Much had happened in a week. The Nexus was stable now, and the Scourge seemed, after the last brush with whatever spreading tendril, to be a phenomenon they’d passed through and left in their wake. No one would really know until sensors were repaired; a project that had met with delays and a borderline farcical amount of calamity.
Sensors, sensors, Tann thought. They may all be floating blind, but the shuttles in the Colonial Affairs hangar surely should have some capability in this regard. Perhaps Addison was right. Perhaps a few should be launched, if only to give us readings from our immediate vicinity.
It might even be that they could make contact with the Pathfinders, and solicit help. Yes, he thought, about-facing to pace a new path. The Pathfinders. Certainly they could—
No, no, a terrible idea. He stopped that line of thought. Each and every one of those shuttles would be needed if another system failed, or worse, if the Nexus hit another vein of this mysterious Scourge. Evacuation would require every last square centimeter of space they offered, thanks to the large population now awake.
They represented less than a fifth of the overall total personnel, of course, but everyone remained confined to a fraction of the Nexus’s total living space, too. Most of the station, like most of her crew, remained frozen.
Everything, in his view, hinged on the matter of population. Each crew member who woke became a “bag of needs,” as he’d heard a turian describe them. Easy for them to say, of course, with their highly unique dependency on dextro-amino acids. Human, krogan, asari and salarian personnel had to worry about four times the emergency supplies.
Then again, he supposed the overall stock for turian biology was less, too.
A bag of needs, eh? Each member a mouth to feed, an air-breather, a mind that had opinions on the wisdom of their interim leader’s decisions.
Weight. And a lot of it.
He’d known that this population surge would stabilize the Nexus. He also knew that, once awake, few if any of the crew would entertain the idea of returning to sleep. They saw revival from stasis as like being born again. A kind of metaphysical hatching.
Every possible outcome played out in his mind, save for the positive ones. If everything went well, he’d be right there with the others, raising a toast to all the hard work and team effort that had saved the mission. He doubted anyone would lift a glass and praise all the thought and planning, but that was an acceptable loss. He was used to that.
And yet there were the problem scenarios to consider. They were legion, to put it mildly. It all came back to supplies. Mouths to feed, thirsts to quench, waste products of which to dispose. Life was many things, but chief among its traits was its incredible efficiency at turning food into feces, and that simple process lay at the core of all his concerns.
Supplies. They would dwindle far too quickly for comfort.
He’d already predicted the first reports of theft. A simple question asked in a hallway about where a crate had been placed. “I thought I’d left it there,” met with “I didn’t see it, are you sure?”
Somewhere, out there, in this vast yet tiny corner of the Nexus, were the clever ones. Those who also saw the potential problems looming, and consciously or not, they’d begun to plan.
This wasn’t necessarily malicious behavior, Tann understood, but merely a survival instinct. When one foresees trouble on the horizon, one prepares.
So what to do?
He paced and paced, aware dimly that his omni-tool languished beyond the lab, chirping away for his attention. Spender, no doubt, or perhaps Addison. They sought his opinions, and relayed news.
Sloane Kelly and Nakmor Kesh, on the other hand, had yet to fully admit to his position as director, even after the discovery of Garson’s body. He always had to seek them out when the situation required. Always had to be the one to ask.
But he accepted this, as well. Early days, these were.
Kelly was slowly extracting herself from the emergency-responder mindset. Kesh, well. She was krogan, wasn’t she? She would operate in ways ceded by her genetic predisposition for violence and aggression. This was what krogan did.
This was why he did not argue when Sloane Kelly demanded more of her security team be awakened.
More mouths to feed, certainly, but there were no krogan among them. When push came to shove—and it always did with the violent species—he could count on Sloane’s security team to put down the trouble.
For that, he required Sloane Kelly’s trust. Or at least her effort.
For better or worse, he viewed the leadership arrangement as a triumvirate. Him, Addison, Sloane. If he began to make unilateral decisions now, he had no doubt they would find a way to remove him from his place here and doubted anyone would argue. They would begin to make decisions based on their own myopic view of things. Problematic, and he felt sure Jien Garson understood that.
Almost certainly, this was why his name had come up. A level head, a broad perspective. They needed him, and yet he needed them.
So be it.
Addison often adopted the role, reluctantly, of tiebreaker. It was the “reluctantly” part of that equation that troubled Tann. She was taking this disaster worse than the others. She wandered, said the bare minimum, with a curtness that rivaled Sloane’s on a good day. In the rare cases where the leadership met to discuss something, she let the conversation be led, following whomever she felt was the closest to the right call, but with no enthusiasm.
There had been a spark, briefly, when she’d advocated for exploring the nearby worlds, perhaps finding an alternative location for the mission of the Nexus if the station itself could not support it. He could have done more to nurture that, he thought now, but instead he’d sided with Sloane.
The mission came first, and the shuttles were needed here.
But perhaps he’d failed to consider the full ramifications of that moment. He could have ceded that argument, and in return won a more reliable ally. Instead, the moment had left the erstwhile Colonial Affairs Director feeling as if her entire purpose for being on this ship had been relegated to “if we ever get around to it.”
Problematic. Very problematic.
It seemed to have the unforeseen consequence of tapping Addison’s motivation. Her deciding votes had become essentially random and that, in turn, made all of Tann’s thoughtful deliberation rather a waste of time. Which meant—
A pause. A stop, mid-step, as the idea unfurled like a Sur’Kesh nightbloom. “Ah!”
Aborting his pacing path, he turned toward the door, strode for it. He knew exactly what to do.
In the hall he picked up his omni-tool from the floor and fixed it to his wrist. There were several messages from William Spender—status updates on various recovery efforts. Tann had not asked for them, but appreciated them all the same.
Spender, it seemed, had also failed to unravel Addison’s sour mood. Instead of waiting for improvement, he’d taken it upon himself to find other ways to help. Initiative like that should not be discouraged. Tann would use what was made available to him.
Later. For now, he ignored the messages.
Grateful for the combined efforts of his prior genius and the systems technicians who had strengthened the signal, he took the opportunity to contact Sloane on single point-to-point communications.
She answered after a few seconds, audio-only, as seemed to be her custom.
“I’m busy,” she said.
Also her custom.
Clanging, tools whirring all peppered the background of her comm signal. The focus today was on hydroponics, he knew. Not the growth of crops, which was still a dubious prospect given the state of the seeds, but the “less sexy,” as Sloane put it, side of that department—the bacteria vats. These were crucial to normal station operations, not only for their ability to convert waste into fertilizer, but also to produce drinking water as a byproduct. Both were sorely needed.
“Fully appreciated, Security Director,” he said. “I have a personal favor to ask
, actually.”
“No shit?”
“I imagine,” he replied dryly, “that you have plenty of that around you now.”
Tann walked as he spoke, heading for the primary junction corridor that linked this part of the Nexus with the warehousing district. Kesh and her work crew had been focused almost entirely on this area for two days now, trying to clear a path.
For that matter, he kept a wary eye out for any workforce he might unwittingly cross paths with.
Sloane’s snort seemed to him to be a sign of laughter. She had so many, he often confused them. “Not yet, wise guy. That’s what the work is for.”
“Fair. As to the purpose of this call, I wonder if you might talk with Addison.”
A beat. “About?”
“This may require a bit of discretion.”
Even through the tinny speaker of the omni-tool, he could hear her laugh. “Please tell me you want me to slip her a note in class.”
Tann considered this. Did not find sense in the offer. “There are no classes,” he replied, frowning at his wrist as though he may find the answer there. Without Sloane’s face to guide him, he couldn’t be sure which conversational gambit to take. “But if you suppose a note would be helpful?”
“Oh, for—Never mind,” she said, more clearly exasperated. “It’s a joke. What am I talking to her about?”
Ah. Sloane’s jokes were as mercurial as her cooperative spirit. He shrugged. “I have some concerns about her declining mood. I am no doctor or psychologist, but I believe she is suffering from depression.”
This did not go over with the ah-ha moment he’d hoped. “Yeah, no kidding,” she replied. “As it turns out, even an idiot like me can see that, Tann.”
See? Mercurial. He sighed. “I didn’t mean that you are an idiot, Sloane.”
“Yeah? What did you mean?”
“I thought perhaps you, as a human female, might be at a stronger advantage for…” He paused. Considered the words. “For bonding? The kind between like, rather than commitment,” he added, in case she misunderstood. Species interplay was only his forte in that he understood the politics.
Relationships within other species were utterly beyond his realm of understanding.
When she didn’t answer right away, Tann hurriedly added, “Unless that is your predilection, in which case you have my full support to—”
Sloane laughed, then. Sharp, but not hard. “Relax,” she said on the end of it. “I know what you meant. Sorry, I’m running on two hours sleep here. You want me—as a human female—to talk to her, try to get her out of her funk, is that it?”
Relief. “Precisely.” After a second he added, “This type of thing is not one of my strengths.” A little truth to salve the sting.
“You and me both,” Sloane said. “I’m no counselor. Still, you’re right. And it’s pretty damn thoughtful of you.”
Relief eased to a surprising note of… what was that? Pleasure? At her rare praise? Tann opened his mouth to thank her, but she didn’t pause to let him.
“I guess—Yeah, sure, I can try.”
Unexpectedly easy. And most assuredly surprising. “Thank you, Sloane.”
“When things have settled here,” she added quickly, with emphasis that said she expected a fight on it.
He did not deliver. “Of course.”
“Anything else?”
Tann did have something else in mind, but decided that despite this little bit of team building, it would be better left unspoken.
“No. Please, by all means, return to your—”
“Out,” Sloane said, cutting the link.
Classic Sloane Kelly, to the last. But perhaps, just perhaps, this was who she was with everybody. That, at least, left him something to consider as he proceeded on his way.
Had this bit of effort been the right thing to do? Only time would tell, of course, but if his estimations were correct, not only might Foster Addison rise from her foul mood, but the impetus to do so would come from Sloane, rather than him. He wasn’t sure how that might alter Addison’s impression of—and allegiance to—Sloane, but it might serve to make Sloane a bit more sympathetic toward him.
A tiny push toward cohesion. If they could all just trust him, Tann felt sure the mission would be back on track in time to assist the Pathfinders and, ultimately, colonize Andromeda. “To paint their masterpiece,” as Jien had so wonderfully put it.
Now for the next item on my agenda.
He steeled himself, for this was likely to go in a much different direction. No omni-tool this time. A personal visit would be better. An opportunity to make clear that Acting Director Jarun Tann was no longer acting.
He went in search of Nakmor Kesh.
CHAPTER TEN
The Nexus, he thought, could still be classified as a wreck. That would not change for some time. Still, as Jarun Tann strode through the labyrinth of halls and chambers, he could not help but feel a sense of hope. The progress made in just one week was remarkable, even with the extra damage provided by the Scourge.
Or perhaps, he reflected, because of. Little could be as motivating as immediate danger.
Just two days before, in order to walk from his co-opted Research Lab to Operations, Tann would have had to descend two levels, cross the Fabrication workshop, climb an unintended ramp made of a collapsed portion of ceiling, duck under a foul-smelling bundle of ruptured pipes, then finally climb back up the two levels he’d descended by using a ladder bolted to the wall of an unpowered lift tube.
While he still had to do most of that, the ruptured pipes were no longer leaking. Someone had welded a salvaged sheet of metal across the lot of them.
In so many cases, the little things made for a greater sense of optimism.
Although revenue had been his placement, Tann had not fallen so far into numbers that he did not maintain a healthy regimen of exercise, when applicable. This route appeased that need—and never so completely felt than when he hauled his own body weight up to the floor outside the unpowered lift tube.
Efficiently fit, perhaps, but a soldier he was not.
He lay back on the gritty floor, waited for his breathing to settle. This took longer than it should have, even on exhausted days. His lungs absolutely burned, and did he detect a bit of a wheeze? No doubt from all the toxins he’d been sucking in since the calamity.
Ventilation, as of yesterday, had yet to cross the 50% effectiveness threshold, despite all the progress by that team.
Once he felt he could breathe again without hitching, he rolled over and clambered to his feet. He saw nobody the rest of the journey. Operations was empty. The bodies of their unfortunate leadership had all been removed, placed in the improvised morgue until a proper memorial could be arranged. Someone had even cleaned up the blood, the rubble, and righted the overturned furniture. Other than its temporary wall, and the fact that nearly every screen was still dark, the room looked relatively normal.
Almost as it had before they’d left the Milky Way. More ghosts, perhaps. A reflection that caught him off guard. Salarians, and Tann especially, saw no use for the concept of specters.
“Why’d you leave?”
The voice boomed in the hollow chamber, slammed into his aural cavities and jerked him around. His wide eyes took in the empty—
No. The once-empty chamber.
Nakmor Kesh stood behind him, as if she’d followed in his footsteps. She pushed past him even before her voice had died.
“I beg your pardon?” he asked stiffly.
“You heard me.” She didn’t turn around to address him directly. He watched as she strode toward a dead bank of monitors on the opposite wall, lowered her large bulk to the floor. Without ceremony, she began to pull burnt system boards from an open access panel.
He had, of course, heard her. But the meaning escaped him. “Leave what?” He approached cautiously. Not because he wanted to be in reach of krogan fists, but because he felt it necessary to maintain a certain amount of ground in fron
t of one.
“The Milky Way.” She spoke to the cables and cords, the fried wires and burnt boards. Not to him. “Everyone has their reasons. What’s yours, Jarun Tann?”
“Ah.” A popular topic among the crew. He’d heard enough of them discussing it with friends or coworkers in the crowded common area. All reminding one another of what they’d sacrificed, as a sort of reminiscence-based motivational technique. A coping mechanism, no doubt.
This was the first time, however, anyone had asked Tann the question. He grew nervous. Anticipating questions and preparing natural-sounding-yet-carefully-rehearsed answers was something of a pastime for him. Improvisation wasn’t a skill he had ever quite mastered, though this did not thwart his attempts to try.
The timing. It all came down to the timing.
Which he’d just blown, he realized, as the krogan heaved a long-suffering sigh and sat back on her haunches to glare at him. “You must have more reason than just salarian instinct to stick fingers in all things at the same time,” she said heavily. What may have been a lighthearted joke from anyone else did not translate as such when a krogan said it.
“No need for that,” he snapped, stiffening. “If you must know, I left because I’ve always wanted to explore. Yes,” he added in irritation, “grin away, but it’s the truth. I once wanted to roam the stars. Third-assistant to the deputy administrative director of revenue projections, that was the detour. I see the Initiative as a chance to choose again.”
“Why?”
Why? He looked down at her. Or tried. Krogan were too big for easy disdain. “Although we are among the most intelligently advanced species in the gal—” He caught himself. “—in the Milky Way, we salarians don’t have the longest of life spans.”
Kesh snorted, turning back to her dysfunctional processors. “It’s one of my favorite things about salarians.”
Another would-be joke carried on sharp teeth from a krogan. Worse, a krogan he had no power to remove for her temerity in existing with such confidence on his station.
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