“Look at the evidence,” he continued quickly, realizing she needed more than just his personal hatred of a species to be convinced. “Liselle’s throat was slashed; she trusted her killer to let him get in close. And what about the drugs? I wanted to take them to you at the club. Johnson insisted we leave them here with him. Seemed kind of strange.”
“Bringing the sand to the club would have been a foolish risk.”
“It wasn’t what he said,” the batarian insisted. “It was how he said it. Seeing all that sand affected him. He kept staring at it. His lip was twitching. He used to dust up. It was obvious.
“And he left the club alone,” Sanak added. “I saw Liselle there by herself.”
“Obviously you think that’s relevant,” she noted, impressed by how much thought he’d given this. “You have a theory?”
Sanak blinked his uppermost eyes, collecting his thoughts before he spoke.
“Johnson couldn’t resist the sand. Felt that old craving deep inside. So he called some old friends on the station. Invited them over for a party. Liselle showed up to surprise him. He knew he was caught. Had his friends hide in the bedroom. Invited her inside. Cut her throat. Grabbed the drugs and took off with his friends.”
Aria considered the explanation briefly before discarding it. “It doesn’t make sense. Why was Liselle naked?”
“Humans are sick, twisted animals. Probably raped her before they killed her. Or maybe after.”
“You said the neighbors heard gunfire,” Aria countered quickly, eager to push away the mental images of her daughter being violated. “Explain that.”
The batarian blinked all four eyes this time, struggling to come up with a plausible answer. Before he could, one of the salarians emerged from the bedroom hall.
“Extranet terminal. Wiped clean,” he reported in the staccato manner of his kind.
Sanak pounced on the new information. “Bastard was covering his tracks. He had to be in on it.”
“Get a trace from the network. I want copies of every message going in or out of this apartment for the past month.”
The salarian shook his head vigorously from side to side. “Human was smart. Scramblers. Encryption. Impossible to rebuild messages.”
“We have nothing?” Aria exclaimed, her anger and frustration seeping into her tone for the first time.
“N-no m-messages,” the suddenly anxious technician stammered. “Identify callers, maybe. Find where messages sent. Best we can hope for.”
“Do it,” Aria snapped. “Find out who he’s been talking to. Understood?”
The salarian swallowed with an audible gulp. Unable to speak, he gave a quick nod.
“Clean up this mess,” Aria added as she turned to go. “And for the sake of the Goddess, somebody cover up Liselle.”
SIX
Consciousness came back grudgingly to Grayson. For a long while he floated in the half-world between wakefulness and sleep, until physical sensations began to intrude on the drug-induced blackness.
His mouth was dry. He tried to swallow, resulting in a painful, hacking cough as his parched throat nearly choked on his bloated tongue. His eyes fluttered open, then snapped shut as a searing light burned his pupils.
Even with his eyes closed, he could still see the brightness pressing insistently down on him. He tried to roll over to shield himself against it, only to find he was immobilized.
A jolt of adrenaline washed away the last remnants of the tranquilizer, and awareness came crashing in on him. He was naked and lying on his back atop a cold, hard surface. His arms were held down at his sides by thick straps on the wrists and elbows. His legs were similarly restrained at the knees and ankles. Three more straps—across his thighs, waist, and chest—completed his bondage.
He opened his eyes again, squinting to block out most of the light. He tried to turn his head from side to side to get a sense of his surroundings, but it, too, was anchored in place. A strap under his chin kept his jaw clamped tightly shut; he couldn’t even open his mouth to cry out for help. Not that he expected any help to come.
There’s no escape this time. Cerberus will do whatever they want to you.
A wave of panic swept over him, and he struggled madly against his bonds, straining and twisting in a futile effort to gain even an inch of play in the straps.
“You’ll only injure yourself,” a voice said, speaking from close by his side.
The brightness dimmed substantially and Grayson opened his eyes fully to see the Illusive Man leaning over him. He was dressed in his typical attire: an expensive black jacket over a white designer shirt unbuttoned at the collar.
“Liselle?” Grayson tried to ask, but with his jaw restrained all that came out was an unintelligible grunt.
“You’ll have answers soon enough,” the Illusive Man assured him as he leaned back, though it wasn’t clear whether he’d actually understood his victim.
With the Illusive Man no longer dominating his field of vision, Grayson could see a large lamp hanging down from the ceiling directly above him, like the kind found in an operating theater. It was off now, but it explained the unbearable brightness from before.
They weren’t alone. He could hear the sounds of other people moving about the room, along with the low electrical hum of machinery.
He cast his eyes from side to side, trying to take in as much as he could before they turned the light on again. At the edges of his peripheral vision he could make out just enough detail to realize he was in some kind of hospital or lab. A man in a long white coat passed by on his right, heading toward a bank of monitors.
The Illusive Man was standing just to his left, blocking out most of his view in that direction. But he did manage to catch a glimpse of what appeared to be several strange and terrifying pieces of medical equipment over his shoulder. And then the blinding light came on again, forcing him to once more close his eyes.
“It’s been a long time,” the Illusive Man said.
With his eyes closed, Grayson had no choice but to focus on his enemy’s voice. The tone was calm, almost nonchalant. But Grayson knew the Illusive Man well enough not to be fooled.
“You’re probably wondering what happened to the asari,” the Illusive Man continued. “She’s dead, of course. Quick and painless, if that makes any difference.”
It doesn’t, you sick son of a bitch!
Grayson concentrated on his breathing, struggling to keep it slow and even. Whatever was going to happen to him, he didn’t want to give the Illusive Man the satisfaction of showing his fear, grief, or impotent rage.
“You might be worried about Kahlee Sanders, too,” the Illusive Man added after a lengthy pause.
The bastard’s watching you. Toying with you. Just stay still. Don’t move. Don’t give him anything to work with.
He could hear the others in the room—doctors or scientists, most likely. He heard footsteps, the flick of switches, and soft beeps emanating from computer consoles. Occasionally he would pick up a snatch of a low, whispered conversation, but the voices were too soft for him to make anything out.
“We haven’t done anything to Kahlee,” the Illusive Man finally admitted, once he realized Grayson wasn’t going to entertain him with a reaction. “And we won’t. She’s irrelevant to our plans, and I won’t kill a fellow human being without a good reason.”
You’re a real prince.
“That’s why we brought you here. Why I wanted you kept alive. It wasn’t so we could torture you. It wasn’t to satisfy my lust for vengeance … though I don’t deny I have those feelings. I’m only human, after all.”
The Illusive Man laughed, and his hand patted Grayson on the shoulder like a father bestowing a lesson on his son.
“Humanity needs a hero—probably a martyr in the end. Not the kind of thing people are eager to volunteer for. But this is something that has to be done.”
The overhead light dimmed again, and Grayson opened his eyes to see one of the scientists looming over him.
Her face was utterly neutral; she showed neither pleasure nor remorse as she leaned in and affixed a pair of electrodes to Grayson’s temples.
She stepped back and the Illusive Man leaned forward once more. His face was hovering mere inches above Grayson’s own.
“The survival of our race depends on this. And I chose you for this … honor.”
The hint of a smile, cruel and knowing, crept across the Illusive Man’s features. Grayson peeled back his lips and tried to spit through his teeth into his tormentor’s face. But his mouth was too dry, and all that came out was a hiss of air.
The Illusive Man leaned back and the overhead light snapped on again, forcing Grayson to shut his eyes once more.
Stop playing his games. If the light goes off again, keep your damn eyes closed.
He heard the sharp click of a metal case snapping shut, then the unmistakable flick of a lighter followed by a long inhalation of breath as the Illusive Man lit a cigarette.
“I know you hate me, Grayson,” the Illusive Man continued, somehow managing to sound hurt. “But I don’t hate you. That’s why I’m going to explain what we’re doing. At least you’ll be able to appreciate your contribution to the salvation of our species.
“Have you ever heard of the Reapers?”
The question hung in the air. Cigarette smoke curled into Grayson’s nostrils and crept down his throat, causing him to cough once.
The overhead light went off, but Grayson didn’t fall for the bait this time. He braced himself, expecting to feel a hard slap across the face for his defiance, or maybe the tip of the Illusive Man’s cigarette burning into his flesh.
When no punishment came, Grayson realized his enemy had no need of such crude methods. The Illusive Man had absolute power over him, and they both knew it. Petty tortures would only trivialize the situation, lowering the Illusive Man from the position of omnipotent god to pathetic despot.
“No, of course you haven’t heard of them,” the Illusive Man continued. “Knowledge of the Reapers has been buried for fear of causing a panic. But I know you’re familiar with the Collectors, at least by reputation.”
Grayson had never actually seen a Collector, but he’d heard plenty of stories. A reclusive race of insectlike humanoids, they were said to come from a world somewhere beyond the Terminus Systems’ Omega 4 relay. Spoken of with fear and even reverence by the residents of the Omega space station, the tales told of the Collectors offering extravagant payments in exchange for very specific, and often bizarre, requests.
Their demands always involved the trafficking of live victims, but they were more than just common slavers. They wanted only individuals that matched very precise characteristics: a salarian clan mother with different-colored eyes, or a pureblood asari matron between the ages of two and three hundred.
The residents of Omega had regarded the prospect of striking a deal with the Collectors as akin to winning the lottery: a rare occurrence that would result in untold riches for anyone fortunate enough to cash in. Few of them ever bothered to imagine what it was like for the victims taken away.
Most believed the Collectors used them as subjects for genetic experimentation. But nobody really knew for sure; any non-Collector vessel passing through the Omega 4 relay vanished forever.
A few years ago, or so the rumors claimed, the Collectors had taken a particular interest in humans. Grayson himself had nearly been sold to them after being betrayed by Pel, his ex-partner. Fortunately, he’d managed to escape before the Collectors arrived, eliminating Pel in the process.
This time you won’t be so lucky. The Illusive Man’s made a deal with the Collectors. They’re giving him some kind of advanced technology in exchange for you.
On the surface it seemed a logical conclusion, but Grayson quickly realized it didn’t make sense. The Illusive Man would never agree to give a mysterious alien species human test subjects so they could learn the vulnerabilities of the entire race. It violated everything Cerberus stood for and believed in.
“The Collectors were agents of the Reapers,” the Illusive Man explained. “A slave species under the total control of their masters. Everything they did, every strange request they made, was to satisfy the orders of the Reapers.
“They are the true enemy. A race of synthetic organisms—machines—that want to destroy or subjugate all organic life. And now they’re targeting humans.”
He paused as if he expected some kind of reaction from Grayson. It was almost as if he’d forgotten this was a one-sided conversation with a bound and silenced listener.
“We need to study the Reapers. Learn more about their strengths and weaknesses so we can strike back at them. You’re going to give us that opportunity.”
“We’re ready to begin.”
The female voice emanated from somewhere off to Grayson’s right. With his eyes still closed he had no way to be sure, but he assumed it was the woman he had seen earlier.
There was a high-pitched whine of a powerful machine revving up, and a few seconds later Grayson’s world exploded as his body was racked with a powerful electrical current. His muscles went into spasm, causing his back to arch and his limbs to strain against his bonds with such force the straps bit into his skin and drew blood.
The current cut off suddenly and Grayson went limp. Every nerve in his body was still on fire; it felt like his skin was peeling away to reveal the muscle and tendons beneath. But despite the agonizing pain his body remained absolutely still; he wasn’t even able to scream—completely paralyzed, yet fully conscious and aware.
“We have to replicate the procedures of the Collectors as closely as possible,” the Illusive Man explained. “I’m afraid this is going to be … unpleasant.”
He felt thumbs on his eyelids, lifting them open. With Grayson unable to control his muscles, they stayed that way, staring up into the excruciating brightness of the operating lamp. The silhouette of the female scientist momentarily blocked it out as she leaned over him to remove the strap from his chin. She opened his jaw and forced a long, flexible tube deep down his throat before stepping away, leaving him to be blinded by the light again.
“The Collectors implanted their victims with cybernetic Reaper technology. This allows the Reapers to communicate with and eventually dominate the organic host, even from across the galaxy.”
The tube in Grayson’s throat began to pulse as some type of viscous fluid was siphoned down into his stomach.
“Their technology is incredible,” the Illusive Man continued. “Are you familiar with quantum entanglement? No, probably not. It’s a complex field of study.
“Basically, there are particles in the universe that share certain complementary properties. If one has a positive charge, the other has a negative charge. Reverse the charge on one particle, and the other also reverses instantly, even if the particles are thousands of light-years apart.
“Humanity explored the phenomenon throughout the twenty-first century, but the cost of identifying and creating the particles was astronomical. In the end, the field was abandoned as impractical.
“But the Reaper technology we recovered from the Collectors is far more advanced. They’ve combined entangled particles with self-replicating nanotechnology, allowing them to infect, transform, and dominate organic hosts even while they’re trapped in dark space.”
Someone peeled the electrodes back from Grayson’s skull; he felt them pulling at the skin as they were removed. Then he felt the sharp prick of a heavy-bore needle against each temple. There was an unbearable pressure as the needles burrowed into the soft tissue, penetrated beneath the skull, and finally buried themselves deep inside his brain.
“You’re being implanted with self-replicating nanides. Their numbers will increase exponentially as they graft themselves onto your neurons and synapses. Eventually they will spread throughout your body, transforming you into a tool of the Reapers. You will be repurposed into a synthetic-organic hybrid unlike anything any of the Council races could possibly create.
“We need to study this transformation. Learn from it so we can defend ourselves against this alien technology. It’s the only way we can hope to stand against the Reapers.”
Grayson heard the words, but he could no longer understand them. His mind was being ripped apart. He could feel the nanides spreading through his head: alien tendrils wrapping themselves around his very thoughts and identity, strangling them out of existence until everything went black.
“He’s catatonic,” Dr. Nuri barked out. “Stop the procedure!”
The Illusive Man sat impassively as the scientists scurried to shut the equipment down. He waited silently as Dr. Nuri checked the screens monitoring Grayson’s vitals.
“It’s okay,” she assured him after a few tense minutes. “No permanent damage.”
“What happened?”
“It was too much for him to handle. It overwhelmed his system; he shut down.”
“You pushed him too far.”
“We knew the initial implantation would be traumatic,” she reminded her boss.
“I told you to be conservative with your estimates,” he reminded her. “We can’t afford any mistakes. The Reaper technology is too powerful.”
“We have no baselines,” she answered defensively. “No data to extrapolate from. It’s all theoretical. Nobody’s ever tried anything even remotely close to this kind of procedure before!”
“That’s why we must err on the side of caution.”
Chastised, Dr. Nuri replied, “Of course. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“You said there was no permanent damage?” the Illusive Man asked, satisfied he’d made his point.
“He should rest for a few days. After that we can continue.”
The Illusive Man nodded.
“Seal the room, but keep him hooked up to the monitors. I want him under observation at all times.”
He stood up to leave.
“We’ve reached phase two of this project,” he reminded the doctor. “The subject isn’t human anymore. He’s something alien now. Something dangerous.
“If you see anything unusual or unexpected—if you have any doubt or uncertainty at all—exterminate him immediately. I’d rather see the entire project fail than risk having this thing we’ve created break free. Do I make myself clear?”
Mass Effect™: Retribution Page 7