Drew Karpyshyn - Retribution

Grayson knew Kahlee hadn’t told anyone else at the Academy the truth about him. Convinced he had truly rejected Cerberus and was trying to turn his life around, she hadn’t seen any purpose in poisoning his reputation. She’d also left him an open invitation to come visit her, though he’d never followed up on it.

The Reapers had discovered all this back on Omega while probing Grayson’s mind for information about Kahlee. Now they were going to use what they had learned to gain access to the files of the Ascension Project.

“Grissom Academy, this is Paul Grayson. Do you copy?”

“Copy, Grayson,” a voice came back over the intercom. “Long time no see.”

Grayson didn’t recognize the guard’s voice, which meant the Reapers didn’t either. But it wasn’t unusual to have the guards remember him, even though two years had passed since Gillian had been part of the Ascension Project. While working for Cerberus, Grayson had played the role of a wealthy parent and frequent benefactor to the Academy, and Gillian had been one of the more unique students at the facility. Any visit from her father was likely to stand out in the minds of the staff.

“I tried to let you know I was coming, but the message wouldn’t go through,” the Reapers lied.

“All our network connections are snafued,” came the reply. “Haven’t been able to link in for the last four hours. We’re in a grade-two lockdown until the techs get it fixed.”

The Reapers picked through Grayson’s memories, reaching back to the days when Gillian was still attending the Academy. A grade-two lockdown was a relatively minor security precaution. Normally parents could visit their children at the Academy at any time, but in a grade-two lockdown they needed to get clearance from someone on staff.

“Kahlee Sanders told me to meet her here,” the Reapers explained, spinning a story out of the bits and pieces they had drawn from their host. “She’s supposed to arrive in the next hour or so. I’m guessing you didn’t get the message.”

“Affirmative. Like I said, nothing from the comm network for the last four hours.”

“I know it’s against protocol,” the Reapers said, “but is there any chance you’d let me dock my shuttle and wait for her on board the station? I’d like to get out and stretch my legs. It’s getting a little cramped in here.”

There was a brief hesitation before the reply, probably the guard checking with one of his superiors.

Grayson prayed they would deny the request.

“Sure thing,” the guard’s voice chimed a few seconds later, and Grayson knew the unsuspecting young man had just signed his own death warrant. “Bring it around to bay three. But you’ll have to wait in the security clearance area until Miss Sanders arrives.”

“Roger that. Much appreciated.”

Grayson’s fingers flew effortlessly over the pilot’s interface as the Reapers brought the shuttle around to align with one of the landing pads of the exterior docking bay. It touched down with only the faintest bump. Unlike the docks of Omega, here there was no mass effect field separating the Grissom Academy from space. Arrivals had to wait for one of the covered docking platforms to connect to the vessel’s airlock in order to enter the station.

While waiting for the docking platform to get into position, the Reapers had Grayson rise from the pilot’s seat and dig out the emergency kit stashed beneath his chair. He noticed that despite the fact that all his recent injuries were completely healed, he was moving much slower now. It had been several hours since the Reapers’ frantic rush to escape Omega; obviously that hadn’t been enough time to fully recover.

Inside the emergency kit was a knife with a long, heavy blade. The Reapers tucked this into the front of his belt before making their way toward the back of the vessel.

He could sense them picking through his mind for details about the security of the station. Technically, the Grissom Academy was a school, not a military base. But there were still enough security staff on-site — not to mention the biotic instructors of the Ascension Program — to pose a legitimate threat to the Reapers in their weakened and vulnerable state. Unable to simply overpower their enemies with irresistible biotic displays or incredible physical prowess and martial skill, they would need to rely on subterfuge and stealth to achieve their goals.

He couldn’t say for sure whether the Reapers had selected this particular vessel during their escape from Omega in anticipation of this eventuality, though he knew it was possible. But by design or chance, they had ended up taking a standard passenger shuttle. Given their familiarity with the turian vessel they’d hijacked at the Cerberus lab, Grayson wondered if the Reapers simply had an affinity for that particular species.

In the back of the vessel was a sleeping cabin, with an assortment of clothes hanging in a small closet.

The Reapers rummaged through the collection, looking for anything that could effectively cover Grayson’s unnatural appearance and conceal the knife from the guards.

From the cut and style of the garments, it was clear the owner of the shuttle had been turian — unsurprising given the make of the ship itself. None of the pieces would fit Grayson in a way that could hide what he had become.

There was a soft chime from the overhead intercom, indicating the docking platform had connected with the shuttle’s airlock.

Realizing the disguise had to last only long enough for them to get through the docking bay’s security doors, the Reapers whisked the cover off the bed. As if it were a shawl, they draped the blanket over the back of Grayson’s head, neck, and shoulders like a cape. Pulling the open sides at the front together and tucking the material beneath his chin left only his eyes and face exposed, peering out from a small opening in the formless tent of material.

As the Reapers passed through the shuttle’s airlock and made their way slowly along the covered docking platform, Grayson speculated on what might happen to his new form if it was exposed to the unforgiving environment of space. Did the Reapers even need his organic systems to continue functioning anymore? He had seen ample evidence they were capable of repairing damaged organic tissue at an incredible rate, but at this point the cybernetics were so deeply ingrained in his body he felt as if he was more machine than man. As their avatar, could he somehow survive without oxygen in the freezing temperatures outside the docking platform?

He knew he was far from indestructible. But if his lungs and heart shut down while the synthetic network woven into the synapses of his brain remained undamaged, could the Reapers continue to animate his body? Or might there be a point where massive damage to the life-giving systems of the physical shell would cause them to finally abandon their host?

If the Reapers were aware of his speculations, they gave no sign. Perhaps they simply didn’t care.

They had absolute control of his physical form, and they had no intention of doing anything but plodding slowly along the ramp, swaddled in their bedspread cowl.

The docking ramp led him through another airlock and into a small hallway that sloped upward for several meters before turning around a corner and emerging inside the security screening area.

It was a large, open room. Behind him was a wall with a window built halfway up, overlooking the docking bay. Before him was a reinforced glass wall. In the center of the wall was an open doorway equipped with a security scanner. All arrivals had to pass through the door in order to clear security.

Beyond that was another room with a small security booth built off to one side and another open doorway leading into the main section of the Academy. The security booth was on a raised platform, giving anyone inside a clear view of the docking bay through the glass wall and massive exterior window.