Mass Effect: Revelation

CHAPTER TWENTY

Neither one of the men spoke during the long drive through the desert night. Saren was behind the wheel, staring straight ahead through the windshield of the rover while Anderson studied the blueprints of the refinery. He’d been hoping to see something that might give him some clue as to where Kahlee was being held, but there were simply too many places they could have converted into a makeshift prison for her. Instead, he focused on trying to memorize the general layout so he could find his way around quickly once he was inside.

After an hour they could see a dim glow in the distance; the refinery lights shining in the darkness. The facility ran two day shifts and two night shifts of nearly two hundred workers each; the eezo production continued around the clock. To accommodate such enormous labor requirements, the refineries offered free room and board to employees and their families in the surrounding work camps: prefab buildings assembled in an ever-widening circle around the chain-link fence protecting the refinery itself.

They were only a few hundred meters from the edges of the work camp when Saren stopped the rover. “We walk from here.”

Anderson made a mental note of where the vehicle was parked; he’d have to find his way back here through the dark after he found Kahlee. If he got lost, he doubted Saren would bother to come looking for him.

He grabbed his pistol, but hesitated before taking his assault rifle. The pistol had a silencer on it, but the assault rifle was loud — one burst from that and the whole place would know he was there. Plus, it was a lot easier to pick your targets carefully with a pistol than an automatic weapon.

“You’ll need that,” Saren advised him, noticing his indecision.

“Most of the people in that plant are just ordinary workers,” Anderson replied. “They won’t even be armed.”

“Edan’s working with the Blue Sun mercenaries. You’ll run into plenty of them in there, too.” “That’s not what I meant. I’m a little concerned about accidentally shooting innocent civilians.”

Saren gave a harsh, bitter laugh. “You still don’t get it, do you, human?

“Most of the workers in these camps own firearms. This refinery represents their livelihood. They aren’t soldiers, but once the alarms go off they will try to protect it.”

“We’re not here to destroy the plant,” Anderson objected. “All we have to do is grab Qian, Edan, and

Kahlee and get out.”

“They don’t know that. When they hear sirens and bullets, they’ll think the plant is under some kind of terrorist attack. You won’t be able to pick and choose your targets when half of them are running around in a blind panic and the other half are firing guns at you.

“If you want to make it through this mission alive,” Saren added, “you better be willing to shoot civilians if they get in your way. Because they’ll be more than willing to shoot at you.”

“Necessity is one thing. But how can you be so cold about killing innocent people?” he asked in disbelief.

“Practice. Lots of practice.”

Anderson shook his head and took the assault rifle, though he promised himself he wouldn’t use it

unless absolutely necessary. He folded it down and snapped it into the armor slot on his back, just above the belt. Then he slapped the pistol into the slot on his hip, where he could easily grab it if necessary.

“We’ll split up,” Saren told him. “I’ll head east, you go around the other way.”

“You promised me a thirty-minute head start before you go in,” Anderson reminded him in a hard voice. “You’ll have your thirty minutes, human. But if you’re not here at the rover when I get back, I’m

leaving you behind.”

Anderson quickly made his way through the darkness to the edges of the work camp. Although it was the middle of the night, the place was buzzing with activity. Because of the staggered shifts at the refinery, there were always people who were recently getting off work or just about to start. The camp was like a small city. Over a thousand families made their homes here — husbands, wives, and even children were milling about the streets, nodding greetings to one another and going about their daily lives.

thrown on a long, loose-fitting overcoat to cover his body armor and conceal his weapons. And while most of the employees of the refinery were batarians, there were enough other species, including humans, in the crowd that he didn’t draw undue attention.

He hustled through the camp, pushing his way through the crowd, occasionally nodding a greeting as he passed some of his fellow humans. He walked with long, quick strides, maintaining a brisk pace as he worked his way toward the fence surrounding the secured grounds of the refinery. He knew time was slipping away, but breaking into a run was sure to attract notice.

After five minutes he had cleared the camp. The buildings housing the workers formed an evenly distributed ring around the entire refinery, but nobody wanted to live butted right up against the metal security fence. The inner edge of the camp stopped a good hundred meters away from it, leaving a wide tract of empty and unlit land occupied only by a few scattered public lavatories.

Anderson kept his pace at a brisk walk until he was far enough away from the lights to avoid being seen. Anyone who had happened to spot him disappearing into the darkness would have assumed he was headed to the bathrooms, and not given him a second thought.

Safely out of sight, he slipped on a pair of night-vision goggles, then broke into a run until he reached the fence. Using a pair of wire clippers he cut a hole large enough for him to fit through. He ditched the long coat before crawling through — it would only get in the way. Once on the other side, he pulled out his pistol, hoping he wouldn’t have to use it.

From here on in the mission became more difficult. He was in a restricted area now. There were small security squads patrolling the grounds inside the perimeter of the fence; if they saw him they’d either shoot him or set off the alarm. Avoiding them wouldn’t be too difficult, however; he’d see the glow of their flashlights on the ground long before they were close enough to spot him.

Cautiously making his way across the grounds, he approached a corner of the refinery. The complex was enormous — a main central building nearly four stories high held the primary processing plant. A number of smaller two-story structures had been built on every side to house storage, shipping, administration, and maintenance — Anderson’s destination.

When he reached the maintenance annex he headed around to the small fire door in the back corner. It was locked, but only by a simple mechanical bolt, not one of the far more expensive electronic security systems. A refinery plant in the middle of the desert was typically concerned with limiting casual theft; they weren’t built with the purpose of preventing infiltration operations.

Anderson placed a small glob of sticky explosives on the lock, stepped back, and fired the pistol at the putty. It exploded with a sharp bang and a bright flash, blowing the door open. He waited to see if there was any reaction to the noise, but hearing none he pushed open the door and stepped in.

He found himself standing by the employee lockers. The room was empty; it was the middle of the shift and the employees were all out on repair calls. In one corner was a large laundry basket on wheels, filled with soiled mechanics’ coveralls. He rummaged around until he found a pair that fit over his body

armor, then slipped it on. He had to remove his pistol and assault rifle — he didn’t want to be fumbling beneath the coveralls to grab them if needed. He stuffed the pistol into the deep hip pocket of the coveralls. He didn’t unfold the assault rifle, but wrapped it in a large towel he found in the laundry.

The disguise was far from perfect, but it would allow him to explore the plant without attracting too much attention. Seen quickly from a distance, most people would just assume he was one of the maintenance crew headed to a job and ignore him.

He rolled up the sleeve of the coveralls and glanced at his watch. Fifteen minutes gone. He’d have to hurry if he wanted to find Kahlee and get her out before Saren started his mission.

Waiting on the outskirts of the work camp, Saren glanced at his watch. Fifteen minutes had passed. Anderson was no doubt somewhere deep inside the refinery by now — too far in to turn back.

Stashing his weapons beneath a long coat in much the same way Anderson had done when he’d wanted to pass unnoticed through the camp, the turian stood up and marched toward the buildings.

He’d waited long enough. It was time for his own mission to begin.

Anderson navigated through the numerous halls, passing from the maintenance building into the main refinery. His heart began to pound when he saw his first employee heading his way. But the batarian woman only glanced at him for a second, then looked away and continued on past without saying a word.

He passed several more employees as he made his way up and down the halls, but none of them paid him any attention, either. He was beginning to grow frustrated — he didn’t have time to search the entire facility. He’d assumed they’d be keeping Kahlee on the lower floors, but he was still going to need some luck if he wanted to locate her in time.

And then he saw it: a sign saying “No Admittance” beside a stairwell leading down to what he remembered from the blueprints was a small equipment storage room. The sign was so clean it almost sparkled; obviously it had only been placed there in the last few days.

He hurried down the stairs. At the bottom were two heavyset batarians, each marked with Blue Sun tattoos on their cheeks. They looked bored, slouched down in chairs on either side of a heavy steel door, their assault rifles propped up against the wall beside them. Neither of the guards was wearing body armor — understandable, given the nature of their assignment. They’d probably been sitting here all day, and body armor was hot and heavy. Wearing it for more than a few hours at a time was incredibly uncomfortable.

The guards had already seen him, so Anderson just kept on walking straight toward them. Hopefully they’d been warned to be on the lookout for a turian Spectre. If that was the case, a human in maintenance coveralls wouldn’t seem like much of a threat.

When he reached the small landing at the bottom of the stairs one of the mercs stood up and stepped forward, grabbing his assault rifle and pointing it at Anderson’s chest. The lieutenant froze. He was less than five meters away; at this close range there was no possible way he’d survive if the merc pulled the trigger.

“What’s that?” the guard asked, pointing the barrel of his gun to indicate the towel-wrapped assault rifle

Anderson was carrying tucked under his arm. “Just some tools. Gotta keep them dry.”

“Put the package down.”

Anderson did as he was told, setting the assault rifle on the floor carefully to make sure the towel didn’t slip and reveal what was concealed beneath.

Now that Anderson was no longer carrying anything that might be a weapon, the guard seemed to relax, lowering his own rifle.

“What’s the matter, human?” he demanded. “Can’t you read batarian?” This drew a guffaw from his partner, still slouched in his chair.

“I need something from the equipment room,” Anderson replied. “Not this one. Turn around.”

“I have an authorization slip here,” Anderson said, fumbling around in his pocket as if trying to dig it out. The batarian was watching him with an expression of bored annoyance, totally oblivious as Anderson wrapped his hand around the handle of his pistol and slipped his finger over the trigger.

The roomy pocket of the coverall allowed him to tilt the barrel of the pistol up just enough to bring it in line with the guard’s midsection. He fired twice, the bullets shredding through the fabric of the coveralls

and lodging themselves in the merc’s stomach.

The batarian dropped his rifle in surprise, stumbling back and instinctively clutching at the holes in his gut. He hit the wall and slowly slid down to the floor, blood seeping out and welling up from the fingers he had pressed over the wounds.

His partner looked up in confusion; because of the silencer the pistol’s shots had been muffled to a faint zip-zip that he probably hadn’t even heard. It took him a second to realize what had happened. With an expression of dawning horror he went for his own weapon. Anderson whipped the pistol out of his pocket and fired two shots point-blank into the second guard’s chest. He slouched down to the side, fell off the chair, and was still.

Anderson whipped the pistol back toward the first guard, still sitting motionless on the floor with his back to the wall. “Please,” the mercenary begged, finally figuring out who Anderson was with. “Skarr’s the one who gave the order to execute those Alliance soldiers. I didn’t even want to kill them.”

“But you did,” Anderson answered, then fired a single shot right between the batarian’s eyes.

He stripped off the coveralls, snapped the pistol back onto his hip and unwrapped the assault rifle, unfolding it so it was ready to go. Then he kicked open the door.