Mass Effect: Retribution
Page 9
Orinia’s office was smaller than Anderson’s—not surprising, given the fact he held a much higher position than her in the Citadel hierarchy. Like his own, it was functionally Spartan in décor. A desk and three chairs—one for the ambassador, two for guests—were the only pieces of furniture. Three flags hung on the walls. The largest was the emblem of the Turian Hierarchy. The second represented the colony where Orinia was born; its colors matched the markings on the hard carapace of her bony skull. The third was the flag of the legion she served in during her military career. A solitary, bedraggled plant stood out on the balcony, sorely neglected. If Anderson had to guess, he would have said someone had given it to her as a gift.
Orinia was already standing to greet them. Warned by her assistant’s message, she showed no surprise at Kahlee’s unexplained presence.
“I’m sorry you missed today’s negotiations,” she said, extending her hand. “Has Din Korlak become too much for you to handle?”
Anderson ignored the joke as he clasped the ambassador’s hand. As always, the exchange was both awkward and clumsy. Orinia had readily adapted the familiar gesture of greeting in her dealings with humans, but she had yet to truly master the art of the handshake.
“This is Kahlee Sanders,” he said by way of introduction.
“Welcome,” the ambassador said, though she didn’t extend her hand.
Anderson didn’t know if Orinia had sensed his reaction to her handshake and decided not to repeat the effort, or if turian culture somehow viewed Kahlee as unworthy of the gesture.
You’d know all this if you were any good at your job.
“I’m guessing this isn’t a social visit,” the ambassador said, getting right to the point. “Sit down and tell me why you’re here.”
As they’d agreed on earlier, both he and Kahlee remained standing as a way to convey the urgency of this meeting. Taking her cue from them, Orinia did the same.
“I have a favor to ask,” Anderson said. “One soldier to another.”
“We’re not soldiers anymore,” the turian replied carefully. “We’re diplomats.”
“I hope that’s not true. I can’t go through official diplomatic channels for this. Nobody in the Alliance can know I’m here.”
“This is highly unusual,” she replied.
He could sense the suspicion and hesitation in her voice. But she hadn’t given him a flat-out refusal.
“Are you familiar with Cerberus?”
“A pro-human terrorist group,” she shot back sharply. “They want to wipe us out, along with every other species in the galaxy except your own.
“Cerberus is the main reason we opposed humanity’s addition to the Council,” she added, a hard edge to her voice.
“Don’t define us by the actions of a criminal few,” Anderson warned her. “You wouldn’t want all turians to be held accountable for what Saren did.”
“Why are you here?”
Her voice was curt; obviously, bringing up Saren was not the way to try and win her over.
The one time in your life you actually want to be diplomatic and you make a goddamned mess of it.
“We have information that can destroy Cerberus,” Kahlee said, jumping into the conversation. “But we need your help.”
The ambassador tilted her head to the side, fixing the humans with one piercing avian eye.
“I’m listening.…”
EIGHT
From the comfort of her private booth and flanked by her krogan bodyguards, Aria T’Loak watched Sanak make his way through the crowd at Afterlife.
She was a master at reading batarian body language, just as she could read nearly every sapient species in the known galaxy. Over the many centuries of her life she had learned to pick out the subtle cues that could tell her when someone was lying, or happy, or sad, or—as was often the case when one stood before the Pirate Queen—scared. Watching Sanak approach, she already knew that the news he was bringing her was not good.
For the past three days she’d had her people following up on Paul’s disappearance. Inquiries with the typical Omega sources, ranging from simple chats to brutal interrogations, had turned up nothing. Nobody knew anything about the abduction, or even about the man himself. He was a loner; apart from Liselle he didn’t spend time with anyone if it wasn’t related to work.
Her last hope was his extranet terminal. It had been wiped clean, but her technical experts were attempting to salvage scraps of data from the optical drive. Another team was trying to track any messages sent or received through the terminal by scouring the data bursts transmitted through the relay buoys that linked Omega to the galactic communication network.
The cost of the investigation was astronomical, but Aria could easily afford it. And while part of her was doing this to avenge her murdered offspring, a more calculating part of her knew that sparing no expense to track down someone who might have betrayed her would send a powerful message to everyone else inside her organization.
Unfortunately, it looked as if all her efforts had been in vain.
“The technicians couldn’t find anything,” she guessed as Sanak reached her booth.
“They found plenty,” he grimly replied.
Aria frowned. That was the problem with reading body language: it was imprecise. She knew Sanak was unhappy; she just didn’t know why.
“What did you learn?”
“His real name is Paul Grayson. He used to work for Cerberus.”
“Cerberus is making inroads on Omega?” she guessed.
The batarian shook his head, and Aria scowled in frustration.
“Just tell me what you know,” she snapped.
Aria always liked to give the appearance that she was in complete control. By reputation, she was always two steps ahead of her rivals because she knew what they were going to say or do even before they did it. Nothing surprised her; nothing caught her off guard. It didn’t look good for her to keep throwing out guesses that proved to be wrong; it weakened her image.
“Grayson used to work for Cerberus. Then he turned on them. It had something to do with his daughter and a woman named Kahlee Sanders.
“We couldn’t locate his daughter. She vanished two years ago. But we found Sanders.
“The technicians said Grayson called her every few weeks. And he sent her a message the night he disappeared.”
“Where is she?” Aria asked, suspecting she wouldn’t like what she heard.
“She was working at a school for biotic human children. But she left the day after Grayson vanished. We tracked her to the Citadel; she’s under the protection of Admiral David Anderson.”
Aria’s knowledge of politics and power extended far beyond the gangs of Omega. She recognized Anderson’s name: he was an adviser to Councilor Donnel Udina, and one of the highest-ranking diplomatic officials in the Alliance.
The Pirate Queen ruled Omega with an iron fist. Her influence extended in various ways throughout the Terminus Systems. She even had agents operating in Council space. But the Citadel was another matter entirely.
In many ways the massive circular space station was a mirror image of Omega: it served as the economic, cultural, and political hub of Council space. And Aria was well aware that if the powers-that-be ever discovered she was taking an active role in events on the Citadel, there would be retribution.
Officially Omega was outside the Council’s jurisdiction. But if they felt Aria had crossed a line—if they decided she posed a threat to the stability of Council space—they could always unleash a Spectre against her.
The Spectres weren’t bound by the treaties and laws that shaped intergalactic policy. It wasn’t inconceivable that one would come to Omega to try and assassinate Aria. The chances of such a mission actually succeeding were slim, but Aria hadn’t survived over a thousand years by exposing herself to risk. She was careful and patient, and even the death of her daughter wouldn’t change that.
“Don’t do anything yet. But keep an eye on the situation,�
�� she ordered Sanak. “Let me know if anything changes. And keep trying to find out where Grayson went.”
Grayson woke to find himself in a dimly lit cell. He was lying on a small cot in the corner. There were no blankets, but he didn’t need any—despite still being naked, he wasn’t cold. There was a toilet against one wall; against another was a built-in shelf stocked with enough military rations and bottled water to last several months. Apart from these few necessities, the room was completely empty. No sink. No shower. Not even a chair.
He had no idea how long he’d been unconscious. His limbs were heavy; his mind was groggy. As he sat up, a shooting pain laced its way from the top of his skull down through his teeth. Instinctively, he reached up to rub his head, then pulled his hand back in surprise when it touched bare scalp.
Must have shaved you while they had you strapped to that table, the familiar voice inside his head reasoned. Probably so they could plant that Reaper technology inside your brain.
The horror of what Cerberus had done to him in the lab was still fresh in his mind. He could remember the sensation of an invasive alien presence burrowing into his brain. For some reason, however, he no longer felt it.
Is it gone? Or just dormant?
He should have been afraid, terrified even. Instead, he just felt tired. Drained. Even thinking was a struggle; his thoughts were enveloped in a thick fog, and concentrating brought on more flashes of pain in his skull. But he needed to try and piece together what had happened.
Why had Cerberus put him in a cell? It was possible this was still part of the experiment. It was also possible something had gone wrong and the project had been aborted. In either case, he was still a prisoner of the Illusive Man.
His stomach growled, and he glanced over at the ration packs.
Careful. They could be drugged. Or poisoned. Or maybe they just need you to eat so whatever they implanted in your brain can start growing.
The last reason was enough to make him ignore his hunger, though he did open a bottle of water and take a long drink. He could go a long time without food, but he needed water to survive. And Grayson wasn’t about to give up on life just yet.
He spent a few minutes examining the rest of the cell, only to find there was nothing else of interest to discover. Then utter exhaustion set in and he had to lie down again. Before he knew it, he was in a deep sleep.
Grayson had no idea how long he’d been imprisoned in the tiny cell. He’d fallen asleep and woken up again five or six times, but that had little bearing on how many days had actually passed. He had no energy. No initiative. Just trying to stay awake required a monumental effort.
Nobody had come to see him. But he knew they were out there. Watching him. Studying him.
The bastards had planted probes inside him so they could monitor what was happening inside his head. He’d felt the tiny, hard lumps beneath the skin while running his fingers over the stubble growing back on his shaved scalp. Two on the top of his skull. Another pair centered at the top of his forehead. One behind each ear and a larger one at the base of his neck.
A while ago he’d tried to dig them out with his fingernails, clawing at the skin of his forehead until he drew blood. But he couldn’t dig deep enough to dislodge the probes.
Or maybe you just don’t want to. They’re screwing with your brain, remember?
The rumbling of his stomach drowned out the rest of what the voice in his head was saying, hunger tearing at his gut like some kind of creature trying to rip its way to freedom.
Ignoring the risks, he grabbed one of the rations from the shelf and tore open the vacuum-sealed packaging. He wolfed it down, gorging himself on the bland, nutrient-rich paste. He was reaching for another when his stomach cramped up violently. He barely made it to the toilet in time to disgorge everything he’d just eaten.
Flushing the toilet, he wiped his chin in a halfhearted attempt to clean himself up without benefit of a sink or mirror. Opening one of the bottles of water, he rinsed and spit into the toilet until the foul taste of acidic vomit was gone.
The second meal he ate more slowly. This time his stomach managed to keep it down.
His best guess was that a week had passed. Maybe two. Probably not three. The passage of time was impossible to track in the cell. There was nothing to do but eat and sleep. But when he slept he had dreams—nightmares he could never quite recall on waking, but that left him shivering nonetheless.
He still had had no contact with anyone from Cerberus. But he couldn’t really say he was alone anymore.
They were inside his head, speaking to him in whispers too faint to understand. These weren’t like the critical, sarcastic voice he used to hear in his thoughts. That voice was gone. The others had silenced it forever.
He tried to ignore them, but it was impossible to block out their constant, insidious murmur. There was something simultaneously repulsive yet seductive about them. Their presence in his mind was both a violation and an invitation: the Reapers calling to him across the great void of space.
Somehow he knew that if he concentrated on them, he would be able to understand what they said. But he didn’t want to understand. He was trying very hard not to understand because he knew understanding the voices was the beginning of the end.
With each passing hour Grayson could feel the whispers growing stronger. More insistent. Yet even though Cerberus had implanted him with this horrific alien technology, his will was still his own. For now, he was still able to resist them. And he intended to hold them at bay for as long as was humanly possible.
“I thought you said the transformation would only take a week,” the Illusive Man said to Dr. Nuri.
They were staring down at Grayson through the one-way window in the ceiling of his cell. Kai Leng was lurking in the shadows over by the wall, standing so still he almost seemed to disappear in the darkness.
At the back of the room, the other members of Dr. Nuri’s team were monitoring the readings on the hovering holographic screens projecting up from the individual computer stations. They were tracking and recording everything that happened inside the cell: Grayson’s breathing, heart rate, and brain activity; changes in body and air temperature; even minute fluctuations in electrical, gravitational, magnetic, and dark energy readings emanating from the room.
“You told me to proceed with caution after we nearly lost him during the implantation,” she reminded him.
“I just want to make sure nothing’s gone wrong.”
“The time line was only an estimate. Our research strongly suggests indoctrination and repurposing varies greatly depending on the strength of the subject.”
“He’s resisting,” the Illusive Man said appreciatively. “Fighting the Reapers.”
“I’m amazed he’s held out this long,” Dr. Nuri admitted. “His focus and determination are far beyond anything I expected. I underestimated him in my initial calculations.”
“People always underestimated him,” the Illusive Man replied. “That’s what made him such a good agent.”
“We could try to artificially accelerate the process,” Nuri offered. “But it would skew the results. And it might send his body into shock again.”
“It’s too much of a risk.”
“Dust him up,” Kai Leng suggested, stepping forward to join the conversation. “We still have the red sand we grabbed on Omega.”
“It could work,” Dr. Nuri said after a few moments of consideration. “Our testing shows narcotics have no impact on the Reaper biotechnology. And it could weaken his focus. Make him more susceptible to the indoctrination.”
“Do it,” the Illusive Man ordered.
Grayson didn’t move when he heard the cell door open. He was lying on his side in the cot, facing the wall. He heard footsteps crossing the floor and he tried to tell how many people there were. It sounded like a lone individual, but even if there had been a dozen armed guards it wouldn’t have made a difference; he knew this was probably his only chance to escape.
Whirling around, he kicked out with his feet, intending to send his target sprawling backward. His blow never connected.
Instead the person beside his bed—Chinese features, medium but muscular build—moved nimbly to the side and brought an elbow crashing down, dislocating Grayson’s kneecap.
Under normal circumstances the agonizing injury would have ended the fight. But Grayson was driven by desperation and a primal survival instinct. Even as he screamed in pain, he curled his right thumb across a rigid palm, extended his fingers, and jabbed at his enemy’s throat.
Yet again his attack was thwarted with ease. His adversary grabbed his wrist and twisted the arm up and back, yanking Grayson from the bed so that he landed hard on the floor, knocking the wind out of him. Momentarily stunned, he was unable to resist as the man plunged a needle into his arm and injected him with some unknown substance.
The man let go and Grayson tried to struggle to his feet. His attacker delivered a single punch to the liver, and Grayson collapsed back to the floor in a quivering ball.
The man calmly turned and walked away, never looking back. Helpless, Grayson could only watch him go. His eyes fixated on his assailant’s ouroboros tattoo until the cell door slammed shut behind him.
A few seconds later he recognized a familiar warmth spreading through him. His face felt flushed and his skin began to tingle as the soft blanket of red sand wrapped itself around him.
Grayson had been a duster; he had always snorted the fine powder to get his high. But there were shooters, too. Red sand could be dissolved in a solution and injected directly into the bloodstream for those who wanted—or needed—a more powerful fix.
He curled up into a ball and closed his eyes, desperately trying to shut out what was happening. He’d been clean for two years. He’d put his body through the agonizing symptoms of withdrawal and battled against the powerful psychological urges of his addiction by clinging to the memory of his daughter. He had changed for Gillian’s sake; staying clean was a symbol of the new man he’d become.