Drew Karpyshyn - Retribution

“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? What’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.