Drew Karpyshyn - Retribution

“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.…”

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.