The light blinked again.
“There,” Sascha said.
“I’ve got them now, too,” the asari beside him said. Her name was Apriia, and while she lacked the calm demeanor of her counterpart, she more than made up for it in her attention to detail. The instant her screens noted the presence of the scout ship, the asari’s hands began flying over the interface.
“Which one is it?” Sloane asked. “Get a reading before it vanishes.”
Addison winced. She could see it already, but couldn’t bring herself to answer. It felt like a betrayal, a weakness, to make Apriia say it, but she just couldn’t.
“It’s S7,” the asari said. “Marco’s ship. Mission target was a planet called… Eos.”
Sloane gave no reaction. It wasn’t Kandros, which meant they’d hear from him last.
“Try to establish a link,” Addison said. “Quickly!”
“Already on it,” Sascha replied.
Tann stopped his pacing and stood at Addison’s side. They were in this together. He’d reminded her of this fact the first time an alert had gone out that one of the scouts had returned. Back then, though, Addison suspected his reminder had more to do with sharing in the glory. The fact that he still stood by her now—after six failures—said something about his character, at least. He could have distanced himself. Could have said she’d pressured him into allowing the scouts to go out, which wouldn’t have been too far from the truth.
No, Tann had stood firm. They’d agreed to this, effectively cut Sloane out of the decision, and so its consequences were theirs to share, good or bad.
A loud pop sent Addison reeling, hands thrown up to protect her face as hot sparks showered her. Sascha went over in his chair. Apriia flew to her feet, backing away as flames began to flicker out from a gaping black hole that appeared on one of the borrowed bits of gear strewn about the workspace.
Addison blinked, turned to cry out in alarm, only to be elbowed aside by Sloane. The security director stepped in and sprayed the flame with an extinguisher she must have pulled from thin air. Fire out, she tossed the used-up device aside and was already kneeling beside Sascha when Addison’s wits finally caught up.
With a shaking finger she tapped a message out on her omni-tool, sent directly to Nakmor Kesh with the highest of urgency. Sec-cleared tech repair team needed in CA immediately. Most urgent.
The reply came just seconds later. Incoming.
“Repair crew on the way,” Addison announced to the others. “Will we need a med team?” This last directed at Sloane. The security director shook her head, and helped Sascha back into his chair.
Minutes later a team of four krogan arrived. Addison watched Sloane check each of them against a list Kesh had provided. Everything proved to be in order, and they filed in.
“Here,” Sascha said, pointing. He needn’t have bothered, though, since smoke still curled from the fried equipment. Two of the technicians laid heavy bags on the floor nearby and splayed them open, a pile of random parts and wires in one, various banged-up tools in the other. It all looked like so much junk.
This is never going to work. Her mind raced. There had to be another way to make contact—but of course there wasn’t.
Tann sidled up to her. “Even without this latest… glitch, sensors aren’t good enough. It’s possible they’ll arrive before we can make contact,” he said. “We should prep a hangar, an empty one, and have a team waiting with food and water.”
A burly krogan—burly by their standards—gently but forcefully pushed Addison and Tann away from the console, making room. The tech crawled underneath and began yanking controller boards and who-knows-what-else from the bottom of the system.
“There was no damage down there,” Tann snapped.
“It’s all connected,” the krogan shot right back.
Tann leaned forward. “Even so, this is an emergency. We only need it to work for ten minutes, not a lifetime.”
“Let them do their job,” Sloane said. She had moved back to her spot by the door, but her voice carried no less authority for it.
“Their job is what we say it is,” Tann shot back. An uncharacteristic outburst. He smoothed the front of his uniform. “Forgive me,” he said to Sloane. “We’re all on edge here, so let’s just try to remain calm.”
Sloane looked at the ceiling and shook her head.
Tann pulled Addison aside. “We need to discuss what will happen if neither of these last two scouts return with good news.” His voice was low, but Addison glanced toward Sloane nonetheless. She gave no indication of hearing.
“One of them will,” Addison said. “They have to.”
“Wishful thinking is not an effective way to govern.”
“Well,” she said, “I guess that’s why you’re in charge.”
Tann stared at her, digesting her words. In that moment Foster Addison wanted nothing more than to be alone. In a sense she already was. She turned away from the salarian and moved to stand near the console again, ignoring the krogan’s feet that almost touched her own. Tann was right, of course. They did need a backup plan. The problem was that every option Addison could think of ultimately led to the same result—abandoning the Nexus. Ending the mission. Walking away from all the sacrifice and hope.
Hell, we might as well turn around and go—
“Got it,” the krogan said. He pushed himself out from under the desk and was standing in front of Addison by the time his words registered.
“Got it?” she asked, numbly. “It’s fixed?”
“I think so. Try it out.”
Before she could say anything Sascha and Apriia were back in their chairs, hands gliding over the interface screens. The group of krogan gathered a few meters away, their tools already packed, waiting to see if the fix had worked so they could get back to whatever they’d been doing.
A crackle erupted from the speakers, then a loud hiss of static masking urgent words.
“…injuries. Require… at docking...”
“Repeat, Scout 7,” Sascha said. “The Scourge is effecting your transmission. Repeat.”
“Good to hear your voice, Nexus,” the ship’s comm officer replied. Her words were still garbled, but clear enough to discern now.
“We need to know what you found out there,” Addison said. “Please report.”
“Nothing good I’m afraid,” the woman replied. Addison had to strain to make out the words. “Marco’s been badly injured. Hope the other… fared better.”
“Please,” Addison said, “the details.”
“Copy that. Eos is a no go. Affected by Scourge. Atmosphere highly radiated… unsafe. No signs of life.”
Addison stopped listening. She’d heard it before. Six times. The same damn thing. The comm officer relayed various statistics and readings, oblivious to the fact that every scout returning before her had met the same result.
There was only one left, now. Only one…
The krogan gathered their equipment and began to file out of the room, accompanied by Sloane.
“…permission to resupply and head back in search of the Boundless.”
“Wait,” she said, barely in control of her own voice. “Repeat?”
“Boundless,” the woman repeated. “Scout 8. Requesting permission to go after them.”
“What are you talking about?”
Sascha and Apriia were both staring at her, their faces pinched in dread or concern or both. Addison ignored them. She’d missed something, and there was no escaping it now.
“…were behind us,” the woman replied impatiently. “Kandros reported… uninhabitable. And then they sent a distress call. We lost them a few seconds later.”
Sloane was there. She shoved Addison aside. “Repeat that?”
“Boundless reported an anomaly and then… vanished. We’d like to return to look for them.”
“Why the hell didn’t you do that when it happened?” Sloane bellowed into the mic. Despite that, the voice on the speaker did not waver.<
br />
“We did,” the woman said. “Circled back immediately, at great risk to everyone aboard. Searched for as long as we could. But Marco’s… critical. We’re out of food. We did everything possible. There was no trace. I’m sorry. We all agreed, though, we’d like to go back—”
“We understand, Scout 7,” Tann said.
“Bullshit we do,” Sloane hissed at him. Once again Addison felt trapped between them. This time as two unbearable truths registered at once.
She and Tann might have sent Sloane’s best officer to his death, and every scout ship had failed.
There would be no resupply, no haven to colonize. Nowhere to go if the Nexus went critical.
Addison slumped back against the wall.
The mission was doomed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Frustration burned inside Calix’s gut.
It had been two weeks since Irida had been arrested. Two weeks of scrutiny as Sloane Kelly and her team scoured everything, physical and electronic, trying to discover if she had shared the bulkhead codes with anyone.
Of course, Calix felt responsible. In the note she left with the stolen database, Irida had justified it as “doing her part to mind the rations.” She had gone too far, too fast, but as the days progressed…
Calix had yet to tell his team why Irida had been locked up. They asked, daily, but he just said he knew as much as they did. Claimed Sloane had told him only that the woman had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and they were holding her for questioning. That wore thin each day this went on, but if he told them the truth they might get similar ideas of how to help.
Things were bad and getting worse by the moment. Everybody walked around like they expected to be jumped—by security, by the krogan, by their own friends and comrades. Fights had started breaking out between teammates. Things went missing constantly.
His own team had started hoarding. Turian rations, human rations. Tools. Sneaking whatever they could, whenever they could get it. Calix pretended not to see, and his team saw him pretending not to see. He realized that they took it as tacit approval.
Meanwhile, Irida waited in a cell. For his help? For rescue?
For… change.
Calix sat on the corner of an appropriated metal crate, watching the krogan work on a heavily damaged hydroponics bay. The finesse technicians had already come and gone, only to report an issue in the structural integrity of the space itself. The seedlings were too fragile to flourish in anything less than optimal conditions.
That left them with two mostly functional bays, and that wouldn’t put a dent in ration concerns. Especially since—to his critical eye—one looked much less healthy than the other.
The krogan—Nakmor grunts Kaje and Wratch, respectively—worked in tandem. The curses they threw at each other seemed more like encouragement than anger, though rivalry was always a factor in krogan communications.
“You weld like a drunk vorcha,” Kaje grunted.
The other krogan snorted long and loud. “At least I don’t look like one.”
“Said who? Your human buddy?”
“Said your mother,” Wratch replied.
The bantering went back and forth like this with no regard for Calix’s presence, and he chuckled softly. He appreciated that. Nice to sit in the gloom and just be for a while. Pockets like this were becoming exceedingly rare.
His chuckle caught Wratch’s attention. The big krogan slammed a metal bar hard against the panel, holding it easily with one hand while he glowered across the gloomy distance.
“What’s so funny?” he growled. They always growled. He didn’t take it personally.
“Just enjoying the company, fellas.”
Kaje’s omni-tool glowed as the welder activated, searing off any chance at conversation while the metal sizzled and fused. Once done, he glanced over, too.
“You’re engineering, yeah?” His voice was no less grumbly—big krogan throats led to deep voices, even in the rare women Calix had known of—but of a sharper pitch. Like a supersized rotary drill. Embedded in granite.
“Life support and stasis pods,” Calix said. He braced a hand on his thigh, elbow out, and strengthened his balance with a foot against the crate. It gave him a clearer view of both of the technicians.
“He makes sure the clan leader stays asleep,” Wratch added to his partner. The other krogan grunted what Calix assumed to be thanks. Or just acknowledgement. Either way, not a threat. “Sent the appetiz—” The krogan paused. Then, grimly, “The salarian worked with him.”
“Right.” Another nod, this one, Calix felt, for Na’to. And Nakmor Arvex.
“You both seem to be in good spirits,” Calix said thoughtfully. “Given everything.”
“Scarce food and a barren environment, right?” Kaje chuckled, the sound like boulders grating. “Just like home.” Another clang rang out over the large bay, echoing back from the gloom. He grinned a very, very wide and toothy grin over the paneling he worked to replace.
Wratch echoed the mirth, and Calix couldn’t help joining in the laughter. They had a point. “At least we should hear from the scouts soon,” he said.
The krogan exchanged heavy glances.
“Uh-oh,” Kaje rumbled.
“Uh-oh,” echoed the other. Wratch looked back at him, bracing his folded arms on the bar that had been welded in place. “You don’t know, do you?”
Calix went very still on the crate. “Know? Know what?” The worry festering in his gut froze around the edges.
Kaje slugged Wratch in the arm. Hard.
“They’re keeping it secret, idiot.”
Wratch shrugged off the blow, snapping once in irritation, and looked back at Calix.
“Scouts already came back.”
“What?! When?”
“Most, anyway,” Kaje corrected.
“When?” Calix repeated. He could feel the muscles tightening in his mandibles.
Both krogan shrugged in mountainous tandem. “Few weeks.”
For a moment, Calix couldn’t even find the words. Couldn’t settle on any one feeling. Shock. Anger. Betrayal.
The krogan didn’t notice. “Heard it from Botcha,” Kaje continued. He walked out from around the dark bay, stretching out his big, gnarled hands. His hide crinkled with every move. “Botcha was up in Operations repairing an inverter when the news came.”
“What news?” Calix demanded. It took all he had to keep from launching off that crate and shaking—trying to shake—the krogan. Both of them.
“No planets,” Wratch grunted as he punched the metal paneling lightly. It gonged. “No supplies.”
“The Scourge destroyed ’em,” Kaje added.
“Deader’n Tuchanka.”
“Almost.”
“Yeah. No turians.”
“Yet.”
The two exchanged another look and burst out laughing.
Calix couldn’t join in on the joke—not this time. No supplies were coming. No scouts bringing good news.
“And the Pathfinders?”
Kaje gave a hefty shrug. “No sign of ’em.”
No sign of the Pathfinders. They knew this, and yet the leadership was sitting on it. Toeing the same line they had since day one. The scouts will return, the supplies will be restocked, the planets will be terraformed…
Lies. All of it. Maybe not initially, but at least a couple of weeks’ worth.
The krogan were still bantering when Calix, numb with betrayal, unfolded from the crate and left hydroponics.
Hydroponics, where two tanks of algae had taken root. One looked ready to fail. While that was worrisome enough, the leadership kept on telling them all that hydroponics would flourish once they had colonial resources to supplement it. That the scouts would bring back new seeds, new hope for fertile ground.
Without those resources, the Nexus was back to two functional hydroponic bays. Just two. That wasn’t enough to feed a single department, much less the number of active people on the station. Prior
ities had to be re-shifted, information had to be disseminated. How else were they expected to survive?
None of this made any sense. And how badly did I misjudge Sloane Kelly?
Calix accessed his omni-tool and almost called her. Almost. He sent a short message instead. “Any news from the scouts?”
The reply came less than twenty seconds later.
“Nothing,” was all it said.
He stared at the word for a long time, simmering anger building to rage. A blatant lie, assuming these two krogan could be trusted, but he saw no reason why they would make such a story up.
So the leadership was sitting on the news. Even Sloane, whom he’d imagined to be better than this. For weeks they’d known, and said nothing. Which meant…
His fury drove him back to engineering in record time. “Gather up,” he said, stepping over his team’s greetings. The lash in his voice had them jumping to obey. Not because they were afraid of him, he understood. Because they knew him.
Calix didn’t rattle. Not easily.
The snap in his voice, tension in his demeanor, was all they needed to know something was up. In a matter of moments they’d put their work on hold and came to stand around their boss, each in a different stage of curiosity. As Calix surveyed the faces of his crew—many friends as well as subordinates—a pang of regret struck him at Irida’s absence.
She’d been with him longer than most. Dedicated, skilled. Loyal. Had she seen this coming? Is that why she’d given him that data?
Irida had always been good at planning for this sort of stuff. She had been the first to smell the cover-up by the captain of the Warsaw. Maybe it came with asari intelligence. Maybe she just had a more realistic view of people than he did. Either way, Calix had what she’d given him.
And a crew ready to hear him speak.
Calix wouldn’t let them down.
“You all know what kind of things we’re dealing with,” he began. “The situation here aboard the Nexus.” His hands clasped behind his back, and in unconscious mimicry, much of his team did the same. Alliance and military training. Even contractors picked it up, if they stuck around long enough.
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