PART II: SCIPIO
"Here it is," Chakwas said, strolling down the docking arm. "The MSV En Passant."
"Boxes," pilots called Kowloon-class freighters, and the corners and edges of this ship were especially pointy to Joker's eyes. The hull had no scoring or patchy plating, and the thrusters were in decent condition. But this box had definitely seen its fair share of voyages. It just blends into the rest of the spaceport. Guess that's a good thing right now. Joker followed Chakwas to the airlock.
"Her owner's a chess buff?" he asked as decontamination ran.
"We play on occasion. I always beat him."
"Chess, small arms, smuggling, medicine. Is there anything you aren't a pro at?"
"Piloting."
"Well, the rest of us need jobs."
The vain hope that the En Passant was more than it seemed died when the inner door parted. The engine core fit "standard" to a T, and the cargo bay was a vast expanse of empty air between walls, ceiling, and deck. A lonely crate sat in a far corner, like a kid on a time-out.
"So this guy owes you so much," Joker said, "you got him to hand over his ship?"
"It's a story we keep between the two of us. Much like your Vanilla Incident."
Grunt passed the two of them from behind, carrying two long supply containers. Garrus soon followed, and pointed to a spot on the deck for them.
"Yikes. That embarrassing?" Joker asked.
"I'll leave that to your imagination."
Like my imagination isn't overactive.
Grunt made his way off the ship as Garrus opened up one of the crates. He set the metal cases inside it, and the guns inside them, atop the other.
Past the hold was the passenger module, with two quarters on both sides and a handful of human-sized bunk beds in each. Good thing Grunt and Garrus don't need to be pampered. Then Joker and Chakwas entered the cockpit. Joker took the pilot's seat and grimaced at the cushions—fake leather. The instruments weren't much better, meant for a civilian's ease of use rather than a professional's optimization.
Joker opened the interface settings. "How much am I allowed to change things up?"
"As much as you'd like, as long as it's back to normal when we're done."
When we're done. He got to work. A savvy pilot could get the most maneuverability and speed out of a ship designed with those specs last in mind. The interface, however, lagged a split-second too long behind input. Poor maintenance.
"Joker. Are you all right?" Chakwas asked.
I really, really want to know what's going on. What was Shepard doing at that moment? When he sent the transmission that switched EDI off and locked their ship down, what was he thinking?
He shrugged. "I'm not gonna miss Goldman's snoring. Though who knows what Grunt sounds like when he's asleep."
"That isn't an answer."
"Okay fine. I might be scared for my life. There aren't as many bodies between me and Jack and Miranda if the two of them decide to kill each other. Biotics and me? Not a good mix."
Chakwas sighed, shaking her head. "You're doing it again. Like after Shepard's funeral. One joke after another."
That time, he… Joker shook that thought off. Bad habits died hard. "What, should I sit here whining?"
"It helps to talk things out. Maybe not now, and not with me. Miranda asked me to stay aboard the Normandy to keep the crew calm. But please consider it, Jeff."
Her footfalls made light taps as she left. Joker continued with his tunings. His button presses on the windows and keystrokes on the controls fell into a steady rhythm of clicks and beeps, but in minutes, they only added to the white noise in the En Passant's cockpit.
That time, he was more observant. He figured something was up, and he sat Shepard down to talk about it.
He finished the adjustments almost an hour later, as Miranda called over comms. "Is everything ready?"
"Yeah," he said. "Starting up pre-flight prep, then I'll set course for Terra Nova."
The last time Miranda walked on these streets, she was Ellen Leitner, a grad student at the University of Terra Nova. She wore her hair in a loose ponytail, dyed a rich blonde that drew the eye. "You're all business," she remembered one of her friends saying. "Come on out, get some sunshine." Henry Lawson's daughter might have refused, but Ellen accepted the invitation. So she joined a social circle, went to parties, spent afternoons in the Arts District of Scott.
In places like this, she thought, coming to a large gate. Made of thin strips of black-green metal curled into fanciful shapes, it seemed like something out of a fairy tale. "Yin Garden," read the letters attached to the top.
During her university days, this place was open park space surrounding an ampitheater in the ancient Greek style. She sat with her friends on the stone benches, drinking coffee and watching a musical act. These days, abstract statues stabbed out of the ground like bone-white knives. The grass had receded, now bordered with exotic plants and the gold plaques identifying them. And as the garden expanded to consume four blocks, its center had shifted away from the theater to a gleaming white palace. Miranda took the cobblestone path towards it, passing by a busy deli and its cheery customers.
"Hidden defenses everywhere," Kasumi said over radio.
Of course there were. A man running a private army had to secure his own headquarters. More interesting was the whimsical touches that permeated every inch of Yin Garden. So this is your public persona. With a hint of a frown Miranda recalled the magnanimous Henry Lawson of interviews and magazine covers.
A two-minute walk brought her to a grand colonnade. Up close, the Yin Estate looked even more ridiculous, as if some over-imaginative child had sculpted the sun-catching metal of its walls and roof. Two white-armored guards stood by the massive double doors.
"I'm going in," Miranda said.
As she approached, one of the guards held up a hand. "Sorry, ma'am, the estate isn't open to visitors during the day. You're free to enjoy the gardens, however, and Tranquility is one of the highest-rated lunch spots in Scott." It was a very well-practiced sales pitch.
"I'm here to speak with Mister Yin. He contacted me for a meeting."
"Name?"
"Miranda Lawson."
The talking guard checked a list on his omni-tool. "Lawson, Lawson… right, there you are. Apologies for the delay, we'll take you to Mister Yin. He's expecting you."
Is he? Miranda hid any reaction.
Inside, Yin Securities guards escorted her over colorful rugs depicting fantastical scenes. Paintings, murals, and tapestries covered pale marble walls. As Miranda appreciated them from her peripheral view, an old lesson came to her: "Display wealth in moderation. Make sure they know what you're worth, but if you overdo it you'll look desperate. Never look desperate." But Yin transformed a humble park into a fairytale land with a fairytale palace.
Ostentatious elegance to conceal the guns? Her guards were soldiers in a private army. They led her to an elevator of mirrors, then through an even more lavish hallway on the fourth floor, then at last to a dark wooden door boasting elaborate carvings that opened as she stepped up to it.
A chandelier of curly bronze wire brushed the room with gentle light. Below it, haptic windows, datapads, and more left little desk to work with, but the small man in the throne-like chair worked through his mess with deft hands.
"Sir," one of her escorts said, "Miss Lawson."
The man looked up at the arrivals, adjusting the gold-trimmed sleeves of his black suit. His smooth, pale face was all angles, his short black hair slicked back. "Ah. Welcome." With a brief nod he sent off the the guards, then turned a curt smile to Miranda. "Have a seat. Samuel Yin, founder and owner of Yin Security Services."
"It's a pleasure to meet you," Miranda said. The chair she took had a tall back topped with a bronze lion head. "You likely know what my business here is."
Yin's smile thinned with amusement. His slate gray eyes narrowed. "The message I sent to your ship, yes. 'Shepard is lying to you. Find him quickly.'"
He admits it in the first minute of conversation. Not what she expected, but there had to be a motive behind such blunt honesty. "You sent it anonymously to my helmsman, but I was told you were expecting me."
Yin shrugged. "The pilot's address was the first I came across. I knew by reputation your ship's crew would be able to trace the message to me, but I'm surprised you arrived so soon. I apologize for the subterfuge. A necessary precaution, given what we're dealing with."
"You sound like you know about this 'what.'"
"Shepard's puppeteers are an elusive bunch, but indeed I do."
"Puppeteers?"
"I imagine he invented some reason to disappear? It's not of his own free choosing. I have good information that these people are dangling a secret of his over his head. What exactly that secret is, I can't say."
Because you don't know, or because you don't want to? Every word choice mattered. "So he's being blackmailed. By who?"
"A group of extremists. Violent extremists, with a pro-human agenda."
Cerberus came first to mind, but that struck an amusing chord. She considered herself neither violent nor extreme. Shepard, however, would've died again before returning to them, and Miranda built Cerberus's files on him. The closest thing to blackmail material was Shepard's history with gangs. The Tenth Street Red who threatened to use it received a slug to the head for his trouble, but it was still public record. It has to be something else. Something I don't know. Amusement turned into irritation at that thought.
"You don't have a name for them?" she asked.
"None, other than aliases."
"And how do you know about them?"
Yin looked away. "They were my clients once, calling themselves the 'Cornelius Research Group.' They claimed they wanted independence from the corporations on Noveria, so I helped them with lab security. Then my men's reports made me suspicious, and I investigated them. What I found was far worse. So I chose not to renew the contract when it expired."
"Yet you seem to keep tabs on what they're doing."
"I watch them, from a safe distance."
"But closely enough to know they've 'recruited' Commander Shepard." And you don't have a name for them?
An expression resembling offense crossed Yin's face. "Forgive me, Miss Lawson. I understand your suspicion, but I am sincerely trying to help you."
"Why are you trying to help us?"
"Because these people are a red mark on my company's reputation. I want the stain cleaned. And… I believe what they're doing is wrong, so they should be stopped. Acquiring a person as important as Shepard means they have plans. Freeing him from their grasp likely means that their plans fail. You want your commander back."
"The old saying applies, then?"
"Our goals align. Let me help you."
"How?"
"Information and an opportunity. Think of it as a chance to verify what I'm telling you."
We'll be verifying everything soon enough, she thought. Though she intended on learning something at this meeting, she was playing the distraction. "Friend" was too strong a word to describe the enemy of an enemy.
As the soldiers ushered Miranda into the elevator on the first floor, the hidden plus-one split off from the entourage and got to work. Kasumi stood at the center of a T-intersection. To her right were restroom signs and a restaurant called "The Finale," and to her left was a cordoned-off flight of stairs and a nightclub called "The Ever After." Her visor had more interesting things to display.
Wires ran behind the tapestries and the marble, powering hidden cameras (normal), alarms (normal), listening devices (a little creepy), and turrets (definitely not normal). Crevasses in the ceiling housed thick partition doors. And this is supposed to be the visitor area.
The cameras and listeners fed into somewhere. EDI could've produced a floor plan of the Yin Estate, but without her, getting a hold of one was part of Kasumi's task.
She ducked beneath the cord and took the stairs up. A solid metal door blocked her way into the second floor. Hacking it was simple enough, but a locked door opening on its own would've drawn attention. Bewildered confusion sometimes led to dangerous alert. So Kasumi waited.
Two minutes later, a YSS soldier approached. Kasumi pressed her back against the wall as he passed her to input the code and scan his retina. The door opened. She tailed him an inch behind and got through.
Polished white and gray metal replaced marble on the walls, ceiling, and floor. The only decoration was the YSS logo, a stylized silver shield emblazoned with a gold letter "Y." Where the first floor chandeliers' light held a tint of yellow, the fluorescents on the second had none. Even the air was a bit colder. She'd crossed into a different world, sleek and orderly and very paramilitary. With lots of money behind it.
The soldier she followed went one way down the corridor, and she took the other. Again her visor picked up the cameras and listening devices, the partition doors and automated turrets. Two unarmored soldiers exiting a room gave her a glimpse of a huge mess hall. Another similar situation hinted at an equally large barracks.
A soldier unknowingly escorted her to the third floor, identical in aesthetics to the last. "Security Room," said a sign pointing left. She followed it, and a second soldier unknowingly let her in.
The guard already inside had his face glued to the spread of camera feeds. There were views of the three gates to Yin Garden, the deli and the theater, and all the entrances to the estate itself. In one corner, Miranda and a man who was probably Yin himself chatted on two ridiculous-looking chairs.
"So, Khalili," her doorman said, "who's Y-Monarch's guest this time?"
"Who?" Khalili, standing up, glanced at the office feed. "Some businesswoman, probably. Negotiating a contract for some place in the middle of nowhere."
"You always say that."
"Because I'm usually right."
While the two did smalltalk, Kasumi had her omni-tool open. Silent keystrokes flicked a spy program into the surveillance network, and the security station made no complaints. Then Khalili traded places with the doorman. Kasumi tailed the former on his way out.
Her next destination, on the other side of the estate, had a door three times wider than any other. As she approached from up the hallway, her visor painted an orange square on the floor in front of it.
A pressure plate. Cute.
Tactical cloaks masked all light reflecting off their wearers, perfect for getting past eyes organic and synthetic. Wherever there was gravity, however, a cloak couldn't hide its wearer's weight. But only a real novice would trigger one. The electricity powering it was easy enough to spot.
Why would Yin be worried about stealthed intruders? Cloaks were rare and expensive. Well, the fake Tri-Ward guard had one.
Leaping over the plate into the room needed too many things to go right for her. So Kasumi opened her omni-tool, ran a calculation, and delved into the plate's internals. She had her adjustment ready to go as she crept towards the edge of the plate. Her timing had to be precise. Doubly so if a VI was monitoring the plate.
The door opened. A soldier emerged. At that moment, she hit a haptic key and stepped onto the plate. Its internal default went to a negative, and the reading amounted to only the soldier's weight. Kasumi walked on in.
Inside were several more YSS guys, some armored, some just in uniform. Consoles lined the long walls. A command platform in the center overlooked a wiry hologram of Scott. Kasumi took faint steps along the spotless metal floor. Her cloak and suit would take care of everything, but this was the real heart of Yin Security Services's operations.
She reached the closest unoccupied station. With a few keystrokes on her omni-tool, two programs embedded themselves into YSS's systems.
"Lieutenant Alvarez reports some concerns from Bekenstein," a YSS guy said. "There's evidence that the mayor of Milgrom is embezzling to pay our contract."
"There an official investigation?"
"Yes, sir."
"Have Alvarez cooperate with it, then. I'll tell Legal that we might have to cancel the contract and repay the city."
The installations finished. Already a few files began trickling into her omni-tool. And that's that.
She spent the next half-hour overlooking the garden theater—from the top of the wall behind the stage, with her feet dangling some ten meters from the ground. Some local singer strummed an old-looking guitar while belting out a song she'd never heard. I wonder how much that guitar could sell for.
Then her earpiece clicked. "Have you finished?" Miranda asked.
"Since a while ago. Right now we have partial access to the estate's surveillance, databases, and transmissions. Give it a few hours and we'll have total access. How'd Y-Monarch turn out? That's what the grunts call him."
"I'll explain everything on the ship. But it seems our next destination is Omega."
"We're going to trust him?"
"Of course not. He didn't tell me everything, and he has an agenda. But he is our only lead. If he's using us, then we'll use him, too."