Mass Effect Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Mass Effect Novels from Titan Books

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue: Hephaestus Station: Caleston Rift

  Part 1: Keelah Si’yah

  1. Surface Receptors

  2. Penetration

  3. Binding

  4. Susceptibility

  5. Permissibility

  6. Fusion

  7. Control

  8. Incubation

  9. Uncoating

  10. Transcription

  11. Mutation

  Part 2: Keelah Se’lai

  12. Synthesis

  13. Replication

  14. Latency

  15. Resource Exhaustion

  16. Activation

  17. Assembly

  18. Cell Suicide

  19. Release

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  ANNIHILATION

  MASS EFFECT NOVELS FROM

  TITAN BOOKS

  MASS EFFECT ANDROMEDA

  Mass Effect Andromeda: Nexus Uprising

  by Jason M. Hough and K. C. Alexander

  Mass Effect Andromeda: Initiation

  by N. K. Jemisin and Mac Walters

  Mass Effect Andromeda: Annihilation

  by Catherynne M. Valente

  ANNIHILATION

  CATHERYNNE M. VALENTE

  TITAN BOOKS

  MASS EFFECT ANDROMEDA: ANNIHILATION

  Print edition ISBN: 9781785651588

  E-book edition ISBN: 9781785651595

  Published by Titan Books

  A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

  144 Southwark St, London SE1 0UP

  First edition: November 2018

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Editorial Consultants: Chris Bain, Joanna Berry, John Dombrow, Cathleen Rootsaert, Mac Walters, Karin Weekes

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  © 2018 Electronic Arts Inc. EA, the EA logo, Mass Effect, Mass Effect: Andromeda, BioWare and the BioWare logo are trademarks of Electronic Arts Inc. All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

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  ANNIHILATION

  PROLOGUE

  HEPHAESTUS STATION: CALESTON RIFT

  Tech Specialist Second Class Oliver Barthes looked down at the hazy, glittering sweep of the galaxy far below him. Stars and red-orange astral dust clouds reflected in the flat, polished surface of his omni-tool. It was late: 0300. He hadn’t finished his work and he would have murdered his best friend for a piece of real meat and a mug of real gin just then, if he had a best friend. Or a mug. One more round of calibrations and he could sleep. But Oliver just stood there on his tiny silver access platform, transfixed by the stars like a dumb kid breaking orbit for the first time. A chunk of the galactic arm glowed against his own very human, very un-celestial forearm like a ropy piece of muscle. Or a wound.

  Of course, it was not his first time. Not even close. If he tried hard, Oliver Barthes could just barely remember a time when his life was not mainly a series of shuttles, cruisers, stations, forms, contracts, someone else’s kludgecode, and tiny viewports in endless dull walls. A time when his life was green and warm and kind. When he could smell real dirt under his fingernails as he drifted to sleep in a real bed every night. But that was then. That was Eden Prime. This was after. This was Hephaestus Station.

  Even at 0300, Hephaestus’s dry-dock facilities buzzed and hummed with people. This was the techies’ witching hour. The machinists and engineers and cargo loaders and nosy passengers-to-be were all snug in their favorite bars or berths. Now the real work could get done. Not that anyone else saw it Oliver’s way. They only saw the plasteel that separated them from the vacuum of space. They saw the power of biotic blasts that could rip that space apart with the twitch of an eyelash. But they couldn’t see the code that made it all possible. Code was invisible, and therefore forgettable. And coders were more than forgettable. They were ignorable, expendable, and tragically low paid. Kids were practically born programming these days. Why pay someone a fortune for something as basic as eating and drinking?

  Until something went wrong, of course.

  The massive hull of the Keelah Si’yah crawled with codeslingers like barnacles on an old sailing ship. Each one clung to an open nodeport, accessing the ship’s deep banks directly for maximum security. Oliver instructed his omni-tool to dose him with a last wave of stims. His veins flooded, opened, relaxed. He forgot about the stars’ reflections in his omni-tool, about real meat and real gin and green fields ready for planting. Tech Specialist Second Class Oliver Barthes stretched up his arms toward the starboard hull of the quarian deep-space vessel as though he meant to give it a bear hug. His hands moved over the gleaming plasteel as he activated the gravity flexors on his worksuit and lifted himself up toward the ship with a practiced, almost acrobatic grace. A calm artificial voice informed his inner ear of his progress.

  Palm flexors: locked. Sole flexors: locked. Knee flexors: locked and ready. You are cleared for extra-vehicular motility, Specialist Barthes.

  Each point of contact thunked into place with a familiar, satisfying, sucking sound.

  “Thanks, Helen,” he chuckled. Helen didn’t care what he called her. She wasn’t anything like a full VI. She wasn’t even a she. No more sentient than a frying pan, his Helen. But that cool, collected, randomly generated voice was often his only friend on these long shifts, and you didn’t ignore your only friend just because she was an omni-tool.

  Oliver was lucky to have this gig and he knew it. The Initiative paid better than anyone, even the Alliance, and, more importantly, they paid on time. Oliver needed that. He needed the money, and he needed the reliability. He glanced down at the misty stars in Helen’s gleaming surface again. One of them was Sahrabarik, and somewhere near Sahrabarik was Omega Station, and somewhere on Omega Station was an asari named Aria T’Loak to whom Oliver sent every credit he earned beyond the bare minimum he needed to keep stomach and soul together. He shuddered. He remembered her cold blue eyes. Her cold blue smile. The look on his father’s face when Aria told him she’d sold his only son to a mobile work detail based out of Sigurd’s Cradle. It wasn’t a special tragedy. It wasn’t unique. Thousands of refugees from the attack on Eden Prime (and Noveria and Virmire and so on and so forth) ended up the same way—lost and broke and bought and sold. The only thing special about Oliver Barthes was that his work detail was run by a reasonably kind elcor named Lumm, and Lumm had a policy of allowing his boys to buy their freedom, if and when they could. Oliver didn’t think anyone had ever yet taken old Lumm up on it. The boys blew their meager earnings on batarian shard wine or girls or Quasar or even red sand, for the very desperate. But not him. He’d saved and scraped and starved. He didn’t look at girls, even though the
y looked at him sometimes, even though he wanted to look. He drank water. He only set foot in a bar when Lumm sent him to patch some glitching Quasar machine that was paying out a little too often. Oliver was good at saving and scraping and starving. He had a talent for it, just as much as he had a talent for debugging spaceships. And when Lumm offered to ring up his liberty, he paid his price and kept his receipt.

  Oliver wasn’t saving or scraping or starving for himself anymore. At least, not only for himself. He was on the rent-to-own plan for his parents’ freedom nowadays, and he would never, ever miss a payment. He paid Aria to keep them off hard labor and he paid her, in installments, to one day let them go.

  It wasn’t easy to keep up. Coding billets were usually viciously short-term. You never knew where the next one would take you. You never knew when there would be a next one. This was the longest contract he’d ever pulled. The other Initiative vessels had been ship-in-a-box jobs; absolutely straightforward, minimalist, nothing extra, nothing fancy. Strictly get-you-from-here-to-there action. Take your basic long-distance cruiser template, adjust for asari, human, turian, salarian. Load everyone on, put them to sleep for six hundred years, wake them up in the Andromeda galaxy where much better facilities and a healthy, balanced breakfast would be waiting for them. Quick, efficient, no mess.

  But this was a quarian job, and quarians never met a boat they didn’t want to mess with. They had a list of custom alterations as long as the Rift. No quarian would trust a ship built strictly to get you from here to there. There might never materialize. Their whole species lived on a flotilla cruising from system to system waiting for the geth to abandon their homeworld, a place most of them had never even seen. Ships were their mothers and their children. Ships were home. They would not set foot aboard unless they were confident that, if push came to shove, they could live on this thing functionally forever. And that list of alterations kept getting longer and longer, now that the Initiative had asked the soft-spoken, birdlike quarians to allow other races to buy or barter passage on their six-hundred-light-year road trip. Now they needed shipboard environments friendly to the reptilian drell, elephantine elcor, aquatic hanar, ammonia-based volus, four-eyed batarian… 20,000 leftover souls packed into one tin can like an assorted-flavor pack of ramen noodles. And they called it all not Keelah Se’lai, the old quarian phrase that meant “by the homeworld I hope to see one day,” but Keelah Si’yah.

  “By the homeworld I hope to find one day.”

  Oliver Barthes ran his fingertips along the belly of the Si’yah. What could they be like? These quarians, among all the quarians, who had given up the one thing their whole race lived and breathed: the quest for Rannoch, the quest for home. What was a quarian who didn’t care about the homeworld? Were they even quarians anymore? It would be like finding a couple of thousand humans who didn’t care about space at all. Or salarians who had never given one single thought to science. Or a red asari. Oliver had tried to make conversation in the Hephaestus Station bars, but he’d never been very good at that, and anyway, why would any of those beautiful aliens waste their time talking to someone who was going to be dead, from their perspective, before they woke up in the morning? It was six hundred years to Andromeda. He was already a ghost to them.

  But some nights… some nights he dreamed that he was going, too. That by some miracle, one of the twenty thousand snug, identical cryopods was his. That he, too, would wake up one day staring down a new world. A world no one had screwed up yet. A world he could help turn into paradise. But then he’d wake up staring down a dented Hephaestus bulkhead. It would never be him. He was too tied to this galaxy. To Eden Prime and his parents and Helen and goddamned Aria T’Loak. Oliver Barthes was not the new world kind. He was screwed up already. Screwed up from birth.

  And so he’d worked his way slowly through his portion of their endless checklist, and somehow a year in the life of Oliver Barthes had gone by with hardly a whisper. He was even beginning to feel… fond of Hephaestus Station, with all her busted vents and malfunctioning doors and total lack of architectural character. It was a rough place, like any remote station. If you turned out the lights on an argument, chances were you’d turn them back on to a body. The local cuisine was wall-to-wall freeze-dried ramen wedges and soya tablets. But at 0300, if you squinted, it could look like home. Disgusting, he thought to himself. You’re like an old grandma! Next you’ll be laying out doilies in your berth.

  Oliver opened a fresh nodeport in the cryodeck of the Keelah Si’yah and paired Helen with the ship’s infant systems. He sighed. Hell was other people’s code. He did his best, he really did, but anything elegant or functional he managed to compile was instantly swallowed up in the hideous kludgecode of the thousand other techies sticking their clumsy fingers in the quarian pie. Someday, Oliver thought. Someday I’ll get to build a boat from scratch. Just me, nobody else. Full VI interface, automations smooth as snow, self-calibrating, self-debugging. It’ll be perfect. It’ll be so elegant even an elcor would weep. Nobody ever made a bug-proof boat but I’ll be the first. And with this beast on my résumé, it might not even be too long before I get my shot.

  Oliver looked down. You weren’t supposed to look down. Hephaestus Station was a glorified orbital platform. Her dry docks floated at the ends of long radials that extended from the main body of the station like the rays of a particularly ugly sun. Looking down meant looking into raw space. Nothing between you and the long drop but a bluish film of artificial atmosphere. You probably wouldn’t fall—the gravity flexors took care of that, but you might throw up or pass out or freak out, and none of those things would get you another job. But Oliver had never been troubled by the yawning empty darkness of the infinite void. It just didn’t bother him. He was a man, it was an infinite void; they knew each other pretty well and left it at that. His eyes slid over the black nothingness and onto the crosshatch of silver railings and ramps and mezzanines that cradled the quarian ship. Furtively, he scanned the dock for… well, for what? For someone who might see what he was about to do? Why should he care? He wasn’t doing anything wrong, not really. In fact, Oliver Barthes meant to do something quite nice. Sweet, when you thought about it. And Oliver Barthes was going to be paid very handsomely for being nice. Enough to buy his parents out from under Aria T’Loak and himself out from Lumm and set them all up for good in one mighty payoff. And maybe, just maybe, when it was all done and his family settled and he could finally dream for himself alone, enough for a one-way ticket to the future, six hundred years away.

  Techies in plain worksuits ran up and down the maze of ramps and stairs. A few night owls leaned against rails, smoking or nursing a flask or just staring, staring at the enormity of the ship, at the enormity of what it meant. Anyone who set foot on this boat would never see home again, except on a long, long range scan. They’d never smell a familiar flower again.

  They were an odd bunch, the Si’yah colonists. None of them were what you would call normal representatives of their species. Of course, they wouldn’t be. The idea of even one quarian leaving the Flotilla for parts unknown, never to return, was frighteningly strange. And there were four thousand of them on this boat. It was a ship of fools: vagabonds, idealists, radicals, exiles, criminals, artists, and schemers. The quarians hadn’t turned anyone away if they could pay, barter, or show their worth to a new colony. No matter who they’d been. No matter what they’d done. The Si’yah was a blank slate for everyone.

  It would be madness. Oliver wished he could be there to see it.

  Oliver’s gaze flicked through the meandering crowd. He saw a female drell with bright markings blow a smoke ring out of her dark-green lips into the night. Some four-eyed batarian argued with a volus who glared back at him out of the mournful badger eyes that all volus suits seemed to have. A pair of quarians solved their sleeplessness with an evening walk. The worklights of the Keelah Si’yah flashed against the face masks of their own environmental suits. The other techies were always chattering about what a qu
arian really looked like inside her suit, about how they could get one to strip off and show them, about how they’d definitely bag this one quarian girl before she shipped out to god knows where, no problem. But Oliver never wondered. He’d seen their ship. He’d seen their code. He knew exactly what a quarian looked like on the inside.

  Oliver didn’t think anyone was watching him. He was certain they weren’t. Everyone was nose-deep in their own problems. Dammit, Barthes, it’s just an audio subroutine, stop being paranoid, he thought. Still, it didn’t sit quite right. Oliver wasn’t stupid. He was one of Lumm’s boys. He knew any job that arrived facelessly through his datapad, paid so obscenely well, and demanded no questions was probably pretty far from legit work. But he’d gone over the loopcode himself. Over and over. It really did seem to be what his contact said it was: a recording of a goofy old quarian lullaby called “My Suit and Me” to be played to the sleeping colonists in their cryopods once a century until planetfall. Harmless. Sentimental to the point of cuteness. And sentiment knew no species. Things like this happened all the time with new ships, especially deep-space sleepers like Si’yah here. Pictures stuck up on the inside of the cryopods, a little crate of real tea smuggled on to comfort somebody’s homesick uncle. One of the other techies on the same dinner cycle as Oliver had been hired by some rich fool to install a tiny perfume capsule in all the drell pods, programmed to release the scent of the usharet flower just before the big thaw. Usharet used to grow on Rakhana, their poor dead homeworld. All that effort, just so the drell could wake up on the other side of the universe to the scent of home. As if it mattered what a couple of thousand lizards sniffed first thing in the morning! Then again, Oliver supposed it was all the same. Who knew why people did the things they did, except for sentiment. When he’d asked why something so unimportant required the kind of secrecy his benefactor was paying for, Oliver had been told only that it was a kindly surprise, a gesture of unity and peace for this hodgepodge ship of fools. They were all quarians now. They were family.