Drew Karpyshyn: Retribution

You can’t change what you are , the little voice chimed in, as if on cue. You’re a killer. A violent man. And one day you’ll die a bloody, violent death and the galaxy will be a better place because you’re gone.

The acceptance of his own incorrigible nature was strangely reassuring. It confirmed his decision to let Gillian go with Hendel and the quarians; better to put her as far away from her monster of a father as possible. It made it easier for him to distance himself from his past; made it easier to do what had to be done to survive in the present.

He wiped away the tears and got up from his chair. Liselle was waiting for him at Afterlife, but he wasn’t quite ready to face the club scene yet. And he still had to hide the packets of red sand lying just inside the door of his apartment.

Maybe a quick dusting is what you need to pick up your spirits.

Grayson did his best to ignore the voice. He’d been clean for three years now. His body no longer craved the chemical-induced euphoria of the red sand.

But it was never really about the physical cravings, was it? Dusting takes away the pain. Makes things bearable.

He’d cleaned himself up for Gillian’s sake. She didn’t deserve a junkie for a father.

Gillian’s gone now. So who are you staying clean for? Liselle? Aria? They won’t care if you dust up, just as long as you don’t let it get in the way of a job.

During his last nine years with Cerberus, Grayson had been using regularly. Over that time, he’d never once let his addiction interfere with an assignment. But things were different now. He wasn’t an undercover operative using his daughter to infiltrate an exclusive biotic training program. He was a man on the run; he had to stay sharp. Any given second of any given day could be his last.

Cerberus will find you. It’s inevitable. So why not enjoy life until then. Ten kilos of red sand. Just one little hit. No one’s going to miss it. No one will even know.

Grayson pushed the chair away from the extranet terminal and stood up slowly. He made his way from the bedroom down the hall, through the kitchen and sitting room, and over to the packets of red sand still piled just inside the door. He picked up all five bags, cradling them awkwardly in his arms, then took them back into the bedroom. Kneeling down, he slid them under the bed one by one. It wasn’t much of a hiding place, but it was better than leaving them out in the open.

When he was done, he stood up and went into the bathroom. Looking at himself in the mirror, he noticed a small patch of pink residue on the front of his combat vest. He remembered that one of the bags had been punctured in the attack.

Damn batarians couldn’t even seal it properly .

Brushing it away, he felt the fine granules rubbing coarsely against his palm. Most of them fell into the sink, but some adhered to his skin.

He held his palm up to his face, close enough so that he could make out each tiny, individual grain of sand clinging to his flesh. He stared at them for a long second, then shook his head and slipped his hands into the sink. The action triggered the faucet’s motion sensor, and a stream of warm water washed the temptation down the drain.

Five minutes later he was changed into his civilian clothes and headed out the door. Walking at a smooth, easy pace, he reached the club in nearly twenty minutes.

As always, there was a throng of people outside waiting to get in. Human, asari, turian, krogan, batarian, volus, elcor: Afterlife catered to individuals from every species. But Aria had strict rules about crowd control, and those outside clamoring to get in would have to wait for some of the revelers inside to leave — or be carried out — before the guards at the door would grant them access.

The line stretched the entire length of the massive building, then disappeared around the corner at the end of the block. It would be hours before those at the tail end found their way inside. Fortunately for Grayson, friends of Aria didn’t have to wait in line.

The krogan bouncer at the entrance recognized him, and let him in with a nod. Grayson passed through the short hall that led from the entrance into the ground-floor foyer, where a pair of scantily clad asari stood preening behind the coat check counter.

The asari weren’t alone in the room, however. Two large, heavily armed and armored krogan flanked the sealed double doors leading to the hedonistic pleasures on the other side.

Outside, the music from the club was so muted and faint it could barely be heard above the noises of the street. Here, however, only a single insulated wall separated patrons from the waves of sound.

Grayson could feel the beat from inside the club thrumming in his teeth — low, heavy, and fast.

“Anything to check?” one of the krogan growled, speaking loud enough to make sure he could be heard over the music.

Grayson shook his head. Many of the club-goers preferred to leave their valuables with the asari behind the counter, especially if they intended to end the evening too drunk or stoned to keep track of their belongings. Grayson, however, had no such intention.

The krogan stepped aside as the asari pushed open the doors. Taking a deep breath, Grayson walked inside.

The club consisted of four levels, each one made up of a large outer ring surrounding a square dance floor suspended by wires and walkways in the center. Each of the various levels appealed to its own particular crowd, with its own dance floor, unique musical style, and custom drinks and chemical recreations.

The common theme, as befitted the club’s name, was the afterlife. The commingling of myths and legends from across the galaxy, including humanity, were represented in the club. On each level individuals could seek out the pleasures — or hedonistic debauchery — associated with Paradise, Heaven, Hell, the Halls of Athame, the Hollows, or any of a thousand other names for the promised realm allegedly waiting beyond mortal existence.

Grayson never gave much thought to what waited for him after death, but it was impossible to deny the primal appeal of the club. He had been here too many times to count, yet he still felt it each time he walked across the floor. There was something surreal and otherworldly about stepping inside Afterlife.

The music, the lights, and the crowd created a palpable energy that seemed to free you from yourself, unleashing inhibitions and wild, dangerous desires … most of which could be satisfied on the lower levels of the club.

Adding to the exhilaration was the common knowledge that most of the patrons inside Afterlife were armed. Violence could — and often did — erupt without warning. Security forces were on hand to clamp down on riots and to prevent widespread chaos, but individuals were expected to look out for themselves. As a result, it was rare that a month went by without at least one death inside the club.

Grayson knew how to look after himself should trouble arise, but he couldn’t deny that the savage undercurrent in the club enhanced the mood.

The entrance itself was on the third level. A stifling heat rose up from the bodies gyrating on the dance floors below. Well over a hundred patrons occupied this level, but the club was large enough to accommodate the numbers without making it feel overly crowded.

The strobing lights made it difficult to pick any one individual out from the crowd, but Grayson still made a quick search for Liselle as he crossed the floor. By the time he reached the spiraling ramp leading up to the VIP level above, he still hadn’t seen her. He wasn’t worried, however. Eventually she’d find him.

Climbing the ramp, he could feel the insistence of Afterlife fading slightly. On the topmost level of the club the music was less intense, the lights more subdued. It was less crowded, though Grayson still estimated the number of patrons at close to fifty.