Mass Effect™: Ascension

by Drew Karpyshyn

  “How much has he told them?”

  “I don’t know. The message came in last night. I called you as soon as I heard it.”

  “We need to play this out,” the Illusive Man told him after a moment’s consideration. “Assume he hasn’t blown your cover yet.”

  It was a reasonable assumption. Jiro was new to Cerberus—they’d only recruited him a few years ago—but he understood how things worked. Two things would help ensure his silence, for a while at least: his loyalty to their cause, and his fear of the Illusive Man’s retribution.

  It was inevitable he’d tell them something—sooner or later the Alliance would break him. But the longer he could hold out, the more time he gave for someone to clean up the mess. If he held out long enough for the mission to be salvaged then he didn’t have to worry about Cerberus coming after him to extract its revenge. As long as he kept his mouth shut, he could even cling to the hope that the Illusive Man might send someone to rescue him. It had happened with key operatives in the past, though Grayson figured Jiro would ultimately be deemed expendable.

  “Contact the Academy,” the Illusive Man instructed him. “Tell them you’re coming to take Gillian out of the program. We’ve gotten everything we can from the Ascension Project. It’s time we took direct control of her training.”

  “Yes, sir.” He’d hesitated only a split second before answering, but this was enough for the Illusive Man to pick up on it.

  “What happened at the Academy was an accident. A mistake,” he said, his face morphing into an expression of sincere apology and regret. “We don’t want Gillian to get hurt. She’s too valuable. Too important. We care what happens to her.”

  Grayson didn’t answer right away. “I know,” he finally replied.

  “We always feared there could be side effects with the new treatment, but we didn’t think anything like this would happen,” the Illusive Man continued to explain. “Monitoring her from a distance, analyzing all the results after the fact…it increases the risks of something going wrong. Once you bring her in, we’ll keep her under constant observation. We can be more cautious with our tests. Bring her along slowly.”

  He was saying all the right things, of course. And Grayson knew there was at least some element of truth in his words.

  He’s just telling you what you want to hear! He’s playing you!

  “I give you my word this won’t happen again,” the Illusive Man vowed.

  Grayson wanted to believe him. He needed to believe him. Because if he didn’t, what options were left? If he didn’t turn Gillian over to Cerberus, if he tried to take her and run, they’d find him. And even if they somehow managed to stay hidden, what then?

  Gillian needed order and routine to function. He couldn’t even imagine how she would cope if she had to live the life of a fugitive, constantly fleeing from one location to another in an effort to stay one step ahead of their pursuers. And what would happen as her power continued to grow? Could she ever learn to control her abilities? Or would she always be some kind of biotic time bomb, waiting to go off?

  “I know Gillian is different,” the Illusive Man added, as if he was reading Grayson’s thoughts. “I don’t know if we can cure her condition, but the more we learn about it the more we can help. We won’t turn our backs on her. She means too much to us. To me.”

  “I’ll call the Academy,” Grayson answered, “and tell them I’m on my way.”

  Gillian needs expert help. Cerberus understands her condition better than anyone. This is what she needs.

  You’re rationalizing, a bitter voice from the dark corner of his mind chimed in. Just admit the truth. What the Illusive Man wants, the Illusive Man gets.

  The bag Pel was carrying was heavy; he kept switching it from hand to hand but he couldn’t deny his arms were beginning to get sore. Fortunately, he was only a block away from the small two-story warehouse Cerberus was using for their base of operations on Omega. It was conveniently located along the edges of a small, unregulated spaceport in a district controlled by the Talons, a predominantly turian mercenary band.

  On principle Pel didn’t like dealing with any nonhuman group, but the Talons were one of the best options for freelancers looking to gain a foothold on Omega. The warehouse was in a prime location: their proximity to the spaceport allowed small ships to come and go without drawing undue attention, and they were within walking distance of a monorail linked to several other sections of the city. The Talons charged high rates for rent and protection, but they didn’t ask any questions or stick their beaks in where they didn’t belong. They were also one of the few factions strong enough to keep a firm hold on their territory, reducing the chances of riots or uprisings that sometimes swept through Omega’s less stable districts.

  Although the district was officially classified as turian, there was a smattering of other species on the streets as well. A pair of batarians walked toward and past him, casting a wary glance at the hated human and the bag he was carrying. A single hanar floated up from behind and brushed by his shoulder, moving quickly. He instinctively shied away from its long, trailing tentacles. There were even a handful of humans scattered about, though none of them worked for Cerberus. The five men and three women assigned to Pel’s team tended to stay inside the warehouse; especially now that they had a prisoner to interrogate.

  He was only a few feet from the door to the warehouse when a familiar figure stepped out of the shadows.

  “What’s in the bag, friend?” Golo asked.

  “How did you find this place?” Pel demanded, setting the bag down and letting his hand rest casually on his hip, just above his pistol.

  “I have been keeping tabs on you,” the quarian admitted. “It wasn’t all that hard to discover this location.” He didn’t know if quarians smirked, but Pel imagined a smug look on the alien’s face beneath his visor.

  He wasn’t really that concerned; Golo didn’t pose much of a threat to what they were doing. But he didn’t like being spied on. Especially not by the alien equivalent of a gypsy-thief.

  “Why are you here?”

  “I have another business proposal for you,” Golo replied.

  Pel grimaced. “I’m still pissed off about the last deal we cut with you,” he told him. “That pilot we captured on the quarian ship isn’t giving us the codes we need.”

  “You have to understand the culture of the Migrant Fleet,” Golo explained. “Quarians are reviled by almost every other race. They can only rely on each other to survive. Children learn at a young age to value family and community, and loyalty to your home ship is prized above all else.”

  “No wonder they kicked you out.”

  Pel couldn’t tell if his jab stung or not; the quarian’s reaction was hidden behind his mask. When he spoke, he continued on as if he hadn’t heard the insult.

  “I’m surprised you haven’t been able to pry the information out of him. I assumed you would be well versed in getting prisoners to talk.”

  “Torture’s not much good if your subject is delusional and hallucinating,” Pel answered, a little more defensive than he intended.

  “He caught some kind of virus or something. Now he’s mad with fever,” he continued, his voice becoming dark and dangerous. “Probably happened when you cracked his mask.”

  “Allow me to make amends,” Golo replied, unfazed. “This new offer is one I don’t think you’ll want to turn down. Perhaps we can go inside and talk?”

  “No chance,” Pel shot back. “Wait here. I’ll be back in five minutes.”

  He picked up the bag again, then stared pointedly at the quarian until he turned away. Once he was sure the alien wasn’t looking, he punched in the access code for the door and stepped inside.

  It was actually closer to ten minutes when he reemerged, but Golo was still waiting for him. Pel was half hoping he would have grown frustrated and left.

  “I’m still curious, friend,” the quarian said by way of greeting. “What was in the bag?”

>   “None of your business. And we’re not friends.”

  In actuality, the bag had contained nothing more than ordinary groceries. There was a full stock of rations and emergency supplies inside the base, and while they were nutritionally adequate for survival, they were bland and tasteless. Fortunately, Pel had discovered a shop in a nearby district that stocked traditional human cuisine. Every three days he took the monorail to the store and bought enough food to keep his team well fed and happy. It wasn’t cheap, but it was an expense he had no trouble justifying to Cerberus. Humans deserved real human food, not some processed alien mishmash.

  There was no harm in sharing this information with the quarian, of course, but Pel wanted to keep their relationship adversarial. It was to his advantage if Golo wasn’t sure where he stood.

  “You said you had some kind of proposal,” he prompted.

  Golo looked around, clearly nervous. “Not here. Somewhere private.”

  “What about that gambling hall you took me to last time? Fortune’s Den?”

  The quarian shook his head. “That particular district is currently under an ownership dispute. The batarians are trying to push the volus out. Too many shootings and bombings for my taste.”

  Par for the damn course, Pel thought to himself. “Violence is inevitable when different species try to live side by side,” he said aloud, spouting a common Cerberus axiom. If the Alliance could ever figure that out we wouldn’t need someone like the Illusive Man to watch out for us.

  “This opportunity is quite tempting,” Golo assured him. “Once you hear the terms I’m sure you’ll be interested.”

  Pel just crossed his meaty arms and stared at the quarian, waiting.

  “It involves the Collectors,” Golo whispered, leaning in slightly.

  After a long pause, Pel sighed and turned back to the warehouse door. “All right. Let’s go inside.”

  THIRTEEN

  “You are cleared for approach on dock four. Over.”

  Grayson made a slight course adjustment to comply with the traffic control tower’s instructions, and brought his shuttle in to the Grissom Academy’s exterior landing bay. The medium-range passenger vessel he was piloting on this visit was slightly smaller, and far less luxurious, than the corporate shuttle he normally used for his visits. But these were hardly normal circumstances.

  For this journey he had come alone, in the guise of a frantic father rushing to the side of his gravely ill child. It wasn’t a hard role for him to play, given how he felt about Gillian. His concern for her was genuine. But depending how much Jiro had told them, it might not matter.

  He waited impatiently at the shuttle doors for the docking platform to connect, then went quickly into the large, glass-walled waiting room. There were no other passengers waiting for clearance, and the two Alliance guards posted by the exit signaled him to come forward. He could see Dr. Sanders and the Project Ascension security chief waiting for him on the other side of the transparent, bulletproof wall.

  “Go on in, Mr. Grayson,” one of the guards told him in a sympathetic voice, not even bothering with a cursory search as he waived him through.

  Grayson chose to take that as a good sign.

  “Are you sure you’re up for this?” Kahlee whispered to Hendel as Grayson made his way through the security screening room. “You still look a little unsteady on your feet.”

  “I’m fine,” he whispered back. “Besides, I want to see how he reacts when we tell him the news.”

  Kahlee wanted to say something back to him, like, You can’t seriously think Grayson won’t care about his daughter almost being killed! But Grayson was through security now, and he would have heard her. So she bit her tongue and prayed that Hendel would have the good sense to treat his arrival with the proper courtesy.

  “Mr. Grayson,” Hendel said with a curt nod.

  “Where’s Gillian?” he asked immediately. “I want to see my daughter.”

  Not surprisingly, he looked much worse than the last time they had seen him. He wasn’t wearing a suit this time, but was dressed in a pair of denim pants and a simple short-sleeved shirt, revealing his thin, sinewy arms. He had what looked to be at least a few days worth of stubble growing on his chin. There was a desperate gleam in his eye and an air of nervous apprehension hung about him…not surprising, given what had happened.

  “Of course,” Kahlee said quickly, before Hendel could offer any objections. She wasn’t about to let Grayson wait around here in the hall. There would be time enough for discussion later, after he had seen Gillian.

  Hendel cast her an annoyed glance, but all he said was “Follow me.”

  Nobody spoke as they made their way to the hospital room, though she could see the muscles along Hendel’s throat flexing as he clenched and unclenched his jaw.

  When they reached the hospital room Grayson stopped. One hand slowly came up to cover his mouth at the sight of the young girl lying in bed, hooked up to half a dozen machines.

  “Oh, Gigi,” he whispered, and the pain in his voice wrenched at Kahlee’s heart.

  “What are all those machines for?” he asked a moment later, his voice shaky.

  “They’re just monitors,” Kahlee explained, trying to keep her voice professionally optimistic. “So we can keep an eye on her.”

  Grayson stepped into the room, moving slowly, as if he was suddenly underwater. He knelt down at the side of her bed and reached out with a hand, placing it not on her head but on the sheets just above her shoulder.

  “Oh, Gigi…what did they do to you?” he muttered.

  At the sound of his voice Gillian’s eyes fluttered open and she turned her head to face him.

  “Daddy,” she said, her voice weak but obviously happy to see him.

  Hendel and Kahlee kept their distance, giving him time with his daughter.

  “I heard what happened,” he told her. “I was so scared.”

  “It’s okay,” she assured him, reaching over to pat him on the hand. “I’m okay now.”

  It was hard to say which of the adults was more stunned by the simple gesture. In all the years Gillian had been at the Grissom Academy, Kahlee had never seen her actually initiate physical contact with another person. Gillian herself seemed oblivious to their reaction, as she let her hand drop back down to her side and closed her eyes.

  “I’m tired,” she mumbled. “I need to sleep now.”

  A few seconds later she was snoring softly. Grayson stared at her for several long moments before standing up and turning to face them. An awkward silence hung in the air.

  Kahlee broke it by saying, “The doctors say she’s going to make a complete recovery. They just want to keep her here for a few days to monitor her. Because of her condition.”

  “You said Dr. Toshiwa did this to her?” Grayson’s face had lit up when Gillian patted his hand. Now, however, his expression was one of dark, barely contained anger.

  Kahlee nodded with her head toward the door, indicating they should step outside to continue the conversation so their words wouldn’t disturb the sleeping girl. The two men took the meaning and the three of them went out into the hall, far enough that they were out of earshot. She did notice, however, that both Hendel and Grayson stopped just before they rounded the corner that would have taken them out of sight of the room.

  “Jiro was conducting some kind of unauthorized experiment on her,” Hendel explained, picking up where they had left off. “We have him in custody.”

  Grayson nodded slightly. “Good.”

  “He was working for a group called Cerberus,” Hendel suddenly shot out, firing the words quickly. Kahlee could see he was looking to provoke some kind of reaction.

  “Cerberus?” Grayson said quizzically after a moment, turning his head slightly to the side.

  “A radical pro-human terrorist group,” Hendel replied. “Well funded. Jiro was one of their agents. We think he infiltrated the Ascension Project to get close to Gillian.”

  “Never heard of the
m. Was he working alone?”

  Hendel hesitated before answering, and Kahlee worried he might be trying to play some kind of game with Grayson. To her relief, when the security chief finally replied he did so honestly.

  “We don’t know yet. Interrogations take time. He’s giving it up bit by bit. Probably figures he can negotiate a better deal on his prison time by holding something back.”

  “You should try torture instead of negotiation.” Grayson’s voice was flat and cold, but the anger was impossible to miss—the primal rage of a father defending his only child.

  “That’s not how the Alliance does things,” Kahlee told him.

  “We’ll get the answers soon enough,” Hendel added, though Kahlee wasn’t sure if he meant it as comfort to a concerned parent, or a threat.

  Grayson began to pace back and forth in the narrow confines of the hospital corridor, one hand reaching up to scratch at the stubble on his chin.

  “So for all you know, there could still be more of these Cerberus agents working in the facility.”

  “That’s not likely,” Hendel assured him. “I had some run-ins with Cerberus during my years with the Alliance. I picked up a few things about their methods. Their undercover operatives tend to work alone.”

  “But you don’t know for sure,” Grayson pressed, stopping directly in front of him. “Dr. Toshiwa worked here for years, and you had no idea he was with them.”

  The security chief didn’t reply, but shifted his feet uncomfortably.

  “Anyone could be working for them. Another researcher. A teacher. One of the nurses. Even you!”

  He punctuated his accusation by jabbing his finger in Hendel’s muscular chest. The bigger man bristled, but held his tongue. Kahlee stepped forward and put a hand on Grayson’s wrist, gently lowering his hand.

  “Hendel saved Gillian’s life,” she reminded him.

  The father dropped his head, chagrined. “I forgot. I’m sorry.”

  He looked up again and extended his hand. “Thank you, Chief Mitra.” Hendel shook it without comment.