Mass Effect: The Complete Novels 4-Book Bundle (37 page)

“You were supposed to wait for the nurse,” Hendel said in an angry voice.

Grayson shrugged his hand off. “Every second we stay here Gillian could be in danger. I’m done waiting.”

“Where are you going to go?” Hendel challenged. “Where do you think you can take her that Cerberus won’t find you?”

“I know people in the Terminus Systems,” he answered quickly, knowing he had to tell them something. “People I trust.”

“Who’s that? Your dust dealer?”

Grayson didn’t answer, but simply turned away. Hendel grabbed him again and spun him around, grabbing his shirt and slamming him up against the wall. Pinned there, he saw Gillian watching the confrontation with a look of pure terror.

“Wait!” Kahlee said, stepping in to separate them. “What if we came with you?”

Both men just looked at her like she was crazy.

“You want to get Gillian out of here,” she said to Grayson, speaking quickly. “What if we come with you? I can monitor Gillian’s implants, and Hendel has basic medical training.”

Neither man replied, though Hendel did let go of Grayson’s shirt and took a step back.

“If you’re really hiding from a terrorist group then you’ll need all the help you can get,” Kahlee added.

“How do I know I can trust you two?” Grayson asked in a guarded tone.

“Hendel already saved Gillian’s life once,” Kahlee reminded him. “As for me, you’ll just have to go with your instincts.”

Grayson nodded, this unexpected scenario already playing out in his head. It wasn’t the ideal situation, but every second he was still on the station brought him closer to being exposed. All he needed to do was get clear of the Academy, then he could deal with these two on his own terms.

But first he had to sell it. “You understand what this means, right? You’ll probably both lose your jobs.”

Kahlee exchanged glances with Hendel. She turned back to Grayson and nodded solemnly.

“Fine. You two can come,” he said. “But we have to leave right now, and we don’t tell anyone where we’re going. If there are other Cerberus agents here at the Academy, I don’t want to give them a chance to follow us.”

“Fair enough,” Kahlee agreed, then turned to Hendel. “Are you in?”

He hesitated before responding. “If I’m going to keep an eye on Gillian—and you—then it looks like I don’t have a choice.” He met Grayson’s glare. “I’m in.”

Grayson turned back to Gillian, crouching down slightly so that their eyes were level. She still looked terrified.

“It’s okay, Gigi,” he said softly. “Nobody’s mad anymore. Now we’re all going to go on a trip together, okay?”

It took several seconds for her mind to process the situation, then the fear slipped away, replaced with her typical neutral expression. She nodded.

The four of them made their way through the hospital and down the corridor toward the landing bays. Five minutes later they were at security. Despite several curious looks from the guards on duty, they got through with a quick word from Hendel. Ten minutes after that they were on board the ship and pulling away from the station, Grayson at the controls while Hendel, Kahlee, and Gillian were strapped into the passenger seats near the back.

He had Gillian, and he was away from the Academy. And as soon as they accelerated to faster-than-light speed, it would be impossible for anyone to track them. Of course he still had to figure out a way to deal with his two unwanted tagalongs, but he was already working on a plan for that.

A physical confrontation was out of the question. Not only was the security chief bigger than him, he was also a biotic with a pistol strapped to his hip. And he knew from the personnel files he’d studied that both Mitra and Sanders had advanced hand-to-hand combat training.

If you hadn’t been half-stoned when you started this trip you might have been smart enough to pack a weapon of your own up here in the cockpit.

He didn’t have anything to drug them with, and even if he did he doubted Hendel would let down his guard long enough to take any offered food or drink without making sure it hadn’t been tampered with.

Fortunately, Grayson wasn’t alone in this. He typed in a quick coded message, then sent it off before plotting a course for Omega.

Let’s see how Hendel deals with Pel and his team,
he thought, feeling the faint push of g-forces pressing him into his seat as the ship accelerated to FTL.

Only then did he allow himself a long, slow sigh of relief.

FOURTEEN

Six standard weeks ago Lemm’Shal nar Tesleya had chosen, like many young and naïve quarians before him, to visit Omega during his Pilgrimage. Foolishly romanticizing what life must be like outside the rigid confines of the Migrant Fleet, he had been fascinated by the idea of millions of inhabitants from all the different species and cultures living in such close proximity, unfettered by laws or government. He’d expected to find adventure and excitement around every corner, as well as the freedom to do whatever he wanted.

It hadn’t taken him very long to discover the harsh reality: Omega was a cesspool of violence and depravity. Pointless, random death lurked in the shadows and alleys. The station was a haven for slavers, and he witnessed firsthand weeping men, women, and children being bought and sold like chattel. Within a week he’d come to understand that the so-called freedom of Omega was a perversion of the word. With no laws or government, Rule of Force was the order of the day; the strong thrived and the weak suffered horribly. But nobody can stay strong forever, and he knew that even those on top would one day find themselves brought low.

He had also learned that the inhabitants of Omega lived in constant fear, wrapping themselves in cloaks of anger and hate to keep it at bay. Driven by selfishness and greed, their lives were brutal, short, and miserable. He pitied their wretched existence, and gave thanks to his ancestors for the strong sense of belonging and community fostered among his own people. And so he had left Omega behind, continuing his journey across half a dozen worlds in the Terminus Systems.

He realized now that the new appreciation he had gained for quarian society, and its underlying tenets of altruism and sacrifice for the greater good, was at the core of the Pilgrimage. Many left the Migrant Fleet as children, inexperienced and rebellious. After seeing how other societies lived, most returned as adults: wiser and dedicated to upholding the cherished ideals of quarian culture. Of course, there were always a few who chose not to return, rejecting the flotilla’s collectivism for the trials and tribulations of a lonely, solitary existence.

Lemm had no intention of being one of those, but he couldn’t go back to the Fleet yet. For though he had learned an important lesson, his Pilgrimage was not yet complete. In order to return he first had to find something of significant value to quarian society, then present it as a gift to one of the ship captains. If his gift was accepted, he would lose the surname of nar Tesleya, and take the vas surname of his new captain’s vessel.

That was why he had come back to Omega, despite his contempt for the place. That was why he was here prowling the streets, looking for a quarian named Golo.

The name was infamous among the inhabitants of the Migrant Fleet. Unlike those who chose to leave the flotilla of their own accord, or those who never returned from their Pilgrimage, Golo had been banished by the Admiralty. Branded a traitor to his people, Golo had gone to the one place in the galaxy that most mocked everything the quarians stood for and believed in. Somehow he had survived and even profited during his exile, though in Lemm’s mind this only reaffirmed the decision to banish him. Anyone who could carve a life for themselves out of the vile fabric of Omega’s tattered society had to be cruel, ruthless, and completely untrustworthy.

Lemm was traveling light. He wore a simple armored enviro-suit equipped with standard kinetic barriers, and a backpack of supplies slung over his shoulder. His most prized possession—a gift bestowed upon him before embarking on his Pilgrimage by the captain of the
Tesleya
—was his shotgun: a turian manufactured Armax Arsenal high-caliber weapon, customized with advanced autotargeting and reduced kickback mods.

His shotgun wasn’t all he was armed with, however. Before leaving the flotilla, all quarians were given a rigorous, six-month program to prepare them for the weeks, months, or even years they might need to survive on their own before their rite of passage came to an end. The varied curriculum included weapons and combat training; lessons in the history, biology, and culture of all major known species; basic first aid; rudimentary instruction on piloting and navigation for a wide variety of common spacecraft; and specific technological skills such as decryption, electronics, and computer hacking.

Every quarian who left the safety of the Fleet was well prepared to face the dangerous situations they would encounter. More important, they were taught that the best way to survive trouble was to avoid it whenever possible. So when Lemm heard the sound of gunfire coming from several blocks away, his first instinct was to whip his shotgun off his back and dive for cover.

Crouched in the darkened doorway of what he hoped was a deserted building, he thought back to the last time he had come to this world. The streets of Omega had been busy and crowded everywhere he went, despite the constant threat of robbery, beatings, and even murder. Here, however, in a district caught in a bloody war between two rival factions, the streets were virtually empty. He had only seen a handful of people, scurrying from one building to another, hunched over and crouching low in the hopes of avoiding notice.

Their apprehension was understandable. Lemm himself had already been shot at twice by snipers hidden away in the upper floors of buildings lining the streets. The first had missed him completely, striking the ground near his feet. The second had launched a bullet that would have pierced his skull had it not been deflected by his armor’s kinetic barriers. In both cases Lemm had responded with the only sane course of action—he’d ducked around the nearest corner, then fled the scene in search of a new route to his destination.

Doubling back through the twisting, confusing streets of Omega was a good way to end up lost; it was all too easy to accidentally wander down the wrong back alley and never come out again. Fortunately Lemm, like most quarians, had an excellent sense of direction. The haphazard, almost random way in which the city had been built up over the centuries was similar to the environment of his home. Many of the ships in the Migrant Fleet had evolved into convoluted mazes where every inch of available space was valued and exploited. Temporary walls were often used to transform halls or corridors into rooms, and everything was held together with makeshift repairs and jury-rigged materials.

The sound of gunfire continued, but to his relief it grew softer as the tide of battle drew the conflict to streets and buildings in the opposite direction of where he was headed. Stepping warily back out into the open street he continued on his way, weapon still drawn. A few minutes later he arrived at his destination.

The entrance to the Fortune’s Den gambling hall showed evidence of several recent battles. The sign above the door was scorched with burn marks and hung at an awkward angle, as if someone had quickly replaced it after it had been shot down or blown off by an explosion. The door, made of reinforced metal, was stuck half-open. Pockmarked from the impact of stray rounds, it had been warped and twisted, probably by the same explosion that had dislodged the sign. As a result it had jammed halfway between open and shut, unable to travel freely on its tracks.

He slid his pack off, letting it fall to the ground just outside the entrance. Taking a deep breath, and still clutching his shotgun, he turned sideways and slipped through the partially obstructed doorway. There were five batarians inside—one behind the bar, the other four seated around a table playing cards. He noticed they all had weapons either strapped to their sides or resting on the table within easy reach. On the back wall someone had mounted the head of a krogan and a volus. They looked fresh.

Every one of the batarians turned to stare at him, though none made a move for their weapons. Holding his shotgun casually in one hand, Lemm crossed the room toward the bar, trying to ignore the twenty eyes watching his every move.

“I’m looking for the owner. Olthar.”

The bartender flashed a cruel grin, and nodded in the direction of the heads on the wall. “We’re under new management.” Behind Lemm, the other batarians laughed loudly.

“I need to find a quarian named Golo,” Lemm said, unfazed, offering no reaction to the gruesome joke. He did bring his shotgun up and set it on top of the bar, keeping one hand casually resting on the stock, inches from the trigger.

The last time he’d been on Omega, he’d noticed that an air of cold certainty and unshakable confidence could make others think twice before allowing a situation to escalate into violence. It didn’t always work, of course, but that was why he had brought out the shotgun.

“Golo doesn’t come here anymore.”

“I’ll give you two hundred credits if you tell me where to find him,” he offered.

The batarian tilted his head to the right—a gesture of contempt among that particular species. His two upper eyes slowly blinked, while the bottom pair continued to stare at the interloper.

“You sound young,” the bartender noted. “Do you want Golo to help you on your Pilgrimage?”

Lemm didn’t answer the question. Despite all their training and preparation, quarians on their Pilgrimage were generally regarded by other species as inexperienced or vulnerable. He couldn’t afford to show any weakness.

“Do you want the credits or not?”

“How about instead of telling you where to find Golo, we just take your credits and that fancy weapon of yours, and mount your head up on the wall with Olthar and his pet?”

He heard more laughter behind him, and the sound of sliding chairs as the batarians rose to their feet in anticipation. Lemm didn’t even bother to move; there was no way he could survive a fight in the bar. None of the batarians were wearing armor, but it was still five against one. His kinetic shields might keep him alive for a few seconds, but under a hail of gunfire they’d be drained before he even made it back out the door. He had to be smart if he was going to make it out of here alive.

Fortunately, batarians could be reasoned with. They were merchants by nature, not warriors. If this had been a room full of krogan, he’d have been dead the moment he walked in.

“You could kill me,” he admitted, staring straight at the bartender’s unblinking lower eyes while tapping his fingers gently on the stock of the shotgun resting on the bar. “But I’d make sure to take at least one of you down with me.

“The choice is yours. Give me Golo’s location and let me leave quietly. Or everyone starts shooting and we see if you can survive a shotgun blast to the face from point-blank range. Either way, all you end up with is two hundred credits.”

Both sets of the batarian’s eyes drifted slowly down to the shotgun, then back up to Lemm.

“Check the markets in the Carrd district,” he said.

Lemm reached into one of the exterior pockets of his enviro-suit, moving slowly so as not to startle anyone into thinking he was going for a hidden weapon, and pulled out two one-hundred-credit chips. He dropped them onto the bar, picked up his shotgun, and slowly backed out the door into the street, keeping his eyes on the batarians the entire time. There he retrieved his pack and headed back the way he had come, toward the monorail that, if it was still operational, would take him where he needed to go.

Golo wasn’t surprised to find the markets in the Carrd district far busier than usual. With the ongoing war between the volus and the batarians in the neighboring district, merchants and customers alike had moved their business over to the nearby section of the station controlled by the elcor.

The extra crowds were an inconvenience, but there were few other places he could go. Quarian food was a rarity on Omega. While it was possible for him to safely consume a variety of turian products—the two species shared the same dextro-amino-acid-based biology—he still had to be wary of contamination. Bacteria and germs that were completely harmless to turians could be fatal to his own virtually nonexistent immune system.

Quarians leaving the flotilla had the option of packing travel rations: containers of highly concentrated nutrient paste they could ingest through a small, sealable feeding tube on the underside of their helmet. The paste was bland and tasteless, but it was possible to store a month’s worth of rations in a single backpack, and it was commercially available throughout both the Terminus Systems and Council Space.

However, Golo, an exile with no hope of ever returning to the Fleet, didn’t relish the idea of consuming nothing but tubes of paste for the rest of his life. Fortunately, he had struck a long-term deal with an elcor shopkeeper willing to bring in regular shipments of purified turian cuisine.

He had to fight his way through the crowd for several more minutes before he finally made it to the shop. Stepping inside, he was surprised to see another quarian on the premises. He was wearing armor over his enviro-suit—a surefire way to attract unwanted attention, in Golo’s mind—and he had what appeared to be a very expensive shotgun strapped to his back. It was impossible to tell his age beneath his clothing and mask, but Golo suspected he was young. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d encountered another of his own species who had come to Omega as part of their Pilgrimage.

He nodded by way of greeting. The other didn’t speak but returned the nod. Golo proceeded to pick up his order at the counter. When he turned back he was surprised to see that the other quarian was gone.

Golo’s finely honed survival instincts began to sound an alarm. His species were highly social beings. Their first inclination when seeing a fellow quarian on an alien world would be to initiate a conversation, not vanish without saying a word.

“I’ll come back for these later,” he said, handing his sack of groceries to the elcor shopkeeper.

“Genuine concern: is something wrong?” the elcor asked him in the deep, toneless voice common to the species.

“Mind if I leave through the back door?”

“Sincere offer: You are welcome to do so if you wish.”

Golo moved to the rear of the store and slipped out the emergency exit into the alley. He hadn’t gone five steps when he heard someone speaking in quarian from directly behind him.