"Ascension" - читать интересную книгу автора (Karpyshyn Drew)

One

Paul Grayson never used to dream. As a young man he had slept untroubled through the night. But those days of innocence were many years gone.

They were two hours into the flight; another four until they reached their destination, Grayson checked the status of the ship s engines and mass drive, then confirmed their route on the navigation screens for the fourth time in the past hour. There wasn't much else a pilot needed to do en route; everything was fully automated while a ship was in FTL flight.

He didn't dream every night, but almost every other night. It might have been a sign of advancing age, or a by-product of the red sand he dosed himself with on occasion. Or maybe it was just a guilty conscience. The salarians had a saying: the mind with many secrets can never rest.

He was stalling; checking and rechecking the instruments and readouts to hold what was to come at bay. Recognizing his own fear and reluctance allowed him — forced him — to confront the situation. Deal with it. He took a deep breath to collect himself, his heart pounding in his chest as he rose slowly from his seat. No sense putting it off any longer. It was time.

On some level he always knew when he was dreaming. There was a strange haze over everything, a bleary film that left the false reality feeling washed out and muted. Yet through this obscuring filter, certain elements would register with exacting precision, minor details indelibly etched into his subconscious mind. The juxtaposition added to the surreal nature of his dreams, yet also made them somehow more vivid, more intense, than his waking world.

His feet padded softly over the carpeted aisle as he made his way aft from the cockpit toward the passenger cabin. There, Pel and Keo occupied two of the four seats, sitting kitty-corner across from each other. Pel was a big man with broad shoulders and olive skin. His hair was cropped in a tight afro, and he had a thin black beard extending along the length of his jaw. Seated in the chair facing Grayson as he came into the cabin, Pel was swaying gently back and forth in time to the song coming over his headphones. His fingers tapped lightly against his thigh, his perfectly manicured nails rustling softly against the dark material of his suit pants. His tie was still tight around his neck, but his jacket was unbuttoned and his mirrored sunglasses were tucked away inside the right breast pocket. His eyes were nearly closed; he'd lost himself in the rhythms of the music — a peaceful, easy image at odds with his reputation as one of Terra Firma's top personal protection agents.

Keo wore the same suit as her partner minus the tie, but she lacked the imposing physical size one typically expected in a bodyguard. She was a full foot shorter than Pel and maybe half his weight, though there was a tautness to her wiry muscles that hinted at the violence she was capable of inflicting.

Her exact age was difficult to pin down, though Grayson knew she had to be at least forty. With advances in nutrition and gene therapy to reduce the effects of aging, it was common for people to look as young and healthy at fifty as they did at thirty, and Keo's unusual appearance made it even harder to estimate how old or young she might be. Her pale skin was the color of chalk, giving her a ghostly appearance, and her silver hair was shaved short enough to glimpse the pasty-white flesh of her scalp beneath.

Intermarriage between the various ethnicities of Earth over the past two centuries had made alabaster skin a rarity, and Grayson suspected Keo's stark complexion was the result of a minor pigment deficiency she had never bothered to reverse.. although it was entirely possible she had undergone elective skin-lightening for cosmetic purposes. After all, visibility was a key aspect of her job: let people know you re on duty, and they'll think twice before doing anything stupid. Keo's odd appearance definitely made her stand out in a crowd despite her stature.

She was facing away from Grayson, but she twisted around in her seat to watch him as he entered the cabin. She looked tense and coiled, ready for anything — a complete contrast to Pel's easy calm. Unlike her partner, she seemed incapable of relaxing, even under the most mundane circumstances.

"What's wrong?" she demanded at his approach, eyeing the pilot suspiciously.

Grayson froze and raised his hands in the air so they were level with his shoulders. "Just getting a drink," he assured her.

His body was charged with nervous anticipation, the tips of his fingers were actually tingling. But he was careful to betray no hint of this in his voice.

This particular dream was all too familiar. Over the past ten years he had relived his first kill hundreds, if not thousands, of times. There had been other assignments, of course; other deaths. In the service of the greater cause he had taken many, many lives. If humanity was to survive — to triumph over all the other species — sacrifices had to be made. But of all the sacrifices, of all the lives he had taken, of all the missions he had completed, this was the one he dreamed of more than any other.

Satisfied the pilot posed no immediate threat, Keo turned away from him and settled back down in her seat, though she still seemed ready to lash out at the slightest provocation. Grayson made his way behind her toward the small fridge in the corner of the passenger cabin. He swallowed hard, his throat so dry and tight it actually hurt. He half-imagined he saw her ears twitch at the sound.

From the corner of his eye he saw Pel remove his headphones, dropping them casually into the seat beside him as he stood up to stretch. "How long till we land? " he asked, his words partially stifled by a yawn.

"Four hours," Grayson replied as he opened the fridge and ducked down to inspect the contents, struggling to keep his breathing calm and even.

"No complications?" Pel asked as the pilot rummaged around in the chilled contents of the fridge.

"Everything's right on schedule," Grayson replied, wrapping his left hand around a bottled water while his right grasped the handle of the long, thin serrated blade he had stashed inside the icebox before the journey began.

Even though he knew this was a dream, Grayson was powerless to change anything that was about to happen. The episode would continue without variance or alteration. He was trapped in the role of passive observer; a witness forced to watch through his own eyes as events unfolded along their original course, his subconscious refusing to allow him to alter his own personal history.

"Guess I'll go check on sleeping beauty," Pel said nonchalantly, giving Grayson the code phrase for the final go. There was no turning back now.

There was only one other passenger on board: Claude Menneau, one of the highest ranking members of the pro-human Terra Firma political party. A man of vast wealth and power, he was a charismatic, though not necessarily likable, public figure; the kind of man who could afford a private interstellar vessel, complete with his own pilot and a pair of full-time bodyguards to accompany him on his frequent trips.

In what had become a familiar routine, Menneau had locked himself away in the VIP room in the aft of the vessel just after takeoff. There he would rest and prepare for his upcoming public appearance. In a few hours they were scheduled to touch down at the civilian spaceport on Shanxi, where Menneau would address a fevered crowd of Terra Firma supporters.

In the wake of the Nashan Stellar Dynamics kickback scandal, Inez Simmons had been forced to step down from her role as party leader. It was clear either Menneau or a man named Charles Saracino would succeed her at the Terra Firma helm, and both were making frequent trips to the various human colonies to drum up support.

Menneau was currently ahead in the polls by a full three points. But things were about to change. The Illusive Man wanted Saracino to win, and the Illusive Man always got what he wanted.

Grayson stood up from the fridge, shielding the knife from view with the bottled water in case Keo happened to be looking his way. To his relief, she was still seated facing away from him, her attention focused on Pels back as he made his way with long, easy strides toward the VIP room in the tail of the vessel.

The chilled condensation on the water bottle made his left palm cold and damp. The right was damp, too — hot and sweaty from being clenched too tightly around the handle of his weapon. He took a silent step forward so that he was standing only inches behind Keo, her bare neck exposed and vulnerable.

Pel would never have been able to get this close to her; not without raising suspicion and putting her on guard. Despite nearly six months working together as bodyguards for Menneau, she still didn't completely trust her partner. Pel was a former mercenary, a professional killer with a murky past. Keo always kept half an eye on him. That was why it had to be Grayson. She might not trust him — Keo didn't trust anybody — but she didn't watch his every move like she did with Pel.

He held the weapon poised to strike, took a deep breath, then stabbed forward with the blade, slashing at an upward angle toward the soft spot in the skull just behind Keo's ear. It should have been a quick, clean kill. But his momentary hesitation cost him; it gave Keo a chance to sense the attack before it came. Reacting with a survival instinct honed over countless missions, she leaped from her seat, spinning to face her attacker even as the blade plunged home. Her incredible reflexes saved her from instantaneous death; instead of sliding smoothly up into her brain the knife buried itself deep in the flesh of her neck, where it stuck fast.

Grayson felt the handle slide free from his sweaty palm as he stumbled backward, away from his would-be victim. He stopped when his back struck the wall near the small fridge; there was nowhere to go. Keo was on her feet now, staring at him from across the seat. He saw the cold certainty of his own imminent death in her eyes. Without the advantage of surprise, he was no match for her years of combat training. He didn't even have a weapon anymore: his knife still jutted awkwardly out from the side of Keo s neck, the handle quivering slightly.

Ignoring the pistol on her hip — she wasn't about to risk firing her weapon inside a passenger vessel during flight — she yanked a short, savage-looking knife from her belt and leaped over the seat separating her and Grayson.

It was a critical mistake. Grayson had botched what should have been a quick kill, showing his inexperience. That had led Keo to underestimate him; she came at him too aggressively, trying to end the fight quickly instead of holding her ground or coming cautiously around the seats. Her tactical error gave heropponent the split second he needed to take back the advantage.

The instant she left her feet Grayson lunged forward. Flying through the air Keo couldn't stop her momentum or change her direction, and their bodies crashed together in a tangled heap. Grayson felt her knife slicing across his left bicep, but in the close quarters the small woman couldn't get enough leverage, and the wound was superficial.

She kicked at him and tried to roll away, looking to disengage so she could take advantage of her speed and quickness. Grayson didn't try to stop her. Instead, he reached out and seized the handle of the knife still lodged in her neck. He yanked it out in one long, smooth pull as she scrambled back up to her feet.

As the blade slid free, a crimson geyser came gushing out of the wound. The serrated edge had torn open her carotid artery. Keo had just enough time to register a look of surprised disbelief before the sudden drop in blood pressure to her brain caused her to black out and collapse, her limp body falling to the floor beside Grayson.

A gout of warm, sticky fluid splashed across his face and hands, and he scampered to his feet with a grunt of disgust, backing quickly away from the body until he struck up against the wall by the fridge once again. The blood continued to pour from the hole in her throat, the intensity of the stream increasing and decreasing with each beat of her still pumping heart. When the muscle gave out a few seconds later, the pulsating flow was reduced to a slow but steady trickle.

Pel returned from the back room less than a minute later. He raised one eyebrow at the blood covering Grayson, but didn't speak. Moving calmly, he approached Keo's body on the floor and bent down to check for a pulse, stepping carefully over the expanding pool of blood so as not to stain his shoes. Satisfied, he stood up and settled back into the seat he'd been relaxing in earlier.

"Nice work, Killer," he said with a soft chuckle.

Grayson was still standing against the wall beside the fridge. He had watched Keo's life rapidly bleeding away without moving, transfixed by the gruesome scene.

"Menneau's dead?" he asked. A stupid question, but as the adrenaline rush of his first kill faded his mind felt dull and slow.

Pel nodded. "Not nearly as messy as this, though. I like to keep my bodies neat." He reached for the headphones still sitting on the seat beside him.

"Should we clean up the blood?"

"No point," Pel informed him, sliding the headphones over his ears. "Soon as we rendezvous with the pickup team, they're just going to dump this whole ship into the nearest sun.

"Don't forget to claim your trophy," the big man added as he closed his eyes, his body beginning to rock in time to the music's rhythm once again.

Grayson swallowed hard, then forced himself into motion. He pushed himself away from the wall and made his way over to Keo's body. She lay half on her side, the pistol on her hip easily within reach. He stretched out a trembling hand toward the weapon…

The dream always ended in exactly the same place. And each time it did, Grayson woke with his heart pounding, his muscles tensed, and his palms sweating, as if his body had been reliving the experience along with his subconscious mind.

He didn't know then — and he didn't know now— why Menneau had to die. He only knew that it served the greater good in some way. Yet that was enough. He was dedicated to the cause, completely loyal to Cerberus and its leader. The Illusive Man had given him an order, and he had followed it without question.

Apart from the mistake of allowing Keo to briefly survive his initial attack, Grayson's first mission had been an unqualified success. The pickup team had met with them at the designated rendezvous, and the ship, along with the bodies of Keo and Menneau, had been disposed of. There were suspicions and theories surrounding the disappearance of Menneau and his crew, but with no evidence to back them up they had amounted to nothing. And with his chief rival removed from the race, Charles Saracino had claimed the leadership of the Terra Firma party. . though how that played into the long-term plans of the Illusive Man was anyone's guess.

Grayson's performance had impressed his superiors within the Cerberus organization, leading to dozens of assignments over the next decade. But that all ended once Gillian was accepted into the Ascension Project.

He didn't like to think about Gillian. Not like this, alone in his apartment with the darkness pressing in. He pushed her face from his mind and rolled over, hoping to fall back asleep. He froze when he heard a noise coming from beyond the bedroom door. His ears pricked up intently, and he could just make out voices coming from the living room of his small apartment. It was possible he had simply left the vid screen on when he'd staggered into bed, too sandblasted to shut it off. Possible, but not likely.

Moving silently he rolled out of the bed, leaving a tangled mess of covers behind. Wearing only a pair of boxers, his thin body shivered in the chill air of the room as he carefully opened the drawer of the night-stand and pulled out his pistol. Keo's pistol, his mind corrected, dredging up her memory once again.

Suitably armed, he crept barefoot across the bedroom and through the half-open door into the hall beyond. The apartment was dark, though he could see the soft glow of the vid screen spilling out from the living room. He moved forward in a low crouch, presenting less of a target should the intruder attempt to take a shot at him.

"Put the gun away, Killer," Pel's voice called out as he approached."It's just me."

Cursing under his breath, Grayson stood up straight and made his way into the living room to meet his uninvited guest.

Pel was lounging on the overstuffed couch in front of the vid screen, watching one of the news channels. He was still a big, powerful figure but he had gained weight over the past ten years. He looked somewhat soft now, a man who was clearly enjoying a life of luxury and indulgence.

"Jesus, you look like hell," Pel noted when Grayson came into view. "Stop spending all your money on red sand and buy yourself a goddamned meal once in a while."

As he spoke he reached out with a foot and kicked at the small coffee table in the center of the room. Grayson had been too high to bother cleaning up before going to bed — a mirror, a razorblade, and a small bag of red sand sat in plain view atop the table.

"Helps me sleep," Grayson mumbled.

"Still having nightmares?" Pel asked. There was something mocking in his tone.

"Dreams," Grayson replied. "About Keo."

"I used to dream about her, too," Pel admitted with a lopsided grin. "Always wondered what she'd be like in the sack."

Grayson tossed the pistol down on the table with the drug paraphernalia and slouched into the chair opposite the couch. He wasn't sure if Pel was joking with him or not. With Pel he was never sure.

He glanced over at the vid screen. They were showing images of the newly repaired Citadel. Two months ago the attack had dominated the media, along with the thoughts and awareness of every being in Council space. Now, however, the shock and horror were beginning to fade. Normalcy was returning, creeping in slowly but surely from all sides. Aliens and humans alike were falling back into their everyday routines: work, school, friends, family. Ordinary people moving on.

The story still had life in the media, but now it was left to the pundits and politicians to analyze and dissect. A panel of political experts — an asari ambassador, a volus diplomat, and a retired salarian intelligence operative — appeared on the vid screen, debating the political stances of the various candidates humanity was considering for the Council.

"You think the Man has any pull in who we pick?" Grayson asked, nodding toward the screen.

"Maybe," Pel answered, noncommittal. "Wouldn't be the first time he got involved in politics."

"You ever wonder why he wanted Menneau dead?" The question was out of Grayson's mouth before he even realized he was asking it.

Pel shrugged indifferently, though there was a wary look in his eye. "Could be any of a hundred reasons. I don't ask questions like that. And neither should you."

"You think we owe him blind obedience?"

"I just figure it's done and there's nothing you can do to change it. People like us can't afford to live in the past. Makes a man sloppy."

"I've got everything under control," Grayson assured him.

"Clearly," Pel snorted, nodding at the red sand on the table.

"Just tell me why you're here," Grayson said wearily.

"The Man wants to hit the girl with another batch of meds."

"She has a name," Grayson muttered. "It's Gillian."

Pel sat up and leaned forward, his hands on his thighs as he shook his head in exasperation. "I don't want to know her name. Names make things personal. You get messy when things get personal. She's not a person; she's just an asset on the inside. Makes it easier when the Illusive Man decides she's expendable."

"He doesn't want that," Grayson countered. "She's too valuable."

"For now,'¹ Pel grunted. "But down the line someone might figure they can learn more if they cut her skull open and poke around inside her brain. Then what happens, Killer?"

An image of Gillian's butchered body lying on a medical gurney sprang to Grayson's mind, but he wasn't about to rise to Pel's bait.

Besides, that's not going to happen. They need Gillian.

"I'm loyal to the cause," he said out loud, not wanting to argue the point with Pel. "I'll do what's necessary."

"Glad to hear it," Pel answered. "Hate to think you've gone soft."

"Is that why you're really here?" Grayson wanted to know. "Did he bring you all the way back from the Terminus Systems so you could check up on me?"

"You don't answer to me anymore, Killer," Pel assured him. "I'm just passing through. Had to come in to clean up some business on Earth, so I volunteered to stop by on my way back out to drop off the supplies."

The big man pulled a small vial of clear liquid from his coat pocket and tossed it to Grayson, who caught it cleanly with one hand. There was no label on the vial; nothing to mark what it was or what it might do; no indications of where it came from.

His work done, Pel rose from the couch and turned to go.

"You going to report the red sand?" Grayson called out after him just as he reached the door.

"Nothing to do with me," he said without turning around. "You can get dusted every night for all I care.

I'm off to meet a contact on Omega. This time tomorrow I'll be up to my ass in aliens."

"It's part of my cover," Grayson added defensively. "Fits my character. Troubled father."

Pel passed his hand in front of the door panel and it swooshed open.

"Whatever you say, man. This is your assignment."

He stepped out into the apartment hallway, then turned back to deliver a parting warning.

"Don't get sloppy, Killer. I hate cleaning up someone else's mess."

The door swooshed shut, perfectly timed with the end of his words and cutting off any chance for Grayson to reply.

"Son-of-a-bitch always has to get the last word," he muttered.

With a groan he pulled himself out of his chair and set the vial on the small table beside the bag of red sand, then wandered reluctantly back to bed. Mercifully, the only dreams he had for the rest of the night were of his daughter.