Drew Karpyshyn - Ascension

"I know Gillian is different," the Illusive Man added, as if he was reading Grayson's thoughts. "I don't know if we can cure her condition, but the more we learn about it the more we can help. We won't turn our backs on her. She means too much to us. To me."

"I'll call the Academy," Grayson answered, "and tell them I'm on my way."

Gillian needs expert help, Cerberus understands her condition better than anyone. This is what she needs.

You re rationalizing, a bitter voice from the dark corner of his mind chimed in. Just admit the truth. What the Illusive Man wants, the Illusive Man gets.

The bag Pel was carrying was heavy; he kept switching it from hand to hand but he couldn't deny his arms were beginning to get sore. Fortunately, he was only a block away from the small two-story warehouse Cerberus was using for their base of operations on Omega. It was conveniently located along the edges of a small, unregulated spaceport in a district controlled by the Talons, a predominantly turian mercenary band.

On principle Pel didn't like dealing with any non-human group, but the Talons were one of the best options for freelancers looking to gain a foothold on Omega. The warehouse was in a prime location: their proximity to the spaceport allowed small ships to come and go without drawing undue attention, and they were within walking distance of a monorail linked to several other sections of the city. The Talons charged high rates for rent and protection, but they didn't ask any questions or stick their beaks in where they didn't belong. They were also one of the few factions strong enough to keep a firm hold on their territory, reducing the chances of riots or uprisings that sometimes swept through Omega's less stable districts.

Although the district was officially classified as turian, there was a smattering of other species on the streets as well. A pair of batarians walked toward and past him, casting a wary glance at the hated human and the bag he was carrying. A single hanar floated up from behindand brushed by his shoulder, moving quickly. He instinctively shied away from its long, trailing tentacles. There were even a handful of humans scattered about, though none of them worked for Cerberus. The five men and three women assigned to Pel's team tended to stay inside the warehouse; especially now that they had a prisoner to interrogate.

He was only a few feet from the door to the warehouse when a familiar figure stepped out of the shadows.

"What's in the bag, friend?" Golo asked.

"How did you find this place?" Pel demanded, setting the bag down and letting his hand rest casually on his hip, just above his pistol.

"I have been keeping tabs on you," the quarian admitted. "It wasn't all that hard to discover this location." He didn't know if quarians smirked, but Pel imagined a smug look on the alien's face beneath his visor.

He wasn't really that concerned; Golo didn't pose much of a threat to what they were doing. But he didn't like being spied on. Especially not by the alien equivalent of a gypsy-thief.

"Why are you here?"

"I have another business proposal for you," Golo replied.

Pelgrimaced. "I'm still pissed off about the last deal we cut with you," he told him. "That pilot we captured on the quarian ship isn't giving us the codes we need."

"You have to understand the culture of the Migrant Fleet," Golo explained. "Quarians are reviled by almost every other race. They can only rely on each other to survive. Children learn at a young age to value family and community, and loyalty to your home ship is prized above all else."

"No wonder they kicked you out."

Pel couldn't tell if his jab stung or not; the quarian's reaction was hidden behind his mask. When he spoke, he continued on as if he hadn't heard the insult.

"I'm surprised you haven't been able to pry the information out of him. I assumed you would be well versed in getting prisoners to talk."

"Torture's not much good if your subject is delusional and hallucinating," Pel answered, a little more defensive than he intended.

"He caught some kind of virus or something. Now he's mad with fever," he continued, his voice becoming dark and dangerous. "Probably happened when you cracked his mask."

"Allow me to make amends," Golo replied, un-fazed. "This new offer is one I don't think you'll want to turn down. Perhaps we can go inside and talk?"

"No chance," Pel shot back. "Wait here. I'll be back in five minutes."

He picked up the bag again, then stared pointedly at the quarian until he turned away. Once he was sure the alien wasn't looking, he punched in the access code for the door and stepped inside.

It was actually closer to ten minutes when he reemerged, but Golo was still waiting for him. Pel was half hoping he would have grown frustrated and left.

"I'm still curious, friend," the quarian said by way of greeting. "What was in the bag?"

"None of your business. And we're not friends."

In actuality, the bag had contained nothing more than ordinary groceries. There was a full stock of rations and emergency supplies inside the base, and while they were nutritionally adequate for survival, they were bland and tasteless. Fortunately, Pel had discovered a shop in a nearby district that stocked traditional human cuisine. Every three days he took the monorail to the store and bought enough food to keep his team well fed and happy. It wasn't cheap, but it was an expense he had no trouble justifying to Cerberus. Humans deserved real human food, not some processed alien mishmash.

There was no harm in sharing this information with the quarian, of course, but Pel wanted to keep their relationship adversarial. It was to his advantage if Golo wasn't sure where he stood.

"You said you had some kind of proposal," he prompted.

Golo looked around, clearly nervous. "Not here. Somewhere private."

"What about that gambling hall you took me to last time? Fortune's Den?"

The quarian shook his head. "That particular district is currently under an ownership dispute. The batarians are trying to push the volus out. Too many shootings and bombings for my taste."

Par for the damn course, Pel thought to himself. "Violence is inevitable when different species try to live side by side," he said aloud, spouting a common Cerberus axiom. If the Alliance could ever figure that out we wouldn't need someone like the Illusive Man to watch out for us.

"This opportunity is quite tempting," Golo assured him. "Once you hear the terms I'm sure you'll be interested."

Pel just crossed his meaty arms and stared at the quarian, waiting.

"It involves the Collectors," Golo whispered, leaning in slightly.

After a long pause, Pel sighed and turned back to the warehouse door. "All right. Let's go inside.'*

"You are cleared for approach on dock four. Over."

Grayson made a slight course adjustment to comply with the traffic control tower's instructions, and brought his shuttle in to the Grissom Academy's exterior landing bay. The medium-range passenger vessel he was piloting on this visit was slightly smaller, and far less luxurious, than the corporate shuttle he normally used for his visits. But these were hardly normal circumstances.

For this journey he had come alone, in the guise of a frantic father rushing to the side of his gravely ill child. It wasn't a hard role for him to play, given how he felt about Gillian. His concern for her was genuine. But depending how much Jiro had told them, it might not matter.

He waited impatiently at the shuttle doors for the docking platform to connect, then went quickly into the large, glass-walled waiting room. There were no other passengers waiting for clearance, and the two Alliance guards posted by the exit signaled him to come forward. He could see Dr. Sanders and the Project Ascension security chief waiting for him on the other side of the transparent, bulletproof wall.