Andromeda Page 12

  The conflict had made some soldiers’ careers. Made them heroes, earned them choice placement. Blooded men and women with the char of real battle in their eyes.

  But it broke others.

  Sloane didn’t know where she’d fallen in—somewhere between blooded and broken—but she’d never forgotten those long days. The worst days of her life, no matter what battles she fought after, or what pirates came through the Traverse later.

  It was the kind of thing she’d joined the Initiative to get away from.

  But if nothing else, it was also something that left a permanent scar. An instinct, honed there and in a dozen other combat theaters. That instinct brought her instantly awake, pistol drawn and aimed at the intruder.

  It took a few seconds for Sloane to remember where she was. The couch in the common area. Several dozen others were sleeping around her, wherever they could find space. Still others remained awake, tucking into rations or talking in hushed tones. A few were crying, or shell-shocked, or both.

  On the couch opposite her, a human man she did not know sat, waiting. He stared at her wide-eyed, and slowly brought his hands up to signal surrender. Sloane realized then she had her pistol aimed right between his eyes. She lowered it.

  “Who are you?”

  “William Spender.”

  “I know that name,” Sloane said, trying hard to shove the groggy fatigue from her head. “Why do I know that name?”

  “Colonial Affairs. I’m Foster Addison’s second-in-command.” A beat. “Assistant Director Spender.”

  “Ah.” Another wonk. Fantastic. She holstered the weapon and rubbed her eyes. The man, Spender, lifted a mug from the table and held it out to her. Steam rose from within.

  Maybe not so much a wonk after all.

  Sloane’s mood brightened. “Coffee?”

  He paused. Looked down into the mug. Winced. “Oatmeal,” he admitted.

  “I hate you.” Mood souring just as fast, Sloane took it anyway. There was no spoon, so she gulped it. The warm sludge hadn’t been sweetened, but even she could admit that it tasted surprisingly good.

  Spender looked around. “I could try to find some coffee.”

  “Forget it,” she said around a mouthful, “I don’t hate you.”

  The man smiled. “You just love coffee?”

  She didn’t answer. Just shrugged amiably.

  William Spender, Assistant Director, had the most punchable of faces—that of a politician’s over eager intern. Brown hair he’d somehow found the time to comb, clean teeth, and big too-sincere-to-be-sincere eyes that all but telegraphed intent. Please let me help you so that I may appear helpful. Sloane held her amusement in check and finished the food.

  By the end, he hadn’t moved.

  She raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re still here. Which means the oatmeal comes with a price, I’m guessing?” she asked.

  Spender shrugged. “A security matter, actually.”

  The fog of sleep vanished. “What’s happened?”

  “Oh, no, no!” He held out his hands, placating. “Nothing. I just… Foster has put me in charge of consolidating our supplies. Cataloging what survived the, er, incident. That sort of thing. We should collaborate on locations to store it all.”

  Sloane’s other eyebrow joined the first. “Okay. Question: Why do I care?”

  “Because,” Spender replied patiently, “it needs to be somewhere secure.”

  “Ah.” Sloane set her cup on the nearest stand. Paused, and frowned at him. “Wait. Addison’s worried about theft?”

  “Director Tann suggested some might not appreciate the need to conserve, given our circumstances.” Again, that smile. “Foster and I agree.”

  Oh, hell, Sloane thought. She knew exactly what some Tann worried about, and she wanted to throttle him for holding on to such backward thinking. Still, in a roundabout way, he brought up a generally broader point. Weapons and life-saving necessities, to be safe, probably needed to be stored somewhere safe. “Doesn’t the station have a warehousing district?”

  “Several, actually. The only one nearby, however, is inaccessible.”

  Not surprising. “How about one of the hangars, then? Only one has ships in it, the rest are all to be filled once there’s traffic.”

  That had him brightening, like he hadn’t thought of it. Maybe he hadn’t. Sloane had no idea how he operated. But even the way he nodded, like one part encouraging and one part settled, made her feel like he overplayed his efforts. “That might work,” he mused. “Yes, I think that would be perfect.”

  “Glad to help,” she said wearily. “Talk to Sergeant Talini. She can make sure everyone appreciates the need to conserve.”

  Again Spender nodded, this time with a knowing half-smile. “I’ll run it by the other directors, just to make sure everyone’s on board with our plan.”

  “Yeah, whatever.” Suddenly it’s “our” plan, she thought, irritated. What a weasel. Sloane waved him off. “If you need me to tell them to be on board, let me know. In the meantime, I’ll get a couple of my people to check out the auxiliary hangars and pick one that’s suitable.”

  The man stood. At least he knew when a conversation was over. Sloane lay back on the couch and threw an arm over her eyes. Her body demanded more sleep. Or coffee. What it didn’t want was another day of putting out fires.

  She could guess just which of those she’d get.

  But since he was here?

  “If you find some coffee, Spender…” Sloane called out to the diminishing sound of Spender’s footsteps. She let the sentence trail off, pointing a finger at her mouth instead.

  From somewhere toward the door, she heard him chuckle. “Understood,” he replied.

  Just the idea of it seemed to quell her body’s state of fatigue. And her mind wouldn’t shut up. Every possible gap in her thoughts, those places where true rest lurked, was filled instead with concerns. How many were awake now? Had there been any problems? Did Kesh need help?

  It was the idea that Tann might be guiding the priorities of the workforce that finally drove her to swing her legs off the couch and stand up with a groan. She felt stiff, thirsty, and she was hungry again. Her limbs felt like a drunk volus clung to each one, dragging her down.

  Maybe there was no coffee. Yet. Sloane, out of options, defaulted to the only thing that could help.

  Stretching her legs, she made her way out of the commons, through the larger weave of people beginning to fill it, and lurched off into a brisk morning jog.

  It would do. Until coffee.

  * * *

  An hour later, still desperate for that coffee, a sharp headache pressing at the back of her eyes, Sloane stood atop a desk and faced more than six hundred Nexus crew. The area wasn’t meant for an assembly. It should have been a tranquil office space for the administration staff.

  Woulda, shoulda. If wishes were packets of Earth-grown brew, they’d all have coffee for days.

  Most of the assembly stood. Some were sitting on tables or in oversized chairs. Many were on the floor, still getting over the fog of a crash-awakening from stasis. “Cryo-funk,” she’d heard a few of them calling it. The term seemed to be spreading as fast as news of the loss of their leadership.

  Nervous chatter filled the room. Sloane picked out phrases here and there.

  “What will happen to the mission?”

  “Can we go back? Is that even possible?”

  “The Pathfinders will save us.”

  “It has to have been an attack. What aren’t they telling us?”

  “So many krogan…”

  She didn’t even bother trying to ignore it all. Better to let it all wash over her, absorb it. Because this was better than mass panic, which at least for now remained comfortably below the surface.

  “Let’s get started,” she said as loudly as she could. She had to force the words out of her mouth. Then she raised her arms above her head, willing quiet. Some noticed. Many more did not. Sloane laced her hands atop her head an
d looked up at the ceiling. “Don’t make me yell,” she said, more of a sigh than anything else.

  She didn’t have to. Kesh slammed one heavy fist into the nearest table. The boom tore through the vast space, and by the time it echoed back, Sloane had everyone’s full attention.

  “Thanks,” she muttered.

  The krogan shot her an unrepentant smile. Mimicked by each krogan around her.

  “This isn’t a speech,” Sloane said to them. “It’s not a pep talk. We don’t have time for that shit. What this is, is a battle plan.”

  A murmur swept through the gathered crew. She let it settle, using the time to will a fresh spike of pain to retreat in her skull.

  “Most of you are aware of what’s happened,” Jarun Tann said loudly, interrupting her.

  Sloane glanced right, mouth twisting. She hadn’t noticed that he’d stepped up onto the desk beside her. Great. He seemed to have plenty of time for this shit.

  He went on, a bit louder. “Even so, let me explain it once so there is no confusion, or rumors.” Even though what they mostly had was just that. Rumors, conjectured between the directors. Great. “As far as we can tell this was not an attack. Once the sensors are back and the science team can investigate, we’ll know with absolute certainty, but what I can tell you is that upon arriving here the Nexus collided with what appears to be a natural phenomenon.”

  Wait a second. They’d only just speculated on this.

  “Long tendrils of densely packed particles,” he went on. “This… this scourge, whatever it is, has done a staggering amount of damage to the station.”

  Shit. It was too late to retract now. Even if their hunch was right, the only thing she could do was focus them inward, not outward. People didn’t always need all the intel.

  Fuming, she cut in. “Which is why you’re all awake.” Annoyance laced her tone, and she didn’t really care if he knew it. “You’re all experts in the Nexus’s various systems. We need you to do what you do best—analyze, stabilize, repair. The goal right now is to keep the station functional enough to support us. Secondary to that is making sure we can evacuate if further damage occurs.”

  “Evacuate?” someone called out, and they sounded alarmed. “Are we still in danger?”

  “Why not evac now?” another crew member near the back shouted.

  “We’re not evacuating,” Sloane snapped. “Have you already forgotten why we came here?” Several of the crowd looked away. “Did you forget the risks? It was all fun and games when you signed up, a bright shiny dream, but now here we are. And the first sign of trouble, you want to call it quits?” The crowd stirred. She glared at them. “What the hell is the matter with you?”

  Tann placed a calming hand on her arm, and interrupted again.

  “What Security Director Kelly means is that we do not know if the Nexus is out of danger yet. Until we do, we must remain vigilant, and do everything we can to right our ship. The mission has not changed, and we all have a duty—”

  “Who the hell are you?” someone shouted. Sloane couldn’t see for sure, but she thought it was a turian near the center of the room, wearing the uniform of the hydroponics team.

  The salarian flinched. Even through her irritation, Sloane felt that one.

  Who the hell, indeed.

  But Tann wasn’t one to lose face in a crowd. “I recognize your confusion,” he said, keeping his hand on Sloane’s arm. Probably as some kind of solidarity act. “I am Acting Director Jarun Tann. Per emergency protocols, I’ve been—”

  Sloane shook her head, cutting him off. “Wrong touch,” she muttered, and faced the crowd directly. “We’re in a world of shit here, and that means changes. Here’s what you need to know: Tann’s filling in for Garson. I’m handling security.” She gestured for the third member of their little council to step up onto a third desk. “That is Foster Addison, Colonial Affairs—”

  “And advising our acting director,” Addison said for herself, more curtly than Sloane thought necessary.

  All right. Fine. If everyone wanted to carve out a bit of the turf, they may as well do it here. Sloane inclined her head at Addison, and looked back to the crowd. “We’re the three most senior people aboard. You’re awake because this station needs help. That’s it. That’s the situation. Now let’s get to work, because I want to live. And like all of you, I want our mission to succeed.”

  Dead silence.

  Sloane clenched her fists, waiting for Jarun Tann to once again lamely try to contribute his bullshit. For once his instincts were in line with hers, though. He said nothing. The turian who’d asked the question held Sloane’s gaze for a moment, then started to nod, slowly.

  With that, others began to murmur. Not the tone of argument, to Sloane’s ears. One, multiple, of consideration. Things to do. Checkboxes to tick.

  Good.

  Addison surveyed them all. And of them all, maybe it’s best the soft touch came from her. “We all remember Alec Ryder’s words,” she said, earning more nods. “Making our way here was one thing, but we all knew what came next.”

  With sudden widened eyes—the salarian version of a lightbulb moment, Sloane guessed—Tann snapped his longer fingers. “Now,” he said with far more flourish than it required, “is where the real work starts.”

  This resulted in more than a few chuckles. A few snorts. A lot of more firm acknowledgement.

  Even better. This? This worked out a lot better than she’d imagined.

  “You all know your systems,” Sloane said, raising her voice over the drone of collaborating voices. “Do whatever it takes, just get them stable. We’re only focusing on this section of the station for now. The rest is unpopulated and unpressurized, anyway.” Small knots of like-minded professionals began to gather together. Sloane had to speak even louder as the crowd began to naturally shift into gear. “If you need help, need a hallway cleared or a bent door removed, Nakmor Kesh has a few hundred of her construction team available to assist. Make use of them.”

  The few krogan flanking Kesh let loose a thunderous, and entirely unnecessary, rattle of graveled roars and cheers.

  It did not, as Tann jerked in surprise and Sloane hid a grin, result in a stampede of panicked bipedals.

  Enough was enough. They all knew their tasks. The supervisors among them would maintain order.

  She stepped backward off the desk. The crowd immediately began to disperse, a thousand conversations erupting all across the room.

  “Good luck to you all,” Tann said, voice raised for all the good that did. He was a breeze against the storm. He turned then and stepped down.

  Sloane offered a hand to Addison, who took it with thanks as she hopped down. “There,” she muttered.

  Sloane shot her a quizzical half-smile.

  The woman shrugged. “Whatever comes of Colonial Affairs,” she replied quietly, “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Pessimistic, maybe. Sloane couldn’t blame her. Right now, settling colonies felt like light years away. And maybe that was what was eating Foster Addison. Her job. Her role.

  Was she content with advisor to the acting director?

  Sloane wouldn’t be. But then, she had plenty to do in security. She gave Addison’s arm a reassuring squeeze and let her go. They turned, Tann falling in beside them. “I think that was a fine moment,” the salarian said, his tone as accomplished as if he’d planned the whole thing. “Now, if we can continue this momentous unification into the future, we shall all be just fine.”

  What little silver lining Sloane had gleaned soured.

  Spender waited nearby, his omni-screen already up and notes made. “Well,” he said brightly. “That went well.”

  Sloane brushed past him. “Find me coffee,” she all but growled. “Then we’ll talk about ‘well.’”

  He got out of her way.

  CHAPTER NINE

  With most of the private quarters under vacuum lock, Jarun Tann had taken up residence in a research lab. He doubted it would ever see any actual res
earch. Not for a long time, at least.

  The lab was adjacent to the outer hull, of which a giant section had been ripped away by “the Scourge.” He had taken note of the term’s popularity after his impromptu words during the briefing. A week of use and one unfortunate brush with a drifting tendril of the stuff had seemed, he was pleased to note, to cement its use among the populace.

  Although he would have preferred that it did not scar its purpose so completely into the crippled station to do so. A term was all well and good, but the lingering effects this Scourge had left among the woken workforce lingered.

  Another reason why Tann needed to take a moment, exist somewhere quiet and isolated. Away from what he thought of as the collective weight of the masses. Worry, focus, effort… frustration.

  Here, in this abandoned lab, he had room. He had, if he’d pardon himself the pun, space. Most of the gear in this room had been sucked away at hull breach, leaving a long, narrow area devoid of furniture or really anything at all. As in Operations, the temporary barrier covering the gap offered an exceptional view. Of the stars. The ragged edges of the station.

  The energetic tendrils of the Scourge, with its colorful, fiery array of pinprick lights.

  A perfect place, in other words, for Jarun Tann to pace, and to think. It was quiet, far from the commons where much of the crew had taken to sleeping. They found solace in numbers, comfort in the presence of others. Quiet conversation, or even just the sounds proving that others existed.

  In any normal situation, he’d feel the same, but this situation—this calamity—was very much in the abnormal category. It required focus. Careful, deliberate thought. Tann knew himself, his limitations. All his life he’d battled an inability to filter out distractions.

  When he needed to think, really think, he required absolute silence. A lack of motion other than the steady footfalls of his own two feet, and perhaps a nice tiled floor beneath that glided under him at a steady, flawlessly maintained pace.

  This was the primary reason he’d left his omni-tool in the antechamber. Its incessant communications were usually welcome—Tann preferred to be informed over the alternative—but not when he needed the space to think.