“I’ll squeeze him until my credits come out,” Leng responded.

  “Squeezing can be nice.”

  Leng grinned. “We were made for each other. Will you be here tomorrow?”

  Marcy looked disappointed. “Probably.”

  “Good. I’ll have my two hundred credits by then and you can help me spend them.”

  Marcy brightened. “That sounds like fun.”

  “It will be,” Leng promised, as he finished the sake. “Be careful out there.” And with that he left.

  The next place on Leng’s list was the Dark Star Lounge. It was located on the twenty-eighth floor of a high-rise with a spectacular view of the Presidium ring. And as Leng made his way past a fancy restaurant and into a very quiet bar, he realized that the Dark Star was an unlikely habitat for a working stiff like McCann. Still, he was there, so it made sense to stroll between the gaming tables and eyeball the formally clad clientele. As expected, McCann was nowhere to be seen, and that included the casino area, where muted applause signaled a win.

  So having checked the Dark Star Lounge, Leng left for what he hoped would be a more productive hunting ground. And that was the dive called Chora’s Den. The trip took a good twenty minutes but the moment he walked inside Leng knew it was the sort of place McCann would gravitate to. There was a central bar with private booths all around the perimeter of the room. And each booth was equipped with a terminal on which a wide variety of virtual games could be played.

  Slowly, so as to avoid attracting undue attention, Leng circled the room. But much to his disappointment McCann was nowhere to be seen. There were other bars. Lots of them. But rather than leave for the next place on the list Leng decided to rest his leg and hang around for a while. He took a seat that offered an unobstructed view of the main entrance and ordered a sake.

  Some bars were set up to cater to a specific race, but Chora’s Den had a very diverse clientele. And while Leng didn’t like most aliens, there was no denying that the asari dancer who occupied the platform at the very center of the bar was fun to look at, and when she winked at him he winked back.

  But in spite of the entertainment the next hour passed slowly, too slowly, and Leng was about to leave when Hal McCann walked through the door. Leng put his head down as the ex-Cerberus employee paused to look around. Then, having seen Leng but not recognized him, McCann made his way to an empty booth. After shoving a chip into the terminal he began to play. The light from the screen gave his face a bluish cast.

  Now there was a decision to be made. Leng could sit down next to McCann, engage him in conversation, and slash his femoral artery. McCann would lose consciousness in about thirty seconds—and bleed out within three minutes. Plenty of time for an escape. But McCann might make noise and it was impossible to know how the other customers would react.

  The other possibility was to wait for McCann to go to the men’s room and take him out there. That could get complicated if the can was being used by others—but Leng figured he could schmooze McCann long enough to get him alone.

  There should have been a third option, which was to follow McCann out onto the street, but Leng wasn’t sure his leg was up to a brisk walk, never mind the possibility of a chase. So he ordered another shot of sake and settled in to wait. Fifteen minutes later McCann was still sitting in his booth and Leng needed to pee. So he went into the filthy men’s room, and was standing in front of a urinal, when McCann stepped into the slot right next to him. Leng flushed and zipped his fly. “Hey, Hal, how’re you doing?”

  McCann turned to look at the stranger and frowned. “Do I know you?”

  “It’s your old friend, Kai Leng.”

  McCann had stepped away from the urinal by that time. The first expression to appear on his face was one of pleasure. The second reflected concern. “You’re wearing a disguise. Why?”

  “That’s what I do,” Leng replied lightly, as he placed himself between McCann and the exit. “You know that.”

  McCann’s right arm was dangling at his side. There must have been a long narrow pocket on his pants leg, because the telescoping baton seemed to materialize out of nowhere. There was a loud click as four sections of spring steel shot out of the handle and locked themselves in place. “Don’t try to spin me, Kai … The Illusive Man sent you.”

  “Okay, he sent me,” Leng agreed, he eyed the baton. “So let’s get this over with.”

  McCann raised his left hand, and Leng blocked the downward blow, but took a knee in the crotch. Or would have except he turned his hips at the last moment and took the blow on his right thigh. McCann charged him. The weight of the other man’s body slammed Leng against the wall. He saw an opening, brought the heel of a hand up, and hit McCann’s jaw. That sent the other man reeling. He hit the opposite wall and slid to the floor. Eager to finish the fight, Leng went after him.

  Desperate to defend himself, McCann lashed out. The steel shaft made a whirring sound as it cut through the air and struck Leng’s leg. His right leg. Leng heard himself scream as he fell. But even then his mind was working. Did McCann know about his wound? No, the location of the strike was a matter of bad luck.

  Leng rolled onto his back as McCann struggled to stand. A professional would have delivered a blow at Leng’s exposed head—or made good his escape at that point. But McCann was pleased with himself and wanted to savor the moment. “Well, well. So much for the famous Kai Leng. I know how you feel about aliens. How’s it feel to roll around in their piss?”

  “You tell me,” Leng said through gritted teeth, as he pulled the knife out from under his waist-length jacket. The needle-sharp point passed down through the top of McCann’s boot and hit the floor. McCann let go of the baton to grab his foot. A steady stream of swear words could be heard as he took two hops and fell.

  Having recovered the baton, Leng pounced on McCann, pressed the steel rod down on his windpipe, and applied all of his weight. The other man’s eyes bulged, and his back arched, as he tried to push Leng away. Then McCann jerked convulsively and it was over.

  Leng rolled off the body, paused to recover the knife, and came to his feet. It wasn’t easy to drag McCann’s body into a stall, and prop him up on a toilet, but the effort was worth it. Chances were that it would be closing time before anyone discovered the body. And Leng would be long gone by then. So there was plenty of time to wash up, swallow a pain tab, and leave the premises. It was, all things considered, a job well done.

  FIVE

  ON THE CITADEL

  Having failed to obtain an upgrade from the asari Biotics Guild, Gillian was determined to get it somewhere else. And that was why she agreed to follow a man named Horst Acara down into the depths of the red ward. He was a bit overweight, dressed in a shabby business suit, and looked back occasionally as if to make sure that she hadn’t deserted him. Each time he did so a smile appeared on his moonlike face. “Don’t worry, we’re almost there.”

  It had grown warmer for some reason, and as Gillian followed Acara down an ancient passageway the steady thump, thump, thump of what might have been a giant heart was at work somewhere nearby. There were no aliens to be seen. Just tired, hollow-eyed humans, lounging in doorways, sitting on stoops watching whatever happened to pass by. They had entered the ghetto known as Hu-Town. A place where humans who had been unable to find success with the Citadel’s alien-dominated society often wound up. Their bitterness was plain to see on the graffiti-covered walls and in the professionally produced ads that crawled the walls. One of them read, “Cerberus will sound the call. Be ready.”

  Ready for what? Gillian wondered. Not that it mattered. Her purpose was to kill the man in charge of the organization. People like Anderson and Kahlee could worry about the politics of it.

  “We’re almost there,” Acara said for the fifth or sixth time. “These quarters are just temporary mind you. We’ll be moving up to one of the higher levels soon.”

  Gillian had met Acara in the markets, where the salesman had a poorly positioned one-man kiosk off in a gloomy corner. A spot so remote Gillian would never have noticed it if she hadn’t been looking for an out-of-the-way place to eat her lunch. But having seen the sign that read CUSTOM AMPS, Gillian went to investigate. That was when Acara launched into his sales pitch. The problem, he claimed, was that all of the major providers were set up to force an entire suite of proprietary amps onto users, and then hold them captive by refusing to create cross-platform applications. A strategy aimed at building market share and limiting competition.

  However, thanks to the virtual intelligence chips devised by Custom Amps, it was possible to mix and match implants from different manufacturers, thereby providing biotics with increased power and duration. That was music to Gillian’s ears as was the company’s willingness to service clients on a demand basis.

  Did that mean they were hard up for customers? Yes, Gillian figured it did. But Acara’s pitch appealed to both her rebellious sensibility and the need for additional offensive and defensive capability. “Here we are,” Acara said, as they turned into a side passageway. A sign that read CUSTOM AMPS winked monotonously as the salesman entered a code into the keypad, and the door hissed out of the way. The air that invaded Gillian’s nostrils was tinged with ozone and the faint odor of curry. Boxes of miscellaneous gear were stacked against both sides of the entryway, leaving very little room to walk.

  The corridor opened into a reception area that didn’t have a receptionist but was furnished with a rumpled bed. A salarian was flaked out on it sound asleep. “Dr. Sani is a workaholic,” Acara explained, “so he sleeps here sometimes. Hey, doc, wake up. We have a visitor. Gillian here wants to buy some amps.”

  Sani turned over, opened his eyes, and said something unintelligible. Then having spotted Gillian he rolled onto his feet. The salarian had the long narrow face typical of his race, a slightly downturned mouth, and a slender body. Big luminous eyes blinked as he spoke. “Welcome. No offense, but you don’t look like a biotic.”

  Gillian felt a sense of annoyance, shaped some of the energy available around her, and gave it purpose. “Whoa! Put me down,” Acara insisted, as Gillian lifted him up off the floor.

  “You are more than you appear to be,” Sani said tactlessly, as Gillian put Acara down. “Please follow me.”

  The lighting grew brighter as the salarian led the way into what was obviously intended to be a lab, but looked nothing like the sleek, well-organized facility that the Biotics Guild ran. Racks of equipment lined the walls, cables ran every which way, and the table at the center of the space looked like salvage from an old med clinic. “We don’t go for the fancy stuff,” Acara said by way of explanation. “That keeps the overhead down.”

  “Take your clothes off,” Sani ordered, “and lay facedown on the table.”

  Gillian frowned. “What? No gown?”

  “Sorry,” Sani said, as he opened a locker. “Here.”

  The gown he gave her had clearly been worn before. Gillian looked from the garment over to Dr. Sani. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

  The salarian’s look of perpetual disapproval remained unchanged. “I can double your power—and triple the time available to use it.”

  There was a moment of silence. Gillian nodded. “If you gentlemen will step out of the room, I’ll put the gown on.”

  The initial part of the process was quite similar to the examination at the Biotic Guild. Gillian experienced a moment of pain followed by a tingling sensation, and involuntary muscle contractions. That lasted for a good ten minutes or so as Dr. Sani used a variety of instruments to create a computerized map of Gillian’s implants. The process was accompanied by Sani’s barely audible narration. “Hmmm … Not bad. Uh-oh, it looks like amp 23 is starting to fade. Nexus 4.5 is suboptimal,” and so forth until the process was complete.

  “So,” Sani announced, “I have good news for you. By tying equipment manufactured by HMBA and Kassa Fabrication together with our virtual intelligence chips, I will be able to provide you with a substantial improvement in performance. Shall we proceed?”

  Gillian was still lying facedown on the table and wished she could see the salarian’s face. Not that it would make much difference. His expressions revealed very little and she was mentally and emotionally committed by then. “Yes,” she said into the table. “Let’s proceed.”

  There were no medical exams or record checks. Dr. Sani went right to work. What followed was a grueling process during which the old implants were removed and new ones were installed. And, because each amp had to be tested, it seemed as if the ordeal would go on forever.

  The stress of it took a lot out of her and Gillian found herself drifting in and out of consciousness after a while. There were shadowy dreams, all haunted by the same half-seen figure of a person who might have been her father, or the man responsible for her father’s death. She couldn’t tell which. Finally a voice summoned her back from the never-never land she had taken refuge in. “Miss Grayson? Can you hear me? The procedure is over.”

  It took Gillian the better part of five minutes to clear her head, roll over, and get off the table. All of the spots where the old implants had been removed, and new ones had been installed, felt sore. She staggered and Acara took her arm. “Careful,” he said, “it will take awhile for your nervous system to adjust.”

  Gillian jerked her arm away. “I’ll be all right,” she insisted. “Give me some privacy.”

  So Acara and Sani stepped out into the reception area. It took Gillian longer than usual to get dressed. Once the process was complete she called them back in. The belt containing six kilos of Beryllium slugs was dangling from her right hand. “What do I owe you?”

  A preliminary fee had been set with Acara, but Sani had been forced to use more HMBA amps than anticipated, which made the final price higher. So once the transaction was complete Gillian found herself buckling a much lighter belt. Did she have enough slugs to reach Omega? She hoped so. “That’s it? We’re finished?”

  “Not quite,” Sani responded. “Computer readouts are one thing, but I would like to field test the entire system. Follow me.”

  The salarian led Gillian and Acara through a maze of passageways and onto an elevator that lowered them six levels and opened onto a corridor where the air was thick with the stench of garbage. “Where are we?” Gillian wanted to know.

  “The garbage that can’t be recycled ends up here,” Sani replied. “It’s dumped into bins which are loaded onto specially designed ships. They take the containers out to the Widow and drop them into orbit. Gravity takes care of the rest.”

  Gillian knew that the Widow was the nearest sun. She held her nose. It was necessary to shout in order to be heard over the sound of heavy machinery. “And we’re here because?”

  “Because of this,” Sani said, as he led her onto a small observation platform. They were looking out over an enormous compartment. There wasn’t much lighting, but dozens of firefly-like robotic drones could be seen, nosing about and sending video off to the computer that was in charge of the largely automated system.

  Huge bins rattled, clanked, and rumbled as they were shuttled under funnels from which rivers of refuse flowed. Once a container was full the car that it was sitting on was pulled to the next station, where a lid was applied. Sparks flew as robotic arms came in to weld the top in place. Then it was off to a dimly seen lock through which the modules would have to pass before being loaded into the hold of a waiting ship. “Okay, now what?” Gillian inquired.

  “Focus on the containers that are full. Then, once you’re ready, create the most powerful singularity that you can.”

  As Gillian summoned all of her energy, she felt an additional surge, as her power was amplified to an extent never experienced before. It grew so large, and so powerful, that it was a struggle to contain it. Then, when it felt as if every fiber of her body might be ripped apart, she gave the energy purpose. And the results were nothing less than spectacular. All of the garbage in all of the open bins was sucked into what looked like a raging cyclone. Tons of refuse came spewing out of the vortex a few seconds later. It fell like stinking snow until the entire compartment was covered in a thick layer of the stuff. Something shorted, the system ground to a stop, and a klaxon began to beep.

  Gillian, who was appalled by the extent of the destruction, took a step backward. “My god, did I do that?”

  Dr. Sani nodded. And for the first time Gillian saw the hint of what might have been a smile on his face. “You sure did. I don’t know where you’re headed, or what you plan to do,” Sani said. “But I know this … You’re ready.”

  Kahlee had spent the entire day looking for Gillian without finding a trace of her. In retrospect she realized that it had been a mistake to let the impetuous youngster leave. Now two of her ex-students were missing—and she felt miserable as she entered the apartment. Anderson and Varma were waiting for her.

  Just the sight of the C-Sec officer was enough to give Kahlee a sinking feeling. Anderson shook his head. “I know what you’re thinking. Gillian is fine. Or so we assume. C-Sec has pictures of her entering Hu-Town. Then she disappeared. Hendel is still looking for her and Lieutenant Varma wants to talk to us about someone else.”

  “That’s true,” Varma said. “I’m here because of Hal McCann. Someone killed him. And given the connection with Gillian I thought it would be a good idea to speak with you. Neither one of you had any contact with McCann after he left your apartment. Is that correct?”

  Kahlee took a seat on the couch. “Yes, it is. McCann was very uncomfortable around us. And for good reason given the Cerberus connection. What happened?”

  “He was killed in a gentleman’s club called Chora’s Den.”

  “I know the place,” Anderson admitted sheepishly. “It’s pretty rough.”

  Kahlee wrinkled her nose. “Men.”

  Varma smiled. “According to members of the club’s staff McCann entered by himself, took a booth, and made use of the gambling terminal located there. Eventually he got up to visit the men’s room. According to video captured by one of the bar’s surveillance cameras, another human was already in there. For reasons we aren’t sure of they got into a fight and McCann was killed. A janitor found his body sitting on a toilet hours later. The killer was long gone by then.”