“Yes,” Sloane repeated, watching him walk out. “Let’s not.”
Addison barely managed to bite off a curse.
Or maybe she was just surrounded by people so thick-headed, they gave the krogan a run for the gold star.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Things were going as well as could possibly be expected. Life support hadn’t failed yet, and people were learning to count on Calix’s team to keep it that way.
The krogan had managed to clear out enough working space that bodies weren’t bumping into each other every time they took a breath. Careful maintenance and hair-trigger calibrations ensured that the most basic of failsafes didn’t go haywire when the power shorted out anywhere aboard the station.
As they battled the chaos of a heavily damaged systems array, Calix Corvannis surveyed his team with a steady, critical eye. They were exhausted, worn down to the bone, and the muttering between them had intensified. He’d seen this exact scenario play out before, with this very team.
Same situation. Different ship. A frigate called the Warsaw, where a string of bad decisions by a stubborn captain had led to the near total loss of the ship.
Calix had been ordered to work his team to the brink of exhaustion and beyond. Get the job done, whatever it took.
Eventually, they’d figured out that the goal was not to fix the ship, it was to put his team in a position to plausibly blame for its condition.
Calix had refused.
His action had bordered on mutiny, but he’d won. In the face of losing his entire life-support team, the captain had backed down.
Calix had also won the undying loyalty of his team in the process. The whole affair had earned him “administrative reassignment” off the Warsaw the moment the ship made port, but that was fine. Calix had left without a second thought.
He just hadn’t expected his team to follow. Off the Warsaw, and into the Andromeda Initiative. They could have stayed and let him take the fall. Could have done so much more with their independence. But they chose to follow him.
These were hardworking, knuckle-scraping, straightforward people who believed in one cause above all else: loyalty. They said they’d follow him anywhere. Truth was, who else would take them? They’d walked away from their posts in protest of his dismissal, a mark on their records few employers would overlook.
Except Kesh.
Of course, the fact that things were going as well as could be expected didn’t mean the situation was good. It just meant they were all hanging on—barely. His team, the Nexus, the future.
“Ammonia reserves at thirty percent.”
Calix glanced at the speaker, a human named Nnebron. Lawrence Nnebron. Alliance stock, Earth-born, trained and capable… but very young. Calix’s fingers dug into the systems frame. Thirty percent. Not enough. Not nearly enough for his peace of mind.
“Can we shift to electrics?” he asked.
“We’re already skirting dangerously close to shutting down portions of the grid. This kind of additional draw, we’re liable to trigger a blackout.”
“Well,” Calix mused, “we wouldn’t want to be the ones responsible for that.”
Irida Fadeer looked up from her calculations. “No, we wouldn’t,” the purple-skinned asari muttered. “Lest Their Royal Highnesses come barging in.”
Calix didn’t look at her. He was afraid of seeing the irritation on her face, the simmering anger behind all the exhaustion, and echoing it. He was tired, too. Of the hours. Of the orders coming down the chain of laughable command, each circumventing the last.
Not that he could blame anyone for feeling angry. Waking up abruptly had been a shock, to say the least. He could only imagine how it had been for the first survivors, to have been expelled from their stasis pods without care or warning. It had to have left them shaken.
That’s why it was Calix’s job to ensure the next group to wake up got everything they deserved. Everything denied him—and his exhausted team.
A tic jumped in the center of his brow. Right at the crest. It wasn’t supposed to move like that. Calix rubbed at it grimly, but no amount of that would make the stress go away.
“How steady are we?” he asked. Irida passed him a screen. It only took a glance. “Right. It’ll hold for now. Take some R&R,” he added, setting the tablet on the dash—out of the asari’s hands.
She noticed. “But—”
“I’ll handle any backlash,” Calix said firmly. “You’re all working as hard as you can, and you’ve performed miracles out here on your own. Take a well-deserved break.”
Irida exchanged glances with Nnebron, who shrugged. “If you say so,” the human said.
The rest of the team were too tired to do more than drag themselves away from their stations. “Cookout in the commons!” one said, a decree met with cheers of support.
Irida eyed them warily. “Cookout, huh?”
Calix grinned at the asari’s wrinkled nose. “Hey, don’t knock it. Nothing beats a good cookout in hard times.”
“Mm.” Not really a word, but her skepticism came through loud and clear. “Don’t cookouts usually require meat and vegetables?”
“Yeah, well…”
“And aren’t they held, you know, outside?”
“Well,” Calix repeated with a laughing shrug, “you get rations, and if you’re lucky, some club music. Just go with it. It’s called improvising.”
Her nose was still wrinkled as she walked away, following the others.
Calix’s amusement faded. A wave of exhaustion rolled over him, and he took a moment to lean against the dash and rub the back of his neck. Even his fringe ached.
What in the galaxy did they expect Calix and his team to do here? They couldn’t wake more people. The krogan were great at labor and terrible at the finesse work—Kesh excluded, Calix could admit. And if they slipped up even a little, thousands of people would suffer.
Pressure?
Try an entire station’s worth of pressure. A generation’s worth of pressure.
The headache between his eyes had become a constant companion the past few days. Every time he found himself thinking like this, Calix told himself it was better than the turians’ meritocracy. That the Nexus had real thinkers, planners, and doers up there in Operations. Not just some lucky bastards who’d survived a calculated decision.
Except…
Except that’s exactly what they were. Weren’t they?
The comm signaled a connection. “You coming, boss?”
Nnebron again.
“Be there in five,” Calix replied, and he signed off before the youth could hear his sigh.
The turian meritocracy might not be Calix’s idea of qualified leadership, but neither was some halfassed algorithm based on a reporting structure. All that accomplished was allowing stooges to fill in for the real talent.
He frowned as he made his way out of the system’s arrays. They’d been hardwired together in places, interrupted by glossy segments of neatness where his team had started putting them back together. The paneling gleamed.
Foster Addison was fine enough as the director of Colonial Affairs. She had a steady head. Mostly. But seemed more like an organizer than a solid leader. The kind of brain that set things into plans and gave them to more forceful or subtle personalities to execute. Colonial Affairs was a good fit for her. Running a station without Garson’s guidance? Not so much.
On the other hand, Jarun Tann was neither forceful nor subtle. The salarian’s snide habit of looking down his nose at Calix and his team still got under his skin. And of course, he was the one with the “acting director” title. In theory he could make decisions entirely on his own, though Calix wondered what would happen if the salarian tried. Nothing good, he suspected.
Calix grumbled to himself as he paced down the corridor, unzipping his uniform at the neck to let him at least feel like he had more breathing room. Few people traversed these particular halls. A couple krogan lumbered past, grunting acknowledgement of his p
resence. He nodded, but didn’t say anything.
Too tired. Too past the point of exchanging niceties.
It was a trait he currently shared with Sloane, at least. He hadn’t expected to enjoy the human’s company, but her lack of ulterior motives and forthright personality appealed to the turian as the better of the three options. At least he could trust the security director to take care of problems the old-fashioned way. Hell, she’d probably have made a good turian, the way she liked to cut through the bullshit.
Sure turians politicked. Calix was all too familiar with that truth. But not the way salarians schemed and asari hovered.
Of course, humans could be just as bad. The First Contact War had proved it. But the way Calix saw it right now, Sloane was a leg up.
One out of three ain’t bad.
Voices peppered the quiet corridor as Calix approached his destination. The lights were kept dim to save on resources, but that didn’t stop the music. It threaded through the sound of merriment and shouting, with a techno beat somebody had decided was a good idea.
“All right, Corvannis,” he muttered, his own voice cut with grim humor. “Face up.” His crew would only be dragged down even more if they saw how defeated he was feeling. He’d buck up. They’d buck up.
They all had to.
He rubbed at a mandible as he worked on arranging his features into something much less brooding. It wasn’t exactly a smile, not even by turian standards, but it’d do. He couldn’t erase exhaustion.
Ready as he was for whatever version of a cookout the crew had managed, Calix didn’t expect the voices he heard to translate into angry shouting. He rounded the corner and entered the commons with a greeting ready, only to draw up short.
Four of his team had gathered in a loose semi-circle around what appeared, to his ignorant eye, to be a still of some kind. They weren’t looking at whatever chemicals dripped inside, though. They were staring at the other side of the room, where a row of brighter fixtures highlighted the faceoff between his young engineer Nnebron and Addison’s twitchy assistant.
The shouting came from the peanut gallery, and the tension was like walking into a dust cloud. His facade of good humor snapped.
“What’s going on here?”
The small crowd went abruptly silent. William Spender angled his body away from Nnebron, just enough to make it clear he considered the engineer of no consequence.
“Ah. Are you in charge of this motley crew?” the politician said. Calix’s fingers twitched to zip up his uniform, but he refrained. They’d met before. Clearly, the man thought little of ground and tech crew.
“Calix Corvannis,” he said calmly, striding past his crew, ignoring the still and planting himself between Spender and the rest. A nice, easygoing barrier. “Engineering.”
Spender frowned. He shifted his tablet from one hand to the other, waved it at him officiously. “I can see that from your uniform,” he said. “Anyway it’s not what I asked. Are you in charge here?”
“Yes.” Clipped. Calix looked to Nnebron, bypassing Spender entirely. “What’s going on?”
Nnebron straightened his shoulders. “We were setting up the cookout, sir, when this—” Behind him, Irida cleared her throat. Nnebron coughed whatever he’d intended to say and amended it. “When this guy comes sticking his face in where it don’t belong.”
Before Calix could ask anything else, Spender rounded on his engineer. “I am an advisor to the acting director, and Deputy Director of Colonial Affairs, and you will mind your manners when you speak to your superiors.”
Calix saw Nnebron’s mouth open, the flicker in his dark eyes. He headed off the man’s response.
“Nnebron, go stand with the others.”
One look. Just one, but to his credit, the engineer didn’t argue. Instead he shook his head and retreated to join the rest of the crew.
Okay, Calix thought. Good. One potential fuse out of the blasting cap. He turned back to Spender. The look on his face pissed Calix off—smug victory, like he’d just won a hand of cards. “All right,” Calix said calmly, “I’m going to ask a third time…”
He didn’t have to. Irida spoke up when nobody else would. “It’s like Nnebron said, sir. We were preparing the food when he—” she gestured, “—came in asking about permissions and requisitions.”
“And then?”
Irida looked at her feet, confirming what he already suspected. They’d gotten rowdy. Her mouth twisted.
“He pulled the plug on the…” She paused. Frowned. “What do you call it again?”
“Barbecue,” Nnebron supplied. A sullen mutter. He was still glaring daggers at the bureaucrat.
“Illegal use of Nexus materials,” Spender interjected flatly. “Under no circumstances should rations and materials be used for this… whatever nonsense you call it.”
Calix’s eyes were still on Irida, and he didn’t have to look. He just assumed the guy was waving his hand around. He seemed like the type.
Nnebron sneered. “We weren’t doing anything wrong!”
Exhaustion warred with impatience. Calix turned to face the aide. “Spender, right?” A brisk nod. “Listen. This team has been working around the clock for days. They deserve some time to relax.”
The man took a few steps forward, holding his tablet as if it provided some kind of backing. “It’s not their time off I’m concerned with,” he replied. “But dried supplies? Reconstituted rations? And that!” He pointed at the still. “That’s not even covered under regulations!”
He tapped the screen, but didn’t bring it close enough for Calix to read.
“This is a partial list of supplies,” he continued, “as per current efforts to inventory. Since we don’t know how long we’ll be carrying out repairs, it’s imperative that we keep a thumb on the amount and accessibility of rations.”
The murmurs behind him mirrored Calix’s sentiments neatly. “There’s been no prohibition that we’ve been made aware of,” he said. “Show me the authority to restrict?”
There wasn’t one. He was sure of it.
Spender held Calix’s stare, though. “I am the authority. Director Tann tapped me for the task. I decide what you can use—” he nodded toward the cooking gear, “—and what you can’t.”
Tough words, but Calix sensed little backbone behind them. His people knew a bootlicker when they saw one, though; it was something of a game for them.
One he needed to keep under wraps. Gossip was all well and good, but not in opposition.
A new tactic presented itself. “Look,” Calix said, summoning all the conciliatory smoothness he could muster. He spread the three digits on each hand. “My team has been working hard keeping everyone alive. They deserve a cookout. Without some downtime, a little boost to their mood, mistakes might start to happen, and nobody wants that, believe me.”
The assistant director’s fingers tapped a tight rhythm on the readout. “I demand to speak to your supervisor. Head of your department.”
Calix stared at him. “Are you serious?”
“Very.”
He sighed. “Irida.”
The asari’s voice came quick and remarkably poised. “Yes, Calix?”
Without looking away from Spender’s narrow-eyed stare, Calix said, “Tell the boss a William Spender, Assistant Director of Colonial Affairs, wants to see him.”
The first tic of discomfort began to distort the sides of the human’s so-stern mouth.
“You got it,” Irida said, her voice pleasant. “Hey, Nnebron!”
“What’s up, Violet?”
“Tell the boss someone named Spender, Assistant Director to something or other, wants to see him.”
Spender’s fingers picked up rhythm.
“Sure thing.” A pause, and then, desperately trying to hold in his amusement, Calix heard Nnebron half-turn. “Hey, Nacho!”
The salarian heaved a sigh. “It’s Na’to.”
“Whatever. Tell the boss some dude is—”
Spe
nder made a disapproving grunt at that.
Never one to miss a cue, Na’to muttered, “I am not a secretary.” But nevertheless, raised his voice and called out, “Corvannis, sir, there’s a human to see you.”
Calix put on a theatrical note of inquiry. “Oh, yeah?” He drawled every word. “What for?”
Na’to’s shrug echoed in his tone. “Nnebron didn’t say.”
“Got it,” Calix replied as Spender’s skin began to turn red at the fringes. Or hairline. Whatever. Calix didn’t so much as move a muscle. Not one twitch. He just paused long enough to make his point, then said cheerfully, “I’m Calix Corvannis, head of life support. What can I do for you?”
His team smothered laughter behind hands, coughs, clearing of throats.
Calix expected an explosion. Expected swearing, a fight, whatever this guy did when he blew his top.
What he did not expect was to be humored.
The glare, the tight lips, it all changed. The transformation was so abrupt Calix couldn’t help but admire the savvy of it. He could almost see the political calculations going on behind those beady eyes, the effort of will that faded the apoplectic spots of anger. Spender’s face practically lit up. “You know what? You’re right. I’m being a hardass and that’s unfair to you and your team. I’m terribly sorry for the misunderstanding, Officer Corvannis.”
“Uh…” Some of the fight went out of Calix’s spine. Even his team had stopped laughing.
Including Nnebron. And that said something, right there. The kid was attitude in a uniform.
Spender spread his hand wide. “I should be thanking you. Here you are, the folks keeping us all alive, and here’s me, the guy who can get you what you need without all this needless posturing. Seems like we should be friends.”
Calix didn’t relax. But he did chuckle, a dry, knowing sound. “Got off on the wrong foot, that it?”
“Exactly,” Spender said. “Exactly. The fatigue, the constant fear of the Scourge, it’s making us all a bit screwy, isn’t it? So forget what I said. Enjoy your party.”
The gathering stirred behind him. He felt a nudge at his back plates. An elbow, probably.
Andromeda Page 17
