Drew Karpyshyn: Revelation

Cautiously making his way across the grounds, he approached a corner of the refinery. The complex was enormous — a main central building nearly four stories high held the primary processing plant. A number of smaller two-story structures had been built on every side to house storage, shipping, administration, and maintenance — Anderson’s destination.

When he reached the maintenance annex he headed around to the small fire door in the back corner. It was locked, but only by a simple mechanical bolt, not one of the far more expensive electronic security systems. A refinery plant in the middle of the desert was typically concerned with limiting casual theft; they weren’t built with the purpose of preventing infiltration operations.

Anderson placed a small glob of sticky explosives on the lock, stepped back, and fired the pistol at the putty. It exploded with a sharp bang and a bright flash, blowing the door open. He waited to see if there was any reaction to the noise, but hearing none he pushed open the door and stepped in.

He found himself standing by the employee lockers. The room was empty; it was the middle of the shift and the employees were all out on repair calls. In one corner was a large laundry basket on wheels, filled with soiled mechanics’ coveralls. He rummaged around until he found a pair that fit over his body armor, then slipped it on. He had to remove his pistol and assault rifle — he didn’t want to be fumbling beneath the coveralls to grab them if needed. He stuffed the pistol into the deep hip pocket of the coveralls. He didn’t unfold the assault rifle, but wrapped it in a large towel he found in the laundry.

The disguise was far from perfect, but it would allow him to explore the plant without attracting too much attention. Seen quickly from a distance, most people would just assume he was one of the maintenance crew headed to a job and ignore him.

He rolled up the sleeve of the coveralls and glanced at his watch. Fifteen minutes gone. He’d have to hurry if he wanted to find Kahlee and get her out before Saren started his mission.

Waiting on the outskirts of the work camp, Saren glanced at his watch. Fifteen minutes had passed.

Anderson was no doubt somewhere deep inside the refinery by now — too far in to turn back.

Stashing his weapons beneath a long coat in much the same way Anderson had done when he’d wanted to pass unnoticed through the camp, the turian stood up and marched toward the buildings.

He’d waited long enough. It was time for his own mission to begin.

Anderson navigated through the numerous halls, passing from the maintenance building into the main refinery. His heart began to pound when he saw his first employee heading his way. But the batarian woman only glanced at him for a second, then looked away and continued on past without saying a word.

He passed several more employees as he made his way up and down the halls, but none of them paid him any attention, either. He was beginning to grow frustrated — he didn’t have time to search the entire facility. He’d assumed they’d be keeping Kahlee on the lower floors, but he was still going to need some luck if he wanted to locate her in time.

And then he saw it: a sign saying “No Admittance” beside a stairwell leading down to what he remembered from the blueprints was a small equipment storage room. The sign was so clean it almost sparkled; obviously it had only been placed there in the last few days.

He hurried down the stairs. At the bottom were two heavyset batarians, each marked with Blue Sun tattoos on their cheeks. They looked bored, slouched down in chairs on either side of a heavy steel door, their assault rifles propped up against the wall beside them. Neither of the guards was wearing body armor — understandable, given the nature of their assignment. They’d probably been sitting here all day, and body armor was hot and heavy. Wearing it for more than a few hours at a time was incredibly uncomfortable.

The guards had already seen him, so Anderson just kept on walking straight toward them. Hopefully they’d been warned to be on the lookout for a turian Spectre. If that was the case, a human in maintenance coveralls wouldn’t seem like much of a threat.

When he reached the small landing at the bottom of the stairs one of the mercs stood up and stepped forward, grabbing his assault rifle and pointing it at Anderson’s chest. The lieutenant froze. He was less than five meters away; at this close range there was no possible way he’d survive if the merc pulled the trigger.

“What’s that?” the guard asked, pointing the barrel of his gun to indicate the towel-wrapped assault rifle Anderson was carrying tucked under his arm.

“Just some tools. Gotta keep them dry.”

“Put the package down.”

Anderson did as he was told, setting the assault rifle on the floor carefully to make sure the towel didn’t slip and reveal what was concealed beneath.

Now that Anderson was no longer carrying anything that might be a weapon, the guard seemed to relax, lowering his own rifle.

“What’s the matter, human?” he demanded. “Can’t you read batarian?” This drew a guffaw from his partner, still slouched in his chair.

“I need something from the equipment room,” Anderson replied.

“Not this one. Turn around.”

“I have an authorization slip here,” Anderson said, fumbling around in his pocket as if trying to dig it out. The batarian was watching him with an expression of bored annoyance, totally oblivious as Anderson wrapped his hand around the handle of his pistol and slipped his finger over the trigger.

The roomy pocket of the coverall allowed him to tilt the barrel of the pistol up just enough to bring it in line with the guard’s midsection. He fired twice, the bullets shredding through the fabric of the coveralls and lodging themselves in the merc’s stomach.

The batarian dropped his rifle in surprise, stumbling back and instinctively clutching at the holes in his gut. He hit the wall and slowly slid down to the floor, blood seeping out and welling up from the fingers he had pressed over the wounds.

His partner looked up in confusion; because of the silencer the pistol’s shots had been muffled to a faint zip-zip that he probably hadn’t even heard. It took him a second to realize what had happened. With an expression of dawning horror he went for his own weapon. Anderson whipped the pistol out of his pocket and fired two shots point-blank into the second guard’s chest. He slouched down to the side, fell off the chair, and was still.

Anderson whipped the pistol back toward the first guard, still sitting motionless on the floor with his back to the wall. “Please,” the mercenary begged, finally figuring out who Anderson was with. “Skarr’s the one who gave the order to execute those Alliance soldiers. I didn’t even want to kill them.”

“But you did,” Anderson answered, then fired a single shot right between the batarian’s eyes.

He stripped off the coveralls, snapped the pistol back onto his hip and unwrapped the assault rifle, unfolding it so it was ready to go. Then he kicked open the door.

Like Anderson before him, Saren entered the refinery through an emergency door in one of the refinery’s small, two-story annexes. But while the lieutenant had gone through the maintenance building on the westernmost side of the refinery, Saren entered through the shipping warehouse on the east. And unlike his human counterpart, he didn’t bother with a disguise.

A pair of dockworkers saw him come in, their faces registering surprise and then fear at the sight of an armored turian carrying a heavy assault rifle. A quick burst from Saren’s weapon ended their lives before they had a chance to cry out for help.