Nos Astra, one month later
Miranda had told me my suite in the Regia was going to be nice. I'd pictured a smart little business hotel with a couple of connected rooms with a bathroom and maybe a minibar. But this was... obscene. I looked around, not quite believing what I was seeing. The walls were he gleaming white. Full-length windows let in the mid-morning sun while blocking out the noise of the plaza below. Tufted golden and crimson carpets bearing all sorts of strange geometric figures covered the floor of the reception area. Low couches and chairs were arranged in a semicircle around a small, mirrored table. A marble and gold—real marble and gold—staircase led up to an as-yet-unseen upper level.
"What kind of hotel suite has levels?" I muttered.
"The kind paid for by groups with more money than sense," my aunt said. "Or the kind with a staff that doesn't gossip."
There was a sharp knock at the door. Miranda, of course. She'd exchanged the navy blazer for an equally flattering gray and white jacket that made for a fascinating contrast with her dark hair. She carried a black leather case in one hand. Black, white, and grey, set off by those remarkable blue-gray eyes that seemed all the more remarkable for the contrast. Very nearly chiaroscuro. I studied her for a moment, imagining playing with light and shadow to bring forth the contrasts and give her weight and depth.
She held my gaze, challenge in her eyes. Look at me, she seemed to say. I've been looked at all my life. I know that I terrify you. Do you think you can scare me, painter? So I looked, noted her smooth, unblemished skin and the way the technical perfection of every feature combined to form an eerie whole. To be honest, I'd spent a lot of time contemplating her looks in the past few weeks. She seemed to compel me to render her on paper and canvas. I'd already filled half of a sketchbook with drawings of her. The other half had been filled with renderings of my imaginings of Claire Eldfell. It beat thinking about everything that I'd agreed to.
The tension built and built between us. I couldn't let her make me flinch, not when she would be teaching me. Her lips curved upward and she nodded, as if I'd passed some test. My aunt cleared her throat, and the rest of the tension evaporated like steam.
"I think this suite is supposed to come with an office," Aunt Gwen said hurriedly. "I need to catch up on my paperwork."
Miranda's slight smile vanished. "That's fine. I'd like to speak to Mr. Shepard in private."
"Will you be all right, Matt?" My aunt had been really reluctant to leave me alone after the incident in her living room. Not enough to cut back on her hours or really get insistent about the shrink, but enough that I noticed. She was watching and waiting for me to explode again, but I wouldn't let myself.
I opened my mouth to tell her that, but it was Miranda who answered. "He'll be as safe with me as he is with you, doctor." Again the subtle stress on her title laced with an undercurrent of malice. I still couldn't figure out what the hell was behind it, but Aunt Gwen flushed as she made her way through a side door.
I watched her go. "You really don't like my aunt, do you?"
Her face turned to stone. "No, I don't." I thought that I had seen her cold on the day we met, but this was a deeper, more solid emotion: the difference between "I'm going to intimidate you" and "Do not mention this again if you value your life."
I did the only sensible thing. I let it drop. "You wanted to talk to me?"
Miranda brightened so quickly that I was left scrambling for breath and trying to keep up. I should have been grateful that she wasn't furious or mocking for once, but she still unnerved me. The only people who should change emotions the way some people changed socks were actors, and even then, not that fast. Her smile lacked the mocking air I'd come to expect, but I'd have almost preferred it to this false warmth. She lifted the case. "I, or I should say the foundation, has a present for you. Something to help you pass the time while you recover."
Inside was an array of about two hundred oil pastel pencils of every color imaginable. I ran my finger down the edge of one that was the color of pine needles. These were professional grade tools, not the cheap five-credits-for-a-large-box pencils that my mom had bought me when I was five, or the much better ones that I had bought from Constant's one and only art supply store. With these, I could create colors softer and more vibrant than I ever had before. They were also expensive as hell. Each pencil here would have cost two or three credits apiece, plus shipping costs.
"Thank you," I whispered as I closed the case and placed it on the table. I was profoundly grateful, but unease still clung to me like mist. Dad had never understood my fascination with art, but he had managed to pass along a few life lessons, the most important of which was that nothing was ever really free. "Why are you doing this? The pencils? The hotel room with the marble staircase? Not that I'm not grateful, but you can't be spending all this money out of the goodness of your hearts." And I hadn't forgotten what she'd done to get me here.
"Smart boy." Miranda moved to the window, and I followed her almost without realizing what I was doing. The sunlight played across her skin, and I could notice details that I hadn't during our first meeting: the translucent vein running down her throat, the subtle blush on her cheeks, the almost imperceptible shadows under her eyes, almost but not quite obscured by makeup. It was the last that held my attention because it clashed so violently with her apparent perfection. She'd had a sleepless night, the same as anyone could. The thought cheered me far more than it should have.
She seemed oblivious to my observation. "Do you realize how much we don't know about biotics? We spent years on fruitless experimentation and had to rely on the Council races to tell us it was linked to eezo. And, even now, we don't know why some children get cancer while others become biotics. The first generation couldn't do anything more impressive than levitate a chair for a few seconds. The second generation has tremendous power but terrible side effects. We tried creating an artificial biotic to control for random factors. You know how that turned out: crippling pain and an early death. But you? You're more powerful than the L2s or Claire Eldfell. And you don't have any of the side effects. That outburst the day we met would have killed most people, but you're fine. Everything I learn from studying and training you will be used to create strong, healthy biotics. If everything goes according to plan, you'll be the first of the third, successful generation."
The strangest thing happened as she spoke. Passion transformed her face. Fatigue evaporated before an all-consuming energy. What I had thought was a statue was suddenly alive, vital, and human. More than human. Energy crackled through her like lightning or a biotic surge. I saw now what those perfectly sculptured features were meant for. I had judged Miranda while she was inert. In motion, seized by a genuine passion, saying she was beautiful hardly did her justice. It would be like describing a Caravaggio as beautiful and expecting that to explain the entire painting. It didn't matter whether I believed her or not. Her belief in the cause consumed both of us in that moment. I wanted to seize the pencils and capture the moment before it faded into memory.
Fade it did. These things can't be sustained. The energy fled her, and Miranda seemed almost ephemeral with its loss. Hard, impersonal perfection once more, except that the exhaustion seemed to cling to her more fiercely. I felt exhausted just looking at her. And bereft. I wanted to bask in that energy once more.
Miranda, though, was all business. I wondered if she even noticed what had happened. "So, you see, you are incredibly important. Don't screw this up." She clapped her hand on my shoulder, but the effect was spoiled by her arm convulsing in a sudden, violent spasm.
"Are you okay?" I asked automatically.
"Fine." She flushed in a mixture of anger and embarrassment. "May I use your restroom for a moment?"
I could hardly say no to that, and Miranda marched steadily and implacably up the staircase. I threw myself onto one of the couches. Just when I thought I had her figured out, she revealed some new detail. I'd called her a glacier, but she possessed fire as well. Not just an emotionally manipulative blackmailer, but a true believer. All these conflicting facets existing in a single paradoxical whole. How could I capture that? Was I capable of it? Was anyone?
I thought, too, about what she'd said about me being the first of a new generation of biotics. Eezo had killed Mrs. Dyar's daughter. It had crippled and killed Claire Eldfell, but not before giving her what sounded like a hell a lot of biotic power. I guess that was supposed to be an improvement. Two failed prototypes discarded on the inevitable march toward progress. All leading towards... me? No pressure.
No pressure at all.
"Matt, could you put that thing away for five seconds?"
"Sorry," I muttered and closed the notebook where I'd been trying another sketch of Claire Eldfell. "Helps my nerves."
"It's just tests today." I was pretty sure that was supposed to make me feel better, but it didn't.
The waiting room was crowded with people from every species in Citadel Space. I'd never seen aliens in person before that night on Mindoir, and there weren't that many on Eden Prime. I did my best not to stare too obviously. The asari were lithe and just human enough to be exotically beautiful instead of weird. Several of them had strange, intricate markings on their face like tribal tattoos. I wondered if they were tattoos or some genetic quirk. One of them—a pale, nervous thing I noticed mostly for the lavender freckles across her face—had markings almost exactly in the shape of eyebrows. Weird.
I was trying not to look at the batarian who sat by himself in the corner, but my gaze kept darting to him without my conscious control. He looked just like the slavers. They all looked alike to me. The extranet said that the batarians who left their homes were mostly pirates, slavers, and other crooks. And one was sitting in the waiting room on the fourth floor of the Illium Medical Center. Lucky me. The muscles in my neck and back corded with tension, and my breath came in short, quick gasps. Fight or flight. Predator or prey. There were days I felt like everything in the world was divided into those binaries. Especially me. It was a relief when they finally called me back.
"Want me to come with you?" my aunt asked.
I shook my head. It felt stupid and childish to have my aunt go with me when I was almost seventeen.
The room was surprisingly ordinary. I guess I was expecting something more exotic because it was asari, but it looked just like the sort of place we might have used to give blood back in the colonies. The cramped room was dominated by a single bed and a cabinet containing what I assumed were medical supplies. Miranda had taken the lone chair while an asari tech bustled around the room. Miranda regarded me with a cool disinterest. My aunt had made it sound like the tests they were doing were routine—jab a needle in my neck, get some readings, done—but Miranda must have felt the need to observe everything. I was starting to think I was some kind of special project for her.
"Mr. Shepard, if you would please take off your shirt and lie face down on the bed?" the tech said.
I did as she asked. Miranda watched me as I did so, and I flushed under her gaze. It wasn't lust, exactly. I'd had a girlfriend on Mindoir, but Violet had never looked at me like that. Miranda looked at me the way I looked at paintings of old masters: trying to study and analyze so she could re-create. I wasn't sure if that was better or worse.
Something happened to me as I lay there, exposed. I could hear the tech moving around Miranda tapping her foot impatiently against the edge of the chair, but I couldn't see either of them. The skin along my arms prickled as my breath came faster and faster. I was terrified, and I didn't even know why. My body tensed. I wanted to leap up and make sure no one was going to attack me. Which was ridiculous. It was a hospital for God's sake. Batarian in the waiting room aside, no one was going to attack me here. Why was I acting like this?
"Are you all right?" I couldn't decide if Miranda was worried or annoyed.
"Fine," I managed through gritted teeth.
The needle went in at the nape of my neck. It hurt like hell, but that wasn't what bothering me. I was shaking. Actually shaking. Run. Get away. They'll hurt you. I had to stay calm. Miranda had goaded me into assaulting her, but I knew it would be very bad if I freaked out in front of her now.
Something beeped, and the needle came out. "I didn't know human readings got that high. You normally only see this level with commandos."
I grabbed my shirt and threw it on as fast as I could. It was damp against my skin where I'd broken out in a sweat. The sooner I was out of there, the better. "So I've been told." I made for the door.
"I'll walk you out. It's a big hospital. I wouldn't want you getting lost." Miranda smiled and grabbed my arm.
I tried to pull away, but her grip was vise-like. "That's not nece—"
"Of course it is," she said, with a sweetness that was somehow terrifying. I'd seen her cold and I'd seen her passionate. This false friendliness wasn't Miranda Lawson.
It lasted until we reached the hallway and we were more or less alone. "What was that?"
I shrugged. "Nerves."
"Don't lie to me." Her eyes were dark with anger, and she was once more the icy, terrifying creature that I had first seen. "I've seen people who were nervous and people who were afraid for their lives, and you looked a lot more like the second one. What was it?"
I didn't dare lie to her when she looked like that. "I got a little weird when I couldn't see what was going on." I gave her a weak smile, trying to pass it off as the little quirk I hoped it was.
Miranda's face softened abruptly. It wasn't pity. The expression was too thoughtful to be pity. Understanding, maybe? "Hyper-vigilance, of course," she said, more to herself than to me. "We'll attempt to account for that in the future, though I can't promise anything. Any other problems I should know about?"
I thought about the day we'd met, when the smell of cologne had forced me to go to the bathroom for a few minutes. At least I wasn't a gibbering wreck. Everything else would come, wouldn't it? "Nothing I can't handle."
"I hope you're right." She shook her head. "I'd hate to see what you would do with that power if you can't." And with that, she walked away.
Definitely no pressure.
