Mass Effect: Ascension

by Drew Karpyshyn

  It was a critical mistake. Grayson had botched what should have been a quick kill, showing his inexperience. That had led Keo to underestimate him; she came at him too aggressively, trying to end the fight quickly instead of holding her ground or coming cautiously around the seats. Her tactical error gave her opponent the split second he needed to take back the advantage.

  The instant she left her feet Grayson lunged forward. Flying through the air Keo couldn’t stop her momentum or change her direction, and their bodies crashed together in a tangled heap. Grayson felt her knife slicing across his left bicep, but in the close quarters the small woman couldn’t get enough leverage, and the wound was superficial.

  She kicked at him and tried to roll away, looking to disengage so she could take advantage of her speed and quickness. Grayson didn’t try to stop her. Instead, he reached out and seized the handle of the knife still lodged in her neck. He yanked it out in one long, smooth pull as she scrambled back up to her feet.

  As the blade slid free, a crimson geyser came gushing out of the wound. The serrated edge had torn open her carotid artery. Keo had just enough time to register a look of surprised disbelief before the sudden drop in blood pressure to her brain caused her to black out and collapse, her limp body falling to the floor beside Grayson.

  A gout of warm, sticky fluid splashed across his face and hands, and he scampered to his feet with a grunt of disgust, backing quickly away from the body until he struck up against the wall by the fridge once again. The blood continued to pour from the hole in her throat, the intensity of the stream increasing and decreasing with each beat of her still pumping heart. When the muscle gave out a few seconds later, the pulsating flow was reduced to a slow but steady trickle.

  Pel returned from the back room less than a minute later. He raised one eyebrow at the blood covering Grayson, but didn’t speak. Moving calmly, he approached Keo’s body on the floor and bent down to check for a pulse, stepping carefully over the expanding pool of blood so as not to stain his shoes. Satisfied, he stood up and settled back into the seat he’d been relaxing in earlier.

  “Nice work, Killer,” he said with a soft chuckle.

  Grayson was still standing against the wall beside the fridge. He had watched Keo’s life rapidly bleeding away without moving, transfixed by the gruesome scene.

  “Menneau’s dead?” he asked. A stupid question, but as the adrenaline rush of his first kill faded his mind felt dull and slow.

  Pel nodded. “Not nearly as messy as this, though. I like to keep my bodies neat.” He reached for the headphones still sitting on the seat beside him.

  “Should we clean up the blood?”

  “No point,” Pel informed him, sliding the headphones over his ears. “Soon as we rendezvous with the pickup team, they’re just going to dump this whole ship into the nearest sun.

  “Don’t forget to claim your trophy,” the big man added as he closed his eyes, his body beginning to rock in time to the music’s rhythm once again.

  Grayson swallowed hard, then forced himself into motion. He pushed himself away from the wall and made his way over to Keo’s body. She lay half on her side, the pistol on her hip easily within reach. He stretched out a trembling hand toward the weapon…

  The dream always ended in exactly the same place. And each time it did, Grayson woke with his heart pounding, his muscles tensed, and his palms sweating, as if his body had been reliving the experience along with his subconscious mind.

  He didn’t know then—and he didn’t know now—why Menneau had to die. He only knew that it served the greater good in some way. Yet that was enough. He was dedicated to the cause, completely loyal to Cerberus and its leader. The Illusive Man had given him an order, and he had followed it without question.

  Apart from the mistake of allowing Keo to briefly survive his initial attack, Grayson’s first mission had been an unqualified success. The pickup team had met with them at the designated rendezvous, and the ship, along with the bodies of Keo and Menneau, had been disposed of. There were suspicions and theories surrounding the disappearance of Menneau and his crew, but with no evidence to back them up they had amounted to nothing. And with his chief rival removed from the race, Charles Saracino had claimed the leadership of the Terra Firma party…though how that played into the long-term plans of the Illusive Man was anyone’s guess.

  Grayson’s performance had impressed his superiors within the Cerberus organization, leading to dozens of assignments over the next decade. But that all ended once Gillian was accepted into the Ascension Project.

  He didn’t like to think about Gillian. Not like this, alone in his apartment with the darkness pressing in. He pushed her face from his mind and rolled over, hoping to fall back asleep. He froze when he heard a noise coming from beyond the bedroom door. His ears pricked up intently, and he could just make out voices coming from the living room of his small apartment. It was possible he had simply left the vid screen on when he’d staggered into bed, too sandblasted to shut it off. Possible, but not likely.

  Moving silently he rolled out of the bed, leaving a tangled mess of covers behind. Wearing only a pair of boxers, his thin body shivered in the chill air of the room as he carefully opened the drawer of the nightstand and pulled out his pistol. Keo’s pistol, his mind corrected, dredging up her memory once again.

  Suitably armed, he crept barefoot across the bedroom and through the half-open door into the hall beyond. The apartment was dark, though he could see the soft glow of the vid screen spilling out from the living room. He moved forward in a low crouch, presenting less of a target should the intruder attempt to take a shot at him.

  “Put the gun away, Killer,” Pel’s voice called out as he approached. “It’s just me.”

  Cursing under his breath, Grayson stood up straight and made his way into the living room to meet his uninvited guest.

  Pel was lounging on the overstuffed couch in front of the vid screen, watching one of the news channels. He was still a big, powerful figure but he had gained weight over the past ten years. He looked somewhat soft now, a man who was clearly enjoying a life of luxury and indulgence.

  “Jesus, you look like hell,” Pel noted when Grayson came into view. “Stop spending all your money on red sand and buy yourself a goddamned meal once in a while.”

  As he spoke he reached out with a foot and kicked at the small coffee table in the center of the room. Grayson had been too high to bother cleaning up before going to bed—a mirror, a razorblade, and a small bag of red sand sat in plain view atop the table.

  “Helps me sleep,” Grayson mumbled.

  “Still having nightmares?” Pel asked. There was something mocking in his tone.

  “Dreams,” Grayson replied. “About Keo.”

  “I used to dream about her, too,” Pel admitted with a lopsided grin. “Always wondered what she’d be like in the sack.”

  Grayson tossed the pistol down on the table with the drug paraphernalia and slouched into the chair opposite the couch. He wasn’t sure if Pel was joking with him or not. With Pel he was never sure.

  He glanced over at the vid screen. They were showing images of the newly repaired Citadel. Two months ago the attack had dominated the media, along with the thoughts and awareness of every being in Council space. Now, however, the shock and horror were beginning to fade. Normalcy was returning, creeping in slowly but surely from all sides. Aliens and humans alike were falling back into their everyday routines: work, school, friends, family. Ordinary people moving on.

  The story still had life in the media, but now it was left to the pundits and politicians to analyze and dissect. A panel of political experts—an asari ambassador, a volus diplomat, and a retired salarian intelligence operative—appeared on the vid screen, debating the political stances of the various candidates humanity was considering for the Council.

  “You think the Man has any pull in who we pick?” Grayson asked, nodding toward the screen.

  “Maybe,” Pel answered, nonco
mmittal. “Wouldn’t be the first time he got involved in politics.”

  “You ever wonder why he wanted Menneau dead?” The question was out of Grayson’s mouth before he even realized he was asking it.

  Pel shrugged indifferently, though there was a wary look in his eye. “Could be any of a hundred reasons. I don’t ask questions like that. And neither should you.”

  “You think we owe him blind obedience?”

  “I just figure it’s done and there’s nothing you can do to change it. People like us can’t afford to live in the past. Makes a man sloppy.”

  “I’ve got everything under control,” Grayson assured him.

  “Clearly,” Pel snorted, nodding at the red sand on the table.

  “Just tell me why you’re here,” Grayson said wearily.

  “The Man wants to hit the girl with another batch of meds.”

  “She has a name,” Grayson muttered. “It’s Gillian.”

  Pel sat up and leaned forward, his hands on his thighs as he shook his head in exasperation. “I don’t want to know her name. Names make things personal. You get messy when things get personal. She’s not a person; she’s just an asset on the inside. Makes it easier when the Illusive Man decides she’s expendable.”

  “He doesn’t want that,” Grayson countered. “She’s too valuable.”

  “For now,” Pel grunted. “But down the line someone might figure they can learn more if they cut her skull open and poke around inside her brain. Then what happens, Killer?”

  An image of Gillian’s butchered body lying on a medical gurney sprang to Grayson’s mind, but he wasn’t about to rise to Pel’s bait.

  Besides, that’s not going to happen. They need Gillian.

  “I’m loyal to the cause,” he said out loud, not wanting to argue the point with Pel. “I’ll do what’s necessary.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Pel answered. “Hate to think you’ve gone soft.”

  “Is that why you’re really here?” Grayson wanted to know. “Did he bring you all the way back from the Terminus Systems so you could check up on me?”

  “You don’t answer to me anymore, Killer,” Pel assured him. “I’m just passing through. Had to come in to clean up some business on Earth, so I volunteered to stop by on my way back out to drop off the supplies.”

  The big man pulled a small vial of clear liquid from his coat pocket and tossed it to Grayson, who caught it cleanly with one hand. There was no label on the vial; nothing to mark what it was or what it might do; no indications of where it came from.

  His work done, Pel rose from the couch and turned to go.

  “You going to report the red sand?” Grayson called out after him just as he reached the door.

  “Nothing to do with me,” he said without turning around. “You can get dusted every night for all I care. I’m off to meet a contact on Omega. This time tomorrow I’ll be up to my ass in aliens.”

  “It’s part of my cover,” Grayson added defensively. “Fits my character. Troubled father.”

  Pel passed his hand in front of the door panel and it swooshed open.

  “Whatever you say, man. This is your assignment.”

  He stepped out into the apartment hallway, then turned back to deliver a parting warning.

  “Don’t get sloppy, Killer. I hate cleaning up someone else’s mess.”

  The door swooshed shut, perfectly timed with the end of his words and cutting off any chance for Grayson to reply.

  “Son-of-a-bitch always has to get the last word,” he muttered.

  With a groan he pulled himself out of his chair and set the vial on the small table beside the bag of red sand, then wandered reluctantly back to bed. Mercifully, the only dreams he had for the rest of the night were of his daughter.

  TWO

  Kahlee Sanders moved with quick, confident steps down the halls of the Jon Grissom Academy. A space station constructed seven years ago in orbit around the human colony of Elysium, it had been named after Rear Admiral Jon Grissom, the first man to travel through a Mass Relay and one of humanity’s most revered and respected living heroes.

  Grissom also happened to be Kahlee’s father.

  Her shoes, sensible, half-inch wedge heels, clacked softly as she made her way down the dormitory corridor, and her lab coat swished faintly with every step. It was almost an hour after supper, and the students were in their rooms, studying in preparation for tomorrow’s classes. Most kept their doors closed, though the few who preferred to leave them open looked up from their e-books and computer screens as she passed, their attention drawn by the sound of her footsteps. Some smiled or nodded to her; a few of the younger ones even gave her an enthusiastic wave. To each she replied in kind.

  Only a handful of people actually knew Jon Grissom was her father, and their relationship, if it could be called that, had nothing to do with her position here at the Academy. She didn’t see her father often; the last time she had spoken to him was over a year ago. And that had ended, as every visit seemed to, in an argument. Her father was a difficult man to love.

  Grissom was approaching seventy, and unlike most people in this era of modern medicine, he actually looked his age. Kahlee was in her early forties, but her appearance was that of a woman at least a decade younger. Average in both height and build, she was fit enough to still move with the spryness of youth. Her skin was still smooth, apart from a few tiny wrinkles around the creases of her eyes when she laughed or smiled. And her shoulder-length hair was still blond with darker, sandy streaks; she wouldn’t have to worry about gray hairs for another thirty years at least.

  In contrast, her father looked old. His mind—and tongue—were still as sharp as ever, but his body seemed dry and withered. His skin was leathery and hard, his features sunken and drawn, his face lined from decades of dealing with the pressure and stress that came with being a living icon. Grissom’s thinning hair was mostly white, and he moved with the slow, deliberate actions of the elderly, even walking with the hint of a stoop.

  Picturing him in her mind, it was hard to imagine the great hero the media and history books portrayed. Kahlee couldn’t help but wonder how much of that was intentional, a facade Grissom maintained in order to keep others at bay. Her father had turned his back on his fame, unwilling to allow himself to be held up as a symbol for Earth or the Alliance. He’d refused to attend the consecration of the Jon Grissom Academy, and over the past seven years he’d declined dozens of invitations from the board of directors to visit the facility, despite the fact it was orbiting the planet where he made his home.

  Probably for the best, Kahlee thought to herself. Let the public cling to his memory; it served as a better symbol of nobility and courage than the misanthropic old bastard he had become. Besides, she had plenty to keep her busy here at the Academy without having to deal with her father.

  She pushed the thoughts of Grissom aside as she reached her destination. She rapped once on the closed door.

  “Come in,” a young boy’s voice grudgingly called out, and a second later the door whooshed open.

  Nick lay on his back in his bed, scowling up at the ceiling. He was twelve, though somewhat small for his age. Despite this, there was something about him—an almost unconscious air of arrogance and cruelty—that marked him as a bully rather than a victim.

  Kahlee stepped in and closed the door behind her. Nick stubbornly refused to look over and acknowledge her presence. His school computer sat, closed and ignored, on the small desk in the corner of the room. It was obvious he was pouting.

  “What’s the matter, Nick?” she asked, coming over to sit on the edge of his bed.

  “Hendel put me in lockdown for three weeks!” he exclaimed, sitting up suddenly. His expression was one of outrage and utter indignation. “He won’t even let me play on the ’net!”

  Students at the Grissom Academy were well taken care of, but when they misbehaved certain privileges—access to games on the Extranet, watching favorite shows on the vid screens in thei
r rooms, or listening to popular music—could be taken away. Nick, in particular, was very familiar with this form of punishment.

  “Three weeks is forever!” he protested. “That’s totally not fair!”

  “Three weeks is a long time,” Kahlee agreed with a somber nod, struggling to keep the hint of a smile from playing across her lips. “What did you do?”

  “Nothing!” There was a pregnant pause before he continued. “I just…I kind of…pushed Seshaun.”

  Kahlee shook her head disapprovingly, her urge to smile completely gone. “You know that’s not allowed, Nick,” she said sternly.

  All the students at the Grissom Academy were remarkable in some way: mathematical geniuses, technical savants, brilliant artists, world-class musicians and composers. But Kahlee only ever dealt with those students involved in the Ascension Project—a program designed to help children with biotic aptitude maximize their potential. Once fitted with microscopic amplifiers wired throughout their nervous system, it was possible for biotic individuals to use electromagnetic impulses generated in the brain to create mass effect fields. With years of training in mental focus and biofeedback techniques, these fields could become strong enough to alter their physical surroundings. A powerful biotic could lift and throw objects, freeze them in place, or even shred them apart with nothing but the power of the mind. Given such dangerous potential, it was no surprise that there were strict rules against the students using their abilities outside of properly supervised settings.

  “Did you hurt him?”

  “A little,” Nick admitted, grudgingly. “He banged his knee when I knocked him down. It’s no big deal.”

  “It is a big deal,” Kahlee insisted. “You can’t use biotics on the other kids, Nick. You know that!”

  Like all the Ascension Project students in his age group, Nick had undergone his implantation surgery a little over a year ago. Most of the children were still struggling to access their newfound abilities, practicing the drills and lessons that would allow them to coordinate their new biotic amps with their own biological systems. In the first two years, the majority could barely lift a pen a few inches off the surface of a desk.