyle in the next burst.”

“Why?” Kahlee asked sharply. “What for?” The hint of alarm in her voice reminded him that she was still a fugitive on the run from the Alliance.

“Saren knows humanity’s been conducting illegal AI research. He’s going to report it to the Council. I have to warn her so she’s ready for the political fallout.”

“Of course,” Kahlee replied, her voice a mixture of relief and embarrassment. “Sorry. I just thought …”

“I’m doing everything I can to help you,” he told her, trying to hide how much her suspicion had hurt him. “But I need you to trust me.”

She reached out and put her hand on top of his. “I’m not used to people looking out for me,” she said by way of apology. “My mother was always working and my father … well, you know. Looking out for myself just became habit.

“But I know what you’re risking to help me. Your career. Maybe your life. I’m grateful. And I do trust you … David.”

Nobody ever called him David. Nobody but his mother and his wife.
Ex-wife,
he corrected. For a brief moment he was on the verge of telling Kahlee what Saren had said about focusing his investigation on her, but at the last second he bit his tongue.

He was attracted to Kahlee; he had already admitted that to himself. But he had to remember how much she’d already been through. She was vulnerable; alone and afraid. Telling her about Saren’s threats would only exacerbate those feelings. And while it would probably make her more willing to accept him as her protector and draw them closer together, Anderson wasn’t about to take advantage of a situation like that.

“Let’s get moving,” he said, gently pulling his hand out from under hers and turning the rover back toward the dim glow of the city in the distance.

FIFTEEN

Saren stood at the side of the hospital bed, looking down at the young batarian woman fighting for her life … though in her present condition it was difficult to tell what species she belonged to. Only the four orbs of her eyes gave her away—the only part of her anatomy not covered by the bandages that wrapped her from her head down to where her legs had been amputated just above the knee. Dozens of wires and tubes ran from her body to the nearby machinery keeping her alive: monitoring vital signs; circulating essential fluids; pumping in a steady stream of drugs, antibiotics, and medigel; even breathing for her.

Batarians were on the cutting edge of medical science, and the standard of care at their facilities was among the best in Citadel space. Under normal circumstances she would be receiving around-the-clock attention from the staff, but apart from the two of them the room was empty. Saren had sent the doctors and nurses out once they had updated him on her status, closing the door behind them.

“You can’t do this!” the doctor in charge had protested. “She’s too weak. She won’t make it!” But in the end neither he nor any of the other staff had the courage or the will to defy a direct order from a Spectre.

Generally batarians were a hardy species, but even a krogan would have had difficulty surviving the trauma this patient had been through. Her missing legs were the most obvious injury, but Saren knew her burns were the most horrific. Under the bandages her skin would be all but melted away, exposing the seared flesh and charred tissue beneath. The biolab in the basement was growing skin grafts from samples of her own genetic material, but it would be at least a week before they were ready to begin reconstruction.

The explosion would have scarred her internal organs as well, the pressure from the blast forcing super-heated air and noxious fumes down her throat and damaging them beyond repair. Only the host of incessantly beeping machines kept her alive, struggling to compensate for the failing systems of her body while cloned organs were being grown. However, like the skin grafts, it would be many days before they would be ready.

Rampant infection and massive heart failure brought on by traumatic shock were a constant threat while she was hooked onto the machines. And even if she survived another week, the strain of the numerous surgeries necessary to repair all the damage might be more than her ravaged body could endure.

She was resting peacefully right now; the doctors had put her into a light drug-induced coma to allow all of her energy to be focused on healing. If she responded to treatment, she would come out of the coma spontaneously in three or four days as her condition improved.

However, the fact that they were waiting to see if she regained consciousness before beginning work on prosthetic limbs to replace her legs told Saren everything he needed to know about the patient’s condition. For all the miracles of medical science, organic life was still delicate and fragile, and it wasn’t likely this woman was going to survive.

But Saren didn’t need her to survive. She was a witness to what had happened at Dah’tan—the only living witness. They had identified her by cross-referencing genetic material with an employee data bank: she was a low-level worker in the accounting department. And all Saren wanted was to ask her one question.

He took the syringe the doctor had reluctantly prepared at his order and plunged it into one of the intravenous lines. It was highly unlikely this woman knew anything about the attack on Dah’tan, and even less likely she knew anything about Sidon. But everyone else on duty at the plant was dead, and Saren had a hunch her survival was more than just blind luck. Maybe she had some warning, some knowledge none of the others did that had almost enabled her to escape unscathed. It was a long shot, but one he was more than willing to take.

One of the machines began to beep loudly, responding to her rapidly quickening heart rate as the Spectre pushed the amphetamines into her system. Her body began to quiver, then tremble, then went rigid and stiff as she sat bolt upright. Her eyelids shot open, though the orbs beneath had been cooked blind by the fires. She tried to scream, but the only sound her charred throat and lungs could produce was a rasping wheeze, barely audible from behind her ventilator mask.

Still sitting up, her body went into seizure, rattling the tubes and the metal frame of her hospital bed as she thrashed uncontrollably. After several seconds she fell back, exhausted and spent, panting for breath, her blind eyes closed once more.

Saren leaned in close to her melted ears, speaking loudly so she could hear him. “Jella? Jella? Turn your head if you can hear me!” At first there was nothing, then her head moved feebly from one side to the other.

“I need to know who did this!” Saren shouted, trying to pierce her veil of pain and drugs. “I just want a name. Do you understand? Just tell me the name!”

He reached over and lifted her breathing mask so she could speak. Her lips moved, but nothing came out.

“Jella!” he shouted again. “Louder, Jella! Don’t let the bastard get away with it! Who did this to you?”

Her words were barely more than a whisper, but Saren heard them clearly. “Edan. Edan Had’dah.”

Satisfied, he replaced her breathing mask and pulled a second syringe from his pocket. This one would put her back into the coma, giving her at least a fighting chance for survival.

He hesitated before administering it. As a Spectre, he was familiar with the reputation of the man she’d identified. A ruthless businessman who operated on both sides of batarian law, Edan had always been careful not to involve himself in anything that would draw the attention of the Council or its agents. He had never shown any interest in artificial intelligence research before.

Saren’s train of thought was momentarily broken by the sound of Jella coughing and gagging in her bed. Dark specks spattered the inside of the ventilator mask, blood and pus expelled from her lungs with each choking breath.

There was more to the raid on Sidon than batarian nationalism or antihuman terrorism, he realized. Edan didn’t mix politics and business. And it wasn’t just about money—Edan had plenty of other ways to make a profit that didn’t incur the risk of Spectre involvement. There was something strange going on here. Something he wanted to investigate in more depth.

Jella’s body began to convulse; the beeping of the machines became a single high-pitched whine as her stats dropped below critical levels. Saren stood motionless, watching as her numbers plummeted while he considered his next course of action.

Edan had built a magnificent mansion near the city of Ujon, Camala’s capital. Saren doubted he’d find him there now. Edan was a careful, cautious man. Even if he was sure nobody knew about his connection to Sidon, he’d have gone into hiding the moment he learned someone survived the attack, just to be safe. He could be anywhere by now.

No,
Saren corrected himself, ignoring the frantic beeping of the machines and the violent spasms still rocking Jella’s body.
Edan wouldn’t have risked trying to clear port security.
Not if there was even the slimmest chance someone already knew about his involvement. Which meant he was probably still hiding somewhere on Camala.

But there were plenty of places Edan could hide on this world. He controlled a number of mining and refinery operations; enormous plants spread across the entire surface of the planet. Most likely he was holed up at one of these. The problem was figuring out which one. There were literally hundreds of those facilities on Camala. It would take months to properly search them all. And Saren suspected he didn’t have that kind of time.

Jella was still thrashing uncontrollably, trapped in the throes of her ravaged body’s desperate struggle to survive. But she was growing weaker now, her strength ebbing away. Saren idly twirled the hypodermic that might save her between his fingers, still considering the problem of Edan as he waited for her to expire.

It had been obvious the humans didn’t know who was behind the attacks, so Saren didn’t see any reason to share this latest information with the Council. At least not yet. He’d tell them about the illegal AI research at Sidon, of course. It would cause serious trouble for the Alliance, and draw attention away from his own continuing investigation into Edan’s involvement. But until he knew exactly why the batarian considered the rewards of this mission worth the incredible risk, he’d keep Edan’s name out of the reports. Now all he had to do was figure out how to find him.

Two minutes later, Jella was finally still. The turian checked her body for any signs of life, confirming what the monitors already told him: she was gone. Only now did he take the syringe and inject it into the IV, knowing it was too late to have any affect. Then he carefully placed the empty needle in plain view on a small table near the bed.

He walked slowly to the door, unlocked it, and turned the knob. Outside, the doctor in charge of Jella was waiting, pacing anxiously in the hall. He turned to face the turian as he emerged from the room.

“We heard the machines …” the doctor said, trailing off.

“You were right,” Saren told him, his voice showing no hint of emotion. “Jella was too weak. She didn’t make it.”

Ambassador Goyle marched purposefully across the rolling green fields of the Presidium toward the Citadel Tower rising up in the distance, her brisk, compact strides at odds with the gentle serenity of her surroundings. The tranquil beauty of the simulated sunshine reflecting on the central lake did nothing to calm her mood. She’d received Anderson’s warning less than an hour before she’d been given the summons to appear in front of the Council. The timing couldn’t be coincidence; they knew about the AI research. And that meant there was going to be hell to pay.

She ran through various scenarios in her mind as she walked, planning what she would say when she faced them. Pleading lack of knowledge wasn’t an option: Sidon was an officially recognized Alliance base. Even if they believed her false claims that she knew nothing about their research, there was no way to separate the base’s illegal actions from humanity as a whole. It would only make it appear as if she was a figurehead with no real power.

Being contrite and apologetic was another tactic, but she doubted that would have any influence on the severity of the punishments the Council would levy against humanity and the Alliance. And, like feigning ignorance, it would come across as a sign of weakness.

By the time she reached the base of the Tower, she knew there was only one option. She had to go on the attack.

A scale model statue of a mass relay stood off to her left; a twenty-foot-tall replica of the Protheans’ greatest technological achievement that welcomed visitors approaching the heart of the galaxy’s most magnificent space station. It was a striking piece of art, but the ambassador was in no mood to stop and admire it.

She marched up to the guards standing at the Tower’s only entrance, then waited impatiently while they confirmed her identity. She was pleased to note that one of the guards was human. The number of humans employed in critical positions throughout the Citadel seemed to grow every day; further evidence of how valuable her species had become to the galactic community in only a few short years. It strengthened her resolve as she entered the elevator that would rocket her up the outside of the Tower to the Council Chamber.

The elevator was transparent; as she shot heavenward she could see the whole of the Presidium stretched out beneath her. As she climbed even higher she could see beyond the edges of the Citadel’s inner ring. In the distance were the flickering lights of the wards, extending out of sight along the Citadel’s five arms.

The view was spectacular, but the ambassador did her best to ignore it. It was no accident that the grandeur of the Citadel was on full display here. Though they held no official power, the three individuals who made up the Council were for all intents and purposes the rulers of the civilized galaxy. The prospect of meeting them face-to-face was a humbling experience, even for someone as politically savvy as the Alliance’s top ambassador. And she knew enough to understand that the long elevator ride to the apex of the Tower had been carefully crafted to make visitors feel awed and overwhelmed long before they ever got to meet the Council itself.

In less than a minute she was at the top, her stomach lurching slightly at the deceleration as the elevator slowed, then stopped. Or maybe it was just nerves. The doors opened and she stepped into the long hallway that served as an anteroom to the Council Chamber.

At the end of the hall was a broad staircase leading up, with wide passages branching off to either side at its foot. Six honor guards—two turians, two salarians, and two asari, a pair of each species represented on the Council—stood at attention along either wall. She passed them by without acknowledging their presence; they served no purpose beyond pomp and circumstance.

One step at a time she climbed the stairs. As she ascended, the walls fell away, revealing the glory of the Council Chamber. It resembled the Roman amphitheaters of ancient Earth, a large oval with seats for thousands of spectators lining each side. Built into the floor on either end were raised platforms hewn from the same virtually impervious material that made up the rest of the station. The stairs she was climbing right now would bring her to the top of one of these platforms: the Petitioner’s Stage. From here she would look across the vast chamber to the opposite stage, where the Council would be seated to hear her case.

As the ambassador stepped out onto the Petitioner’s Stage and approached the podium, she was relieved to see that none of the spectator seats were occupied. Although their decision would be made public, it was obvious the Council wanted to keep the exact nature of this meeting with the Alliance secret. That further strengthened her resolve: part of her had feared this would be nothing but a spectacle for public show, with no chance for her to defend the actions of humanity.

At the far end, the members of the Council were already seated. The asari councillor was in the center, directly across from Ambassador Goyle. To her left, Goyle’s right, was the turian councillor. To the asari’s right was the salarian representative. Above each of them was a five-meter-tall holographic projection of their head and shoulders, allowing petitioners to clearly see the reactions of each individual Council member despite the distance between the two stages.