Mass Effect: Ascension

  “I appreciate everything you two have done for Gillian,” Grayson told them, his voice taking on a more businesslike tone. “Not just now, but in all her years here at the Academy. And I’m grateful she had the opportunity to be part of the Ascension Project.

  “But after all this, I can’t let her stay here. She needs to be with me. It’s the only way I can be sure she’s safe.”

  Kahlee nodded. “We’re sorry to lose her, Mr. Grayson, but we understand. We’ll find a place for you to stay here on the station until she’s well enough to travel.”

  “I don’t think you understand,” Grayson said, shaking his head. “I’m leaving. Now. And I’m taking my daughter with me.”

  “I…I’m sorry, sir,” Kahlee replied, momentarily caught off-guard. “But that just isn’t possible. She needs medical attention. Until we release—”

  “You said there’s nothing physically wrong with her,” he protested, cutting her off.

  “She’s still weak from her ordeal,” Hendel countered, his voice rising. “Biotics require an extremely high caloric intake to—”

  “I’ve got food on my ship.”

  “She needs a specially balanced diet because of her condition,” Hendel stressed.

  “I’d rather have her miss out on a few optimally nutritious meals than leave her here with you people!” Grayson shouted, his anger boiling over. “The last time she was in this hospital somebody tried to kill her!”

  Kahlee held her hand up to cut off Hendel before he responded. “We’ll make sure there’s a guard posted outside her room at all times,” she assured Grayson.

  “What if the guard is working for this Cerberus group?” he shot back. “What about the nurses who check on the monitors? Or the people who fix the meals? Don’t tell me she’ll be safe here!”

  “She won’t be safe anywhere!” Hendel shot back. “Do you have any idea who you’re dealing with? Cerberus probably has agents on every Alliance world and colony. They’ve got operatives in every level of the government and the military! If you take her away from here, they’ll find you!”

  “Damn it, Hendel!” Kahlee shouted, smacking him hard on the shoulder to shut him up. He looked over at her angrily, but kept quiet when he saw the expression on her face.

  “Why don’t you go tell Gillian you’re leaving,” she suggested to Grayson. “We’ll find someone to unhook the machines.”

  “Thank you,” Grayson replied, with a small nod of acknowledgment. Then he turned and made his way back toward Gillian’s room.

  Kahlee waited until he disappeared inside the door before wheeling on Hendel.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” she demanded. “Did you really think you could scare him into letting Gillian stay?”

  “He should be scared,” the security chief replied. “Cerberus is dangerous. You can’t let them leave.”

  “We don’t have any other choice,” she told him. “Gillian’s not a prisoner here. If her father wants to take her, we can’t stop him.”

  “Then stall him,” he insisted. “At least until we learn more from Jiro.”

  “And how long is that going to take?” she asked, incredulous. “An hour? A day?”

  “That little punk wasn’t calling the shots,” Hendel told her. “We’ve got to keep Grayson around until we find out who was giving Jiro his orders.”

  “You can’t possibly think he’s involved?” Kahlee asked in disbelief.

  “I get a bad vibe from him,” the security chief told her. “There’s something off about that guy. And even if he isn’t working for Cerberus, he’s still a drug addict! I’m not turning Gillian over to him without a fight.”

  She knew Hendel well enough to realize he wasn’t going to back down. She also knew Grayson was scared for his daughter’s life, and he wasn’t going to let Hendel bully him. If she didn’t come up with a solution, something bad was going to happen. Her mind was racing, shuffling through ideas, trying to sort out some way to resolve the situation.

  As if on cue, she saw Grayson and Gillian, still wearing her hospital gown, exiting the room. Hendel saw them, too, and headed straight for them.

  And that’s when a wild plan hatched in Kahlee’s frantic brain.

  Grayson’s heart was pounding as he waited in the hospital room for a nurse to come and disconnect the machines monitoring Gillian’s status. He had played his part well enough so far, but he knew it was only a matter of time before the Alliance interrogators got Jiro to cough up the name of his contact. He needed to be well away from the station before that happened.

  He began to pace anxiously in the room, back and forth at the foot of Gillian’s bed.

  The nurse isn’t coming. The security chief is on to you. He’s stalling. You’re out of time.

  He made a quick turn, breaking off his pacing, and stepped quickly over to the bed so he could lean in close to Gillian’s ear. “Come on, Gigi. Wake up, honey. It’s time to go.”

  She stirred and sat up, her eyes bleary and still half-asleep.

  “Where are we going?”

  He didn’t answer, but instead turned his attention to the machines. Everything looked straightforward enough.

  “We have to hurry, Gigi,” he said, turning back to his daughter. “I need to unhook the machines, okay?”

  She looked concerned, the anxiety on her face mirroring his own, but she nodded. It only took him a minute to disconnect her: he just had to remove a few simple electrodes taped to her head, a monitor strapped to her wrist, and another strapped to her abdomen. She flinched each time his fingers touched her bare skin, her face twisting into a grimace of discomfort. The moment when she had reached out and voluntarily touched his hand now seemed long, long ago.

  “All done,” he said when he was finished.

  He cast around the room frantically until he located a pair of sandals in the corner. Picking them up, he brought them over to the side of the bed and set them on the floor.

  “Put your shoes on. Quickly, now.”

  Gillian did as she was told, and a few seconds later the two of them were out in the hallway. They didn’t get more than ten feet before Grayson felt a heavy hand come down on his shoulder, hard enough to make him wince.

  He spun around, not at all surprised to see it was Hendel who had stopped him. Kahlee was standing just behind the big security chief, looking confused and uncertain.

  “You were supposed to wait for the nurse,” Hendel said in an angry voice.

  Grayson shrugged his hand off. “Every second we stay here Gillian could be in danger. I’m done waiting.”

  “Where are you going to go?” Hendel challenged. “Where do you think you can take her that Cerberus won’t find you?”

  “I know people in the Terminus Systems,” he answered quickly, knowing he had to tell them something. “People I trust.”

  “Who’s that? Your dust dealer?”

  Grayson didn’t answer, but simply turned away. Hendel grabbed him again and spun him around, grabbing his shirt and slamming him up against the wall. Pinned there, he saw Gillian watching the confrontation with a look of pure terror.

  “Wait!” Kahlee said, stepping in to separate them. “What if we came with you?”

  Both men just looked at her like she was crazy.

  “You want to get Gillian out of here,” she said to Grayson, speaking quickly. “What if we come with you? I can monitor Gillian’s implants, and Hendel has basic medical training.”

  Neither man replied, though Hendel did let go of Grayson’s shirt and took a step back.

  “If you’re really hiding from a terrorist group then you’ll need all the help you can get,” Kahlee added.

  “How do I know I can trust you two?” Grayson asked in a guarded tone.

  “Hendel already saved Gillian’s life once,” Kahlee reminded him. “As for me, you’ll just have to go with your instincts.”

  Grayson nodded, this unexpected scenario already playing out in his head. It wasn’t the ideal situatio
n, but every second he was still on the station brought him closer to being exposed. All he needed to do was get clear of the Academy, then he could deal with these two on his own terms.

  But first he had to sell it. “You understand what this means, right? You’ll probably both lose your jobs.”

  Kahlee exchanged glances with Hendel. She turned back to Grayson and nodded solemnly.

  “Fine. You two can come,” he said. “But we have to leave right now, and we don’t tell anyone where we’re going. If there are other Cerberus agents here at the Academy, I don’t want to give them a chance to follow us.”

  “Fair enough,” Kahlee agreed, then turned to Hendel. “Are you in?”

  He hesitated before responding. “If I’m going to keep an eye on Gillian—and you—then it looks like I don’t have a choice.” He met Grayson’s glare. “I’m in.”

  Grayson turned back to Gillian, crouching down slightly so that their eyes were level. She still looked terrified.

  “It’s okay, Gigi,” he said softly. “Nobody’s mad anymore. Now we’re all going to go on a trip together, okay?”

  It took several seconds for her mind to process the situation, then the fear slipped away, replaced with her typical neutral expression. She nodded.

  The four of them made their way through the hospital and down the corridor toward the landing bays. Five minutes later they were at security. Despite several curious looks from the guards on duty, they got through with a quick word from Hendel. Ten minutes after that they were on board the ship and pulling away from the station, Grayson at the controls while Hendel, Kahlee, and Gillian were strapped into the passenger seats near the back.

  He had Gillian, and he was away from the Academy. And as soon as they accelerated to faster-than-light speed, it would be impossible for anyone to track them. Of course he still had to figure out a way to deal with his two unwanted tagalongs, but he was already working on a plan for that.

  A physical confrontation was out of the question. Not only was the security chief bigger than him, he was also a biotic with a pistol strapped to his hip. And he knew from the personnel files he’d studied that both Mitra and Sanders had advanced hand-to-hand combat training.

  If you hadn’t been half-stoned when you started this trip you might have been smart enough to pack a weapon of your own up here in the cockpit.

  He didn’t have anything to drug them with, and even if he did he doubted Hendel would let down his guard long enough to take any offered food or drink without making sure it hadn’t been tampered with.

  Fortunately, Grayson wasn’t alone in this. He typed in a quick coded message, then sent it off before plotting a course for Omega.

  Let’s see how Hendel deals with Pel and his team, he thought, feeling the faint push of g-forces pressing him into his seat as the ship accelerated to FTL.

  Only then did he allow himself a long, slow sigh of relief.

  FOURTEEN

  Six standard weeks ago Lemm’Shal nar Tesleya had chosen, like many young and naïve quarians before him, to visit Omega during his Pilgrimage. Foolishly romanticizing what life must be like outside the rigid confines of the Migrant Fleet, he had been fascinated by the idea of millions of inhabitants from all the different species and cultures living in such close proximity, unfettered by laws or government. He’d expected to find adventure and excitement around every corner, as well as the freedom to do whatever he wanted.

  It hadn’t taken him very long to discover the harsh reality: Omega was a cesspool of violence and depravity. Pointless, random death lurked in the shadows and alleys. The station was a haven for slavers, and he witnessed firsthand weeping men, women, and children being bought and sold like chattel. Within a week he’d come to understand that the so-called freedom of Omega was a perversion of the word. With no laws or government, Rule of Force was the order of the day; the strong thrived and the weak suffered horribly. But nobody can stay strong forever, and he knew that even those on top would one day find themselves brought low.

  He had also learned that the inhabitants of Omega lived in constant fear, wrapping themselves in cloaks of anger and hate to keep it at bay. Driven by selfishness and greed, their lives were brutal, short, and miserable. He pitied their wretched existence, and gave thanks to his ancestors for the strong sense of belonging and community fostered among his own people. And so he had left Omega behind, continuing his journey across half a dozen worlds in the Terminus Systems.

  He realized now that the new appreciation he had gained for quarian society, and its underlying tenets of altruism and sacrifice for the greater good, was at the core of the Pilgrimage. Many left the Migrant Fleet as children, inexperienced and rebellious. After seeing how other societies lived, most returned as adults: wiser and dedicated to upholding the cherished ideals of quarian culture. Of course, there were always a few who chose not to return, rejecting the flotilla’s collectivism for the trials and tribulations of a lonely, solitary existence.

  Lemm had no intention of being one of those, but he couldn’t go back to the Fleet yet. For though he had learned an important lesson, his Pilgrimage was not yet complete. In order to return he first had to find something of significant value to quarian society, then present it as a gift to one of the ship captains. If his gift was accepted, he would lose the surname of nar Tesleya, and take the vas surname of his new captain’s vessel.

  That was why he had come back to Omega, despite his contempt for the place. That was why he was here prowling the streets, looking for a quarian named Golo.

  The name was infamous among the inhabitants of the Migrant Fleet. Unlike those who chose to leave the flotilla of their own accord, or those who never returned from their Pilgrimage, Golo had been banished by the Admiralty. Branded a traitor to his people, Golo had gone to the one place in the galaxy that most mocked everything the quarians stood for and believed in. Somehow he had survived and even profited during his exile, though in Lemm’s mind this only reaffirmed the decision to banish him. Anyone who could carve a life for themselves out of the vile fabric of Omega’s tattered society had to be cruel, ruthless, and completely untrustworthy.

  Lemm was traveling light. He wore a simple armored enviro-suit equipped with standard kinetic barriers, and a backpack of supplies slung over his shoulder. His most prized possession—a gift bestowed upon him before embarking on his Pilgrimage by the captain of the Tesleya—was his shotgun: a turian manufactured Armax Arsenal high-caliber weapon, customized with advanced autotargeting and reduced kickback mods.

  His shotgun wasn’t all he was armed with, however. Before leaving the flotilla, all quarians were given a rigorous, six-month program to prepare them for the weeks, months, or even years they might need to survive on their own before their rite of passage came to an end. The varied curriculum included weapons and combat training; lessons in the history, biology, and culture of all major known species; basic first aid; rudimentary instruction on piloting and navigation for a wide variety of common spacecraft; and specific technological skills such as decryption, electronics, and computer hacking.

  Every quarian who left the safety of the Fleet was well prepared to face the dangerous situations they would encounter. More important, they were taught that the best way to survive trouble was to avoid it whenever possible. So when Lemm heard the sound of gunfire coming from several blocks away, his first instinct was to whip his shotgun off his back and dive for cover.

  Crouched in the darkened doorway of what he hoped was a deserted building, he thought back to the last time he had come to this world. The streets of Omega had been busy and crowded everywhere he went, despite the constant threat of robbery, beatings, and even murder. Here, however, in a district caught in a bloody war between two rival factions, the streets were virtually empty. He had only seen a handful of people, scurrying from one building to another, hunched over and crouching low in the hopes of avoiding notice.

  Their apprehension was understandable. Lemm himself had already been shot at t
wice by snipers hidden away in the upper floors of buildings lining the streets. The first had missed him completely, striking the ground near his feet. The second had launched a bullet that would have pierced his skull had it not been deflected by his armor’s kinetic barriers. In both cases Lemm had responded with the only sane course of action—he’d ducked around the nearest corner, then fled the scene in search of a new route to his destination.

  Doubling back through the twisting, confusing streets of Omega was a good way to end up lost; it was all too easy to accidentally wander down the wrong back alley and never come out again. Fortunately Lemm, like most quarians, had an excellent sense of direction. The haphazard, almost random way in which the city had been built up over the centuries was similar to the environment of his home. Many of the ships in the Migrant Fleet had evolved into convoluted mazes where every inch of available space was valued and exploited. Temporary walls were often used to transform halls or corridors into rooms, and everything was held together with makeshift repairs and jury-rigged materials.

  The sound of gunfire continued, but to his relief it grew softer as the tide of battle drew the conflict to streets and buildings in the opposite direction of where he was headed. Stepping warily back out into the open street he continued on his way, weapon still drawn. A few minutes later he arrived at his destination.

  The entrance to the Fortune’s Den gambling hall showed evidence of several recent battles. The sign above the door was scorched with burn marks and hung at an awkward angle, as if someone had quickly replaced it after it had been shot down or blown off by an explosion. The door, made of reinforced metal, was stuck half-open. Pockmarked from the impact of stray rounds, it had been warped and twisted, probably by the same explosion that had dislodged the sign. As a result it had jammed halfway between open and shut, unable to travel freely on its tracks.

  He slid his pack off, letting it fall to the ground just outside the entrance. Taking a deep breath, and still clutching his shotgun, he turned sideways and slipped through the partially obstructed doorway. There were five batarians inside—one behind the bar, the other four seated around a table playing cards. He noticed they all had weapons either strapped to their sides or resting on the table within easy reach. On the back wall someone had mounted the head of a krogan and a volus. They looked fresh.