Mass Effect: The Complete Novels 4-Book Bundle (15 page)

Funny,
Anderson thought.
I was wondering the same thing about you.

“For today,” Grissom replied. “Next time you see him you might want to turn around and walk in the other direction, though.”

“The Alliance has solid security,” the young man admitted, speaking with a casual nonchalance as he worked. “Getting in is tough, but it’s not impossible.”

“What about the purges?” Kahlee asked. Anderson looked at her quizzically and she explained for his benefit. “Every ten hours the Alliance runs a full security sweep on their systems to track down and quarantine any new data coming into the system. It lets them identify fraudulent data and trace it back to the source.”

“I plant a little self-regressive algorithm in the data before I upload it,” the kid explained, bragging more than just a little. “Something I came up with myself. By the time they run the security sweep your data will be back online and all traces of Corporal Weathers or these phony authorizations will be long gone. They can’t trace something that isn’t there.”

Kahlee nodded in appreciation, and the man gave her a wink and a leering smile that made Anderson’s fist involuntarily clench. It wasn’t jealousy. Not exactly. Kahlee was his responsibility now. It was only natural he’d instinctively want to protect her. But he had to be careful not to overreact.

Fortunately nobody had noticed; they were all focused on the young man and his work. “They might have a physical description of you, too,” he warned Kahlee. “We better change your appearance, just in case.”

He digitally altered the existing photo on Kahlee’s ID, darkening and shortening her hair, changing the color of her eyes, and deepening the pigments of her skin. Then he had her pop a handful of pigment pills. Next he used shaded contact lenses, hair dye, and a pair of scissors to make Kahlee’s physical appearance match her digital image. He seemed to enjoy it a little too much for Anderson’s comfort, working the dye into her hair for several minutes and lingering a little too long over her locks before he cut them.

By the time he was finished with her hair Kahlee’s skin had become almost as dark as Anderson’s. The kid stood directly in front of Kahlee and held the ID up beside her face, comparing the image to the real thing. “Not bad,” he said appreciatively, though it wasn’t clear if he was talking about his work or Kahlee herself.

“Your skin will start to lighten up again by tomorrow,” he told her, standing up and holding out the reinvented Alliance ID card. “So be careful. You won’t match the pic anymore.”

“Shouldn’t matter,” she said with a shrug. “Corporal Weathers won’t even exist in the system by then anyway, right?”

He didn’t answer, but gave her another sly wink and let his fingers rub suggestively against hers as she took the ID from him. Anderson had to restrain himself from punching the slimeball right in the face.
She’s not your wife,
he thought to himself.
Helping her won’t make up for eight years of ignoring Cynthia.

When all was said and done, however, the lieutenant had to admit the kid’s forgery was good. He had special training to recognize fraudulent documents, and even though he knew they were fakes he couldn’t tell them from the real thing.

This was the true test, however: running her thumbprint through the scanners at the port authority.

“Here you go, Corporal Weathers,” the guard said, handing the altered documentation back to Kahlee after glancing briefly at his screen to confirm her identity. “You need to head to bay thirty-two. Way down at the far end.”

“Thank you,” Kahlee said with a smile. The guard nodded, snapped a crisp salute off to Anderson, then sat down and went back to the paperwork on his desk as they turned and walked away.

“Take a look to see if he’s still watching us,” Anderson whispered once they were out of earshot. They were still heading in the direction of bay thirty-two, but of course that wasn’t their real destination.

Kahlee glanced back, coyly peeking over her shoulder. If the guard was watching them he’d hopefully just think the young corporal found him attractive enough to sneak a second look. But he was completely focused on the screen at his desk, the model of efficiency as he rapidly typed away at the keyboard.

“All clear,” Kahlee answered.

“This is it,” Anderson said, turning sharply into the entrance of bay seventeen and pulling her with him.

There was an old cargo freighter in the bay, a loading sled, and a number of heavy shipping crates. At first glance there didn’t seem to be anybody in the bay, and then a short, heavyset man stepped out from the other side of the ship.

“Any problems with the guard?” he asked.

Kahlee shook her head.

“You know why we’re here?” Anderson asked, not even bothering to ask the man’s name, which he knew would never be given.

“Grissom filled me in.”

“How do you know my father?” Kahlee asked, curious.

He regarded her coldly for a second then said, “If he wanted you to know, he probably would’ve told you himself.” Turning away he added, “We’re scheduled to lift off in a couple hours. Follow me.”

Most of the space inside the ship’s hold was filled with cargo; there was barely enough room for the two of them to sit down, but they did the best they could. As soon as they were settled, the man sealed the door and they were plunged into complete darkness.

Kahlee was sitting right across from him, but with no light it was impossible for Anderson to even make out her silhouette. He could, however, feel the outside of her leg pressing up against his—there simply wasn’t room for either of them to pull away. The closeness was unsettling; he hadn’t been with a woman since he and Cynthia had separated.

“I’m not looking forward to the next six hours,” he said, looking to distract his inappropriate thoughts with conversation. Even though he spoke softly his words seemed unnaturally loud in the blackness.

“I’m more worried about what we’ll do once we reach Camala,” Kahlee answered, a disembodied voice in the gloom. “Dah’tan’s not just going to hand their files over to us.”

“I’m still working on that,” Anderson admitted. “I’m hoping I’ll come up with a plan on the trip.”

“We should have plenty of time to think,” Kahlee answered. “There’s not even enough room here to lay down and get some sleep.”

After a few minutes she spoke again, changing topics without warning. “Before my mother died I promised her I’d never speak to my father again.”

Anderson was momentarily caught off guard by the personal confession, but he recovered quickly. “I think she’d understand.”

“It must have been a shock for you,” she continued. “Seeing the most famous Alliance soldier in a state like that.”

“I’m a little surprised,” he admitted. “When I was in the Academy your father was always portrayed as the embodiment of everything the Alliance stood for: courage, determination, self-sacrifice, honor. Seems a little strange that he knows the kind of people who can sneak us off a world like this.”

“Are you disappointed?” she asked. “Knowing the great Jon Grissom associates with forgers and smugglers?”

“Considering our situation, I’d be a hypocrite if I said yes,” he joked. Kahlee didn’t laugh.

“When you hear about someone for so long you assume you know something about them,” he said in a more somber tone. “It’s easy to confuse the reputation with the real person. It’s only when you meet them that you realize you never really knew anything at all.”

“Yeah,” Kahlee said thoughtfully. And then they were silent for a long, long time.

FOURTEEN

Jella had worked in the personnel and accounting department of Dah’tan Manufacturing for four years. She was a good employee: organized, meticulous, and thorough—all valuable assets for anyone in her occupation. On her performance evaluations she routinely scored above average to excellent. But according to her official job description she was “support staff.” She wasn’t “essential” to the company. The hardware designers were at the top of the corporate hierarchy; their innovations brought in the customers. And the people who worked the plant floor actually created the product. All she did was balance the sales figures with the inventory supplies.

She was nothing but an afterthought to those in charge … and her pay reflected it. Jella worked as hard as anyone in the company, but she was paid a mere fraction of what the designers and manufacturers earned. It wasn’t fair. Which was why she felt no guilt over stealing from the company.

It wasn’t like she was selling critical corporate secrets. She never did anything large enough to draw attention; she was only siphoning off tiny drops from the overflowing corporate bucket. Sometimes she’d alter purchase orders or manipulate supply records. Occasionally she’d make sure inventory was left unsecured and unregistered in the warehouse overnight. The next morning it would be mysteriously missing; moved by someone on the warehouse staff who was in on the deal.

Jella had no idea who took the inventory away, just as she had no idea who was behind the thefts. That was how she liked it. Once or twice a month she’d receive an anonymous call at the office, she’d play her part, and within a few days payment would be credited to her private financial accounts.

Today was no different. Or so she tried to tell herself as she walked down the hall, attempting to appear casual and hoping nobody would notice her. But there was something strange about this request. She’d been asked to shut down one of the security cameras and disable the alarm codes on one of the entrances. Someone wanted to sneak into the building undetected … and they were doing it in the middle of the day.

It was a stupid risk. Even if they somehow got inside, they were sure to be noticed; Dah’tan had regular security teams patrolling the entire plant. And if they were caught, they might give up Jella as the one who’d let them in. But the offer had been too good to turn down—triple what she’d ever been paid for a job before. In the end, greed had won out over common sense.

She paused near one of the emergency exits, directly beneath the security camera trained on the door. Quickly glancing around to make sure nobody was watching, she reached up with the screwdriver she’d taken from a tool belt hanging in the utility closet and jammed it into the back of the camera, taking out the power cell.

It sparked, startling her. She let out a little scream and dropped the screwdriver, her fingers tingling slightly from the shock. Hastily, she bent down and picked it up from the carpet, looking around to see if anyone had noticed her sabotage. The hall was still empty.

She looked up at the camera and saw a thin ribbon of white smoke wisping out the back. The power light was dead. If anyone up in central security looked over at the monitor for this camera they would notice it was out. But the guards barely even glanced at the monitors during the day. Not with the patrols wandering the halls and the building filled with staff. Only a fool would try to break in during business hours.

Even if they did notice the outage, there were over a hundred security cameras in the facility. One seemed to malfunction every other week. The most anyone would do would be to put in a maintenance request to get it fixed before the end of the shift. Satisfied, Jella continued down the hall to the security door.

She typed in an employee code to disable the alarm and open the lock. She didn’t use her own code, of course. One advantage of working in her department was that she had access to personnel files. She knew the building entry codes for half the people in the facility.

When the light on the door panel went from red to green, Jella’s part was done. All she had to do was head back to her office and continue her work as if nothing was wrong.

But once she returned to her desk, the bad feeling she had about this particular job continued to grow, making her feel queasy. After about twenty minutes She’n’ya, the woman she shared the small office with, must have noticed something was wrong.

“Are you okay, Jella? You look a bit flushed.”

Jella’s stomach nearly lurched out of her throat at the sound of the other woman’s voice. “I’m … I’m not feeling well,” she replied, hoping she didn’t sound as guilty as she felt. “I think I’m going to be sick,” she added, jumping to her feet and running to the bathroom to throw up.

Jella was still in there ten minutes later when the shooting started.

The mission was simple and straightforward, but Skarr still didn’t like it. It had taken a day for them to assemble everything he’d said he’d need for the assault: explosives, a strike team of thirty mercs, including himself, and three rovers for transportation.

For reasons of corporate security and customer confidentiality, Dah’tan Manufacturing was located on three acres of private property well beyond the outskirts of Hatre. Every kilometer of the drive out there ate away at Skarr, and also at the limited time they had to do the job. Somebody was sure to have noticed him at the spaceport; somebody who would report him to Saren. The Spectre was probably already on his way to Camala … and getting closer with every passing second.

The facility consisted of a single structure that housed the warehouse, factory, and offices. The grounds were surrounded by a chain-link fence, with several signs that read “Private Property” and “No Admittance” in all the various batarian dialects common to Camala.

Not that this deterred Skarr and his mercs. The rovers simply drove right through the fence, flattening it as they bore down on the lonely building on the horizon. Half a kilometer away they parked the rovers and continued across the barren desert terrain on foot. Approaching the factory on the side opposite the warehouse loading bays to avoid detection, they reached the building without incident.

Skarr was relieved to find the security entrance at the back unlocked—Edan’s source inside had come through. But they still had to work quickly if they wanted to get in and out before Saren showed up.

Corporate paranoia was as much a part of batarian culture as their rigid caste system, and Dah’tan was no different. Unwilling to trust anyone else with sensitive information, all records and archives were kept on site: destroying the facility would wipe out all evidence that could lead back to Edan.

Each rover carried ten mercs. Skarr left eight men outside with sniper rifles to cover the exits, a pair stationed on each side of the building. The others were broken into seven infiltration teams of three members each.

“The bombs will detonate in fifteen minutes,” Skarr reminded them.

The infiltration teams scattered, heading off down the various branching corridors leading to all the different areas of the facility. Their objective was to plant a number of strategically placed explosives; enough to reduce the entire building to ash and rubble. Along the way they’d take out the security patrols and mow down any employees they ran across. Anyone who fled the building would be shot by the mercs waiting outside. And any survivors who managed to hide inside the building would be killed by the explosions or burned alive when the incendiary charges were detonated.

With the snipers posted outside and the infiltration teams making their way toward the heart of the complex, Skarr was left alone to complete a very specific task. Edan had given him the name, description, and office location of his contact inside Dah’tan. It was unlikely the young woman knew whom she was working for, but the batarian didn’t want to leave any loose ends.

The krogan made his way quickly through the halls toward the admin offices near the front of the building. From somewhere far away he heard the sound of gunfire and batarian voices screaming—the massacre had begun.

Moments later sirens started ringing. Skarr rounded a corner and nearly ran into a pair of Dah’tan security guards rushing to respond to the alarm. The two batarians hesitated for a mere instant, caught off guard by the sight of a heavily armored krogan crashing through the halls. Skarr seized the opportunity and smashed the butt of his assault rifle into one guard’s face, sending him reeling backwards. At the same time he threw his body into the second guard, his mass bowling the much smaller man over and sending them both tumbling to the floor. As they rolled together on the ground Skarr leveraged the barrel of his gun under his adversary’s chin and pulled the trigger, removing most of everything above the neck.

The first guard was just getting to his feet, still dazed and bleeding from his mouth. He fired his own weapon, but his aim was erratic and he only managed to rip a line of holes in the wall above where Skarr and the corpse of his friend were sprawled across the floor. Skarr responded by firing down the corridor, shredding his enemy’s ankles and calves.

The batarian screamed and fell forward, dropping his gun as he threw his arms out to break his fall. Another burst from Skarr finished him off an instant after he hit the ground.

Leaping to his feet, the bounty hunter lumbered down the hall toward the office of Edan’s contact. The door was closed but he simply kicked it in, sending it flying off its hinges. A young batarian woman was crouching on the floor, only half-hidden behind her desk. She screamed when she saw the gore-covered krogan standing in the doorway.

“Good-bye, Jella,” Skarr said.

“No! Please! I’m not—”

The rest of her words were cut off as he squeezed the trigger, drowned out by the hail of bullets that riddled her body and blew it across the floor to the back wall of the room.

Skarr glanced quickly at his watch. Seven more minutes until the explosives detonated. Part of him wanted to spend the time searching the halls for more victims, but he knew that wasn’t an option. It was too easy to lose himself in the bloodlust of his ancient ancestors. Swept up in battle fury, he could easily lose track of time in a slaughter like this, and he had no intention of being inside the building when it blew.

He made his way quickly back to the exit, ignoring the sweet screams of pain and terror beckoning to him from every corridor he passed.

Jella did her best to block out the staccato bursts of gunfire and the horrific screams of her coworkers. She was hiding inside the bathroom air vent—a tight fit but she had managed to wedge herself in. In her mind she could picture the scene outside, and she had no intention of leaving her hiding place.

Time passed with agonizing slowness; the sounds of the attack seemed to go on for hours, though in reality it was only a few minutes. She heard voices outside the bathroom door and she tried to scooch herself back even farther into the air shaft.

The door flew open and a pair of batarians leaped in, their automatic weapons already firing. They sprayed the entire room with bullets, reducing the thin sheet metal of the stall doors to ribbons, shattering the ceramic toilets and sinks and bursting several of the water pipes in the walls.

Fortunately Jella’s hiding place was high up on the wall above one of the stalls—she’d mounted one of the toilets and clambered up onto the dividers between the stalls to remove the air vent’s cover. Then she’d slid in feet first and carefully pulled the cover back into place once she was safely hidden inside.

From her vantage point she had a perfect view of the carnage, though she closed her eyes and covered her ears with her palms to try and block out the deafening retorts of their weapons. Only when the gunfire finally ended did she dare to open her eyes again.

The men were taking a last look around the bathroom, splashing noisily through the water gushing from the broken pipes, spreading out across the floor like a miniature lake.

“Nobody here,” one of them said with a shrug.

“Too bad,” the other replied. “I was hoping we could catch one of the women and drag her off with us for a little fun.”

“Forget it,” the other said with a shake of his head. “That krogan would never go for it.”

“Edan’s the one paying us, not him,” his partner spat back. Jella instantly knew who he was talking about: Edan Had’dah was one of the most wealthy, powerful, and infamous individuals on Camala.

“I dare you to say that to his face,” the first man said with a laugh, even as he crouched down and attached something to the wall. A moment later he stood up. “Let’s move. We need to be out of here in two minutes.”

The men ran off down the hallway, their footsteps echoing in the distance. Jella crawled slowly forward from her hiding place, trying to see what they had placed on the wall. It was about the size of a lunch box, with wires running into it from all sides. Even though she had no military training or experience, it was obvious the device was some kind of bomb.

She paused for a moment, listening for more gunfire. Everything was silent except for a faint
beep-beep-beep
as the timer on the explosive counted down. Jella knocked the cover off the ventilation shaft and dropped down to the floor. She ran out of the bathroom, sprinting down the corridor toward the same security exit she had unlocked earlier, unwittingly allowing the slaughter to happen.

But she couldn’t think about that now. Refusing to even glance at the bodies of her coworkers in the hallway, she reached the door and yanked it open. Two men from the warehouse lay just outside, each shot between the eyes.

Jella hesitated, expecting a similar fate. But whoever had killed the men was gone, clearing the surrounding area before the building detonated. As soon as her shell-shocked mind grasped the fact that she was still alive, the young woman put her head down and ran. She managed half a dozen steps before the explosion turned her world to fire, agony, and then darkness.

By the time Saren arrived at the Dah’tan Manufacturing facility, the place was in ruins. Emergency response crews had put out the fires, but the building was little more than a burned-out shell. The top two floors had collapsed and one of the walls had caved inwards, reducing the interior to a pile of scorched rubble. Rescue workers were busy picking through the debris. Looking at the scene it was obvious they weren’t looking for survivors; they were collecting remains.