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.
“Don’t move or I blow your head off.”
Knowing the shotgun he’d seen earlier could literally decapitate him from this range, Golo froze.
“Turn around, slowly.”
He did as instructed. As he’d suspected, the young quarian from inside the shop was standing in the center of the alley, pointing the shotgun squarely at his chest.
“Are you Golo?”
“You wouldn’t be holding a gun on me if I was someone else,” he answered, seeing no hope in trying to lie his way out of the situation.
“Do you know why I’m here?”
“No,” he answered truthfully. Over the past decade he had committed dozens of acts that might have caused another quarian to hunt him down in search of vengeance. There was no point in trying to guess which one had set off this particular young man.
“A scout ship from the Idenna was brokering a deal here on Omega last week. The Cyniad. They disappeared. I think you know what happened to them.”
“Who are you? Are you part of the Idenna crew?” Golo asked, stalling until he could come up with a plan.
“My name is Lemm’Shal nar Tesleya,” the other replied.
Golo wasn’t surprised to get an answer to his question. Even on the flotilla, quarians tended to wear their enviro-suits at all times: an extra layer of protection against hull breaches and other disasters that could befall their rickety ships. As a result, exchanging names at every meeting was a deeply ingrained habit. He’d been counting on this, and knowing his adversary’s name gave him something to work with.
/> He didn’t recognize his Shal clan name, but the nar in Lemm’s surname marked him as technically still a child, which meant he was most likely here on his Pilgrimage. Furthermore, he was associated with the vessel Tesleya, not the Idenna, which meant he didn’t know the crew personally. He must have heard about them secondhand, possibly from another quarian he had run into during his recent travels.
Golo quickly formed a likely scenario in his head. Someone had mentioned the disappearance of the Cyniad to him in passing. Now Lemm believed that if he could locate the missing scout ship and its crew—or at least discover their fate—then he could give this information to the Idenna’s captain. In return, he would be accepted into the Idenna’s crew and his Pilgrimage would be over.
“What makes you think I know anything about the Cyniad?” he asked, hoping to bluff the young man into backing down.
“The Migrant Fleet doesn’t do business with Omega,” Lemm answered, not lowering the barrel of his shotgun. “Somebody must have initiated contact with the Cyniad to propose the deal that made them come here. Only another quarian would know how to do that. And you’re the most infamous quarian on this station.”
Golo frowned behind his mask. The kid was simply playing a hunch; it was only dumb luck that it happened to be right. He briefly considered denying his involvement, then realized he had an easier way out.
“I guess my reputation proceeds me,” he admitted. “I contacted the Cyniad, but I was only the middleman. The individual actually behind the deal was a human.”
“What human?”
“He told me his name was Pel,” he said with an indifferent shrug. “He was willing to pay me to contact the Cyniad, and I was happy to take his money. I didn’t really want to know more than that.”
“Weren’t you worried he was setting the crew of the Cyniad up? Luring them into a trap?”
“The Fleet turned its back on me. Why should I care what happens to any of them as long as I get paid?”
It was the best kind of lie; one spun with a thread of unpleasant truth. By honestly owning up to his callousness and greed it made his denial of direct involvement seem more believable.
“You sicken me,” Lemm said. If he hadn’t been wearing his visor, Golo suspected he would have spit on the ground. “I should kill you where you stand!”
“I don’t know what happened to the crew of the Cyniad,” Golo said quickly, before Lemm could work up his anger enough to actually pull the trigger, “but I know how you can find out.” He hesitated, then added, “Give me five hundred credits and I’ll tell you.”
Lemm brought the shotgun up so he could sight down the barrel, then stepped forward until it was pressed hard against the other quarian’s mask.
“How about you tell me for free?”
“Pel’s renting a warehouse in the Talon district,” Golo sputtered out. Lemm took a half step back, lowering the shotgun.
“Take me there. Now.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Golo snapped, emboldened now that the weapon was no longer pointing directly at him. “What if he has lookouts? What do you think they’ll do when they see two quarians strolling down the street toward their hideout?
“If you want to do this, you have to be smart,” he said, his voice slipping into a slick merchant’s patter. “I can tell you where the warehouse is, but that’s the easy part. You’ll need to scout it out. Figure out what’s going on before you try to get inside. You need a plan, and I can help.”
“I thought you didn’t care what happened to the Migrant Fleet. Why do you suddenly want to help?” Lemm asked, clearly suspicious.
“I could pretend it’s because I feel guilty that I might have accidentally led the Cyniad into a trap,” Golo explained, spinning another half-truth. “But honestly, I just figure this is the best way to keep you from shoving that shotgun in my face again.”
Lemm seemed satisfied with the explanation. “Okay, we’ll try it your way.”
“Let’s get off the street,” Golo suggested. “Find somewhere more private. Like my apartment.”
“Lead the way,” Lemm answered, collapsing his shotgun and slapping it once again into the clip on the small of his back.
Golo smiled under his mask as he led the young man from the alley.
Pel and his team will rip you apart, boy. Especially when I warn them that you’re coming.
FIFTEEN
“Are you ever going to tell us where we’re going?” Kahlee asked, startling Grayson from a fitful doze.
With the adrenaline rush of their escape fading, his body had crashed and he’d fallen asleep in the pilot’s chair. Not that it really mattered; once the course was plotted there was nothing for him to do during FTL travel. Knowing an alert from the ship would wake him once they got within range of the mass relay that would take them from Council Space into the Terminus Systems, he had simply let his mind drift away.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, his mouth dry and his tongue thick and woolen, “guess I drifted off.”
Kahlee sat down in the seat beside him, and he saw her nose wrinkle as if assailed by a pungent odor. Grayson looked down at his shirt and realized he was soaked in sweat; the sour perspiration of a duster going into the first stages of withdrawal. Embarrassed, he did his best to lean away from her without being obvious about it.
“I was just wondering where we’re going,” Kahlee said, tactfully pretending not to notice the smell.
“I was wondering that, too,” Hendel added from behind him.
Twisting in his chair, he saw the security chief standing at the cockpit doorway, his broad shoulders almost completely blocking the view into the passenger cabin beyond.
“I thought you were watching Gillian,” Kahlee said, pointedly.
“She’s sleeping,” Hendel replied gruffly. “She’s fine.”
“I have a contact on Omega,” Grayson said, turning his attention back to Kahlee.
“Omega?” Her voice was a mixture of alarm and surprise.
“We don’t have any other choice,” he said grimly.
“Maybe we do. I have friends who can help us,” Kahlee assured him. “I know Captain David Anderson personally. I trust him with my life. I guarantee he can protect you and your daughter.”
To Grayson’s relief, Hendel actually shot the idea down. “That’s not an option. Cerberus has people in the Alliance. Maybe we can trust Anderson, but how are we supposed to get in touch with him? He’s an important man now, we can’t just show up on the Citadel and walk into his office.
“Cerberus probably has agents reporting on every move people like the captain make,” he continued. “If we send a message, they’ll know we’re coming long before he ever will. We’d never reach him.”
“I never thought you’d take my side,” Grayson said, studying the other man carefully as he tried to figure out what angle he was playing.
“I just want what’s best for Gillian. Right now, that means getting her out of Council Space. But Omega wouldn’t have been my first choice. There are plenty of other places to hide in the Terminus Systems.”
“We can’t go to any of the human colonies,” Grayson insisted. “The Alliance has people stationed there, and they track all incoming vessels. And we’ll stick out like sore thumbs on any of the alien-controlled worlds. Omega’s the one place we can go to blend in.”
Hendel considered his arguments, then said, “I still want to know who your contact is.” It appeared to be the closest he would come to admitting Grayson was right.
“A customer of mine named Pel,” Grayson lied. “I’ve sold him almost two dozen vessels over the past twenty years.”
“What kind of business is he in?” Kahlee asked.
“Import, export” was his evasive reply.
“Drug runner,” Hendel grunted. “Told you he was taking us to his dealer.”
“How do we know he won’t turn us over to Cerberus?” Kahlee wanted to know.
“He doesn’t know anything about Gillian being biotic
, or why we’re really coming,” Grayson explained. “I told him I was caught with a stash of red sand during a trip to the Citadel. He thinks I’m on the run from C-Sec.”
“And how do the rest of us fit into this?” Hendel asked.
“He already knows I have a daughter. I’ll tell him Kahlee’s my girlfriend, and you’re the crooked C-Sec officer I bribed to get me off the station.”
“So he’s expecting us?” Hendel asked.
Grayson nodded. “I sent him a message when we left the Academy. I’ll log into the comm network when we drop out of FTL at the next mass relay to see if he sent a reply.”
“I want to see the message he sends you.”
“Hendel!” Kahlee objected, offended at the violation of Grayson’s privacy.
“I’m not taking any chances,” Hendel answered. “We’re putting our lives in his hands. I want to know who we’re dealing with.”
“Sure,” Grayson said. “No problem.” He took a quick peek at the readouts to get a sense of where they were on the journey. “We should reach the relay in another hour.”
“That gives you time to take a shower,” Hendel told him. “Try to wash the stink of the drugs off before your daughter wakes up.”
There really wasn’t anything Grayson could say to that. He knew Hendel was right.
Sixty minutes later he was back in the pilot’s chair, cleaned and wearing a fresh set of clothes. He’d stopped sweating, but now there was a slight tremble in his hands as he adjusted the controls. He knew it would only get worse the longer he went without another hit.
Kahlee was still sitting in the passenger seat, and Hendel was once again standing behind him, leaning on the cockpit’s door frame. Gillian continued to sleep peacefully in the back; Grayson had checked on her before and after his shower.