Mass Effect: Retribution

by Drew Karpyshyn

  It had been a long time since he’d seen any action; his body wasn’t used to the intense physical exertions of combat. As he gasped for air, he was acutely aware that Kai Leng wasn’t even breathing hard.

  After a few minutes he had recovered enough to speak.

  “You eliminated Grayson, I assume,” he said.

  Kai Leng shook his head. “There wasn’t time. It was kill him or save you. I chose you.”

  The Illusive Man almost replied, “You made the wrong choice.” Instead, he bit his tongue as he realized he could just as easily have asked Kai Leng the same question back on the station, while there was still a chance to do something about it.

  The encounter with the turians had rattled him. He had thought he was going to die. Faced with a glimpse of his own mortality, he had decided not to ask Kai Leng about Grayson because he didn’t want to know the answer. Not if it could cost him his life. He was a patriot, but deep down he wasn’t ready to be a martyr.

  He also had to accept the fact that this was all his own fault. There had been no need for him to come to the facility to oversee the experiments in person. He could have stayed on his secure station and received regular updates. But he’d wanted to watch Grayson suffer. He’d let his desire for vengeance override his common sense, and it had almost gotten him killed.

  The truth wasn’t pleasant, but the Illusive Man had made a career out of facing unpleasant truths. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again. And he wasn’t about to chastise one of his best agents for doing something he had tacitly approved of.

  “That operation was too well planned to be a one-off mission,” he informed Kai Leng. “Get on the secure channels. Find out who else was hit.”

  Damage control had to be his first priority. He needed to evaluate the situation, take stock of his resources. After that, he could turn his attention back to Grayson.

  He couldn’t be allowed to live. It wasn’t about revenge anymore. They’d turned him into a monster, an abomination. Grayson had become an avatar of the Reapers, and now he was on the loose. Finding him and destroying him was the only way to protect humanity.

  ELEVEN

  Grayson woke when he heard the alarms. More precisely, when his cybernetically enhanced senses detected the distant sound of sirens echoing from somewhere outside his cell, the Reapers in control of his body caused him to sit up and open his eyes.

  He was once again trapped inside himself. He could see and hear everything acutely, his senses relaying information along the network of synthetic synapses coursing through the gray matter of his brain. He could feel the temperature of the air, cool against his skin. The stench of his own flesh—unwashed in weeks—filled his nostrils. Even his sense of taste was heightened to preternatural levels: the spicy sauce from the rations he had devoured last night still lingered on his tongue.

  But though he was fully aware of his surroundings, it was all somehow distant, as if it was filtered before being processed. This wasn’t the pleasant fog of a red sand high, though he could feel that the effects from the last dose of drugs Cerberus had given him had yet to clear his system. This was something else. It was almost as if his consciousness had been removed from the equation, the inexplicable link between the physical and mental self severed.

  The Reapers were growing stronger: it was the only explanation. The thought caused his heart to pound as adrenaline released itself into his system. The instinctive fight-or-flight response gave Grayson hope. His fear had triggered the reaction; if his emotional state could still exert any kind of influence over his body, then perhaps all was not lost.

  He tried to reassert control, his battle against the enemy within temporarily making him ignore the distant sounds of battle coming from somewhere far away. As he pushed against the Reapers, he felt them push back. They were aware of him and his efforts, just as he was aware of them on a far deeper, more intimate level than before.

  Horrified, Grayson tried to sever the link by flooding his mind with raw emotions: fear, hate, desperation. He hoped the primitive, animalistic thoughts would somehow disrupt or disgust the machines controlling him from beyond the edges of the galaxy, but it was immediately apparent that was not the case. He realized he was powerless; in this fight, he had no effective weapon to use against them.

  The same could not be said of the Reapers. The sensation of a thousand red-hot needles piercing his skull made his mind scream in anguish, the suffering so brutally intense he instantly broke off his efforts to try and regain control of his body.

  His enemy’s victory was not absolute, however. In his torment, Grayson’s physical shell had responded with a barely audible moan … further proof he was not yet entirely under their control. The memory of the searing pain was too fresh for him to try and resist them again, at least for now. Instead, he let his consciousness retreat, falling back into itself and leaving the machines unopposed for the time being.

  Relegated to the role of observer, he was witness as the Reapers moved him over to the cell door until his ear was pressed up against it. He felt the alien technology focusing its energies on his ears, and amazingly his hearing became so acute he was able to discern sounds beyond the constant whooping of the alarms. He could pick out gunfire and even yelling coming from both near and far, punctuated with the occasional explosion or scream. The Reapers took it all in, desperate for information, using the auditory clues to try and construct a probable scenario of what was happening outside.

  Grayson didn’t know what was happening, either. He had a few theories, but he was afraid to consider them in detail. He didn’t think the Reapers could actually read his thoughts—not yet—but he didn’t want to chance it.

  They held the position for several minutes, ignoring or not caring about the cramp forming in Grayson’s neck and shoulders from the awkward angle necessary to keep his ear plastered tightly to the door. Eventually he felt the muscles seize and spasm, bitterly cursing the twisted irony that even though he couldn’t control his body, he still suffered when it was harmed.

  A few minutes later the gunfire tapered off, then ceased altogether. Soon after, he heard multiple footsteps as a small group approached the door. A second later they were fumbling with the electronic locking mechanism on the other side.

  He thought the Reapers might brace for a desperate lunge for freedom the instant the door opened. The muscles in his legs trembled slightly as the option was considered, then quickly discarded. Instead, his body took several steps back so as to present less of a threat to whoever was about to come through.

  Grayson was intently focused on everything his enemies did, on everything they had him do. Carefully studying his foe was his only hope of discovering any weakness they might have. The simple act of stepping away from the door told him the machines were rarely impulsive. They applied cold, unassailable logic to each situation, analyzing it for the most likely successful outcome. More often than not, he realized, they would choose to proceed with patience and caution.

  The door slid open a few moments later to reveal three heavily armed turians. Discovering him inside the cell, they all took a step back and raised their weapons at Grayson’s wild appearance.

  His hair had grown back to cover his scalp, just as the scraggly, unkempt beard now covered his face. But he knew that wasn’t what startled them. Completely naked as he was, the cybernetics weaving their way beneath his skin would be plainly visible; he suspected he barely looked human anymore.

  “Who are you?” one of the turians demanded.

  From the voice, it was obvious she was female. A long white scar ran across her chin, visible through the visor of her combat helmet along with the dark red markings painted on the bony carapace covering her face and skull.

  “I’m a prisoner,” the Reapers replied. “They tortured me. Experimented on me.”

  Grayson’s voice rang hollow in his ears, like listening to a recording of himself.

  “What’s your name?” the turian demanded, keeping the gun leveled
at his chest.

  On some level Grayson was hoping she would shoot. She was obviously repulsed by the synthetic hybrid he’d become. Maybe she could sense the alien presence inside him. Maybe some finely honed self-preservation instinct would compel her to simply pull the trigger and end it.

  The Reapers shook his head. “I … I don’t know my name. They drugged me.”

  “Look at his eyes, Dinara,” one of the other turians noted. “Totally dusted.”

  “Please help me,” the Reapers begged.

  No, don’t! Grayson silently screamed.

  At a signal from their scarred leader, the turians lowered their weapons. Grayson was deflated the ruse had worked, but the fact the Reapers didn’t know his name verified his suspicion that his thoughts were still private … though for how much longer he couldn’t say.

  “Come with us,” Dinara said.

  The turians led him out of his cell, giving him his first glimpse of the facility where he’d been held prisoner. Beyond the door of the cell was a small hall; at the far end was a staircase leading up. At the top of the stairs was an observation room, made easily identifiable by the large, one-way mirrored window looking out over the cell below.

  Beyond the observation room was what appeared to be a lab. A large console consisting of several computer stations filled the center of the room. The chairs were empty now, but Grayson had no trouble imaging his Cerberus tormentors sitting in the seats at the various terminals, monitoring the changes as his body was transformed into something hideous.

  “See if you can find him something to wear in one of the sleeping cabins,” Dinara ordered.

  One of her followers disappeared out the door on the far side of the room, heading farther into the station in search of something for Grayson to wear. He returned a few minutes later clutching several pieces of clothing.

  He handed them to Grayson, and the Reapers slowly made him get dressed. The pants were too large, as was the shirt. The boots were a size too small and pinched his feet. The Reapers didn’t bother to complain.

  Dinara reached up and placed a hand lightly on the side of her helmet, activating the built in receiver-transmitter.

  “Status report,” she demanded.

  With his heightened sense, Grayson was clearly able to hear both sides of the conversation.

  “Facility is secure,” the voice on the other end replied. “Thirty-six enemy combatants confirmed dead. No prisoners.”

  “Shut down the alarms,” the commander ordered, and a few seconds later the sirens abruptly stopped.

  “We lost eleven of our own,” the voice on the other end of her comm-link continued in a more somber tone. “Seven from second team, two each from first and third teams. Two escape pods are missing.”

  “Any sign of someone fitting the Illusive Man’s description?”

  “Negative. If he was here, we let him slip through our fingers.”

  “First and third teams stay here to hold the facility,” she said. “Second team rendezvous back at my shuttle. We’ve got a liberated Cerberus prisoner for transport.”

  “Copy that.”

  She lowered her hand and the transmitter clicked off.

  “Come with us,” she said to Grayson. “We’ll get you somewhere safe.”

  The three turians led him through the halls of what Grayson quickly realized was a space station. He didn’t recognize it, though it had the distinctive utilitarian look of a Cerberus base.

  He realized the Reapers were making his head and eyes turn and gawk constantly as they walked, trying to take in as much of their surroundings as possible. The machines were capturing data, storing it inside their infinite memory banks in case they ever needed it.

  The turians didn’t comment on his somewhat unusual behavior. Either they didn’t know enough about humans to realize he was acting strangely, or they chalked it up to the effects of the red sand.

  Grayson expected the turians to lead him to the docking bay. Instead, they rounded a corner to reveal a massive hole in the side of the station’s hull. A chunk of metal two meters square lay on the floor, the edges scorched from where they had been partially sliced open by a powerful cutting beam, the metal itself twisted by the blast of the explosion that had finished the job.

  The turian shuttle was visible through the hole, connected to the station by a fully enclosed platform extending directly into the shuttle’s airlock. Three more turians—the surviving members of team 2—emerged from the airlock to greet them and salute the commander.

  “Tell me what happened to the others,” she ordered.

  “Ledius, Erastian, and I split off from the others to cover more ground,” one of them replied. “They engaged an armed enemy force. By the time we arrived, the battle was over and they were dead.”

  “All six of them?” their leader asked, her voice rising in disbelief.

  “Most were killed at close quarters. It looks like they were ambushed from behind by three or maybe four assailants.”

  “Their bodies will be returned to Palaven,” Dinara assured them, “and their spirits commended to that of the legion.”

  All six turians bowed their heads and shared a moment of silence. Then Dinara activated the transmitter in her helmet.

  “We’re ready to leave. Seal off this sector.”

  “Affirmative, Commander.”

  After a brief delay a warning siren let out three long blasts, followed by the heavy thud of bulkheads slamming shut from either direction of the corridor to seal off the damaged area so that the entire station wouldn’t decompress when the turian shuttle detached itself.

  Satisfied, the turians boarded their ship. The Reapers had Grayson follow close behind. The shuttle wasn’t large, but it had room for ten, not including chairs for the pilot and copilot. Five seats lined the wall on either side, facing each other.

  Two of the turians went up front to fly the vessel. Three took seats on one wall, while Grayson and the commander took the other.

  “We can’t offer you anything to eat or drink,” Dinara apologized as she helped Grayson into his seat. The chair was far from comfortable; it had been designed for turian morphology. “Our only supplies are turian; they could be poisonous for your species.”

  The Reapers nodded on Grayson’s behalf.

  “Take us back to the Citadel,” the commander called out to the turians up front. “And send a message telling them we rescued a prisoner. Looks like he needs medical attention.

  “Better transmit a retinal scan,” she added. “He’s too dusted to remember his name.”

  The engines fired up and the mass effect drive engaged. The pilot punched in coordinates, and then Grayson felt the familiar surge as the ship accelerated to faster than light speed, heading toward the nearest mass relay.

  Until the shuttle dropped back to sublight speeds, they were completely isolated, undetectable by any scanners or tracking equipment and incapable of transmitting or receiving messages—the perfect time for the enemy within to strike.

  Grayson could feel the Reapers gathering their power, and he fought to resist in any way he could. He had no great love for turians, but he didn’t want to see any harm come to his liberators … especially if he was going to be the one to take the blame.

  Everyone on board the shuttle was armed and armored except for him. It might be possible to eliminate two or even three of the turians, but the others would make short work of him. In the close confines of the shuttle, firing weapons was dangerous; they might resort to knives or simply bludgeon him to death with the butts of their assault rifles. It would be ugly, violent, and messy. He didn’t want to go out like that.

  The Reapers were too focused on the turians to lash out at Grayson with another debilitating bust of mental agony, but his efforts to stop whatever it was they were planning succeeded only in causing his face to twist into a grotesque mask.

  Glancing over at him, the turian commander’s eyes went wide with alarm.

  “Are you all right? W
hat’s wrong?”

  In response, Grayson’s fist slammed into her face, shattering the visor of her combat helmet and caving in the hard carapace protecting her features, killing her instantly. Grayson’s mind let loose a silent howl of agony as the bones of his hand shattered from the force of the blow.

  Oblivious to his suffering, the Reapers unleashed a powerful biotic wave at the three turians sitting across from them before they could react to the gruesome murder of their leader. The impact lifted them out of their seats and slammed them into the wall of the ship behind them, knocking the wind from their lungs and leaving them curled up on the floor gasping for breath.

  Using Grayson’s undamaged hand, the Reapers ripped the pistol from the belt of the commander’s corpse, stood up, and delivered three kill shots execution style to the helpless turians on the ground.

  Caught completely off guard by the unprovoked assault, the two turians up front were just now getting out of their seats to try and help their brethren. Grayson dropped the pistol and closed the distance between them, moving so quickly that everything around him became a blur.

  His good hand wrapped itself around the wrist of the nearest turian and yanked him off his feet, tossing him to the back of the shuttle, where he landed with a heavy thud atop the bodies of the others.

  This provided just enough time for the second turian to bring his assault rifle up. But as he squeezed the trigger Grayson slapped the nose of the weapon down. A stream of bullets deflected off the floor of the shuttle and ricocheted wildly around the reinforced walls of the cabin.

  Several rounds ripped through Grayson’s flesh: one through the shoulder of his damaged hand, another through the knee of the opposite leg, two through the thigh. There was a cry of pain as the stunned turian lying in the back of the shuttle was hit as well.

  Grayson yanked the rifle from his opponent’s grasp with his one good hand, taking it away as easily as an enraged parent might snatch a toy from a petulant child. Then he swung the rifle like a club, slamming it into the side of the turian’s helmet. There was a muffled grunt and the unconscious body went limp.