“This is not open to negotiation!” Edan shouted, finally losing his temper. “I hired you to kill someone! You failed! I demand something for the money I’m paying you!”
Skarr shook his head in disbelief. “You know it was a mistake bringing me back here for this. I thought you were smart enough not to put your pride ahead of business.”
“You thought wrong,” Edan replied, no longer shouting. But his voice was cold as ice. It was more than simple pride; batarian culture placed tremendous value on social caste. He was a man of high standing; if he simply forgave the krogan for this failure it would be an admission that they were equals…something he was not about to do.
The krogan took another long look at the Blue Suns stationed around the warehouse, their guns still raised and ready and pointing right at him. “Dah’tan has heavy security,” he finally said. “How are we even supposed to get inside?”
“I have some of their people on my payroll,” Edan replied with just a hint of smugness. He’d finally managed to back Skarr into a corner. They were bargaining on his terms now.
“You really think these hrakhors are good enough to handle a job like this?” the bounty hunter asked, making one last attempt to get out of it.
“They were good enough to take out the Alliance soldiers at Sidon.”
“They screwed that mission up,” Skarr objected.
“That’s why I’m sending you along this time” was Edan’s smug reply.
Anderson flashed his military ID and slipped his thumb into the portable scanner held by the Alliance guard working the port authority entrance. The young man, who’d jumped to stand at attention as they’d approached, glanced down at the computer screen to confirm the readout.
“Sir,” the guard replied with a curt nod, handing it back to him a moment later. The lieutenant did his best not to hold his breath as Kahlee placed her own thumb into the scanner and handed over her phony ID and the optical storage disk with the counterfeit authorization orders they’d purchased earlier that day.
The man who’d forged them had come to the house first thing in the morning, arriving less than ten minutes after Grissom’s phone call. He was young—no older than twenty by Anderson’s guess. He was dressed in shabby, wrinkled civvies and he had long, greasy black hair. His face was covered with a dark growth he was trying to pass off as a beard, and it looked like he hadn’t showered in a week. The admiral didn’t say who the man was or how he knew him.
“He’s a professional,” he told Anderson. “He works fast, and he won’t rat you out.”
When he first arrived, the kid had looked in surprise at the broken windows, the smashed furniture, and the burned hole in the lawn where the shotgun blast had narrowly missed decapitating the krogan. But he hadn’t asked any questions. Not about that, anyway.
“What do you need?” was all he had said once he was inside, setting a nondescript case he had with him on the kitchen table.
“Something to get them into the restricted loading bays at the spaceport,” Grissom had replied. “Plus a disguise and a new ID for Kahlee. They need to leave today.”
“I gotta charge extra for a rush job,” he warned.
Grissom just nodded. “I’ll forward it like always.”
The young man opened the case to reveal an array of unusual tools, gadgets, and exotic equipment Anderson couldn’t even begin to guess the function of. Using a variety of these, it took him half an hour to produce an OSD with the appropriate authorizations. It took another twenty minutes to encode a new name and rank on Kahlee’s Alliance ID—Corporal Suzanne Weathers.
“That’s not going to work,” Anderson warned. “They won’t have any records for Corporal Weathers in their systems.”
“They will twenty minutes after I leave here,” the kid assured with a cocky grin. “I’ll add Corporal Weathers to the system. Then I’ll mirror all Kahlee’s data and block system access to her file. When they scan her thumbprint it’ll be Weathers who shows up on their screens, not Sanders.”
“You have access to the Alliance data files?” Anderson asked in disbelief.
“Only the ones at the ports. Don’t try to use this ID once you’re off Elysium.”
“I didn’t think it was possible to infiltrate the Alliance systems,” Anderson said, fishing for information.
“You sure I can trust this guy?” the kid asked Grissom.
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 Ander
son, 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 don
e. 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.
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