That’s where information brokers came in — specialists who used complex algorithms and custom- designed search engines to limit and sort the data. Mastering the extranet was as much an art as a science, and salarians excelled at the art of gathering confidential information.
The salarian blinked her large eyes. “I warned you there might not be much to find,” she said, speaking quickly. Salarians always spoke quickly. “Records from before your species linked to the extranet are sporadic.”
Anderson had expected as much. Archives from the days predating the First Contact War were slowly being added to the extranet by various government agencies, but the input of old records was a minor priority for every administration. Given Sanders’s age, it was likely her father disappeared from her life long before humanity ever came into contact with the greater galactic community.
“So you’ve got nothing?”
The salarian smiled. “That’s not what I said. It was difficult to track down, but there was something. It seems the left hand of the Alliance is unaware of what the right is doing.”
She handed him a small optical storage disk.
“Make my life easier,” Anderson said, taking it from her and stuffing it into his pocket. “Just tell me what I’m going to find when I scan this thing.”
“The day Kahlee Sanders graduated from your military training academy at Arcturus, an encrypted message was forwarded through classified Alliance channels to an individual on one of your colonies in the Skyllian Verge. It was subsequently purged seconds after it was received.”
“How’d you get access to classified Alliance channels?” Anderson demanded.
The salarian laughed. “Your species has been transmitting data across the extranet for less than a decade. My species has been directing the primary espionage and intelligence operations for the Citadel Council for two thousand years.”
“Point taken. You said the message was purged?”
“True. Deleted and scrubbed from the records. But nothing is ever truly gone once it hits the extranet. There are always echoes and remnants for people like me to track down. The extranet works on a — ”
“I don’t need the details,” Anderson interrupted, holding up a hand to cut her off. “What did the message say?”
“It was brief. A single text file comprised of Kahlee Sanders’s name, final grades, and her class
standing. Very impressive. She could have a bright future in my field if she wanted to come work for — ”
Anderson cut her off again, growing impatient. “This was all in her personnel file. I didn’t pay you to get me her marks.”
“You didn’t pay me at all,” she pointed out. “This is being billed directly to your superiors at the
Alliance, remember? I doubt you could afford to hire me. That’s why you came to me in the first place.”
Anderson’s hands involuntarily went up and rubbed his temples. “Right. That’s not what I meant.” Salarians tended to talk in circles, changing topics with every breath. It gave him a headache, and it always seemed to take twice as long as it should to get what you needed out of them. “I hope to God you have something more than this.”
“The sender of the message was one of the instructors at the Academy. A man long since retired. Preliminary follow-up indicates he is not germane to the investigation — he was likely only acting on orders of the recipient, and likely knew nothing about why the information was being sent.
“Though I have no proof, I suspect the recipient is Kahlee Sanders’s father. As a high-ranking Alliance officer, he would have had the means to systematically cover up their relationship, and do so in a way that would make it difficult to track. However, I was not able to determine why the father and daughter chose to alienate themselves from each — ”
“Please,” he begged, cutting her off one more time. “All I want is a name. Don’t say anything else. Just tell me who received the message, and where I can find him.”
She blinked again, and from the change in her expression Anderson thought he might have hurt her feelings. Mercifully, though, she did as he had asked.
“The message was sent to Rear Admiral Jon Grissom. He’s on Elysium.”
CHAPTER TEN
“This is a private club, batarian,” growled the krogan security guard who stepped in Groto Ib-ba’s way as he tried to enter the doors of the Sanctuary.
“Tonight I’m a member,” the batarian mercenary replied, holding up his financial access card to the scanner and letting it deduct the four-hundred-credit cover charge directly from his bank account. The krogan didn’t move, barring his way until the transaction was approved. He only took his eyes off Groto for an instant, to glance at the name and ID picture that flashed up on the screen. He was checking to see if the access card had been stolen. But the ID image was clearly that of the batarian standing before him; there was no mistaking the blue sun tattoo emblazoned on his forehead, just above his left inner eye.
It was clear from the krogan’s expression he still didn’t want to move aside and let Groto in. “The cover charge only grants entrance to the club,” he noted. “Any services will be an additional fee. A significantly additional fee.”
“I know how it works,” Groto spat back. “I have money.”
The krogan considered for a moment, hoping to find some other way to keep him out. “There are no weapons permitted inside the club.”
“I said I know how it works,” Groto snarled. Still, the guard hesitated.
The batarian spread his arms out wide and held them in place. “Just search me and get it over with.” The krogan stepped back, beaten. “That won’t be necessary.” He tilted his head to the left, a batarian
sign of respect. “My apologies, Mr. Ib-ba. Helanda at the counter in the back can attend to your needs.”
Groto lowered his arms, a little surprised. It was amazing the kind of respect money could buy. If he had actually thought it was possible to get in without being searched he would have smuggled a pistol in under his belt. Or at least slipped a knife in his boot.
Instead he slowly tilted his head to the right in acknowledgment of the apology, playing the part of a man whose honor had been insulted. He boldly walked past the doorman and into the most exclusive
whorehouse on Camala, trying to appear calm though his heart was racing.
Part of him had been afraid they would simply turn him away even if he paid the cover charge. It was obvious he didn’t belong here; the Sanctuary was reserved for the rich and elite — those with fortunes, not soldiers of fortune. For the most part the cover fee kept men like Groto out. There were plenty of other places on Camala to buy companionship for the night, none of them nearly as expensive as the Sanctuary.
But the Blue Suns’s new employer had paid a substantial fee for their exclusive services over the next few months, including a large bonus after the attack on the Sidon military base. Groto hadn’t been directly involved in the attack, and he hadn’t been in the warehouse when their employer had met up with Skarr. If he had, he’d know who was paying them, but he might also have been one of the unlucky mercs who ended up dead at Skarr’s hands.
The Blue Suns paid every member an equal share anyway, so Groto hadn’t missed out on anything but the chance of getting killed. And the mercs who’d been at the warehouse were still on the job: they’d been contracted as personal bodyguards for the anonymous moneyman. Groto, on the other hand, was free to go out and enjoy his share of the credits. And, for once in his life, he was going to experience a pleasure reserved for those far more wealthy and powerful than he.