From the expressions on their respective holographic projections the ambassador could see she’d hit a nerve. Eager to press her point, she kept speaking before any members of the Council could respond.
“Humanity is a major trade partner with half a dozen other species in Citadel Space, including each of your races. We make up over fifteen percent of the population here on the Citadel, and there are thousands of humans working in C-Sec and Citadel Control. We’ve been part of the galactic community for less than a decade and we’re already too important — too essential — for you to simply force us out!”
She continued her tirade, still talking even as she drew in a much needed breath; a technique she’d mastered early on in her political career.
“I’ll admit we made a mistake. There should be some type of penalty. But humans take risks. We push the boundaries. That’s who we are. Sometimes we’re going to go too far, but that still doesn’t give you the right to slap us down like overly strict parents!
“Humanity has a lot to learn about dealing with other species. But you have just as much to learn about dealing with us. And you better learn fast, because we humans are here to stay!”
When the ambassador finally stopped, a stunned silence fell over the Council Chamber. The three representatives of the galaxy’s most powerful government looked at each other, then shut off their microphones and the holographic projectors to hold a brief conference in private. From the other side of the room it was impossible for Goyle to read their expressions or hear what they were saying without any amplifying technology, but it was clear there was a much heated debate.
The meeting lasted several minutes before they reached some kind of accord and switched their mikes and holographic projectors back on.
“What kind of penalties are you suggesting, Ambassador?” the asari councillor asked.
Goyle wasn’t sure if the question was sincere, or if they were trying to lure her into some kind of trap. If she suggested something too light, they might just dismiss her and force humanity to accept the original terms, consequences be damned.
“Monetary fines, of course,” she began, trying to determine the bare minimum they would consider acceptable. Although she wouldn’t admit it, Goyle knew it was important to discourage other species from illegal AI research, as well. “We’ll agree to sanctions, but they have to be specific: limited in scope, region, and duration. We’ll oppose anything unilateral on principle alone. Our advancement as a society cannot afford to be hindered by overbearing restrictions. I can have a team of Alliance negotiators ready tomorrow to work out the details of something we all can live with.”
“And what about the inspectors appointed to oversee Alliance operations?” the salarian asked.
He’d made it a question, a request instead of an order. That’s when Goyle knew she had them. They weren’t ready to dig in their heels over this, and it was clear she was.
“That’s not going to happen. Like many species, humans are a sovereign people. We won’t stand for foreign investigators peeking over our shoulders at every little thing we do.”
The ambassador knew they’d probably increase the number of intelligence operatives monitoring human activity instead, but there was nothing she could do about that. Every species spied on everyone else — it was the nature of government, an integral cog in the political machine. And everyone knew the Council played the espionage and information-gathering game as well as anyone. But having to escalate Alliance counterintelligence activities was a damn sight better than granting unrestricted access to a team of officially appointed Citadel observers.
There was another long pause, though this time the Council didn’t bother to confer. In the end it was the asari who broke the silence.
“Then for now that is how we shall proceed. Negotiators from both sides will meet tomorrow. This meeting of the Council is adjourned.”
Goyle gave a demure nod of her head, keeping her expression carefully neutral. She’d won a major victory; there was no benefit in gloating over it. But as she made her way back down the stairs of the Petitioner’s Stage and headed toward the elevator that would take her back to the Presidium, a sly, self- satisfied smile crept across her lips.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The voice of the woman on the news vid never wavered or changed in tone as she reported the details of their latest lead story.
“In addition to the fine, the Alliance has agreed to voluntarily accept numerous trade sanctions as punishment for violation of the Citadel Conventions. The majority of these sanctions are in the fields of drive-core manufacturing and production of element zero. One economist warned energy prices back on Earth could jump by as much as twenty percent in the next — ”
Anderson flicked the vid off with the remote. “I thought it would be worse,” Kahlee said.
“Goyle’s a tough negotiator,” Anderson explained. “But I still think we got lucky.”
The two of them were sitting on the edge of a bed in a Hatre hotel room. Anderson was the one who had actually rented the room, charging it to the Alliance as part of his investigation. However, sharing a single room was nothing more than a necessity of their situation: he still hadn’t mentioned Kahlee to anyone back at Alliance HQ, and it would have raised suspicions if he’d requested another suite… or even a double bed.
“So what happens now?” Kahlee asked. “Where do we go from here?”
Anderson shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know. Officially this has become Spectre business, but there’s still too many loose ends for the Alliance to just walk away.”
“Loose ends?”
“You, for one. We still don’t have any real proof that you aren’t a traitor. We need something to clear your name. And we still don’t know who the real traitor was, or where they’ve taken Dr. Qian.”
“Taken Dr. Qian? What do you mean?”
“The ambassador’s convinced Dr. Qian is still alive and being held prisoner somewhere,” Anderson explained. “She thinks he’s the whole reason the base was attacked. According to her, somebody wanted his knowledge and expertise, and they were willing to kill to get it.”
“That’s crazy,” Kahlee insisted. “What about the alien technology he found? That’s the real reason for the attack!”
“Nobody else knows about that yet,” Anderson reminded her. “Just me and you.” “I figured you would have passed that on,” she said, dropping her eyes.
“I wouldn’t do something like that without telling you first,” Anderson assured her. “If I gave them that kind of information, they’d want to know where I found it. I’d have to tell them about you. I don’t think we want to do that yet.”
“You really are looking out for me,” she whispered.
There was something strange about her subdued reaction, as if she was embarrassed or ashamed. “Kahlee? What’s going on?”
The young woman got up off the bed and walked to the other side of the room. She paused, took a deep breath, then turned back to face him. “I have to tell you something,” she said, her tone grim. “I’ve been thinking about this a lot. Ever since you told me about running into Saren back at Dah’tan.”
He didn’t say anything, but merely nodded at her to continue.
“When I first saw you at my father’s place I didn’t trust you. Even after you fought off that krogan I couldn’t be sure if it was because you really believed me, or if you were just trying to win me over so I’d tell you how much I knew about Sidon.”
Anderson almost opened his mouth to say she could trust him, then changed his mind. Better to let her work through this on her own.
“And then we went to Dah’tan and you ran into Saren and… I know what happened out there, David. Even what you didn’t tell me.”
“What are you talking about?” he protested. “I told you everything that happened!”
She shook her head. “Not everything. You said Saren thought about killing you, then changed his mind because he was afraid there might be witnesses. But you never bothered to tell him you came with someone else,
