“The sender of the message was one of the instructors at the Academy. A man long since retired. Preliminary follow-up indicates he is not germane to the investigation—he was likely only acting on orders of the recipient, and likely knew nothing about why the information was being sent.
“Though I have no proof, I suspect the recipient is Kahlee Sanders’s father. As a high-ranking Alliance officer, he would have had the means to systematically cover up their relationship, and do so in a way that would make it difficult to track. However, I was not able to determine why the father and daughter chose to alienate themselves from each—”
“Please,” he begged, cutting her off one more time. “All I want is a name. Don’t say anything else. Just tell me who received the message, and where I can find him.”
She blinked again, and from the change in her expression Anderson thought he might have hurt her feelings. Mercifully, though, she did as he had asked.
“The message was sent to Rear Admiral Jon Grissom. He’s on Elysium.”
TEN
“This is a private club, batarian,” growled the krogan security guard who stepped in Groto Ib-ba’s way as he tried to enter the doors of the Sanctuary.
“Tonight I’m a member,” the batarian mercenary replied, holding up his financial access card to the scanner and letting it deduct the four-hundred-credit cover charge directly from his bank account. The krogan didn’t move, barring his way until the transaction was approved. He only took his eyes off Groto for an instant, to glance at the name and ID picture that flashed up on the screen. He was checking to see if the access card had been stolen. But the ID image was clearly that of the batarian standing before him; there was no mistaking the blue sun tattoo emblazoned on his forehead, just above his left inner eye.
It was clear from the krogan’s expression he still didn’t want to move aside and let Groto in. “The cover charge only grants entrance to the club,” he noted. “Any services will be an additional fee. A significantly additional fee.”
“I know how it works,” Groto spat back. “I have money.”
The krogan considered for a moment, hoping to find some other way to keep him out. “There are no weapons permitted inside the club.”
“I said I know how it works,” Groto snarled. Still, the guard hesitated.
The batarian spread his arms out wide and held them in place. “Just search me and get it over with.”
The krogan stepped back, beaten. “That won’t be necessary.” He tilted his head to the left, a batarian sign of respect. “My apologies, Mr. Ib-ba. Helanda at the counter in the back can attend to your needs.”
Groto lowered his arms, a little surprised. It was amazing the kind of respect money could buy. If he had actually thought it was possible to get in without being searched he would have smuggled a pistol in under his belt. Or at least slipped a knife in his boot.
Instead he slowly tilted his head to the right in acknowledgment of the apology, playing the part of a man whose honor had been insulted. He boldly walked past the doorman and into the most exclusive whorehouse on Camala, trying to appear calm though his heart was racing.
Part of him had been afraid they would simply turn him away even if he paid the cover charge. It was obvious he didn’t belong here; the Sanctuary was reserved for the rich and elite—those with fortunes, not soldiers of fortune. For the most part the cover fee kept men like Groto out. There were plenty of other places on Camala to buy companionship for the night, none of them nearly as expensive as the Sanctuary.
But the Blue Suns’s new employer had paid a substantial fee for their exclusive services over the next few months, including a large bonus after the attack on the Sidon military base. Groto hadn’t been directly involved in the attack, and he hadn’t been in the warehouse when their employer had met up with Skarr. If he had, he’d know who was paying them, but he might also have been one of the unlucky mercs who ended up dead at Skarr’s hands.
The Blue Suns paid every member an equal share anyway, so Groto hadn’t missed out on anything but the chance of getting killed. And the mercs who’d been at the warehouse were still on the job: they’d been contracted as personal bodyguards for the anonymous moneyman. Groto, on the other hand, was free to go out and enjoy his share of the credits. And, for once in his life, he was going to experience a pleasure reserved for those far more wealthy and powerful than he.
He’d spent part of the bonus on new clothes, but even so he began to feel self-conscious as he crossed the room. He didn’t fit in, and the clientele—most of them batarians—were regarding him with open suspicion and curiosity. Societal caste was an important part of batarian culture, and Groto was openly defying the conventional norms. But when he noticed that even the employees were looking at him with contempt, his embarrassment transformed into self-righteous rage. Who were they to look down on him? Nothing but servants and whores!
As he marched up to the counter in the back, passing several more krogan security personnel, he vowed he’d make somebody pay. Once he had his whore in a private room, he’d turn her scorn into fear and terror.
“Welcome to the Sanctuary, Mr. Ib-ba,” cooed the young batarian woman behind the counter. “My name is Helanda.
“I apologize for the incident at the door,” she continued. “Odak sometimes takes his job too seriously. You have my personal assurance he will be properly respectful next time.”
“Good. I expect better treatment in a place like this.” There wasn’t going to be a next time, but Groto wasn’t going to tell her that.
“We have a wide variety of services available,” Helanda explained, smoothly glossing over the doorman’s indiscretion and moving on to the business at hand. “The Sanctuary aims to satisfy the desires of all our clientele, no matter how…esoteric. If you tell me what you are interested in, I will personally help you select an appropriate consort—or consorts—for the evening.”
“I’m interested in you,” he said, leaning forward on the counter, responding to the unspoken invitation.
“That is not my role here,” she said curtly, taking a half step back, the lids of her inner eyes flicking quickly in distaste. He realized her charm was nothing but an act; a game she was playing with him. Her involuntary reaction exposed the truth: she felt the same revulsion he’d seen in the other employees.
From the corner of his eyes Groto noticed one of the krogan guards casually moving closer to them, and he decided now was not the time for retribution.
He forced a laugh, as if he found her stinging rejection amusing. “Actually, I’m interested in a human female.”
“A human female?” Helanda asked, as if she wasn’t sure she had heard him properly.
“I’m curious,” he replied coldly.
“Very well, Mr. Ib-ba,” she said, touching a button behind the counter that brought up a small screen in front of her. “I should advise you that there is a premium charged for all interspecies requests. The appropriate fees are listed beside each consort.”
She spun the screen to face him. The display showed several prospects, along with the allotted price for each. Groto had to check himself to keep from choking in shock when he saw the amounts. Unlike the whorehouses he usually frequented, hourly rates weren’t an option here. A full night at the Sanctuary was going to cost several hundred credits more than his entire bonus. For a brief second he considered turning around and just walking out, but if he did, the four hundred credits he’d paid at the door were gone for good.
“Her,” he said, pointing at one of the pictures. There were less expensive options, but he was damned if he was going to let them bully him with their prices. He was never coming back here, so he was determined to get exactly what he wanted. Truthfully, he didn’t know all that much about humans. But something about this individual appealed to him. She seemed fragile. Vulnerable.
“An excellent choice, Mr. Ib-ba. I will have someone escort you to your room for the evening. Your consort will be up shortly.”
> A few minutes later Groto was alone in one of the soundproofed private rooms, pacing back and forth and slamming his fist into his hand. He was thinking back on all the humiliations he had suffered since arriving at this place, working himself up into a fever, determined to take it out on the unfortunate human girl who was about to become his victim for the evening.
He wasn’t physically attracted to humans, female or otherwise. But this night wasn’t going to be about sex. Groto simply didn’t like humans. They bred and spread like vermin, swarming out across the Verge, gobbling up colony worlds and forcing other species out—like the batarians. The humans he worked with in the Blue Suns knew how to handle themselves in a fight, but like all of their kind they were arrogant and self-important. Tonight he would take one of that proud species and make her suffer. He would humiliate, degrade, and punish her. He would break her!
There was a knock; soft and timid. He pulled open the door, reaching out to grab the woman’s wrist and yank her into the room. But he froze when he saw a male turian standing there.
“Who are—urk.”
His words were cut off as the turian punched him hard in the throat. Choking and gagging, Groto staggered back and fell onto the bed in the center of the room. The turian calmly stepped inside, closing the door behind him. Groto heard the lock click into place, sealing the pair of them in together.
Somehow scrambling to his feet, Groto struggled to catch his breath as he brought his fists up, waiting for the turian to move in and try to finish him off. After locking the door, however, the turian just stood there.
“Who are you?” Groto finally gasped.
“Saren” was the one-word reply.
Groto shook his head; he didn’t recognize the name. “How’d you get past the guards?” he demanded.
“They didn’t try to stop me,” Saren replied, his voice relaxed. “I think they actually wanted me to come in here and take care of you.”
“What…what do you mean?” Groto’s voice was shaky; the unnatural calm of the turian was unsettling. He kept his hands up, poised in case the intruder made a move.
“Are you really that stupid? Don’t you realize they knew exactly what you had planned for tonight? They knew what you were after the moment you asked for a human consort.”
“What…what are you talking about?”
The turian took a single step forward. Groto scuttled two steps back, his fists raised and ready. He would have retreated further but he had reached the wall on the far end of the room—there was nowhere left to go.
“The Sanctuary does not allow its consorts to be harmed or injured,” Saren explained calmly. As he spoke he began to slowly advance, one deliberate step at a time. “They were monitoring the room.” Step. “The moment you laid a hand on that woman, an angry krogan would have burst in and ripped your head off.” Step.
“I wasn’t…I didn’t even do anything!” the batarian protested, finally dropping his fists. He felt like a fool waving them around when the other man seemed so calm.
Step. “I convinced them to let me handle it instead,” Saren continued, ignoring him. “They were concerned about bothering the other guests.” Step. “Then I reminded them that the walls are completely soundproof.” Step. “And you’ve already paid for the room.” Step.
The turian was directly in front of him now, though he still appeared completely relaxed. Groto brought his fists up again. “Back up or I’ll—”
He never had a chance to finish the sentence as Saren delivered a solid kick to his nether regions. Blinding bolts of furious pain shot up through Groto’s bowels and stomach. He collapsed to the ground, the agony so great he could only whimper.
Saren grabbed him by the material of his newly purchased suit and yanked him back to his feet, then jabbed his thumb into one of Groto’s inner eyes, rupturing the orb and blinding him with a single blow. The batarian fainted, lapsing into unconsciousness from the sudden shock and pain.
Seconds later he woke screaming as Saren broke his right elbow. Howling in agony, he curled up into a ball, rolling back and forth as his body experienced physical suffering beyond anything he had ever imagined.
“You disgust me,” Saren whispered, kneeling down to grab Groto’s left wrist. He extended the batarian’s good arm, locking out the joints, and began to apply pressure. “You wanted to torture an innocent victim for your own pleasure. You sick bastard.
“Torture is only useful if it has a purpose,” Saren added, though his words were drowned out by the crack of Groto’s left elbow and the subsequent shrieks.
Saren stepped back from the convulsing man, letting the waves of pain rack his body. It took nearly a minute for shock to set in, numbing his mangled limbs to the point where Groto could finally speak.
“You’ll pay for this,” Groto wailed up at him from the ground, sobbing freely. Tears and mucus mixed with ocular fluid from his blind eye, dribbling down into his mouth and slurring his words into a blubbery parody of a threat. “Do you know who I am? I’m with the Blue Suns!”
“Why do you think I followed you here?”
A look of horror spread across Groto’s face as he finally understood. “You’re a Spectre,” he mumbled. “Please,” he begged, “tell me what you want. Anything. I’ll give it to you.”
“Information,” Saren replied. “Tell me what you know about Sidon.”
“We were hired to take out the base,” the crippled man admitted.
“By who?”
“I don’t know. I only dealt with a go-between. I never saw him, never heard a name.”
Saren sighed and knelt down on the floor beside Groto. There were many exotic methods of interrogation, a million ways to inflict pain and punishment on a victim. But turians were a practical people, and he personally preferred the brutal effectiveness of simple, basic techniques. Grabbing the man’s dangling left arm by the wrist, he took a firm grip on one of his fingers and began to bend it backwards.
“No!” the batarian screamed. “No! Please…it’s the truth! That’s all I know! You have to believe me!”
He stuck to the story even after three of the fingers on his hand were broken at the middle knuckle, convincing Saren he was telling the truth.
“How did you get inside the base?” Saren asked, changing his line of questioning.
“The man who hired us,” Groto muttered, his voice raw and raspy from the fresh round of screaming that had torn up his throat. “He had someone on the inside.”
“Give me a name.”
“Please,” he begged in high-pitched, mewling whine. “I don’t know. I wasn’t even there.”
Saren grabbed another finger, and the words began to pour out.
“Wait! I don’t know the inside man! But…but I can tell you other stuff. After the attack we brought in an outsider. A freelance bounty hunter. A big krogan named Skarr.”
“Good,” Saren said, releasing his hold on the uninjured digit. “Keep going.”
“Something went wrong at Sidon. Someone survived the attack. A loose end. Skarr was hired to hunt her down. A human. She’s on Elysium. I don’t know her name.”
“What else? Why were you hired to attack the base?”
“I don’t know,” Groto whispered fearfully. “We weren’t given any details. The moneyman was afraid someone would talk. He didn’t want…he didn’t want the Spectres to find out.”
Saren broke two more of his fingers just to be sure.
“Please,” the batarian sobbed once he’d stopped screaming. “It’s not me you want. There was a meeting at the warehouse with Skarr and the man who hired us. Talk to someone who was there.”
The turian wasn’t surprised his victim was offering up someone else. It was a common reaction in most subjects. Typically it was a sign the interrogation was nearing an end; once the subject realized they were running out of useful information to surrender, betraying their allies became their only chance of avoiding further torture.
“Where can I find someone from th
e warehouse?” the Spectre demanded.
“I…I don’t know,” Groto admitted, his voice trembling. “They’re with the moneyman. He hired them on as his personal bodyguards.”
“Guess I’m stuck with you then,” Saren replied.
“That’s all I know,” the batarian protested weakly, his voice completely devoid of guile, subterfuge, or hope. “Even if you break every bone in my body, I can’t tell you anything else.”
“We’ll see,” Saren promised.
It was a long night for Saren. The batarian went into shock and passed out three more times during the interrogation. Each time it happened Saren would have to sit down and wait for him to regain consciousness—there was no point in torturing an unresponsive subject.
In the end, it turned out Groto had been telling the truth. Saren didn’t get anything more out of him. He’d suspected as much, but he had needed to be absolutely sure. There was too much at stake.
Someone had hired the Blue Suns. Someone with enough wealth and power to secure their exclusive loyalty. Someone who had taken extra precautions to make sure the Spectres wouldn’t find out what was going on. Saren needed to know who had ordered the attack on Sidon and why. Billions of lives could be at stake, and he was more than willing to torture a single merc for hours on end if there was even the smallest chance he could learn something that might help him break the case.
Not that there weren’t consequences to his actions. The soundproof room had amplified the piercing shrieks and keening wails of his victim. The screams had physically hurt Saren’s ears, and now he had a pounding headache.
Next time, he thought as he rubbed his temples, I’ll bring earplugs.
He had lifted the batarian up onto the bed partway through the interrogation; it was easier to work on him there than to constantly bend down to reach him on the floor. Now Groto was just lying motionless on his back, breathing softly in a deep sleep brought on by utter mental and physical exhaustion.
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