She reached out and put her hand on top of his. “I’m not used to people looking out for me,” she said by way of apology. “My mother was always working and my father… well, you know. Looking out for myself just became habit.
“But I know what you’re risking to help me. Your career. Maybe your life. I’m grateful. And I do trust you… David.”
Nobody ever called him David. Nobody but his mother and his wife. Ex-wife, he corrected. For a brief moment he was on the verge of telling Kahlee what Saren had said about focusing his investigation on her, but at the last second he bit his tongue.
He was attracted to Kahlee; he had already admitted that to himself. But he had to remember how much she’d already been through. She was vulnerable; alone and afraid. Telling her about Saren’s threats would only exacerbate those feelings. And while it would probably make her more willing to accept him as her protector and draw them closer together, Anderson wasn’t about to take advantage of a situation like that.
“Let’s get moving,” he said, gently pulling his hand out from under hers and turning the rover back toward the dim glow of the city in the distance.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Saren stood at the side of the hospital bed, looking down at the young batarian woman fighting for her life… though in her present condition it was difficult to tell what species she belonged to. Only the four orbs of her eyes gave her away — the only part of her anatomy not covered by the bandages that wrapped her from her head down to where her legs had been amputated just above the knee. Dozens of wires and tubes ran from her body to the nearby machinery keeping her alive: monitoring vital signs; circulating essential fluids; pumping in a steady stream of drugs, antibiotics, and medigel; even breathing for her.
Batarians were on the cutting edge of medical science, and the standard of care at their facilities was among the best in Citadel space. Under normal circumstances she would be receiving around-the-clock attention from the staff, but apart from the two of them the room was empty. Saren had sent the doctors and nurses out once they had updated him on her status, closing the door behind them.
“You can’t do this!” the doctor in charge had protested. “She’s too weak. She won’t make it!” But in the end neither he nor any of the other staff had the courage or the will to defy a direct order from a Spectre.
Generally batarians were a hardy species, but even a krogan would have had difficulty surviving the trauma this patient had been through. Her missing legs were the most obvious injury, but Saren knew her burns were the most horrific. Under the bandages her skin would be all but melted away, exposing the seared flesh and charred tissue beneath. The biolab in the basement was growing skin grafts from
samples of her own genetic material, but it would be at least a week before they were ready to begin reconstruction.
The explosion would have scarred her internal organs as well, the pressure from the blast forcing super- heated air and noxious fumes down her throat and damaging them beyond repair. Only the host of incessantly beeping machines kept her alive, struggling to compensate for the failing systems of her body while cloned organs were being grown. However, like the skin grafts, it would be many days before they would be ready.
Rampant infection and massive heart failure brought on by traumatic shock were a constant threat while she was hooked onto the machines. And even if she survived another week, the strain of the numerous surgeries necessary to repair all the damage might be more than her ravaged body could endure.
She was resting peacefully right now; the doctors had put her into a light drug-induced coma to allow all of her energy to be focused on healing. If she responded to treatment, she would come out of the coma spontaneously in three or four days as her condition improved.
However, the fact that they were waiting to see if she regained consciousness before beginning work on prosthetic limbs to replace her legs told Saren everything he needed to know about the patient’s condition. For all the miracles of medical science, organic life was still delicate and fragile, and it wasn’t likely this woman was going to survive.
But Saren didn’t need her to survive. She was a witness to what had happened at Dah’tan — the only living witness. They had identified her by cross-referencing genetic material with an employee data bank: she was a low- level worker in the accounting department. And all Saren wanted was to ask her one question.
He took the syringe the doctor had reluctantly prepared at his order and plunged it into one of the intravenous lines. It was highly unlikely this woman knew anything about the attack on Dah’tan, and even less likely she knew anything about Sidon. But everyone else on duty at the plant was dead, and Saren had a hunch her survival was more than just blind luck. Maybe she had some warning, some knowledge none of the others did that had almost enabled her to escape unscathed. It was a long shot, but one he was more than willing to take.
One of the machines began to beep loudly, responding to her rapidly quickening heart rate as the Spectre pushed the amphetamines into her system. Her body began to quiver, then tremble, then went rigid and stiff as she sat bolt upright. Her eyelids shot open, though the orbs beneath had been cooked blind by the fires. She tried to scream, but the only sound her charred throat and lungs could produce was a rasping wheeze, barely audible from behind her ventilator mask.
Still sitting up, her body went into seizure, rattling the tubes and the metal frame of her hospital bed as she thrashed uncontrollably. After several seconds she fell back, exhausted and spent, panting for breath, her blind eyes closed once more.
Saren leaned in close to her melted ears, speaking loudly so she could hear him. “Jella? Jella? Turn your head if you can hear me!” At first there was nothing, then her head moved feebly from one side to the other.
“I need to know who did this!” Saren shouted, trying to pierce her veil of pain and drugs. “I just want a name. Do you understand? Just tell me the name!”
He reached over and lifted her breathing mask so she could speak. Her lips moved, but nothing came out. “Jella!” he shouted again. “Louder, Jella! Don’t let the bastard get away with it! Who did this to you?”
Her words were barely more than a whisper, but Saren heard them clearly. “Edan. Edan Had’dah.”
Satisfied, he replaced her breathing mask and pulled a second syringe from his pocket. This one would put her back into the coma, giving her at least a fighting chance for survival.
He hesitated before administering it. As a Spectre, he was familiar with the reputation of the man she’d identified. A ruthless businessman who operated on both sides of batarian law, Edan had always been careful not to involve himself in anything that would draw the attention of the Council or its agents. He had never shown any interest in artificial intelligence research before.
Saren’s train of thought was momentarily broken by the sound of Jella coughing and gagging in her bed. Dark specks spattered the inside of the ventilator mask, blood and pus expelled from her lungs with each choking breath.
There was more to the raid on Sidon than batarian nationalism or antihuman terrorism, he realized. Edan didn’t mix politics and business. And it wasn’t just about money — Edan had plenty of other ways to make a profit that didn’t incur the risk of Spectre involvement. There was something strange going on here. Something he wanted to investigate in more depth.
Jella’s body began to convulse; the beeping of the machines became a single high-pitched whine as her stats dropped below critical levels. Saren stood motionless, watching as her numbers plummeted while he considered his next course of action.
Edan had built a magnificent mansion near the city of Ujon, Camala’s capital. Saren doubted he’d find him there now. Edan was a careful, cautious man. Even if he was sure nobody knew about his connection to Sidon, he’d have gone into hiding the moment he learned someone survived the attack, just to be safe. He could be anywhere by now.
No, Saren corrected himself, ignoring the frantic beeping of the machines and the violent spasms still rocking Jella’s body. Edan wouldn’t have risked trying to clear port security. Not if there was even the slimmest chance someone already knew about his involvement. Which meant he was probably still hiding somewhere on Camala.
But there were plenty of places Edan could hide on this world. He controlled a number of mining and refinery
