Chapter Two: Santa Claus is Coming to Treagir

Morgan called me just as I entered the docking bay. "Chuck?"

"Yeah, Morgan?" I replied. "I'm just about to leave. What's up?"

"Forgot to give you something. I sent a courier over to the docking bay to catch you."

I looked around. Sure enough, there was a courier waiting for me near the shuttle, briefcase in hand. How could I have missed him? So much for situational awareness. If he was a hitman, I could've gotten whacked. "Thanks," I said.

"No problem. Good luck!"

I detoured to intercept the courier. "Lieutenant Shepard?" he asked as I approached.

"Yep," I nodded.

"According to my instructions, I am to hand this over if you can answer the following question."

Of course. Even Morgan couldn't keep it simple. "All right," I sighed. "Lay it on me."

"What is the coolest Halloween costume ever?"

It was scary how well Morgan knew me, even after all these years. "Sandworm."

The courier nodded and handed over the briefcase. "Here you go, sir."

I popped it open. It was full of weapon mods. Heat sinks and high-caliber barrels, to be exact. Just what I needed to give my guns that extra oomph. I closed the briefcase and hauled onboard the shuttle along with the rest of my gear.

As the shuttle doors closed and the cabin pressurized, I began plotting my next move. First thing I had to do once we touched down on Bekenstein was to figure out which one of the turkeys was…

…ships. Ships. I had to figure out which one of the ships was making a long, long trip to the Hong system. Good bet was to check out the bars and check out the local gossip. Because that's what people do in bars. They yap their mouth off. When they're not stuffing their faces full of potatoes, all nice and crispy on the outside and warm and chewy on the inside…

…okay. I had to stop this. I had to buckle down and get my bib on—game. Get my game on. Had to focus on my next move. I had to be serious and strong. Ignore the tantalizing smell wafting out from Ellis's lunch container and the growling in my stomach and focus on… on… vegetables. Everyone hates vegetables. Yes, focus on the mission because the alternative was the nice, steamed vegetables bursting with…

…oh screw it.

I opened the lunch container. Slices of turkey, nice and moist. With gravy and cranberry sauce and all the fixings. Right next to the lamb, still succulent and tender after being slow-cooked for several hours. There were the roast potatoes, as nice and golden and crisp as I'd imagined. And the steamed veggies, a medley of carrots to cauliflower to broccoli.

Of course, there was also a slice of Ellie's Famous Cheesecake. With a last-minute addition. Ellie had found some leftover icing and scribbled a message for me: "Now you eat this LAST, you greedy pig!"

Yes, Ellie. Whatever you said.

"Lieutenant?" a voice called out from the cockpit.

"Yeah?"

"We're about to take off now."

"I'm buckled in and ready to go." Which I was. Managed to do that at least before getting distracted by my stomach and Ellie's amazing, legendary cooking.

"Lieutenant?"

"Yeah?"

"That… is that… did you bring some food with you? 'Cuz that doesn't smell like military rations."

"Yes I did and no it isn't," I responded.

"Oh."

There was a pause.

"You got any extras to share?"

"No?"


I wound up sharing in the end. Ellie would scold me if I didn't. You'd think we were actually related, the way she bossed me around all the time.

Got to sit in the cockpit and chat with Lieutenant Hoban, the pilot. Couldn't stop talking about the love of his life. Kinda laid it on a bit thick, I thought, but overall, he was a nice guy. Wouldn't let me fly the shuttle, though. Rules and protocols, he said. Personally, I think someone sent him a bootleg copy of the last time I flew a shuttle. I only overshot the landing pad by a little. And there were only a couple sparks caused by the shuttle bouncing off the pavement. Which wouldn't have amounted to anything were it not for the lazy asses who never bothered to clean up that fuel leak. In other words, the base catching on fire and eventually blowing up was totally not my fault.

Honest.

After finishing the meal, it was time for a nap. Yes, as surprising as it sounds, one can sleep on a military shuttle. It takes a lot of practise and readjusting of standards, but once you realize that there are no standards—comfort-wise, that is—when it comes to the military, you learn to sleep anywhere at any time. Especially when you never knew when you'd get another chance.

"Lieutenant?" Hoban called out.

Now what? "Yeah?"

"We've entered the Boltzmann System. ETA to Bekenstein: one hour.

Already? Geez, that was a deep sleep. I blame Ellie's turkey.

"Understood."

All right. Time to make some plans. This whole mission was going to fail if I didn't get to the Treagir compound. Which meant I had to figure out which ship was the latest to be picked for the trip. Now there were two ways I could think of to accomplish that. Plan A involved a lot of walking and talking and drinking. Plan B required a bit of hacking and waiting and twiddling fingers.

Needless to say, Plan A sounded like a lot more fun.

All I had to do was walk around. Enjoy the sights—but only until I found the closest bar or pub or whatever. I was here on business, after all, not pleasure. Even if that business involved sitting down, having a drink, and listening to the local gossip. Encourage a couple people to tell me about themselves. Specifically, people tell me about taking long, long trips to visit individuals of questionable character and repute.

I accessed the shuttle's computers and established a connection to the extranet—which didn't take as long as you'd think. Benefit of being in the military: you get first dibs on the extranet bandwidth. Not surprisingly, a map of Jacobstown—where we'd be landing—was one of the search queries that had the most hits. As one of the busiest starports on Bekenstein, it saw a lot of traffic. Especially from first-time tourists like me. It was also less than shocking to discover that search queries for the nearby drinking establishments were also very popular. I started browsing different establishments, downloading relevant information to my omni-tool. There were a lot of them. Though they all seemed to have similar menus.

"Lieutenant, we've been cleared for landing. We're beginning our descent now."

Wow. Guess you really can lose track of time when you're surfing the extranet. "Got it," I replied.

I closed all the extranet windows, checked my omni-tool to make sure that everything had downloaded properly, buckled my seatbelt and braced myself. If experience was any indication, there would be a very bumpy ride, a bit of unnecessary screaming and a tooth-jarring bump or two as we slammed onto the landing pad.

To my surprise, none of that happened. The ride was smooth. No one screamed. And I barely felt a bump as the shuttle touched down. Weird.

"Welcome to Jacobstown, Lieutenant," Hoban said. "Thanks again for sharing your meal."

"No problem," I replied, gathering my gear. The shuttle door opened and…

...wow.

My first impression of Jacobstown was definitely festive. Brightly coloured tinsel strewn everywhere. Santa Clauses and reindeer and snowmen—thank God none of them were anatomically correct, especially after seeing Awesome in the buff—up and down the street. Christmas trees lined up and down the street, almost in military precision. Some of them were even real, though I shuddered at the thought of how much it must have cost to ship real, live evergreen trees. The boughs of every tree—real or otherwise—was buried beneath all the baubles and ornaments and Christmas lights. Christmas lights that were also covering every available surface. And, of course, there was the obligate sprinkling of snow.

Some might say that it was blatant and commercial. And it was, I had to admit. But when I looked at it, I couldn't help but think of all the times Ellie and I spent arguing about the perfect way to set up our Christmas decorations—she always won, of course. All the hours we spent running around setting up the decorations, bowling over our patient and suffering mothers in our sugar-fuelled adrenaline rush. The plastic tree we'd assemble, having carefully shipped it from ship to starbase to ship.

The sooner I found the ship, the sooner I could go back to Ellie. Okay, okay: and Awesome too. And Morgan. Of course, that conveniently skipped over the getting to Treagir and getting shot at parts.

A man does need his delusions every now and then.


The first place I visited was The Platinum. Very upscale. Very posh. Very modern. Everything was either an aggressive and blinding white or a stark, concerted black. Everyone was dressed in clothes that screamed fashionable, trendy and most definitely expensive. They were all talking in soft voices, because it just wouldn't do something as uncouth as raising your voice. Classical music played in the background. All that was missing was...

"Can I help you, sir?"

...the doorman. Impeccably dressed in crisp, custom-tailored clothes because even the doormen had to outshine unwanted and unworthy trespassers. Nose lifted, disapproving frown firmly in place. His voice carried a slight trace of a sneer.

I already knew where this was going, but I had to at least make the effort. "Yeah," I replied. "I'd like to go in."

"This establishment is reserved for Members in Good Standing only," the doorman sneered, emphasizing the capitals. "You, sir, are not welcome here."

"And how does one become a 'Member in Good Standing'?" I asked.

"By tradition and custom, sir. Something which you would certainly not know."

"Well, I happen to know that humanity only began expanding beyond the Sol system within the last thirty years," I pointed out. "How much tradition and custom could there possibly be?"

"More than one of your kind would know, sir."

"'My kind'?" I repeated.

"Yes, sir. Riff-raff, sir. Now, off with you. Go before I summon security."

While I was curious to see what sort of security was reserved for Members in Good Standing, I had other avenues to explore and other fish to fry. "Sure thing, Jeeves."

The doorman gave me a blank look, which I thoroughly enjoyed. It's always fun when the 'riff-raff' got one up on the higher-ups.

As I casually walked away, I noticed a really bad Santa Claus at the corner of the street paying particularly close attention to me. By that I mean he was a salarian: I don't care how much padding you stuff under his clothes, you can't pass a salarian off as a convincing Santa Claus. I altered my path ever-so-slightly. After a minute, I came to a stop outside an electronic store on that corner. Leaning forward, I pretended to be enthralled by the vid-games displayed in the window. "Anything I can do for you?" I murmured out of your corner.

"I beg your pardon?" Salarian Claus asked innocently.

"You seemed very interested in me earlier," I said. "Are you always so curious about tourists?"

"I'm more interested in the comings and goings of the club you tried to get in," Salarian Claus replied.

"Just the comings and goings?" I asked. "Not what's going on inside?"

Salarian Claus looked at me suspiciously. I realized I had to talk fast before he suspected me of being another stooge for the Members in Good Standing and vamoosed. "Because I would be interested in talking to someone who had an ear inside, so to speak."

Too late, I realized that I was only digging a deeper hole. Thankfully, Salarian Claus was still intrigued. "I might know of someone who could help you," he smiled. "If you had something of equal value, of course."

"Of course," I said, mimicking his smile. "And what would this person consider to be of equal value?"

"A firomactal drive, a nadion coil and an isopalavial interface."

"Really?" I asked skeptically. "You want me to find three items to trade for the name of one person who may or may not be of any use?"

"That's right," Salarian Claus smiled, clearly under the delusion that I was going to help him. Because I wasn't going to help him. At least, I didn't think it would be worth my time to help him.

...

Aw, crap. I had a feeling that I might wind up helping him.


Before I started running around finding random items for the Galaxy's Worst Santa Claus, I might as well check out some of the other taverns and pubs. My theory was that if I did enough eavesdropping, I could figure out which people might be more likely to take a really, really long trip. Money troubles, desperation, certain undesirable habits, that kind of thing. Then I could start tracking them down and talking to them.

I decided to start with the pub across the street. Foxy's Something or Other. Dimly lit in that stumble-around-and-trip-over-something kind of lighting that seemed ever so popular, except for the strings of Christmas lights that lined the walls. Lots of people milling around. Lots of young people...

"Shut up!"

"Oh my God!"

"So, like, he was all whiny about, like, how I never listened to him and I was, like whatever."

…this might not have been the best place to begin my search. Of course, I could be mistaken…

"Hey, so I talked to my dad, and he agreed to lend us his private cruiser. Next week, we are gonna be livin' it up on the Citadel!"

"Citadel? What happened to Illium?"

"Um yeah. Mom put her foot down on that, the old hag. I mean, so I failed a couple classes. It's not like I need social studies, right?"

…but the chances of that seemed very slim.

Forty or fifty minutes later, I was positive that this was not the kind of place for my needs. The only reason anyone in this place left Bekenstein was to go on vacation, and the Hong system wasn't on anyone's list of tourist destinations. I was also positive that if the future of humanity depended on our youth, we might be better off throwing in the towel and kick starting the zombie apocalypse, because we already had the mindless, vapid idiots in abundance.

Of course, it was entirely possible that I should be skipping the places frequented by rich spoiled brats and focusing on other targets.

After entering in the new search criteria, I moved to the next stop on my list. The Desert Sun—I'm not sure what the big deal was about seeing a sun in the desert. Maybe there's some big philosophical thing going on there. But I digress. It was a ramshackle old hut with a cactus and sun neon sign blazing overhead. Considering the kind of income disparity that ran rampant on Bekenstein, the façade was either a deliberate attempt to look run-down or an inevitable consequence of a bar heavily in debt.

I stepped inside and looked around. The first thing I noticed —aside from the Christmas tree with electric blue 'pine' needles—was that the entire clientele was male. Second thing was that there was an unusual homogeneity in dress. That's not uncommon: poorer circles tend to lean towards leather or faux-leather, coveralls and short-sleeved shirts. More well-to-do circles see more one-piece jumpsuits of synthetic fabrics. This circle…

…had a lot of tight leather pants and even tighter tops.

"Hey, honey!"

A growing suspicion gnawed away at my gut. Activating my omni-tool, I double-checked the Desert Sun's info feed. It was only then that I noticed the last sentence. Seemed this place catered towards men who were interested in, well, men.

"You're new in town, right? 'Cause I know I'd remember someone like you!"

This was an unexpected wrinkle, if only because I hadn't gathered sufficient intel, but I could work with this. It is the twenty-second century, after all. "I'm interested in anyone who might be taking a trip," I tried.

"Ooh, exotic getaway, huh? Got room in your cabin for two?"

But this might require some negotiation skills that never came up during any of my training.

"Yoohoo! Do you like sushi? I know this great place where you can eat sushi off of underwear models. Trust me; the sushi is as delicious as the hunks!"

Definitely uncharted territory.

Somehow, I managed to get out of there with my clothes on and my dignity only slightly spoiled. Plus I got the contact information for several dozen men—which is several dozen more than I usually get from the opposite sex. The universe really does enjoy laughing at my expense.

Almost two hours had passed since I'd begun my search and so far I'd come up empty. If I was a cop or private investigator, I'd keep making the rounds, doggedly checking out each and every bar and pub and restaurant.

Unfortunately, I wasn't a cop or a PI. I was a N7 spec-ops soldier who'd been recalled for a solo op, which was part of a larger and very intricately coordinated mission. I didn't have time to go bar hopping.

Time to give Plan B a try. With a little help from Plan A.


My third stop, fourth if you count the one with the snobby doorman, was the Triple Star. Or the Jacobstown one, anyway—it was part of a chain of restaurants/pubs that catered to Alliance military, civvie freighters and pretty much anyone who had anything to do with a starship. At least, that's what the description said—I double-checked this time.

Sure enough, there were lots of men and women in Alliance uniforms, pilot uniforms, and engineer coveralls... the kind of place that starship and freighter crews might frequent after a long haul. So I went in and started making the rounds. Walking around the inevitable Christmas tree or jolly snowman, going to a lot of random people and giving them the story I'd just made up. "Excuse me," I began.

"Yes?" the blonde with the ponytail said.

"Can you help me? I've got a problem."

"What sort of problem?" the Asian guy with the tech visor asked.

"Well, it's my nav systems. They're totally messed up."

The black guy with the bushy hair frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Damn thing won't sync with the port computers. Flight routes, docking procedures, departure times… I have to do everything manually with someone on the other end of the comm feeding me instructions."

"That sucks," the salarian winced, rubbing his omni-tool as if his baby was the one that was affected.

"Tell me about it," I groaned. "Captain's been riding my ass about it for weeks. Says if I don't get it fixed, this'll be my last port of call."

The brunette interrupted my story with a belch. "Whazyerpoint?" she slurred. I think.

"Do you know anybody who's encountered this sort of thing before? Anyone who might be able to help me fix it?"

I sang this song several times. Most of the time I got an indifferent shrug or two. Sometimes, I got a lead. Of those leads, only three or four actually panned out. I had to sit there patiently, listening to some tech guy try to figure out what the problem might be and how to fix it. It was worth it, though. Actually got something other than some vapid celebutante's social problems or some guy's digits. Specifically, I gleaned a few tips on how to crack the local port's security and access the computer systems. More importantly, my omni-tool was silently, but constantly, poking through the contents of their omni-tools for those little algorithms and protocols that help cut through annoying government encryptions. The ones that no law-abiding citizen would have, but most people have anyway, just in case they're confronted with an outrageous docking fee or a disgusting amount of red tape. Part of me almost felt guilty for doing so.

Thankfully, the rest of me managed to outvote that particular character defect.

After four or five hours—which were far more fruitful than the time I'd wasted earlier—I had what I was looking for. Now I needed somewhere quiet to do some work. Around here, that meant a hotel or inn. Which I couldn't afford. Not at Bekenstein rates. It was times like this that made me regret my decision to stay away from Intelligence. Spooks get access to all sorts of things like cutting-edge toys and operational slush funds. Of course, there were other aspects that weren't quite as glamorous. For example, they tend to make deals with a lot of bad people. That was my way of saying it. I couldn't begin to pronounce what Ziva called them, but I gathered it was probably some umbrella catch-all phrase for dictators, despots, terrorists, criminals and ne'er do wells. At least in spec ops, you have a chance to do something with those people at the business end of a gun.

Civvies might consider that as a bit brutish and final. Thankfully, there were no civvies in my head. Just the voices.

Anyway, given my financial situation, I had to find somewhere cheaper. Like the motel whose name I couldn't make out, since the sign had been shot down.

"Five hundred credits per night," the krogan growled.

"I only need a place to crash for a couple hours," I told him.

"One hundred credits per hour or five hundred credits per night," the krogan growled.

I started to reach for my omni-tool.

"Up front," the krogan growled. "Credit chits only. No digital transactions."

Oh this was gonna hurt.


One empty wallet later, I found myself in a cramped, smelly room. The walls were stained, there were insects crawling on the ceiling and—judging by the crusty layer—I'm pretty sure the last tenants had a lot of sex. Or they puked their guts out.

Either way, it was private and it had extranet access. Time to do some hacking. Which I started after washing my hands—why oh why did I think it was a good idea to touch the bed sheets?

The four or five hours I spent shopping for free advice paid off, because it only took four or five minutes to hack the starport computers. Okay, maybe six. Seven max. The point is, I got in and I didn't trip any security protocols. It was actually kinda fun. Bekenstein had this new encryption system. Visually, it looked like that old twentieth-century vid-game—what was it called? Toadstool? Kermit? Frogster? Whatever. Time to start.

Jacobstown saw a lot of incoming and outgoing traffic. Luckily, there were a few things that could narrow things down. Cruise ships, military vessels and anything with a lot of crew were out. They might have cargo bays, but they also had far too many people who might ask awkward questions. And it wouldn't be profitable to buy them all off. Shuttles and the smaller luxury yachts were out as well, as they wouldn't have the cargo capacity to store illicit proceeds.

Anything that didn't have a large enough eezo drive core for FTL travel could safely be eliminated. Those vessels would have a lower maximum speed and could only maintain those speeds for shorter periods of time. Even worse, they had a greater chance of discharging built-up static electricity—which normally built up in eezo drives during FTL—into the hull, which would fry most things and melt everything else. I suppose the crew could compensate by discharging the drive charge into the magnetospheres of random planets, but that would take too long.

I also looked for any purchases that stood out. Unusually large quantities of fuel, especially when compared to previous trends. Certain models of power converters or plasma conduits, the kind that would only be bought for a ship making a long journey. That sort of thing.

After entering all those parameters, I managed to winnow the list down to fourteen possibilities. Better than I'd expected, but still too many possibilities. The chances of getting caught while searching all fourteen ships was too high. Especially when most of them were scheduled to depart within the next six hours. Thankfully, I wasn't finished following the credits.

It was time to focus on the financial histories of the captains of those ships. I began by looking to see who had money troubles. That knocked two off the list. The next question was how long they were in financial difficulties. Five of them had been doing pretty well until the last few weeks, so they probably weren't desperate enough to accept shady deals from shifty-eyed characters. The big question was which captains, out of the remaining seven, had suddenly received deposits in their accounts. Large ones that couldn't be easily explained.

I was left with two choices: the Freeman's Cascade and the Kerrigan's Blade. A few more keystrokes dug up their docking berths.

Two ships. Five hours remaining.

That was a bit more reasonable. Now all I had to do was figure out how to get inside the port—at night—and break into the two ships without alerting security.


It didn't take long to come up with a plan. Unfortunately, the truth of how and when I came up with said plan would have to stay out of the official AAR. For some reason, my superiors don't like hearing that their operatives got flashes of inspiration while taking a leak.

After doing one last bit of hacking, I made a hasty exit from the cesspit of a motel. My next task was to find Salarian Claus. He was exactly where I'd last seen him. Not surprising: I had the feeling he was the kind of guy who'd just stand there until someone wanted to talk to him.

"Ah, hello there!" he greeted me. "Did you—"

"No, I didn't get any of your toys," I interrupted. "Don't really care what's going on inside that club. Not anymore. I am interested in something else, however."

"Oh?"

"I'd like to get from point A to point B without anyone noticing. And I don't mind if things get cramped along the way."

"Ah," Salarian Claus nodded. "How cramped are we talking about?"

"Let's just say that maintenance tunnels aren't built to luxury standards."

Salarian Claus shook his head sadly. "Unfortunately for you, Bekenstein's officials already thought of that. All the access points to the maintenance tunnels are locked down. They aren't stupid, you know."

"No, I suppose not," I said. "But I imagine they are greedy. One of them must have been willing to accept a... donation in exchange for a couple codes."

"More than one," Salarian Claus laughed.

"Would you know someone who'd be interested in a similar deal?" I suggested.

Salarian Claus looked at me slyly. "Perhaps. But it'll cost you."

"I'm sure we can agree on a fair price," I grinned.

"We'll see," Salarian Claus said.

The haggling didn't take long. I did make a token effort, lest Salarian Claus get suspicious. But I could afford to pay whatever he wanted. That last bit of hacking I did? It dug up the name of the doorman of the Platinum, not to mention his personal accounts. Apparently being a snob paid well. I'm sure he wouldn't miss, say, ten thousand credits. I'm sure I could have negotiated a lower price if I told Salarian Claus whichaccess points I wanted. But I wasn't that stupid. Besides, the doorman was really rude.

I went back to the Triple Star, making sure that no one was tailing me. Once I was sure, I casually walked over to the closest tunnel entrance. As I entered the access code Salarian Claus gave me, I kept my fingers crossed and hoped that I wouldn't have to hack the grate—very suspicious if someone caught me—or use up the last of my omni-gel to override the lock. Fortunately, the codes worked.

Unfortunately, the maintenance tunnel was just as cramped as I'd feared. Taking a deep breath, I checked my omni-tool and headed off.

A minute later, I squirmed and wriggled and turned around, having realized that I was heading in the wrong direction.

Several wrong turns later, I emerged from another sewer grate. It was located right underneath the Freeman's Cascade. Good thing it hadn't taken off—my hardsuit could take quite a pounding, but I don't think it was spec'd to withstand engine exhaust at close range. Now if I was really lucky...

...yes! The cargo bay doors were open and the ramp was lowered! Anything to load up the Freeman's Cascade a little bit faster. If I could sneak inside, I could check out the containers and crates. All I had to do was get past the two guys on guard duty at the bottom of the ramp. I crept a little bit closer.

"...this is a load of crap," one of them was saying.

"Don't tell the captain that," the other one shrugged. "He'll make you flush out the coolant lines again."

"We don't need to guard the ship ourselves when Port Security would do it for free," the first guy argued. "And we don't need to load up in the middle of the night and leave before sunrise. No one's gonna swipe a bunch of toys. He's only making us do it because the crew of the Kerrigan's Blade and the Sara's Angel are doin' it."

Oh ho.

The second guy looked around furtively. "Yeah, well, I know why the crew of the Sara's Angel's so damn antsy. Word is that they swiped a crate of grenades from the Alliance and were trying to sell it here."

"Really?"

"Really. Problem is, they got busted. Port Security confiscated the grenades, but they bribed the inspectors to let them off the hook. So now they gotta get offworld before anyone else finds out."

"Fine. That explains Sara's Angel. What about the Kerrigan's Blade? Didn't you know her engineer from way back when?"

"Yeah. Got in touch after we landed. Had a drink with him and everything."

"And?"

"And they're just moving food. Pre-packaged rations, protein bars, that sort of thing."

"That's it?" the first guy sputtered.

"Maybe a couple crates of nutritional drinks," the second guy added.

Bingo.

"Doesn't make sense."

"I know. You ask me, there's something more going on."

"Why didn't you ask?"

"'Cause a buddy of his came over. Real big guy. Built like a brick. Stared at me like he didn't like all my questions and wanted to rip my arms off. So I left."

"Chicken."

"Shut up."

"Make me," the first guy challenged with a shove.

The second guy shoved back. A few seconds later, they were bickering and shoving and getting in each other's faces. Far too busy to notice me hopping over a crate and sneaking onboard their ship. That was a very informative conversation, but it was entirely possible that it was made for my benefit. The quickest way to verify their story was to open up some of their crates and look at their shipment.

My double-check didn't take very long, since none of the crates were locked. Sure enough, the Freeman's Cascade was carrying a shipment of toys. Captain Cosmic action figures, to be precise. Which meant that I had a pretty solid lead on the latest ship to supply the pirates of the Hong system. Not to mention a way to get onboard. After one little detour, that is.

I snuck back out and past the two would-be guards—who were now rolling around on the pavement. Hiding behind a cargo container, I pulled up a map of the port on my omni-tool. If a crate of grenades really had been confiscated, it would be... here! Secure holding facility in Customs. All I had to do was get there.

Easier said than done, I soon discovered. There were a fair number of guards out on patrol. Not a lot, and their leisurely pace suggested they weren't on any kind of heightened alert, but I didn't want any of them spotting me. That would lead to a lot of awkward questions, a lot of sensitive answers and the whole operation would be blown—oh geez!

Coming to a halt, I took a step back and ducked behind a cargo container just before one of the guards could spot me. If I had time to map out their patrol routes, or if the Alliance had given me some intel on said routes, I could have found a gap to slip through. But I didn't have time or intel. Which meant I'd have to make my own gap.

Pulling up my HUD, I began a series of passive sensor sweeps to track all the bio-signs in the immediate vicinity. I waited until the next guard walked by, double-checked my HUD to make sure no one else was nearby, and pounced. Got the guy in a chokehold before he knew what hit him. Once he lost consciousness, I dragged him between a pair of fuel tanks. Hopefully no one would spot him—or note his absence—for a while.

I made it to Customs without having to knock out any more guards on the way. Unfortunately, there were three guards—armed with guns and definitely more alert than the pair I met at the Freeman's Cascade—at the front door. How about the side door, I wondered?

Two guards—one taking a leak, the other taking a nap. Unbelievable. Still, I wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. I crept up behind the former, waited until he'd finished his business, then whacked him on the back of the head. He dropped like a rock. Sparing a quick look at the other guard to make sure he was out of it—the loud snores kinda confirmed it—I focused on the lock. Pretty good encryption, I discovered, but nothing I couldn't handle. Thirty seconds later, I was in.

I wasn't stupid enough to go to all this trouble, only to blow it by turning on the lights. So I used the flashlight function on my omni-tool, dialing it back just enough so I could see where I was going, and started to look around. Lots of confiscated weapons. I swiped some of the better ones, taking care not to pack too much, and converted the rest to omni-gel. Lots of credit chits too, which I happily helped myself to. Red sand and various drugs, which I passed on. And...

...aha! Grenades. Forty Mark XII's, modified with a high-explosive yield for maximum spread and damage. I grabbed five of them, just in case.

I searched around the rest of the room, hoping for one more miracle. Then the adjacent rooms. Then the rooms on the other side of the hall. Got a few more credits, found out where the washroom was, located a couple offices, stumbled across the mess hall... but I couldn't find a remote detonator. Too much to hope for, I guess. That meant I'd have to improvise—wait. What was that?

Another guard, walking down the hall. Guess they had a man inside Customs as well. I waited until he passed by, snuck up and jumped in. Once he was unconscious, I dragged him back to the side door and dumped him outside by his buddies. Then I went back inside, grabbed the crate of grenades and headed for the mess hall.

Once I arrived, I made a bee-line for the microwaves, weaving my way around all the tables. I double-checked the layout of Customs on my omni-tool. Having decided that the mess hall was far enough from both entrances, I stuffed a couple grenades in each microwave, stacked the rest on top, set the timer for an hour and ran like hell!

I burst out of Customs through the side door, slowing down before I tripped over the two guards who I had knocked out. Not to mention the third guard, who was still snoring like a sailor. Now all I had to do was take a right and head—

A thunderous explosion detonated behind me. Whirling around, I saw a roar of flame and a huge plume of smoke rise up into the air. As distractions go, I'd say that worked out pretty well.

Crouching down, I hid behind yet another cargo container and watched as guards ran towards the Customs building. Not to mention several crew members from the various ships docked in port. In all the confusion, no one noticed one lone man running in the opposite direction. It was a piece of cake to make it to the Kerrigan's Blade. Now how could I get onboard? True, the guards stationed outside were a little distracted, but they were still—hold on.

A cargo mech was stomping up the ramp, four large crates in its arms. It disappeared into the ship for a minute or two, only to emerge empty-handed. As I watched, it stomped down the ramp, over to a stack of crates, picked up another four and started the whole cycle again. I'd just found my ticket in.

Another explosion ripped through the air—I guess a couple grenades didn't blow up the first time. Both guards whipped their heads around and stared at the Customs building. Taking advantage of their distraction, I ran over—as fast as possible considering I was hunched over—opened one of the crates and hid inside.

I felt the crate jostle a bit as the mech picked it up. Then there was a certain amount of drifting, from my perspective, which simply meant that the mini-eezo core was working and the mech was gliding along the tarmac and up the ship's ramp instead of digging a deep groove. Then there was the thud that rattled my bones.

Turning on the HUD, I did a quick scan. No one was in the area, aside from the retreating mech. After counting to thirty, I dared to open the crate and look around. Still nobody. I decided to get out of there before anyone came along—or before the mech dropped another crate on my hiding spot and trapped me with several crumpled containers of squished pasta. I needed to find a new hiding spot for my free trip to Treagir.


After going to all that trouble to get into the crate and getting out of it, it was kinda ironic that I wound up hiding in a crate again. It was a huge crate, better suited to store lots of freight—or smuggle people in or out of a particular station or planet. For a brief moment, I wondered how many cargo mechs were needed to lift that thing. Then I got back to work.

To my delight, my chosen crate wasn't packed to the rim. In fact, it was only half-full. All I needed was a bit of time to move all the packs of protein bars out and stuff them into other crates. The second bit of luck was that I actually had time to do all that moving, since my little stunt with the grenades had caught everyone's attention.

The third piece of luck was its location. My new home was the top crate in a stack of crates. That would give me the high ground against any attackers. Even better, most people don't look up. So while they might bustle around and carefully search the bottom of the cargo bay, they probably wouldn't exercise similar levels of caution at the top.

Most importantly, the security cams were offline. I wasn't sure why, since a quick check of one of them didn't turn up anything that was wrong. Maybe all the vid-cams throughout the ship were down. Or maybe someone deliberately turned off the ones in the cargo bay to avoid recording anything that could be used against the crew later on. Instinctively, I looked around. I also maxed out the gain on my audio sensors and bio-sensors. Having confirmed that no one was in the neighbourhood, I did a quick diagnostic on the vid-cams. Sure enough, there was nothing wrong with them, so it wasn't an operational thing. Someone really had gone to all the trouble of shutting them off, which meant my intrusion had gone undetected.

I checked my HUD again and did a double-take when my sensor feeds picked up a couple bio-signs. Looked like at least two people were heading my way. As I watched, a third bio-sign appeared. Given that my sensors had a fairly limited range, it was a safe bet that those three people were really, really close to the ship. As I tensed up, I heard what sounded like a footstep on the ship's ramp.

Not waiting for any more footsteps, I quickly and carefully—didn't want to waste all my hard work by raising a racket just because I tripped over a hydrospanner or something—made my way back to the stack of crates and started climbing up to my new home away from home. It only took thirty seconds or so to reach the crate. As I slowly closed the door, I heard footsteps on the ramp, which changed in tone as the three people actually entered the cargo bay.

I belatedly realized that I'd been holding my breath. As I exhaled, I thought I felt a faint vibration running through the bottom of the crate. Crouching down, I placed a palm on the 'floor' and boosted the feeds from the sensors in my palm. Sure enough, there were definite vibrations. Either there was one heck of a party starting in the cargo bay or the Kerrigan's Blade was warming up her engines. Assuming it was the latter, we were about to take off. Guess the crew didn't want to stick around the port and see what would blow up next.

Fine with me, I decided. Now that I'd found the ship and settled in, I was kinda eager to get this show on the road. With any luck, I'd be blowing up a few more things—or pirates—in a short while.

Hopefully, I'd be forgiven for not gift-wrapping any grenades, improvised explosives or bullets.