Chapter 11
Bashir didn't wait. He pinged his contact mid-evening, then paced an unsteady ellipse around the furniture of the living room, drink dangling from one hand. His omnitool pinged back in the small hours. Hadfield Plaza. 0715. Sleep didn't find him again.
He woke Frankie in time for them to catch the first shuttle up. She was dazed and sleepy. Bashir wasn't sure if he was lucky or not when she came to in the final leg of the journey. She'd be grizzly, at least until she was fed and watered. He had picked out some books to keep her occupied. Worthy stuff, the same astronomy and poetry forced down his throat by their mother at a similar age. And some books he knew she actually liked. There would be plenty of sitting around. And God knew he needed headspace. He needed to work out what the fuck was happening.
Bashir had hoped beyond hope that nothing would turn up. That Blasto was wrong. Frankie certainly had an overactive imagination. But he'd known something was off the second he heard the chime at his wrist. In truth, he'd known when his Mom had appeared at the door. It took a lot to piss Bashir off. However, he was an unstoppable juggernaut once his blood was up. His mind span crazy arcs, ran away in every direction. The worry was an unbearable itch he couldn't scratch. It had started to burn.
Hadfield Plaza was well out of their way. The pair got off rapid transit a couple of stops back, per the order. Bashir followed a location tag, the directions taking them through scuzzy alleyways and trash-littered service lanes starting to busy with early morning deliveries. He gripped Frankie's wrist too tight. She stumbled behind him, eyes clouded, trying to keep up with his much longer stride.
A right turn opened out onto the plaza itself, a glass-domed atrium flooded with light. Chasca's upper atmosphere reflected the warm glow of Matano. It seared his eyes, but his body and mind craved it. A quilt of a billion stars spread above their heads. It was always high noon at this end of Quilla Station, but it was not a workday, and at this time by the clock Hadfield Plaza was totally deserted: apart from one man, standing unobtrusively on the lip of a viewing platform on the far side. Bashir keyed his omni, and when he saw the answering flash from his sister's device he released a breath he didn't know he had been holding.
"Frankie, I've loaded some credits for you. I'm going over there" - he pointed - "to talk with that guy. I want you to get breakfast. Sit outside with it right here. Don't go out of my sight."
Frankie nodded. He couldn't tell whether she avoided his gaze because she was angry or because she was scared. Fuck if I know, either. Bashir gave her shoulder a squeeze.
"Ten minutes, tops. Have whatever you like. Then back to the docks and right onto the tour ship. Okay?"
She picked her way between chairs towards the cafe behind them. Turning away, Bashir groped in his jacket pocket for a cigarette, lit one as he crossed the plaza. His contact presented carefully affected nonchalance. It was fake. As was his. Tension and worry coursed through him like electric current.
Unusually, Ed Furuya wore a well cut civilian suit. Charcoal grey with cream trim. Black gloves. Everything about him was intentionally unremarkable. He was a stealth operator: small, slim, unassuming. The two men were chalk and cheese. That was what they liked about each other.
Ed's nostrils flared at the smoke. "They still smell foul, Lawson. When are you giving up?"
"Screw you. Shit like this doesn't make it any easier." Bashir exhaled away from them. "It's good to see you."
"Likewise." Ed bowed toward him slightly, before refocusing on something distant. "Is that your sister?"
"Yeah. She's growing into a prissy little madam." Bashir held smoke in his lungs. "Good kid, really. We're catching a tour boat in around an hour."
"Its a great view." Ed caught Bashir's elbow, drew them together. Spoke low." I'll skip right to the good stuff, then."
"I'm curious to see what got you so worked up you couldn't put it on the QEC."
"My career is, Lawson, that's what," Ed hissed. He was in Alliance Cryptologics. The words stung, as they were meant to. Ed shook his head. "Look. We go back a long time. So I want to make this clear. This is one time only. If I ever get caught fucking around like this, it's nighty-night for me."
Bashir flushed with guilt. He had washed out of the Alliance inside six months. He knew how much the military meant to his friend, but wrapped him up in this all the same. Thoughtless. He thought Ed would understand. He began to realise he might have asked for too much.
"I know. Ed, I owe you. You were the only person I could think of to call." He crushed the end of his cigarette underfoot, lit another by reflex.
"We'll call it even. Now, before you drive yourself insane I should be clear that I haven't found any hard proof on anything. But I've seen some interesting patterns. Reading between the lines - something big is up." The other man's eyes strafed the middle distance, keeping lookout.
"Tell me something I don't know. For fuck's sake." Ed ignored him. His omnitool pulsed to signal the arrival of a new data packet. Shit.
"Intel on the SSV Malakoff's current mission is currently knocked down tighter than a gnat's ass. Suspect it's single terminal, eyes only. But I did find a crew manifest on the Alliance database, around a month old. There's a young Corporal aboard - Kaidan Vega. Passed basic around six years after us."
"Interesting why?" Bashir asked.
"Really, Lawson? That name's nearly as infamous as yours." Ed continued when it became clear Bashir wasn't forthcoming. "His father is Admiral Vega. Served with Commander Shepard back in eighty-six."
"Right. Meaning?"
"Nothing, by itself. But with your parents, on the same ship? On a mission where the record is already sealed? Those are planet-sized coincidences. Too damn big."
"I guess so," Bashir conceded.
Ed reached up to rub the back of his neck. Whatever he'd done next, he was not comfortable with. "So - God help me - I took a look at the Admiral. Listen to this. He made a call into Quilla Station around twenty seven hours ago. Into the Institute. Specifically, to your mother." Ed was reeling him in.
"That was around 0340. After which, as we know, she made straight for the Malakoff."
Bashir pulled even harder on his cigarette, scratched his beard. "The comms in her quarters have top grade encryption -"
" - and his will too, so no way I can get a voice record, no." Ed leaned on the railing of the platform, spoke down into his chest. "But I wasn't finished yet. He made two further calls. To his ex-wife, and the Quarian Councillor, Tali'Zorah. Both served with Shepard in eighty three - and eighty-six."
Ed had given him shards of an important whole. But no matter how he turned them around in his mind, assembled and reassembled them, Bashir couldn't work out how they fit together. His biotics flared with embarrassment and frustration. He felt slow. Ed could read that much; his immediate grasp on Bashir's arm earthed him.
"Thank you. Fuck if I know what it all means right now. But I won't forget it."
Ed made to leave. "You might not have to work it all out solo, you know. Or at all. Vega's coming here. He'll dock with theDamavand at thirteen hundred. Make of that what you will. Just don't kill him."
And he melted away, as Bashir knew he would.
The din made by Grunt and Jack and the girl faded behind Miranda as she crossed the floor. The restroom was located on the other side of the compound. She thumbed the control, then locked herself in. She just needed a few moments to collect her thoughts, review their options. Glyph's superficial relief masked deep mistrust. Inevitably, it reflected in their own reactions toward him, and the problem spiralled. They had to get to the root of the issue. That presently felt impossible.
Miranda had an urge to pace the floor, but knew that she might be overheard. She settled for perching on the side of a deep bathtub, ivory sides reflecting the intense glare of overhead spotlights. After the relaxed lighting of the living area, the brightness made it a struggle to concentrate. She startled at her reflection in a mirror on the opposite wall. As a twenty year old krogan, Grunt was still fresh faced; Jack's meds had restored a healthy flush to her cheeks - though that, too, was another mask. But Miranda barely recognised herself. The harsh lights were only partly responsible. Her eyes were black; her hair lank and stuck to her scalp; skin sallow, lips pale. Dried indigo blood ringed her neck, just visible inside the collar of her armour. Why Naya hadn't fled screaming, Miranda didn't know. I would have.
Miranda administered the last of her own stims with clumsy fingers. She didn't perk, as she had before. But she felt somewhat better. Like Jack, Miranda was reaching the limits of her own endurance.
By her own estimation she had, at best, four hours. Jack had less. Beyond that horizon a dark curtain would fall; and with Glyph around, Miranda wasn't sure it would rise again.
Swallowing back nausea, Miranda ground the heels of her palms into her eye sockets. Think.
Glyph was unarmed. Overpowering him should be easy - especially with Grunt. But Glyph could target the child. Or make her a shield. He could have defenses they were, as yet, unaware of. Like EDI, his physical chassis was rock solid. She and Jack were no longer operating at anything like peak performance. They were weakening. The result of a physical confrontation was far from a foregone conclusion.
She dismissed the idea. The risk of Naya becoming collateral damage is too bloody high.
Another option was to talk reasonably. The idea sounded fatuous, even to her own mind. Glyph was shackled, and would be unable to react rationally if it conflicted with his programming, whatever his personal views. Breaking the shackles would be an unacceptably high risk.
A third possibility broke the surface of Miranda's mind, tethered to the second. That they were feeding off one another's paranoia, a toxic byproduct of sleep deprivation and hyper-lucidity. No matter how loudly Miranda's instincts sounded the alarm, they might be wrong.
For once, I don't have the answer. I don't know what the hell to do. Miranda moved closer to the mirror. She slapped cold water onto her face. It only seemed to intensify the tight band of pain at her temples. Thoughts slurred together. I need to find out where he keeps his brain.
She left the bathroom quietly. Rather than return to the group - where she could hear Jack still holding court loudly - she pressed a door access to her left. It opened onto a spacious room, made to feel even bigger with the addition of banks of holo-projectors along two walls. They opened out onto a calm Thessian forest. Knowing how deeply buried they were underground, the effect on Miranda was dizzying, surreal. The door shut behind her, sealing her safely inside.
Miranda took in her surroundings. She tried not to be distracted by the artificial view, boughs shivering in a breeze heavy with eezo. She avoided looking at the double bed at the other side of the room. Her gaze fell on the picture frames above it. More Shepard. Some other people, none she could name. A pale blue asari with kind brown eyes; a matriarch with navy lips. A pile of children's books and datapads was haphazard at the far side of the bed. Naya had not graduated to sleeping in her own room all the time. A Prothean memory shard sat on a bedside table. All things considered, there was very little evidence of Glyph in the room at all.
The next room Miranda tried was comfortable, small and spartan. Quiet. Shelving lined the walls, stacked with datapads and and what appeared to be primitive artefacts. A black cushion lay in the centre of the floor, itself covered with reed matting. Some kind of meditation room? She raked her eyes up and down the shelves. She didn't know what she was looking for, only that she hadn't found it yet.
Miranda noticed a painting fixed to the wall around a foot from the ground, at eye height for the cross-legged. The picture was no more than a chaotic swirl of daubed paint, but she had seen enough of her own children's early art to translate. A man with yellow hair holding the hand of a blue girl. Wide U-shaped grins completed the image. Curiously, Liara was absent. Miranda was elated. This is his room -
"Getting your bearings, Ms Lawson?"
Fuck. Miranda whirled. The door whirred shut behind him. They were alone, and Glyph's smile was vulpine.
She crossed her arms. There was no use in dissembling. "Actually, I was trying to get the measure of you."
"I see." Glyph clasped his hands in front of him. "Have I been insufficiently accommodating?"
"Not at all. You've been the perfect host, Glyph."
Miranda was not sure she could do disarming in her exhausted state, but she tried. He accepted the insincere compliment with a graceful incline of the head.
"And yet - you have misgivings."
Miranda gestured to the picture. "You care about her very much. I was trying to ascertain precisely how much."
"I will be explicit on this point, Ms Lawson." Glyph's inflexion was utterly flat; smooth, like obsidian. "There are no limits to how far I might go to protect her from threats."
"Was Liara a threat?" Miranda's mouth was suddenly dry. She swallowed.
His reply was too quick."Of course not."
"Are we, Glyph?"
"You tell me."
She shook her head. Opened her palms."Our objective is to rescue Naya. Neutralise opposition or - obstruction."
Glyph pulled his mouth into a cordial smile. Teeth glinted. "And as you have no doubt realised, no rescue is required."
Miranda didn't understand."Glyph, if Liara is out of the picture, we need to take care of her. Naya's developing fast. She needs to be socialised. She needs to be around other people. Other asari. Keeping her here isn't an option."
"I disagree."
"Glyph, I don't mean to suggest we just abandon you here." Miranda's mouth was full of grit; it was hard to push the words out. "Let me be clear. You're obviously central to her life. It should stay that way. We want you to come with us. We have no intention to separate the the two of you."
He tapped his foot. He was toying with her. "Then you have not given this the necessary thought. I am a person distinct from my memory banks, but all the same they are a part of me. I am Doctor T'Soni's knowledge and power. If I am exposed, it would start a war. My life would be forfeit."
"We could protect you, Glyph. Christ, you could hire your own private army if you wanted."
His tone was condescending. "As long as I remain hidden, Ms Lawson, I have no need to."
Glyph glided closer. He was repellent. Gooseflesh rose on Miranda's arms and thighs. His voice stayed flat, but all pretense at friendship had bled away.
"Let me be clear now. I will not leave. But I will not be parted from her. You see my predicament."
Miranda stared. Yes. And mine.
She understood that she may never have been as close to death as she was in this place. Over a long and frequently dangerous life, that was quite the achievement. Miranda fought down the desire to rake her fingernails across his face. She willed her mind to work more, faster. She chose her words with deliberate care.
"There's an Alliance frigate orbiting this asteroid. They know about Liara's message. And that we're down here. You must understand, Glyph - you're already exposed."
She hoped her mask held. Fear snarled underneath.
"Not true. You are free to go whenever you wish - provided that you report nothing." His voice snapped back to normal, as though he was merely conversing about the weather.
"And if you stay away from what's mine, I'll stay away from what's yours, Ms Lawson."