Andromeda

by Jason M. Hough

  Addison couldn’t recall how many times she’d smiled that day, but this one felt best.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Sloane Kelly hadn’t worked so hard in years. She returned with the work team dead on her feet, hungry, bleary-eyed. She didn’t know what time it was. She didn’t know where her political counterparts were, and felt glad for that. She could sneak to her room and grab some sleep before anyone realized she’d returned.

  Eight more hours of zero bullshit, that sounded beyond incredible, and she wasn’t about to ruin it. Better still, she could delay reporting that the mission had only been a partial success. The great hallway had been cleared enough to allow passage, yes, but there had been no cache of backup sensor arrays to plunder at the far end. The Nexus would remain blind a while longer, and that wasn’t going to make anyone happy.

  She stuck to the plan. Avoided everyone. Ignored the messages waiting for her. The one from Kandros was tempting, but it didn’t have any of the emergency flags on it, so it could wait. It would wait. Eight damned hours, they could give her that much more.

  She’d earned it, hadn’t she?

  Sloane slept like a rock.

  A rock then kicked loose by a careless boot to tumble down the mountain.

  * * *

  She woke eight hours later, sore and famished. It had been a long few days out in the “wasteland” with Kesh and her team. This was the term they’d adopted for the parts of the Nexus that hadn’t yet been visited.

  They only used it among themselves, Kesh explained, so as not to offend or worry any of the non-krogan crew. The fact that they’d let Sloane in on the slang was something of an honor. She’d learned a long time ago that when the krogan honored you, you don’t take it lightly, no matter how inconsequential it might seem.

  She’d worked alongside them, clearing debris and pulling cable with the no-nonsense attitude they maintained. They didn’t need security at their side. She needed the work. To lose herself in it. To—

  Suddenly the message from Kandros registered front and center in her mind. “See you soon,” the subject had read.

  A knot formed in her gut. He’d never seemed the suicidal type, but those words weren’t like him, and this was just the kind of thing she kept dreading would happen.

  Sloane fell off her borrowed couch and fumbled around looking for her omni. She found the thing and almost dropped it twice trying to get it activated. Nervous, she tapped with a shaking finger through the menus until she found it.

  “Sorry I didn’t get to say goodbye,” she read aloud, though at a whisper. “Should be back in a few months. Thanks for the opportunity.” That was it.

  “What. The. Fuck,” she added, without even noticing the growing anger loaded on each word. Sloane slumped back against the cushions and stared at the wall. Months for what? “What goddamn opportunity?”

  Kandros had given no details. Which meant he assumed she already knew what he was talking about. Sloane pushed herself upright, turned and marched, fists balled, toward Operations.

  Sloane stormed past the two techies at the console, in their fruitless vigil. “Any sign of the arks?” she asked, not waiting for their answer because they always replied with the same damn thing.

  “Negative,” they said to her back.

  Sloane laughed, sardonically.

  Tann was at the main navigation table, stooped over one of the maps, one hand at his chin, finger tapping away. He lifted his big eyes at her entrance and his face brightened considerably. “Welcome ba—”

  “Where’s Kandros?”

  “I… errr…” Her tone, as she’d hoped, had him already backpedaling.

  “Where. The fuck. Is Kandros?”

  “Aboard the shuttle called Boundless,” Tann said.

  “So I would assume, then,” she replied, “that if I were to stroll down to the Colonial Affairs hangar, I’d find him there?”

  “Ah, well, of course not.” Tann gestured to the table in front of him, and Sloane finally focused on what he’d been so intent on reviewing when she’d come in. A three-dimensional map of the space around them, crudely done, but the Nexus at the center gave it away. Tann pointed at a small glowing icon some distance away from the station.

  “They’re here, now. Roughly speaking, I mean. We have no way to be precisely sure.”

  Sloane came around the table, grabbed the salarian by his chin, and squeezed hard.

  “Why is the ship gone, and why is my officer on board?” He could barely mouth a reply. Sloane eased up, but only just.

  “Spender—”

  “Spender,” she repeated. “Enough said.” She patted Tann on the cheek and walked away.

  William Spender. The name wormed through her mind as she stormed toward his quarters. He’d taken over a glorified closet near one of the empty hangars they’d converted into storage space. Her omni-tool said he was there, and she could have just ordered him to come to her, but somehow it felt like a personal visit was in order. Her omni-tool told her other things, as well. It wasn’t just Kandros.

  Eight of her officers were missing.

  Sloane positioned herself in front of the door to his little cave and rapped hard on it.

  “What now?” an annoyed voice asked from within.

  “Open up,” she shot back. “Or do I need to kick the door down?”

  “Oh,” the reply came. “Sloane. Thought it was that thug from life support again. Nnebron.”

  “Sorry to disappoint. Open up.”

  “Just a minute.”

  “No. Immediately.” She heard rustling within. “I’m giving you five seconds, and then I’m going to see just how sturdy this door is.” She’d barely uttered the last of that when the door pulled suddenly inward.

  Spender squeezed himself out of the pitch-black room and yanked the door closed behind him. “Sorry. Room’s a mess. We can talk in the commons, maybe?”

  He took a step in that direction, avoiding her gaze. Sloane slammed her fist into the wall, a mere centimeter from his nose, and held it there. Spender slowly turned to face her.

  “Okay, here’s fine.”

  “I want you to explain to me why Kandros and seven other officers under my command are no longer aboard the Nexus.”

  “The scouting mission,” Spender replied.

  “What scouting mission?”

  The man blinked, his brow furrowed slightly. “You don’t know?”

  “Obviously I don’t know.”

  “Seems to me you need to speak with Tann and Addison.”

  “I’m here, now, speaking to you. Start talking.”

  He looked like he’d just swallowed a hunk of rancid meat. Sloane didn’t budge, not even a little, and the man withered under her stare.

  “It was decided that eight ships—”

  “Decided by whom?”

  “Well, Tann… with you and Addison in support, naturally.”

  Sloane filed that. She could guess the rest, but watching Spender squirm proved oddly satisfying. Sloane twirled a finger. Go on.

  To her extreme annoyance, Spender grinned at her. “You weren’t consulted,” he said more to himself than to her. Then he glanced at her fist. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

  “Spender, I’m going to send you on a solo scouting mission, unsuited, if you don’t tell me what I want to know.”

  The weaselly grin faltered only a little. “I was informed that you guys had decided it was time to send a few CA ships out to the nearest star systems. Look for supplies, you know?”

  Sloane leaned in until her nose almost touched his. “Stop assuming what I know or don’t know. Just talk.”

  “Okay, okay, jeez.” He licked his lips. “Addison informed me of all this. The decision, the plan.”

  “She said I was in agreement?”

  “Er, I don’t recall the exact words. She didn’t say you weren’t. I didn’t ask. It was implied, I guess.”

  Sloane frowned. “Keep talking.”

  “Well,” he sa
id, “she said they—you—they wanted to send eight shuttles, with full crews, and that I was to draw up the lists of who would go.” Before she could ask the question he raised his hands, palms out, pleading. “I thought you were aware. Okay?”

  “Why Kandros? You know how much I rely on him.”

  “Addison,” he started. “No, wait. Don’t go blaming her.”

  “I’ll blame whoever the fuck I want. Just give me the facts.”

  “Addison sent me this message, while I was prepping the rosters. About how Kandros was ideally suited to lead one of the ships.”

  Sloane couldn’t argue, but that wasn’t the point. Spender continued.

  “I thought that meant she’d cleared it with you. I mean, you were gone with the krogan, how was I supposed to know? How’d that go, by the way?”

  “What? How’d what go?”

  “With the krogan.”

  “Don’t change the subject. I’m the one asking questions.” Sloane lowered her arm, though. Her anger had transformed. Blinding rage to the more thoughtful sort. Addison and Tann had done this. Spender was just a tool, in every sense of the word.

  “Get the hell out of my sight.”

  He straightened his coat, looked her up and down, then walked off. Seconds later she stood alone in the hall, staring at the door to his quarters through which he’d emerged like a snake from its hidey hole.

  Sloane stood there for a long time, fists clenching and unclenching. Half of her wanted to march back to Operations, throw Tann into the wall and swing him around by the feet until she could toss him into Addison and watch the bosom buddies tumble to the ground.

  The other part of her wondered what the point was, though. They’d teamed up against her. It was easy to think that. Easy to assume, as Spender had. Assumptions were dangerous though, and Sloane could make other assumptions, too. Could hear Tann’s reasoned, nonchalant excuses already.

  You were the one who stepped away from your duties, Sloane. You said you knew I’d make decisions whether I had your advice or not, so what difference did it make? We were only doing what we’re supposed to do. We thought you’d be pleased.

  The Kandros bit, though, that made her fume. The rest of it? Okay, fine, you sent some shuttles. Not the end of the universe. But deliberately or not they’d taken one of her best people out from under her, for months the message had said, and she knew—hoped at least—that he wouldn’t have agreed unless he believed she was on board with the idea.

  He wouldn’t have thought that, not with any kind of certainty, unless Spender had really sold him on it.

  Weasel, she thought, sourly. She punched the wall again. Thought about kicking his door in after all, just to toss the room about a bit, like they used to do when they had a suspect they couldn’t quite nail down, but wanted to send a message.

  The problem was, until she could talk to Kandros, find out who told him what and when, there was no way to know exactly what had happened. For now, she decided, she’d have to swallow this. Pretend it didn’t bother her, if only to make calling them on it later that much sweeter.

  In the meantime, she’d keep a very close eye. To do otherwise was too dangerous.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “Hey, Reg? You better come quick, man.”

  Reg cracked open a crusted eyelid, expecting to see the bunk he shared with his husband empty. That was the usual. Most times, Emory was gone by the time Reg woke up, and Reg was often up too late for Emory.

  This time, in the shadows lit by a faint blue glow, he was very much aware of the weight pressed in against his side, and Emory’s breath on his shoulder.

  That meant it was somewhere past his bedtime, and before Emory’s wake-up.

  His surly glare lifted to the culprit. A roommate. One of several who swapped in and out per shift. What was his name? Aldrin. Alder. Something. “What is it?” he grumbled, careful not to shake his sleeping botanist awake.

  The guy lifted his light, the better to outline the path to the door. “It’s your crew,” he said, whispering. “The asari. She’s tearing up the commons.”

  Ah, shit.Irida, not again.

  Exhaustion clung to his muscles, gritted up his eyes. Reg wanted nothing more than to nestle back in, arm around his husband, and go back to sleep for the few hours they got.

  Instead, knowing he had no other choice, he carefully eased his arm out from under Emory’s motionless body. The cot creaked as he shifted over, then rolled off to land heavily on his feet.

  Emory stirred. “Nn?”

  Wincing, Reg reached up and smoothed back Emory’s pale brown hair. “Go back to sleep, babe,” he said, and dropped a kiss on his forehead. “I’ll be back.”

  “Nn.”

  With any luck, Emory wouldn’t even remember the exchange. The man was as ragged as Calix and his unit were. As Reg himself was.

  And Irida, she’d taken Na’to’s death hard.

  Muttering under his breath, Reg pulled the crumpled uniform on over his boxers and T-shirt, aware that all of them could use a good washing. Rations meant less wash, more wear. A fact he found skin-crawling, but necessary.

  By the time he joined the human—Alden, for sure—out of the quiet dorm, he was a little more awake.

  A lot more resigned. “Let me guess,” he said as he made his way to the commons. “She’s throwing things again?”

  “Shields, mostly.”

  Reg blinked at him. “What?”

  Alden shook his head. “Just… man, you’ll see.”

  And he did. It was hard to miss. A handful of people loitered outside the commons, in various stages of upset, while a few clustered around the door. From inside, Reg could hear shouting. Yelling. Swearing.

  And crashes. Tables, he figured. Dishes. Hardy stuff, the things in commons, which made it easy to throw.

  Heaving a sigh, he edged into the crowd, pushing them aside with a burly strength nobody wanted to contest. Reg had that going for him, at least. He was big. A brawny guy, with a head to keep it that way. It made for an unusual pairing, what with Emory’s slim nerd-build, but it made him happy to think he could protect his husband if it came to it.

  Much as he wanted to protect his team.

  Especially, he thought as he pushed his way fully into commons, the ones still reeling after Na’to’s loss.

  Irida had, as Alden suggested, been playing with shields. Two people were held aloft in biotic balls of energy, both swearing up a storm, while another rolled across the floor. Irida sat on the table in the middle of a mess of them, many shoved aside or turned over, drinks pooling in a combined morass of sweet and sour and sharply alcoholic.

  He cringed as he stepped over a brew that smelled krogan.

  He ought to know. Wratch and Kaje had dragged him out to “celebrate” after Arvex and Na’to went up in Scourge smoke. He’d barely escaped with his intestines intact.

  Two of the Nakmor grunts now sat in the corner, nursing their drinks without care. If they were at all bothered by the asari’s display, they didn’t seem to show it.

  Irida glared at him. “Look! Pets.” A wave of her hand sent one biotic shield slamming into the other.

  Reg winced as they yelped. Shouted.

  Slowly, he lifted a hand, inserted his body between her sight and her playthings. The bottle in her other hand tipped toward her mouth.

  “Irida,” he sighed. “Come on, you don’t drink well.”

  “I drink,” she said curtly, “just fine.”

  Crash! A table. One shield flickered, winked out. The human went rolling ass over elbows and lay stunned just in front of the door. “Call… Call security!”

  “No, don’t,” Reg called over his shoulder. “She’s just…” Drunk. Hurting. Grieving. “She’s working through it. I got this.”

  “Yeaaaaaah,” the asari slurred, leaning forward. The bottle she cradled tipped its contents.

  More krogan brew.

  Damn.

  Reg took a few steps closer. Reached out to encircl
e the bottle with gentle fingers. His hand engulfed most of it. “Come on, Violet. Let’s go walk this off.”

  “No!” She jerked. A sharp scream and crash said the other shield had fizzled out, leaving its prisoner free to clamber unsteadily to freedom.

  Reg’s heart ached for the girl. However old she was, whatever years she had on Reg, he didn’t need to be ancient to see how badly she was coping. The team had been together for years. Served together. Fought together.

  He tried for logic. “Come on. You know we’re getting rationed, let’s not make it worse for the boozers, huh?”

  “Rationed.” She spat the word. “What good?” She tugged at the bottle. Seemed confused when it didn’t so much as budge under Reg’s grip. “Rations won’t bring ’im back.”

  His gut kicked. Sorrow plucked at his voice as he murmured. “I know, Violet. I know. But Na’to, he wouldn’t want you to wreck yourself—or the commons,” he added, looking around, “like this.”

  “How’d you know?” She glared at him, with her pale purple eyes wide and wet. “How’d anyone know?”

  “Shit,” murmured someone behind him. “She’s a mess.”

  He glanced over his shoulder, saw Nnebron as he edged his way in. His smile, Reg knew, was sad. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Come on, let’s get her somewhere quiet.”

  Wordless now, Nnebron approached on Reg’s left, popping out with a smile from behind the larger man. “Hey, Violet, you game to help me with something?”

  She stared at him, bemused. Swaying. “Maybe.” She didn’t fight when Reg looped an arm around her shoulder. “Will I need my leathers?”

  “Her what?”

  “Commando leathers,” Reg muttered to Nnebron.

  The kid stared at him.

  “No,” Reg added for Irida’s sake. “Not tonight.”

  She nodded, allowed herself to be helped off the table. “’Kay. Next time?”

  “Next time,” Nnebron said firmly. “Right now, I got a powerful need for some help, uh…” A pause. “Uh, for…”

  “Nnebron needs an escort,” Reg said quickly. “He’s struggling with some power conduits. You wanna help?”