CHAPTER EIGHT

Anderson was up at 07:00. He had a slight headache, the mild aftereffects of his late-night visit to Chora’s Den. But a three-mile run on the treadmill he kept stashed in the corner of the apartment and a steaming hot shower purged the last remnants of the elasa from his system.

By the time he changed into his uniform — cleaned and pressed from the night before — he felt like his

old self. He’d pushed all thoughts of Cynthia and the divorce into a small compartment in the back of his mind; it was time to move on. There was only one thing that mattered this morning: getting some

answers about Sidon.

He walked through the streets to the public-transport depot. He showed his military ID, then boarded the high-speed elevator used to shuttle people from the lower levels of the wards to the Presidium high above.

Anderson always enjoyed visiting the Presidium. Unlike the wards, which were built along the arms extending out from the Citadel, the Presidium occupied the station’s central ring. And although it housed all the government offices and the embassies of the various species, it was a sharp contrast to the sprawling metropolis he was leaving behind.

The Presidium had been designed to evoke a vast parkland ecosystem. A large freshwater lake dominated the center of the level, rolling fields of verdant grass ran the length of its banks. Fabricated breezes, gentle as spring zephyrs, caused ripples on the lake and spread the scent of the thousands of planted trees and flowers to every corner of the Presidium. Artificial sunlight streamed down from a simulated blue sky filled with white, puffy clouds. The illusion was so perfect that most people, including Anderson, couldn’t distinguish it from the real thing.

The buildings where the business of government was conducted had been similarly constructed with an eye to natural aesthetics. Set along the gently curving arch that marked the edge of the station’s central ring, they blended unobtrusively into the background. Broad, open walkways meandered back and from building to building, echoing the landscape of the carefully manufactured pastoral scene at the Presidium’s heart — the perfect combination of form and function.

However, as Anderson stepped off the elevator and onto the level, he was reminded that it wasn’t the

organic beauty that he most appreciated about the Presidium. Access to the Citadel’s inner ring was generally restricted to government and military officials, or those with legitimate embassy business. As a result, the Presidium was the one place on the Citadel where Anderson didn’t feel like he was under constant siege from the rushing, crushing crowds.

Not that it was empty, of course. The galactic bureaucracy employed thousands of citizens from every race that maintained an embassy on the Presidium, including humanity. But the numbers here were a far cry from the millions who populated the wards.

He reveled in the peaceful tranquillity as he strolled along the lakeside, slowly working his way toward his meeting at the human embassy. Far in the distance he could see the Citadel Tower, where the Council met with ambassadors petitioning them on matters of interstellar policy and law. The Tower’s spire rose in majestic solitude above the rest of the buildings, barely visible at the point where the curve of the central ring created a false horizon.

Anderson had never been there himself. If he ever wanted to petition the Council, he’d have to go through the proper channels; most likely the ambassador would end up doing it on his behalf. And that was just fine by him. He was a soldier, not a diplomat.

He passed by one of the keepers, the silent, enigmatic race that maintained and controlled the inner workings of the Citadel. They reminded him of oversized aphids: fat green bodies with too many sticklike arms and legs, always scuttling from one place to another on some task or errand.

Little was known about the keepers. They existed nowhere in the galaxy but on the Citadel; they had simply been there waiting when the asari had discovered the station almost three thousand years ago. They had reacted to the arrival of the new species as servants might react to a master returning home: scurrying and scrambling to do everything possible to make it easier for the asari to familiarize themselves with the Citadel and its operations.

All efforts to directly communicate with the keepers were met with mute, passive resistance. They seemed to have no purpose to their existence beyond servicing and repairing the Citadel, and there was an ongoing debate as to whether they were truly intelligent. Some theories held that they were in fact organic machines, genetically programmed by the Protheans to care for the Citadel with a single-minded fanaticism. They functioned purely on instinct, the theory claimed, so unaware they didn’t even realize their original creators had vanished fifty thousand years ago.

Anderson ignored the keeper as he went by — a typical reaction. They were so ubiquitous on the station, and so unobtrusive and unassuming, that most people tended to just take them for granted.

Five minutes later he had reached the building that served as the human embassy. He went inside, the corners of his mouth rising up in a slight grin when he saw the attractive young woman sitting behind the reception desk. She looked up as he approached, returning his coy smile with a radiant one of her

own.

“Good morning, Aurora.”

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen you around here, Lieutenant.” Her voice was as pleasing to the ear as her appearance was to the eye: warm, inviting, confident — the perfect welcome to any and all embassy visitors.

“I was beginning to think you were avoiding me,” she teased. “No, I’m just trying to stay out of trouble.”

With a free hand she tapped a few keys on her terminal and glanced over at the screen. “Uh-oh,” she said, feigning a deep and troubling concern, “you’ve got a meeting with Ambassador Goyle herself.”

She arched an eyebrow, playfully taking him to task. “I thought you said you were staying out of trouble.”

“I said I was trying to stay out of trouble,” he countered. “I never said I was succeeding.”

He was rewarded with a light laugh that was probably polished and practiced, but nonetheless sounded warm and sincere.

“The captain’s already here. I’ll let them know you’re coming.”

Anderson nodded and headed up the stairs toward the ambassador’s office, his step somewhat lighter than it had been a few moments before. He wasn’t foolish enough to read anything into their exchange. Aurora was just doing her job: the receptionist had been hired for her ability to make people feel comfortable and at ease. But he wouldn’t deny that he enjoyed their flirtations.

The door to the ambassador’s office was closed. Aurora had said they were expecting him, but he still paused to knock.

“Come in” came a woman’s voice from the other side.

As soon as he entered he knew the meeting was serious. There were several comfortable chairs and a small coffee table in the office, not to mention the ambassador’s desk. But both the captain and the ambassador were standing as they waited for him.

“Please close the door behind you, Lieutenant.” Anderson did as the ambassador instructed, then stepped into the room and stood stiffly at attention.

Anita Goyle was the most influential and important individual in human politics, and she definitely projected an image of power. Bold and confident, she was a striking woman in her early sixties. She was of medium build, with long silver hair — tied up in a stylish bun — and high, elegant cheekbones. Her features were Middle Eastern, though she had deep emerald eyes that stood out in sharp contrast to her mocha skin. Right now those eyes were fixed directly on Anderson, and he had to fight the urge to fidget under their piercing gaze.