Author's Note: Readers may recognize the various sources that I borrowed and mixed together to write this one-shot. Needless to say, I claim no ownership to any of them.

The Hero Who Came In From The Cold

It only took an hour to remind me why I really, really, really hate formal parties.

You always have to dress up in stiff, uncomfortable dress uniforms that must have been designed by some sadist to chafe. Or look enviously at all the rich, privileged snobs drift around in flowing, silky-smooth fabrics that probably cost more than my annual salary. Or even a decade's worth of salary.

Besides, I never know what to do or what to say. More specifically, I don't know what to do without crossing some unspoken line that I didn't know exist. And I didn't know what to say that wouldn't make me look like some dumb grunt. So I wind up sticking to the sidelines, trying my best not to fall asleep.

It's not all bad, though. You get to do a lot of observing when you stay out of the limelight. As I looked around, I observed that the people around me fell in one of four groups.

First were the diplomats, ambassadors and other politicians. Easily identified, as I said before, by their flowing, silky-smooth fabrics. Not to mention their stiff, but decidedly non-military, posture. Their ever-present smiles that were entirely sincere as long as you didn't look at their eyes. And the overall smugness that oozed from their every pore. Because they were the big cheeses. The big man—or woman—on campus. The lord or lady of their domain—and they damn well knew it.

Next were soldiers like me. We were here mostly for the conference. One can't really talk about the Treaty of Farixen and the dreadnoughts it concerned without the men and women—COs, XOs, tactical officers, engineers and so on—who served on them or their support ships. Or, in my case, the ground pounders who rely on dreadnoughts and other ships to clear the way so shuttles and dropships could deliver us to the battlefield. So the soldiers got dragged along to fancy gatherings like this. We clustered together in little groups, divided by race and rank. Every one of us talking about sensible, practical matters. All the while scanning the room, searching for threats. Preparing for battle or war. Because if the diplomats, ambassadors and other politicians lost their temper, their perspective or their control—the bloodless war of words would quickly become a bloody war of the more conventional variety. And then good men and women would plunge into conflict, fighting other men and women who, in some ways, had a great deal in common. Soldiers always had more in common with each other than with other civvies, after all.

Then there were the reporters. Generally lacking the fancy clothes of the politicians or the stiff ceremonial uniforms of the soldiers. Generally exchanging the polite vid-worthy smiles for a curious mixture of childlike curiosity, hungry inquisitiveness and galaxy-weary cynicism. Generally keeping one hand free, the better to jot down notes or make recordings on their omni-tools. Some circulated like sharks surrounding their prey. Others hovered around the same people, having staked their territory for better or worse. They were the ones who would convey the developments of this conference to the masses—if they didn't butcher it in the name of ignorance or sensationalism first.

And then there was the staff. Quiet, unassuming. Always moving around, whether to carry snacks and champagne around on trays or replenish the mountains of food that threatened to collapse the tables that bore their weight.

The growling in my stomach reminded me I hadn't eaten anything for several hours. So I moseyed over to the closest table to grab a bite.

There was a salarian at the table I chose. His plate was pretty full. "Lots of food, I see," I said in passing.

"Yes. Clearly. Much to eat."

Five words. That's it. All spoken rather quickly. Didn't seem like nerves, though. Rather, it sounded like he just naturally talked that way. "Anything you'd recommend?"

"Yes. Why. You have eyes. Is your visual acuity suffering? Do you need an optometrist?"

Well that seemed rude. I might've said something pithy if he was human. By that, I mean that it would be easier for me to tell if he was genuinely curious or being rude if he was human. Facial cues, body posture, that sort of thing. But with salarians… well, I'd seen them in the vids and on the extranet, but I hadn't met many face to face. I simply didn't know.

"Actually, I just had a physical," I replied. "My eyes are fine. Just curious, I guess. Wouldn't mind trying a new dish or two while I was here."

"Well, then," the salarian said. "It depends on your palate. Me, I favour mildly sweet foods. Like this, for instance. It's a puree made from the Sur'Kesh amberberry, whipped into a light, airy concoction similar to your human meringues. But maybe you want something more substantial. Like the varren patties over there..."

This went on for several minutes. I guess he was a food buff or something. By the time the salarian left, I was able to identify every single item on the table, along with a basic idea of what it would taste like. Which allowed me to make an informed choice when piling up my plate.

"You're not a reporter, are you?"

I turned around to see a fellow human. Average height. Stocky—possibly from working out, possibly from eating a lot. Dark hair with a five o'clock shadow around the mouth. Heavy accent, though not heavy enough to mangle his words. "I'm sorry?"

"You're not a reporter?" he repeated. "I mean, you're dressed like a soldier."

Observant guy, wasn't he? "Yes, I am. A soldier, that is."

"Well at least I won't have to worry about you scooping me. For now," he muttered. Seeing that I'd heard him, he added "Because when your term of service is up, you should consider a career in journalism. You'd make a fine reporter."

"And you're basing that on…"

"Let's put it this way: the commander of the First Infiltration Regiment rarely speaks to anyone in public, much less someone who isn't part of the Union or the Council."

"The commander of…" I blinked. "You mean… that guy I talked to? He commands one of the Special Tasks Group regiments?"

"Yes."

Wow. STG handled everything from espionage and reconnaissance to counterterrorism, sabotage and assassination. While they formed a large part of the salarian military, they were often deployed by the Citadel Council as well. Mainly because they attracted less attention than the Spectres—the Citadel Council's pride and joy. They were used to monitor 'developing situations' with minimal resources, adapt when needed and 'handle' persons of interest in whatever manner they deemed fit.

"But all I did was ask what he'd recommend to eat," I said blankly.

"That's all?"

"Yeah."

"And from that, you got almost five minutes of conversation." He made an impressed noise and sipped his champagne. "Well, then. ANN or FCC should definitely think about headhunting you."

"What about you?" I asked.

"Freelance," he shrugged. "Not my first choice, between you and me, but it means I get to pick my own stories. Like you. Tell me about yourself."

"M-me?" I stammered. "I'm not very interesting."

He gave a hearty chuckle. "Somehow, I highly doubt that."

Against my better judgement, he got a few things out of me. Name (Charles Shepard). Rank (Lieutenant). How I got invited to this shindig (CO had a spare ticket when her girlfriend came down with the flu and chose me for some bizarre reason). What's it like being in the Alliance (which was a golden opportunity to steer the conversation towards the usual platitudes about serving humanity, the honour of representing my people to the galactic community and all the places I could visit while serving with the Alliance).

This went on for a good half hour, which was a nice way to pass the time. Better than standing on the sidelines.

It wasn't until I was heading back to my quarters that I realized something: I never got the reporter's name.

That oversight was quickly corrected, though not in the way I expected.

I should explain.

One of the things you learn in Basic is how to go to sleep quickly. Anywhere, at any time. You can't always count on a nice firm mattress—or a nice cushy one. Sometimes, you're lucky if you can find a clean section of floor to sleep on. Or a rock that could double as a pillow. But everyone needs to rest at some point, so you learn to make do.

Another thing you learn is how to sleep lightly. Never know when someone might sneak up on you.

Like the figure who managed to get within five metres before I bolted up. One hand pulled out my pistol, the other hit the light switch.

"Ah. You are awake."

It was that reporter again. "Didn't I give you enough material for a news story?" I asked.

"Yes, you did. It's a pity I won't be sending it to anyone."

Now the logical response would be 'Why?' followed by 'Not enough juicy material for you?' or 'All the big media groups aren't accepting stories from freelancers?' I was about to follow that train of thought myself.

But then I had a hunch. "You're not a reporter, are you?"

He gave me a thin smile as I echoed his earlier question. "No."

"Who are you?"

"Why don't you tell me?"

Great. Just great. Guy broke into my quarters because he wanted to play Twenty Questions with me. I was too tired for all this crap, but fine. I'll play along for now. "You're not a politician—clothes aren't expensive enough. Not a soldier either—no uniform and the posture's all wrong. We've just established you're not a reporter."

"Maybe I was one of the waiters."

"A waiter who took a break from his job to pose as a reporter?" I shook my head. "No, that's not it. Plus, most people have a little more trouble getting through locked doors than you did."

"A misspent youth."

"Clearly. And you're also good at keeping your cool when people are holding you at gunpoint."

"Maybe I have police or military training," he suggested.

"Posture," I reminded him.

"Ah. A fair point," he conceded. "Is that all?"

"No," I said, leaning forward. "One last thing: that salarian I was talking to. You could have said he was the consort of some dalatrass. Or yet another rocket scientist—God knows the salarians have lots of them. But you ID'd him as a member of STG. And not just any member, but the commander of an STG regiment. That's a very specific position in a very specific line of work.

"So tell me: what does Alliance Intelligence want with me?"

The man gave another hearty chuckle and clapped his hands. "Well done, Shepard—sorry, sorry. Lieutenant Shepard. Well done, indeed. Why do you think I am here?"

Seriously? "I guess it makes sense that Alliance Intelligence wants to have their agents placed at the conference. Better to get raw, firsthand reports than second-hand memos that aren't written from an intelligence perspective. But I don't have access to that. I wasn't lying when I said the only reason I'm here was because the CO had a spare ticket. So why me?"

"You just spent the last few minutes drawing conclusions about me. Allow me to return the courtesy: you're more than a simple Alliance soldier. Simple soldiers don't get invited to attend the Officer Candidate School. Skilled, resourceful, even exceptional soldiers do.

"Now some of those soldiers have ambition. They want to go somewhere, do something, be someone. They want to get on the fast track to command."

"Who's to say that's not me?" I asked. "Maybe I wanna sit in the captain's chair someday."

"And maybe you will," he allowed. "But not today. Today… you are willing to sublimate those desires in order to serve the greater good. Your whole career has been about finding out how you can provide the most support and make the greatest difference. Sometimes that means operating from a distance. Sometimes that means acting indirectly. Why else did you originally train as a sniper?"

Because I didn't like the thought of blood spraying onto my nice, clean hardsuit. I'm a neat freak that way.

"This might come as a surprise to you, Lieutenant, but Alliance Intelligence values those qualities. They are constantly on the lookout for men and women who put the good of humanity above their own personal ambitions. People who are flexible and resourceful. People like you."

My eyes bulged. "Me?!"

"You have all the qualifications to be a very useful member of Alliance Intelligence. Furthermore, your military training gives you an entire set of skills that most agents lack."

This… this was not what I was expecting. I thought I was just going to go to some fancy-schmancy conference and gorge myself on snacks that I could never afford on a lieutenant's salary to distract me from the stiffness of my dress blues. I thought I was gonna be bored out of my mind.

But this… this was better. Way better! I always wanted to be a spy. Like James Bond or Nick Fury. A secret agent man. I mean come on! They got to go on important missions, the ones full of action and excitement that really made a difference. They got to go to far-off exotic places, which were probably more exciting than the humdrum locations I was usually assigned to. They got the gadgets—cutting-edge, customized, top-of-the-line tech. None of that mass-produced crap for them. And they got the girls—each one hotter than the last. That point, more than anything else, would be such a departure from my usual nonexistent luck.

Bottom line, being a spy was like a dream job. And now this was my chance to turn that dream into reality!

Of course, I had to play it cool. "I guess ANN and FCC won't be headhunting me any time soon."

"Not today," he nodded.

"So, what can I do?" I asked.

"For now? Nothing. We'll contact you for your first assignment. Your code name will be Joseph." He pronounced it with a French accent, which either made it sounded unbearably pretentious or incredibly sophisticated and cool. I decided to go with incredibly sophisticated and cool.

He got to his feet. "I have taken up enough of your time, I think. Good night, Lieutenant."

"Wait," I called out as he turned away. "I still haven't caught your name."

"Sloan," he smiled. "Yaron Sloan."

Then he left and I was left alone with my thoughts.

Two weeks passed. Don't ask me what happened over that time. I honestly can't remember. All I could do was go over that late night rendezvous with Sloan. The invitation to become an honest-to-gosh spy. The request to take on an actual mission. Eventually. Someday. To my surprise, I found myself getting antsy. Hadn't happened for a long time. I thought I'd trained this sort of thing out of me. But then, it's not every day that you're asked to become a spy.

Finally I got the call. "Hello?"

"Joseph?"

This was it! Oh my god, this was it! "Yeah?" I said, trying to be casual.

"Café Astra, down the block from your apartment. Corner table. One hour. Authentication check: 'pleasing to the tongue'."

"Café Astra, corner table, one hour, 'pleasing to the tongue.' Got it."

There was a click and the comm channel shut down.

I arrived at Café Astra about five minutes early and ordered a coffee—more to keep from raising any suspicion than because of any need to satisfy my non-existent caffeine fix—and a sandwich. None of the corner tables were taken, so I arbitrarily chose one at the back. The better to keep an eye on the café and everyone coming and going, I reasoned.

As I ate, I turned on the chronometer on my omni-tool and surreptitiously checked the time. It was 1555. As the minutes passed, I slowly ate my sandwich and sipped my coffee. Waiting. And waiting. And waiting.

At 1601, a tall brunette plopped down on the seat opposite me, cup of coffee in hand. "What kind of sandwich is that?" were the first words that came out of her mouth.

"Huh? Um… ham and cheese, I think?"

"That's it? Just plain old ham and cheese? On—is that white bread?"

This was not what I imagined. At all. "Well, yeah. I guess. What else would it be?"

"It could be rye bread. With some pastrami—real pastrami, none of that lean crap. Definitely none of that cloned crap."

"Sounds tasty," I allowed. "And possibly high in cholesterol."

"Oh, I'm just getting warmed up." She really was. Her eyes lit up and everything. "Add some mayo. Not just a little on the side—lather it on, baby. Top it off with some muenster cheese—or jack, if you only have the bland version. And grill it 'till it's nice and toasty. That would be oh so pleasing to the tongue."

It would. It really wo—oh. The phrase! That was the authentication phrase. Or check or whatever it was called.

"Sloan sent you?" I blurted out. Then I winced. I probably shouldn't have said that out loud.

Her eyes confirmed that, though her grin softened the blow. "You know why I'm here. And why you're here. Sorry about the sandwich thing, by the way. I kinda have a thing about meats. And cheeses. Meats and cheeses as in food, in case you were thinking—but you weren't. Not until I went plunging into the gutter on a hop, skip and a prayer." She closed her eyes, rubbed her finger and took a deep breath. "Anyway, you could listen to me embarrass myself, but we should probably get down to business. I'm Jo, by the way. And we believe the Salarian Union has a mole within our midst."

Sudden verbal tangents aside, that was not good. The salarians were the best when it came to espionage. Their whole military doctrine was based on the old adage that knowledge was power. In fact, they didn't commit to any military engagement until they gathered all their intel and got all their assets into position. That way, when they struck, they could defeat their enemy in a single shot.

"Funny. And here I thought we were allies."

"We are. Officially. For now. But things could change. And if they do, the salarians undoubtedly want up-to-date information on our intentions, resources and military capability."

Hence the mole. "How did you find out we had a mole in the first place?"

"A week after last year's military conference, the identity of one of our deep cover operatives was blown. Three days after the christening of the SSV Geneva, one of our servers was hacked using the local station chief's personal access codes. Five days after a diplomatic summit at the Citadel, a mission to extract a person of interest inexplicably fell apart. Independently, any one of these events is a serious problem. Put together, they paint a very disturbing picture."

"Do we have any idea who the mole is?"

"Not exactly. However, we have a lead." She turned on hisomni-tool and angled it my way so I could see the salarian displayed. "Meet Jelik Rass. Supposedly a reporter for the Mannovai Gazette, we've linked him to several STG ops for the Citadel Council and the Salarian Union. Rass was at all three of the events I mentioned, plus several more that were followed by similar breaches in security."

"Where is he right now?"

"Flying in. He's attending a banquet tomorrow night. Some annual shindig at the local salarian cultural centre."

"Which means if we can crash the party and shadow Rass, we have a chance of uncovering who the mole is."

"Precisely. But rather than 'crashing' the party, we thought that we could get ourselves on the guest list. Which might involve a little sneaking and hacking. That's where you come in. Ready for your first assignment?"

"Yeah, of course."

She got to her feet. "Then let's go."

So apparently my first assignment for Alliance Intelligence was to waltz into the salarian cultural centre, find any computer that had access to the guest list for the big party and add a couple names.

Easy, right? Just one catch: I had to go in posing as an IT guy. Alone. Why moonlight as an IT guy? To see how good –or bad—my bullshitting was. Why solo? Because Alliance Intelligence couldn't spare any more bodies. Budget cuts, apparently. No wonder we'd been compromised.

"There shouldn't be anyone but the night staff," Jo was saying as we approached. "Here's your alias."

I looked at the ID badge she gave me. 'Leland Robert Spears,' it read.

"The coding on the badge should get you through the doors and up the elevators to the fifth floor," she instructed. "From there, you should be able to find a spare computer."

"Right."

Of course, it wasn't quite that simple.

Oh, I got through the front door without a hitch. Sure enough, there was just one guard. "Can I help you?" he asked.

"IT guy," I replied, holding up my badge. "Gotta fix some computers. Fifth floor?"

He nodded and tilted his head towards the elevator. Just in case I was blind. I nodded back and walked to the elevator. It was locked, of course. Keycard access. I waved the badge across the card reader. A harsh beep pierced the quiet, followed by an automated voice that said *Access denied!*

Aw, crap.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the guard stop and turn around. I waved the badge again. *Access denied!* Then I tried pressing the badge against the sensor. *Access denied!*

"Everything all right, there?"

I tried the badge one last time. You can probably guess the response I got. Judging by the sound of his footsteps, I could tell the guard was walking back. Despite his languid pace, I had a feeling that a few alarm bells were going off in his head. Think fast, Shepard.

Then I had an idea. Not a great one, but the best I could come up with on short notice. Turning around so my omni-tool was facing away from the guard, I surreptitiously logged onto the extranet and accessed a certain website—one I knew I shouldn't even think of touching with a ten-foot pole.

"Having trouble? I thought you were here to fix these things."

"Not my department," I shrugged, tapping the card reader with my hand.

The guard's eyes narrowed. "Mind telling me what you're doing here, then?"

"Like I said, I'm here to fix computers. Why? No. freaking. clue. I work my ass off for sixteen hours straight, stumble home, barely make it to the bed before crashing. Then my boss—the same boss who made me work those sixteen hours—e-mails me in the middle of the night. I don't ask questions. I just shut up and show up."

"Mind if I see that e-mail?"

"Sure. No problem." I extended my arm and woke up my omni-tool. Random parts of it flickered on and off over a large holographic crack. "You're welcome to anything you can find on there."

The guard gingerly reached out and tried to access the e-mail app. Then the systems monitor. Then anything he could think of over the next minute. All he got for his trouble was a sizzling shock that left his index finger blackened. Thank you, Irene Demova—the virus, not the porn star.

"Did I mention that my boss woke me up in the middle of the night?" I added, letting a hint of irritation into my voice.

We stared at each other. Then both of us began chuckling, almost in unison. "You're telling me," the guard said. "They say 'jump,' you say 'how high?' Right there with you, man."

He took a few steps to the card reader and activated it with his own card. *Access granted*

"Thanks," I said as the elevator doors opened.

"Don't work too hard, now," the guard told me.

I faked a tired laugh. "Yeah. Sure. Maybe in another life." I entered the elevator car and hit the control panel with a little more force than I needed. The doors closed. I felt the car begin to move upward.

Then synthesized muzak began playing over the speakers. I didn't need to fake the groan that came out.

It was smooth sailing from there. Once I got to the fifth floor, I made a beeline to the closest computer. The keycard logged me in, having finally decided to start working. Finding the guest list and making the changes was child's play.

Now the guard was thinking I had some serious IT work to do. The kind that gets a hard-working and long-suffering man out of bed at an ungodly hour. If I really wanted to sell that story, I couldn't just come back down after a mere twenty minutes and announce I was done. Well, maybe I could, but I thought it would be more believable if I made it look like it took a while to fix the computers.

Four hours and way too many solitaire games later, I returned to the lobby. "Morning, Sunshine," the guard greeted me cheerfully after checking his chronometer. "You sure were up there for a while. Everything all right?"

I gave him a weary smile. "It is now. God, I hate computers."

"You're a funny guy," the guard chuckled. "Go get some sleep."

Waving goodbye, I headed out the doors, took a right and began walking. Jo joined me after a couple blocks. "Well?"

"Keycard didn't work on the elevator. Had to improvise. You guys owe me an omni-tool, by the way."

"Okay…"

"Mission was a success, though. I got our names in. But if the guard I met is working tomorrow—tonight, whatever—then we're gonna have a problem."

"He won't. This is his last shift before he goes on vacation."

"That's convenient."

"Not really. We made sure he won an all-expenses-paid trip to Eden Prime."

"Nice."

"Glad you approve."

"So what's next? Sleep?"

"Not yet. First we gotta get you some new clothes."

"You know I already have a formal outfit, right?"

Jo had led me to an apartment complex on the other side of town. A safe house set up for this operation, I was told. My comment was met with a merry laugh. "You have a formal military dress uniform. And it looks very good on you—I've seen the pics. But for this assignment, well, let's say there's formal and then there's formal. This is the latter. And trust me, I need you in the latter."

The latter, in case you were wondering, was a tuxedo. Slim-fitting and sleek, presumably marrying the best of classical and modern styles. And black, of course. It was definitely black.

Picking it up, I ran a hand along it. It felt so smooth. Like the silky-smooth fabrics I was envying a while back. I mean, maybe it was silk. What do I know about these things? "Looks like my size," I said.

"It should be. Sloan sized you up when you first met," she said, rubbing her finger subconsciously.

Ignoring the double-entendre, I changed into the tux. Sure enough, it fit me like a glove. Though I needed some help with the tie. Just as I was demonstrating that I could, in fact, tie the damn thing without strangling myself, the door opened and Sloan walked in. He gave a mildly impressed grunt when he saw me. "You clean up nice, Lieutenant."

"Thanks," I smiled.

"We've arranged a skycar for you. Something that would be suitable for such an event. You'll find it in the parking lot. Booth 38."

"Booth 38," I repeated. "Got it."

"Now we need to go over your body language."

"What?"

"Walk out of this room and then walk back in."

I was still a bit confused, but I did what he said. I noticed that Jo's left arm raised and her omni-tool turned on when I came in. Guess she was recording me.

"Now, my turn," he said. True to his word, Sloan walked out and back in. Then he motioned to Jo, who hit a few buttons on her omni-tool back on and hit a few buttons. "Watch," Sloan said.

Sure enough, there were two clips—one of each of us. It quickly became clear what he was after. Both of us walked at more or less the same pace. Neither one of us hesitated or looked apprehensive or anything. But Sloan walked with a certain confidence. The way he held her head up high, the way her shoulders were slightly squared, the firm surety with which she put her feet down. I couldn't tear my eyes away; such was the presence of the man. It looked like he had every right to be there, even though this wasn't his room.

Sloan nodded when I gave my observations. "Exactly. And that's what I need you to do tonight. Walk into that banquet hall like you own the place, like you are the equal or superior of everyone else in the room. No one will raise any fuss or ask any questions. Because if you give the appearance—no, if you give every appearance—of belonging there, everyone will assume you must belong there. That, in a nutshell, is how to be an intelligence agent."

He gave me a couple tips and suggestions. "Now, walk out and walk back in."

His head was shaking in dismay before I even fully stepped in. "No, no, no. Again."

I did this song and dance a few more times, none of which met with his approval. "Let's try something different," he said. "Walk out and walk back in. This time, remember you are a lieutenant in the Systems Alliance. Imagine we are nothing more than lieutenants, non-commissioned officers and enlisted personnel."

Like I was an equal or superior. Would that really make a difference? Only one way to find out.

This time, Sloan allowed the corner of his lips to tug upwards. "Better," he allowed.

Jo was significantly less restrained; what with her brilliant smile and the 'thumbs up' she gave me.

"Now remember," Sloan said, "we suspect that Rass will be meeting his asset tonight at the cultural centre. This mission is strictly observation. See who Rass talks to. Or who he stops near—there may be a simple brush-pass. Old-school, but still very effective."

"Watch and observe," I nodded. "Got it."

This was it. My second mission as a spy. Dressed to the nines in a tuxedo. Accompanied by a woman who would certainly turn a few heads. All that was missing was the car.

So imagine my surprise and delight when I saw the car I'd be taking: a brand-new Cision Supreme! To say it's a fast skycar would be an understatement of criminal proportions. They say the metal was forged in asari monasteries under the light of the full moon. They say the leather seats were hand-stitched by priestesses chanting the virtues of the goddess Athame. They say the computers were stolen from a top-secret lab working on AIs. Yeah, I know, it seems kind of hokey—make that really, really hokey. But who cares? I didn't have to listen to all that crap. Hell, I didn't even have to buy it—which is a good thing considering how much an honest Lieutenant in the Systems Alliance makes.

I'll pause to let you finish laughing.

Done now? Good. The point is, because these kinds of cars are so far out of my price range, I'd never even thought of owning one. Hell, even renting one was out of the question. So imagine what it must be like to actually drive one! The gentle hum as the skycar comes alive. The thrill that courses through your veins as it soars through the air with the grace of a bird and the power of a comet. The awe as the controls respond to your every move, your every gesture. I'd say it's responsive as a woman, but what do I know about that?

At last we arrived at the cultural centre. We parked at the designated spot, got out and lined up. It was a grand event. Everyone wearing the finest and most expensive formal clothes currently in fashion. For a moment I felt like the odd man out. Like I didn't belong here.

But then I remembered the tuxedo I was wearing. The crash course in behaviour I'd received this afternoon. I belonged here, I told myself. I belonged here. Here with all the other well-dressed, very important people who had their own very important business.

And so we gradually made our way down the line, confidently handed our invitations to the security staff in front and waltzed on in.

The interior of the salarian cultural centre could have been any first-class, extremely expensive and ridiculously elite building. Lots of wide-open space, richly polished wood, gleaming marble and shining metal. Though since this was a salarian building, everything looked incredibly modern and very, very high-tech. Beyond bleeding-edge high-tech.

Jo subtly nudged me before my mouth could drop open like a dumb rube. A simple touch or two guided me towards the bar. I tried to pretend I didn't feel a tingle or spark every time she did so. "Can I buy you a drink?" I asked when we arrived.

I got the bartender's attention. "One martini, dry."

"Of course, sir."

"I'm not quite done yet," I added. "Three measures of Gordon's gin, one measure vodka, half a measure of Kina Lillet. Shake it very well until it's ice-cold, then add a large thin slice of lemon peel. No stirring."

"Very good, sir."

"Sounds good," Jo approved. "I'll have the same, please." She waited until the bartender walked away before leaning towards me. "Order that often?"

"Never before," I said honestly. "But now seemed a good time. So what do we do?"

"First, we craft a cover," she replied. "So when people look over here, they don't notice anything interesting. You don't want to appear interesting. Not when you're a spy."

Better not tell her where I got the idea for that drink, then.

"So, lean towards me, as if you're intrigued or fascinated or something."

Easy enough.

Jo began glancing around the room while she continued talking. "Now then, if anyone looks over here, they'll see a man and a woman having a drink. The man is clearly more interested in her than she is in him. He'll keep talking and talking, but she'll look around like she's bored. Maybe even like she wants a way out."

She broke off and suddenly looked in my eyes. "Smile and say something."

"I have never done anything like this before," I said immediately with a smile.

"Good," she grinned. "There was a man watching me from one of the buffet tables. But our little exchange told him that I'm not in any trouble. As far as he's concerned, I'm just bored. But not quite bored enough to want to be whisked away from the danger of falling asleep. He'll just have to wait for another opportunity to play the hero."

"Okay. Now what?" I wanted to know.

"Now we wait."

Jo wasn't kidding. I mean, you would've expected something to happen. At least, that's what happens on all the vids.

Maybe some salarian goons would charge in, guns blazing. Jo and I would dive over the bar as expensive crystal flutes and bottles exploded all around us. Maybe we'd run to the nearest stairs, hunched over at first before bursting into a sprint. Maybe we'd have to lay down cover fire for each other. Maybe there would be some fighting as some goon accosted us—hopefully not. I hate that kind of close-combat fighting—before we'd jump from one building to another and disappear into the night.

Instead, we spent the next few hours watching Rass. Jo kept tabs on Rass whenever he was on her half of the hall. My job was to do the same whenever he was on my half. Mostly because it would be really obvious if someone kept turning around to stare intently at the same person for hours on end. And so neither of us got stuck doing all the work.

I'll say this about Rass: the guy's a social butterfly. The only people he didn't talk to was the two of us, the security officers, two of the waitresses—the only humans on the staff, by the way—and a turian general. Though I'm not sure if the turian counts: he was dead drunk and drooling long before Rass arrived. Lightweight.

Having said that, he did spend an extended period of time talking to three people—all human, all male. Jo nodded when I made that observation. "I saw that too," she said, rubbing her finger.

"Speaking of things I saw, that's the third time you've done that," I said.

She looked down and made a face. "Every time I take off the ring, it takes a few days to get used to its absence."

"How long?" I asked.

"Almost thirty years now," she smiled.

"Kids?"

"One daughter in the midst of the terrible twos. She's a bit of a handful at times, but I love her. Hopefully this assignment will wrap up soon and I can head back home. Speaking of assignments, it's time to head back and report our findings."

Of course, at least half the guests had come to the same conclusion. There was a bit of a traffic jam outside. It took a lot of patience—and the occasional elbow—but we eventually made it to the skycar and returned to the safe house.

Sloan was waiting for us. "Well?" he said as soon as the door closed.

"He did a lot of talking," Jo said. "If I had to bet, though, I'd go with Andrew Kinsey, Robert Lockhart or Max Bracken."

"That will be enough," Sloan nodded.

"Really?" I asked. "You said we have one mole. We still have three. How are we going to narrow it down?"

With an enigmatic smile, he sat down and started typing. It didn't take long for me to realize he was opening a comm channel. "The two of you may want to step away," he said idly.

Translation: he didn't want whoever he was contacting to see us. Jo and I moved out of the camera's range just before communications was established. "Mr. Roberts," we heard.

"Mr. Kinsey," 'Roberts' replied. "Thank God I got you at this late hour."

"It's no trouble at all," Kinsey said. "How are you?"

"Doing quite well, due in no small part to your assistance. Nashan Stellar Dynamics is lucky to have a man of your vast knowledge and experience on our side."

The name rang a bell. One of the premier human corporations for starship parts, as I recalled.

"It's the least I can do. God knows how many people roll over for those alien heathens. Someone has to stand up for humanity's best interest."

Interests as defined by Kinsey and his infamous pseudo-evangelism.

"Especially in these uncertain times," Sloan agreed. "It is hard to look out for humanity's best interest when faced with the demands of the other races. All of them have their own agendas. All of them want to get the best bargain in their negotiations and alliances."

"Don't I know it," Kinsey sighed. "I'm neck deep in a couple negotiations myself."

"Then perhaps I can offer some assistance? For the good of God's people, of course."

"Of course."

Sloan opened his mouth, deliberately paused, then leaned forward. "I trust this stays between us? No one else can know. If some alien-lover or, God forbid, the media get a hold of this, it would be disastrous. They would try to spin this for their own benefit, muck about with the state of affairs, and put the future of the Alliance in jeopardy. We cannot have that. There is too much at stake."

"Agreed. I shall be as silent as the grave. You have my word."

Sloan leaned forward. "Nashan Stellar Dynamics is working on a new kinetic barrier system. It is still in the prototype stages, mind you, but it promises to be leaps and bounds beyond conventional shields. Think about it: how many times have our colonies been ambushed by batarian pirates? We do not have enough ships to protect them all, thanks to the Citadel Council and their ridiculous rules. All we can do is wait for an attack, send our forces in response and pray to the good Lord that the colony won't be a smoking crater by the time they arrive. But what if we didn't have to pray? What if we knew that our colonies could withstand any attack the batarians could throw at them until our ships arrive to dispense righteous justice?"

"That would be a great comfort for all of humanity. And speaking of ships, I trust these new shields would work for them too?"

"Naturally. We are a starship manufacturing company, after all."

"And our soldiers?"

"As I said, it is still in the prototype stages. Starships and colonies are one thing. Scaling the technology down for infantry applications is still beyond our reach, for the moment."

"Well, now. This is food for thought. I'll have to keep this in mind during my negotiations. Send me whatever information you can at your earliest convenience."

"Of course. Just remember…"

"…no one else can know."

We heard Lockhart chuckle. "'No one else can know.' I love conversations that begin this way."

"Then perhaps you will enjoy this as well: Nashan Stellar Dynamics R&D is beginning a project designed to produce a new, larger starship drive core."

"A larger drive core," Lockhart repeated with considerably less enthusiasm. "Which would mean more eezo than a typical drive core. Do you know how expensive and cost-prohibitive that would be? I do. And so would every mining union from one corner of Citadel space to the other. So forgive me for being blunt, but why the fuck would you do something like that?"

"Simple: at a certain size and concentration of element zero, the mass concentrations the drive core could generate increase exponentially. If directed properly, a ship could 'fall into' those mass concentrations, thereby moving without the need of thrusters. Thrusters that emit heat and generate static discharge."

"I don't understand."

Why am I not surprised?

"Theoretically, a ship equipped with such a core would be quieter and stealthier. She could go anywhere undetected. Gather intelligence on the activities of potential enemies… and supposed allies. Troop deployment, movement of resources, fleet positions, that sort of thing. Knowledge is power, after all."

"Hmm…"

"Such ships would also be faster and could travel at FTL speeds for a greater period of time. Factors that would offer a significant tactical and strategic advantage in any military engagement. Our ships could launch hit-and-run attacks with impunity. Not only would that increase our chances of success, it would also decrease the likelihood of ships getting damaged or destroyed—thereby reducing the need for repairs or replacements. Furthermore, it means their crews—your constituents—would often be spared costly medical bills or, worse, unnecessary deaths.

"But there are other non-military applications as well."

"That would be good, considering we still have a bad rep amongst the other races as being aggressive and belligerent."

"Well, with these new drive cores, we would be able to explore and travel greater distances before having to stop and discharge them. We could conduct more long-term operations and missions with less support. Think of all the worlds we could explore, the discoveries we could make… and the profits we could collect."

"All right, all right. I still don't know if this is a great idea, but I agree it's worth pursuing. At the very least, I'd like to read over your proposal. You never know: I might be able to find some way to help you out."

"I would appreciate it. Just remember: you can't tell anyone."

"That goes without saying," Bracken agreed. "Now what exactly am I not telling anyone?"

"Nashan Stellar Dynamics has set a new long-term goal: to establish a working relationship between the Systems Alliance and the Turian Hierarchy. I realize that some may consider such an endeavour to be impossible—"

"Impossible? No. Just extremely difficult. In case you forgot, we fought the First Contact War with the turians. That was less than twenty years ago. Ask any human about the turians and that's what comes to mind. The damn dextros feel the same way. So why would you want to get into bed with them?"

"That was the past. The recent past, I'll admit, but the past nonetheless. If we are to ever grow and take our rightful place in the galaxy, we have to acknowledge our mistakes, deal with them and move on. It's time to let bygones be bygones."

"Just like that?"

"There will be those who might have trouble letting go of old grievances. But men like you and I know how… limiting such feelings can be."

"Let's say you're right. How are you planning to accomplish this herculean feat?"

"The first step would involve Elkoss Combine."

"I see. You want to get to the turians through the volus."

"The volus are a client race of the turians. Making inroads through them would seem a better plan than trying to ingratiate ourselves with the Hierarchy directly. Given how mercantile the volus are, starting with one of their most famous corporations seemed like a good idea. Besides, Elkoss Combine sells armour, weapons and omni-tools to humans and turians alike."

That was true. Their gear wasn't exactly high-end, but it was still very functional and definitely more affordable. Though it was still too expensive for the Alliance.

"Let me guess: you want to make use of my connections with Elkoss Combine, given that I helped broker a few of those deals last year."

"The thought had crossed my mind."

"I see. Yes, I could make an introduction on your behalf. The question is… why."

"The gratitude of Nashan Stellar Dynamics for helping with this critical first step. The fame and accolade that would come with improving relations between the Alliance and the Hierarchy. And Jonah Ashland."

"Jonah Ashland."

"You've been trying to persuade him to become one of your campaign donors for years."

For good reason. The well-known magnate of Eldfell-Ashland Energy owned and controlled numerous mining facilities—that extracted elements ranging from helium-3 to eezo—a wide range of power plants, refineries and pipelines, and countless subsidiaries and spin-off companies. His conglomerate could provide up to 90% of a colony's services. Thus far, though, he had remained strictly apolitical.

"If you could facilitate an introduction with Elkoss Combine, I believe we could arrange a meeting between you and Ashland."

"Well, now. That does put matters in a different light."

"It's settled, then?" Sloan asked. "Good," he said after a pause. "I will be in touch. Just remember—"

"No one else can know," Bracken repeated.

Another three weeks passed by. Three weeks where I twiddled my thumbs and whiled away the hours. Okay, that's not quite true. I did start a correspondence course in computer intrusion and countermeasures. Despite the title, it actually dealt with advanced techniques to hack things such as weapons, omni-tools, locks, computer mainframes. You could say I was inspired by my brief taste of life as a spy. Besides, it wasn't like I had anything else to do. The temporary duty assignment I'd been pegged for was given to someone else and the covert ops mission I'd been on standby for was scrubbed at the last minute.

Then I got the call. "Joseph?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Sunstrider Hotel. Room 652. One hour."

The comm channel went dead. From start to finish, the conversation took eleven seconds. Eight if you don't count the seconds I took to answer. I'm told the shorter the conversation, the harder it is to trace. If that's true, then backtracking this little chat to its origin would be nearly impossible.

Despite my best efforts, I barely made it to the Sunstrider Hotel on time. To say traffic was murder would be an understatement. Six accidents involving fifteen vehicles and two buildings. Can you imagine the vehicular carnage? And the sheer number of casualties? I battled my way through the crowd—and all the sightseeing gawking at a marble statue of some big shot—and into the hotel.

After waiting in vain for the elevators, I gave up and went for the stairs. Which meant when I arrived at Room 652, I was a minute late. And while I wasn't breathing hard—I was in good shape, after all—there was definitely some inhaling and exhaling going on. Not exactly the smooth, suave demeanour I was going for.

The door slid open. A woman with dark hair stood in front of me. She was very tall—7 foot 2, maybe—and quite slim. I met her eyes and barely stopped myself from shivering. If the eyes are the windows to the soul, then her soul was cold, dead, bereft of life. Twin voids promising nothing but oblivion.

"Uh… hi," I said, cementing my less-than-smooth-or-suave approach.

The woman silently stepped aside with a smooth, almost ballet-like grace. Taking her cue, I entered the room.

There were two other people there. One was a man whose blond hair was cropped in a short, military-style crew-cut. About six foot five, so not as tall as the woman. But he made up for it with sheer muscle mass. The guy was built. And hailed from the United North American States, judging by the "Howdy" I got from him.

That left the other guy. At five foot eleven, he was the shortest of the three. Not as slim as the woman, not as ripped as the first fellow who greeted me. But he had a certain air of authority about him, one that was emphasized by the way the others seemed to defer to him. "You're late," he said.

So much for first impressions. "Sorry. Traffic sucked. I'm—"

"We know who you are," the bald guy interrupted. "You may call me Silver. This is Red and Blue." He gestured to the silent woman and the muscle man, respectively. For this mission, you will be White."

Well at least I wasn't reduced to a number. "What exactly is this mission?" I wanted to know.

'Silver' chose to answer by activating his omni-tool and generating a holographic screen. At first, there was nothing but static. Then the image cleared up.

"My apologies for any inconvenience I may have caused," Sloan said.

"Inconvenience? You call out of the blue, demand I meet with you immediately and force me to cancel my 1 o'clock appointment. We've had a mutually beneficial working relationship over the years, but this is more than 'inconvenient,' Roberts. There had better be a damn good reason for this."

"I have called you here to discuss your relationship with the salarians. Perhaps you would consider that a 'damn good reason.' I do not know for sure."

"My… what are you talking about?"

"For the last twenty years, you have blackmailed three corrupt police officers—who had been making money on the side by kidnapping mobsters and mercenaries for ransom—into giving you a sizable cut of their illicit profits. For almost five years, you have used your influence and connections to allow Eclipse to smuggle weapons, drugs and people through various starports in exchange for a very generous fee. You have funnelled all those credits through numerous accounts to fund your political career."

"How dare you? I won't sit idly by and listen to this slander!"

"Slander, by definition, is a false statement that would harm one such as yourself through verbal communication. There is nothing false about what I have said." Sloan said this with a calm, understated but undeniably firm tone.

Then he handed over a datapad. "Do you see this? You transfer credits from these accounts—listed in the left column here—to these accounts in Earth and Illium—on the right—on the first Tuesday of every month. Moving on: at 0900 on the second Friday of every month, you transfer credits from these accounts—again on the left—to these accounts on Bekenstein and Noveria—seen here on the right. My associates and I know this from your digital and biometric signatures here. And here. And here."

"To continue: somewhere along the way, either through one of your Eclipse contacts or one of your more political connections, you were approached by Jelik Rass."

"Never heard of him."

"Officially, he is a reporter for the Mannovai Gazette. Unofficially, he is an agent for the salarian intelligence services. You know this because he is your handler. I know this because you recently conveyed some information to them. Information that I provided."

"You must have me mistaken with someone else, Roberts."

"I think not. Someone else was told that Nashan Stellar Dynamics was developing new shield technologies. Someone else was told that NSD was developing new drive cores. No one was told that they were pursuing a business relationship with the turians… no one but you, Mr. Bracken."

There was a long silence.

Sloan began speaking again once it became clear that Bracken wouldn't be making any more protests, his words inexorable and unrelenting.

"Now we've already established that we know about the way you launder your illicit proceeds. So it should not be a surprise when I say we have traced a new source of revenue. One starting from Earth, running through various banks scattered throughout the Terminus Systems… to Sur'Kesh. Each time, we can follow them to meetings between you and Rass. Each time, payments are wired within thirty-six hours of your rendezvous. Each time, schematics and plans are leaked; agents and handlers are compromised; operations are sabotaged.

"Your previous actions alone would be grounds for arrest and incarceration. But this? This is punishable by death, if the Alliance were to find out."

There was another long silence.

"Now that you appreciate the situation—"

"So you got me," Bracken butted in. "Are you proud of yourself?"

"Perhaps."

"I know what you want," he snapped. "You want to know the details of every deal I made. You want the names of everyone I have worked with. Fine. Did you know the chain of people between me and the Salarian Union goes beyond Jelik Rass? I'm sure that knowing the other intermediaries is high on your list of interests."

Now it was Sloan's turn to be silent.

"Come on!" Bracken laughed. "You wanna make a deal. Otherwise, I'd be in prison—or dead—by now."

More silence.

"If I talk—if I do that—I need protection. Sanctuary. Fortified luxury compound in Miami, Florida. A guard detail. And my money—unfrozen, unlocked, all of it."

"That is all?"

"For now," Bracken smirked, giving a satisfied shrug.

"Those are your terms?"

"Those are my terms."

"Okay."

"Okay."

"Those are your terms. I see."

"Then we have a deal."

"No."

The silence this time was more of stunned disbelief. "No?" Bracken repeated.

"No. You see, we want more than the intelligence you mentioned earlier. Why do you think we worked so hard to uncover your identity? Why do you think we worked so hard to track and itemize and document your financial activities over the last two decades? You are indirectly responsible for the death of hundreds of individuals and wasting trillions of credits devoted to our assets, agents and missions. Do you understand the gravity of the situation? Do you really think I would really settle for what you have offered?

Sloan stared at the mole, his face devoid of pity or mercy. "I have plans for you, Mr. Bracken. Plans that go far beyond the simple confirmation of all your misdeeds."

"What plans?" Bracken hissed.

"I am going to put you back into play. From now on, you work for us. For me. I will be your new handler. Or your case officer, if you prefer that term."

The detail on Silver's omni-tool projection was really good. I could actually see Bracken clench his jaw tightly. The drop of sweat that ran down the side of his head. The vein in his neck tense up and throb. "It won't work," he said at last.

"Why not?" Sloan asked mildly.

"The salarians will know. They always know."

"Who would tell them? I will not. Nor will you, I imagine."

"What if I refuse to cooperate? Hmm? What if I choose to stay put. Right here?"

"Let me be perfectly clear, Mr. Bracken: I am sending you back to resume your life. Whether you spend that life as an asset—blessed with all your political connections and influence and money—or a traitor—is up to you. You are free to choose the latter, of course, with nothing to look forward to but a lifetime of incarceration. Or a death sentence—I hear that public hangings are back in vogue."

"I will tell you everything I know," Bracken bit out. "Chapter and verse. Every deal, every exchange, everything. But I can't go back."

"You will."

"I won't."

"You will."

"I won't," Bracken insisted, his voice rising.

"You will." Sloan, in contrast, never raised his voice. Come to think of it, he had kept the same quiet, measured, unrelenting calm throughout this entire conversation.

"NO, I WILL NOT!" Bracken yelled, jumping to his feet.

"Your fly is down."

Bracken looked down, sighed, zipped his pants up and resumed his seat. Again, there was a silence.

"How will this work?"

"You may leave this room and resume your schedule whenever you wish. You may continue your political campaign. You may continue to blackmail those police officers. You may continue to work with Eclipse. All of that will remain the same. The only thing that will change is your dealings with the salarians. In the past, you've been giving them whatever you thought they would want. Or whatever they told you they would want.

"From now on, you will give them what we want. What I want. I will decide what you will give, how you will give it and how much detail you will provide. Do that and, in exchange, I will leave you alone. You will not get your fortified compound or your guard detail. But you will have your money. And your life. That will have to be enough."

"There may be a… complication."

"We will handle the salarians."

"No, not the salarians. There's been someone digging into some of my... activities."

"Ah. I know of whom you speak. Presumably you wish to remove that thorn before the wound… festers."

"Yeah. Yeah, I would."

Sloan sat back and considered that for a moment. "I believe that can be arranged."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Is that all?"

"Yes."

Slowly, Bracken got to his feet again. He stared down at Sloan. Then he turned to leave the room.

"Mr. Bracken."

Bracken was almost at the door. He turned around and looked back.

"Welcome to Alliance Intelligence."

Silver closed the comm channel. The four of us stood there, taking in everything we had just heard.

"So we're not going to turn him in?" I asked at last.

"No," Silver said.

"Then why am I here? To learn how things turned out?"

"We have a mission. The conversation you just heard? Consider it part of your briefing."

"Okay," I said slowly. "So, what, we have to escort Bracken back?"

"No. He's already left."

"Then we're gonna take care of Bracken's thorn," I guessed.

"Indeed. The target should be walking through the plaza below in twenty minutes. Red, Blue and I will handle surveillance to determine exactly when the target arrives. Your job is to eliminate the target. You will find the equipment you need in room 920."

Equipment. From a room on the ninth floor to the plaza below. In other words, my mission was to use my military training and kill this individual with a sniper rifle. I guess I was finally gonna see some action. Though the circumstances raised one serious question: "And how am I supposed to eliminate this target?" I asked. "I don't know what he or she looks like. Or wearing. I don't even know the species. You've told me nothing.

"The target has been tagged with an isotopic marker. Your scope is keyed in to the specific wavelength of the isotope. You won't have any problem finding the target."

"Am I the only one who's not thrilled at shooting someone who I know nothing about, in a place that I haven't done any recon, with a weapon that I've never used?"

"Yep," Blue said.

"Looks like," Silver said.

Red just stared.

"If you don't like it, the door's that way," Sliver added, pointing behind me.

I was tempted. For the first time, I was really tempted. This wasn't what I signed up for. I'm a soldier, not an assassin. Not some merc-for-hire. This… this wasn't right. Maybe I should stop now. Cut my losses. Walk out the door and don't look back.

But I couldn't shake the feeling that something bad would happen if I did that. Maybe I'm giving myself too much credit. Thinking the galaxy revolves around me or something. Whatever the reason, walking out now just didn't sit right with me.

"Fine," I said at last. "Room 920, you said?"

"Yes."

"All right."

I was halfway out the door when Silver added "And White?"

"Yeah?"

"Welcome to Fire-team Omaha."

The sniper rifle was waiting for me when I entered the room. Naginata line from Ariake Tech. Definitely good enough for what I had to do.

This location had quite a few advantages. From here, I had a clear line of sight to the plaza below. Perfect line of sight, actually: the room to my left would have the sight lines impeded by all the trees, while the room to my right would mean I'd have to try and shoot with the sun in my eyes. Being inside would also hide me from any prying eyes, muffle the report from the sniper round leaving at supersonic velocity and mask any muzzle flash.

Of course, there were also a couple downsides. Virtually all sniper rifles these days have micro-computers that assess factors like distance to target, the amount of arc, gravity, windage... all sorts of things that are analyzed to customize the size of the projectile shaven off the ammo block. All that high-tech assistance would be great if I was shooting a target inside a building, but useless for shooting someone outside. So I had to set the rifle's ammo size to default and disable most of the computer-assist features. I'd be going old-school for this one.

Also, this mission had been sprung on me at the last minute. I hadn't had a chance to do any recon. If I had, I'd have a better sense of all the avenues of approach, items I could use as a wind gauge, maybe find a better firing position.

But none of that would happen, so I guess I'd have to make the best of it. After assembling my rifle, I dragged a few crates over. Why there were crates in the room I had no idea. But they would make a great perch to lie on. Better than trying to shoot a sniper rifle while standing. Then I grabbed a pillow to prop the rifle up on. Opened the window. And… yeah, I was set. It wasn't exactly a feather bed at a five-star hotel, but I'd had worse.

"Fireteam Omaha, status report," I heard Silver say over the comm. "North: no target."

"West: nothing," Blue said.

There was a click over the comm. "Red confirms negative sighting from the east," Silver interpreted.

There was no point in reporting the last cardinal point, since the south end of the plaza led right into the hotel. Still, I added "White in position." Just so I wouldn't feel left out.

"Where the fuck is the target?" Blue cursed.

"Not here yet. Stay calm—wait! 10 o'clock! Possible sighting. Green blazer."

"I can't see her face."

So the target was female? Good to know. When this was over, I'd need to have a chat with my newfound buddies about a little concept called "sharing information." Well, the male buddies: it might be hard to get a word outta 'Red.'

"Blue, she's heading to your quadrant. Move in to acquire visual identification."

"Roger."

"Everyone else, hold your position."

There was a pause.

"Blue, report."

"It could be her. I'm not sure."

"Shit!" Silver cursed. "White, you'll have to use your scope to get a positive ID."

How convenient. "Understood," I replied instead. Tilting my head, I peered through the scope of my sniper rifle. Everything looked normal… until I panned over to my left and saw a slight green shimmer. "Hang on. Scope's picking up something. Yeah, target's lit up like a Christmas tree," I confirmed.

"White, this is Silver. Weapons free. If you have a clear shot, take it."

"Yes, sir." I looked around at the civvies milling about below. There was one mom holding onto her daughter with her left hand and a balloon with her right. Just behind them was a tall tree, its branches gently swaying. Between the balloon and the branches, I had my wind gauge. Using them as guidelines, I adjusted my aim for wind and gravity. As the target came into view, I zoomed in…

…

Oh God.

"White? Report."

It was Jo.

"What's going on?"

Jo was the thorn in Bracken's side.

"White; Silver. Do you have a shot?"

Jo was the one that Sloan agreed to remove in such a casual and, come to think of it, callous manner.

"White, what is your status?"

What should I do?

"Silver, this is White. I think there's been a mistake."

"White, the target's been tagged. Your job is to shoot that target."

"That 'target' is an Alliance Intelligence agent!" I snapped. "She's one of us!"

"It doesn't matter. You have your orders."

"Do you know who she is?"

"I don't care!"

As Silver railed away, I thought about the last couple weeks. That first meeting with Jo at Café Astra. How she helped me tie the bowtie of that tux. The coaching she provided so I could walk into a formal gathering of elites like I belonged there. How we partnered up to gather the crucial piece of intel that helped narrow down the list of spies. And now I was expected to kill her.

"White, I'm giving you a direct order: take the goddamn shot!"

I returned my attention to the scene before me. Double-checked my wind gauges. Breathed in. Breathed out. Gently squeezed the trigger...

The statue at the centre of the plaza lost its head. Literally. Bits and pieces of marble flew in every direction. Everyone stopped what they were doing, whirled around and stared at the statue. All but Jo. She took one look at the statue, put two and two together, and bolted. Ignoring the furious shouting coming over the comm, I followed her through my scope. If anyone tried to stop her from leaving, I'd be there to provide support. I watched as she effortlessly weaved her way back and forth through the crowd. She was almost at the west end of the plaza. It would be Blue's responsibility to intercept her. To finish the job I failed to do. But as I scanned ahead, I didn't see Blue move towards her. If anything, he was running away too. Where was he going…

…

Oh no. I dropped the rifle and pushed myself off the crate. My mouth opened to shout out something. Anything.

But whatever warning I might have given was drowned out by the explosion that rocked the plaza below.

For a brief moment, I stared in horror at the conflagration that had erupted below me. Then I ran from the room and into the closest stairwell, where I practically flew down the steps. Part of me knew I'd be paying for all the bruises I was picking up from bouncing off the walls. But none of that mattered. I couldn't be bothered to slow down as I rounded each bend. Not when I was so desperate to reach the plaza. After what seemed like an eternity, I hit the bottom. I reached out for the door…

…only to have it slide open just in time for an iron fist to land a solid punch on my jaw.

Before I had even staggered back a step, Silver was on top of me. A sharp stab with stiffened fingers hit me squarely in the larynx. As I choked for air, he picked me up, swung me around and threw me against the stairs I'd just run down. Wheezing and gasping, I lunged upward, aiming for his balls. Silver deflected my feeble efforts with an almost contemptuous ease and hit me again. And again. And again. And again…

I awoke with a start, body damp with sweat. Gradually, in fits and spurts, I became more and more aware of my surroundings. I was in a room. A hospital room, judging by the pale whites and pastel colours on the bed sheets and the walls. A pair of IV lines stretched from my left arm to a bag dangling from a pole. Monitoring equipment beeped at steady intervals.

"Lieutenant Shepard."

Lifting my head, I turned towards the voice. I found it at the foot of my bed, where a figure sat in the shadows. Leaning forward, he pressed a console or something. A set of lights, previously hidden, flared to life. I stared at the man sitting before me, blinking slowly in recognition.

"Sloan."

Then everything came back. All the excitement. All the thrills. All the lies. "Why? Why did you do it?"

"Because of what I got in return."

"You knew, didn't you? You knew all the time."

"I suspected. As we explained to you, the evidence strongly suggested the existence of a mole within our midst, one leaking intel to the salarians."

"But you knew who it was."

"I had my suspicions, but no proof to back them up. Even that presented us with too many suspects to investigate. We had to gather more information, to narrow down the list of potential traitors."

"But even that list gave you something to work with," I hissed. "You knew each and every one of those men and women. What they had done, what they were willing to do, what they ultimately desired. And, most importantly, what was their price."

"Just so."

"So you knew about the skeletons in Bracken's closet and that he wanted Jo killed. Why did he want her removed so badly?"

"One of his secrets—his 'skeletons,' if you will—was that he had been blackmailing a trio of corrupt police officers who had been earning money on the side by kidnapping criminals. It was during one of those kidnappings that one of Johanna's assets was killed. Innocent bystander, if you could call a career mobster that. As the handler, Johanna began her own investigation."

"And you knew that that investigation led to Bracken."

"Again, I had my suspicions. So did she. But there was nothing conclusive at the time. Certainly nothing that linked them together."

"And when you found that conclusive evidence, you decided that Jo was 'expendable'," I spat.

"No. Because you were there."

I stared at him blankly. "What?"

"I told you Alliance Intelligence was constantly looking for talented recruits. Individuals who were resourceful and flexible. You demonstrated those qualities when you broke into the cultural centre. You also showed patience during the banquet—another valuable trait."

"But then I chose to disobey orders," I interrupted. "Are you saying that's another desirable quality?"

"At face value, no. But when you consider why you acted… Lieutenant Shepard, you were willing to play the game. Eager, even. But you would only go so far. When the time came, you stood your ground. You held to your conscience and your principles. It is easy to lose sight of those things when you fight in the shadows. That is why Namir and I recommended your name for consideration in the first place."

"Namir?"

"I believe you know him as 'Silver'."

"Namir recommended me?" I repeated as the final few pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place.

"Yes. He recognized that Alliance Intelligence in general, and Fire-team Omaha in particular, needed someone of your character and morals to provide some balance. Though he hoped you'd be able to become a little more flexible over time. In this line of work, not every choice you make is blessed with moral clarity."

"And yet he beat me up."

"There is a time and place to question orders. Namir did not appreciate your timing."

"Uh huh." I narrowed my eyes as the puzzle was completed. "You know, this might be my first rodeo with Alliance Intelligence, but you hear things during OCS. Even more when you earn your N7. Names like Namir. One of the coldest, most ruthless spec-ops soldiers out there—and that was before he got loaned out to Alliance Intelligence. At a particular man's request.

"So, 'Sloan,' do you wanna reintroduce yourself?"

He tilted his head in congratulations. "Well done, Lieutenant Shepard. My real name is Eli David."

Eli David. Up-and-coming operative in Alliance Intelligence. Scuttlebutt said he loved to tackle all the darkest and dirtiest jobs that officially didn't exist—because he was damn good at it. They said he loved the game. Loved manipulating all the players—willing or otherwise. Players like his own daughter, who was an old classmate of mine. Ziva never talked much about her family but when she did, she often spoke of her father's… less-than-admirable qualities.

Qualities that I'd seen firsthand, though I never realized it until now. "Funny how you didn't give your real name before."

"Aliases and legends come and go in this business. Besides, I wanted to see how you would act and react without any preconceptions."

More like he knew that if he'd been straight with me from the get-go, I'd have told him where to shove it. "So you knew I wouldn't pull the trigger and take Jo out."

"Yes."

"And you knew how she would react. What route she'd take. How else would Namir know where to plant that bomb and take her out?"

"Yes to all but the last part."

"What?"

"Johanna is still alive. Reports of her demise have been exaggerated."

For a moment, a flicker of hope came to life. "You gave Bracken what he wanted without actually following through. So what happens to her now?"

"Johanna will be reassigned to handle deep cover assignments. You would be surprised how easy it is to backstop identities for someone who is officially dead."

And that flicker was abruptly snuffed out. "She has a family. A daughter. And you're going to let them think she's dead? Let her husband think she's dead. Let her daughter grow up without a mom? Just so you can send her off for more missions and ensure your new asset remains cooperative? Is he really that important?"

"He's in an excellent position to help us handle the salarians. And if our projections are correct, he'll be of even greater value in the years to come."

"Breaking up a family is worth all that? Do you think the ends really justify the means?"

"I think we have to see events for what they are. Shepard, we deal with threats against the Alliance on a daily basis. Threats to its ability to function. Threats to its very existence. And not all of them are as blatant and crude as the batarians. We stand between those threats and the Alliance itself. If you knew how many lives were saved by because of operations like this one, because of the sacrifices agents like Johanna make, I think you'll agree that the ends do justify the means."

"Well, you're wrong," I said grimly. "I don't think the ends justify the means. And I don't think I'm your man."

"You say that now," he said. "In time, you may come to agree with me."

"Don't hold your breath."

"All I ask is that you consider my proposal as you head off to your next assignment."

"And what if I decide to expose you?"

David smiled thinly. "Let's just say I won't lose any sleep over it."

As soon as I had extranet access, I began trying to get Jo back to her family. It didn't take long before I found out why David was so confident.

First, Jo had already started her assignment. Announcing to the galaxy that a tall human brunette was Alliance Intelligence... well, it could jeopardize her cover and, more importantly, her wellbeing. It might be a hopelessly vague description, but sometimes that's enough.

Second, I had no idea where she was, which meant I couldn't go and extract her. I couldn't ask anybody else to pull her out or even keep an eye for her.

Third, I didn't know anybody in Alliance Intelligence who could help me out. Neither David nor Namir gave me their contact info, and their e-mail addresses weren't searchable by any search engine I had access to. I couldn't find 'Blue' or 'Red' either—big surprise considering all I had to go on was 'muscle-bound guy with a buzz cut' and 'tall, creepy lady who doesn't talk at all.'

Undeterred by these insurmountable obstacles, I tried going through official channels, only to find out that this entire mission didn't exist. At least, not according to the people I talked to through official channels. Every Alliance military official I talked to gave some speech that basically boiled down to 'we have no record of any such mission,' 'we have neither confirm nor deny the existence or employment of [insert person],' 'we cannot comment on any ongoing intelligence activities/assignments/missions,' and 'you aren't authorized to know that information.' The one person who at least paid lip surface to the notion of helping me forwarded me half a dozen forms to fill out. If I was lucky, I would receive the standard form letter reply in about five or six months.

I even tried reaching out to my other contacts. People like Lt. Commander David Anderson. He'd become something of a mentor for me ever since our first meeting all the way back at OCS graduation. Unfortunately, they were all off on assignment and couldn't respond to my e-mail.

It was on that note that I boarded the SSV Geneva. Alone with nothing but my thoughts to occupy me on the way to my next assignment.

I kept thinking over the last several weeks, trying to see if I had missed something. If I could have done something differently. Wondering how I could have let the wool get pulled so completely over my eyes.

All this time, I thought being a spy would be so rewarding. Full of thrills and sophisticated mystique. Full of adventure and excitement. A dream come true. But the truth was that the spy game was entirely different. It reduced people to faceless pieces on a chessboard. Pawns tagged in this colour or that. Numbers and assets to be itemized, catalogued and filed. Throwing away good people who put their trust in you so that corrupt men and women could be protected and supported.

By the time I had arrived at my destination, I'd come to a decision. Maybe there was a need for spies like Eli David and Namir. But that didn't mean I had to be a part of it. I walked over to the closest window and looked out at the planets before me.

"Your attention, please. We have begun our final approach to Elysium. ETA: two hours."