Andromeda

by Jason M. Hough

  “You good, Nacho?”

  “Mm,” Na’to said, looking out again into the black. A word that wasn’t one, he realized when he glanced back at his team. “It doesn’t seem close enough, and barring any unforeseen alterations in trajectory or force, it should remain so.”

  The krogan looked at each other, then shrugged in unison. “It’s weird,” one said.

  “Yeah,” the other added. “Like a thresher maw pet.”

  “What?”

  “I think,” Na’to translated slowly, “they mean it’s unpredictable.”

  “All right, then. Let’s get this conduit scoped in record time.”

  Without further ado, Na’to coiled enough slack to keep Reg on his toes and made his way to the emergency hatch that had, miraculously, survived the devastation. “Well,” he said, testing the comms with false cheer while the air hissed out around him and the small hatch pressurized, “it could be worse.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Andria’s voice sounded younger in comms than it did in person. A fact he had pointed out once to unfortunate consequences. “How so?”

  Once settled, the exterior hatch opened to reveal little but space. And the occasional projectile, albeit none so large as to block the breath-taking view. Na’to’s smile tipped up behind his mask. “I could be stuck down there smelling krogan.”

  One of the krogan grunted something Na’to thought might be a laugh. “Don’t worry,” he graveled through deep chuckles. “It could be worse in here, too.”

  “Yeah?” asked Reg, thoughtful but focused. Na’to knew the slack of his secure cord was in good hands. “How do you figure?”

  A large, bulky shape blocked out the stars in Na’to’s peripheral. “Because,” came a voice deeper, meaner than the others. He turned slowly, grav boots locking with each step, to stare into the faceplate of a krogan whose hump towered well over Na’to’s head. Despite the sizable mass, all he could catalog for sure was a row of ragged, sharp teeth. “They could be stuck with me.”

  “Ah.” Na’to went still, swaying faintly as his coordination struggled to get used to zero gravity and the singularly difficult boots meant to counter it. Na’to nodded his head. “You must be Arvex.”

  “And you’re the tech-head sent in to secure this piece of crap so I can get back to work.” Arvex bent to peer at him. “Funny. I didn’t think they’d send in a salarian.”

  Na’to sighed, sending up a small prayer to the Dalatrass that had birthed him. “Funny,” he responded in kind. “I didn’t expect a krogan to think.”

  The comms were dead silent. The only sound coming back to him was his own breath, and the illusionary hum of tension as it filled the vacuum between them.

  Arvex rapped out a burst of laughter. “Come on.”

  He turned and led the slow, methodical way across the hull. Each step thunked in force felt more than heard, while the delicate sea of mysterious tendrils seemed to drift without form or reason. So close, he felt like all he had to do was stretch a hand to touch it.

  A fallacy, of course. Distance between what his eyes could perceive and the depth of dimension provided by the Scourge, the space it occupied, the pattern of light refracted off of the quietly floating Nexus, and his own fascination provided inaccurate perceptions.

  The hatch, though. Now that was something a salarian could dig his hands into. To start, anyway. Arvex stopped first, folded his arms and glared at the brightly lit interior. “Here’s the thing. Do what you came to do and then let’s get the hell off this hull.”

  Under the light, wires and connectors gleamed in pristine condition.

  Well, nearly so.

  “Ah,” he muttered to himself, climbing the last steps up the station’s hull with eyes fixed on the hardware. “Definite auxiliary,” he reported, tenderly lifting a bundle of wires to the side. “Can’t see the source of the problem, not yet. But this… and this…”

  “What’s this?” A question Reg asked, but not to him. To Andria.

  She had visuals through his feed. “It feeds life support, all right. An auxiliary power source, and one that I would guess wasn’t meant to provide as much power as it currently is.”

  A grunt from the krogan beside him. Na’to didn’t pay much attention.

  “Andria?” Reg asked.

  “Yeah. I’m worried, too,” Andria replied quietly.

  “Listen, Na’to, that Scourge is giving me the creeps out there. It’s closer on this side than on the populated side.”

  Na’to made a thoughtful sound, but most of his mind was already entangled with power draw and mathematic values.

  “He ain’t hearing you,” Arvex cut in. “Typical salarian.”

  “Typical Nacho, anyway,” Reg replied with a sigh. “Let’s keep an eye on the stuff and see if it shifts. Mumbo! Jumbo! Go stand watch on either side of the bulkhead.”

  “Who do you think—”

  A foot clanged against the edge of the hatch. “Do it,” Arvex growled. Then he felt the weight of the krogan’s stare, heard him shift to crouch down on his haunches. “You hear that, appetizer? Get this old shit running like new before it all goes sideways.”

  Old? No, no. New. Cutting edge. Failing, perhaps—fuses were beginning to show char. Overheating, maybe. Stress, decidedly. The salarian ignored the krogan, bent and thrust his face almost fully into the hatch. He wished he could take the helmet off, really use all his senses on the receptors and the connectors and just… just know what the tech was doing.

  Why it struggled.

  But that would be too easy. The sound of chatter faded into the background as Na’to focused on what was, ultimately, his one and only love.

  “I don’t get it,” muttered Arvex.

  “We don’t either,” replied Andria, “but we let him do his thing.”

  A pause.

  Then, as the krogan’s metal-shod feet clunked against the hull, he shifted stance to keep a stern watch over Na’to’s head and said flatly, “His thing is weird.”

  The salarian smiled faintly to himself. They didn’t have to understand. They just had to let him work his incredible intellect.

  * * *

  Emory got off the comm with a sigh of irritation, mingled with resignation. He’d known what it meant to marry an engineer, but it still wreaked havoc on every effort to create something like a normal schedule.

  Not that there was anything normal about this.

  The Nexus was a wreck, hydroponics wasn’t responding, and he was positive that the next step would be some serious rations. Nothing else made sense.

  Dr. Emory Wilde was, of course, a scientist. A botanist, to be precise, with awards in astrobiology, xenobotany, and, as it turned out, husband-wrangling.

  Only two of those things would help the Nexus.

  The third helped Reggie, but only when the stubborn mule allowed it.

  Emory realized he’d been hunched over the microscope so long that his back was starting to curve naturally into it. Worthless, given he was currently sitting in one of the organized mess halls and not the lab he shared with the other hydroponics team.

  There was nothing to stare at under a microscope here, unless one counted the porridge they’d taken to pulling together.

  Given the look of the bland sludge, Emory didn’t care to do so.

  The chair across from him squeaked, announcing a table guest with no preamble. Emory lifted tired eyes, summoning a smile when he recognized William Spender, aide to the directors. “Good morning. Or…”

  “Good evening,” Spender replied good-naturedly. He was a thin man, with the look of one who never really settled into place. Like a cat, or even some kind of rodent, always checking the corners.

  It was, Emory reflected gravely, not a singular affectation. He’d noticed that look on a few more of the Nexus’s personnel lately. Uncertainty. Anxiety.

  Borderline haunted.

  He’d seen it on Reggie’s face more times than not. At least when the team’s supervisor allowed him to get some rest
.

  Emory’s smile faded to something more empathetic. Xenobotanist he may be, but he was still human. He still understood the toll. “You look spent.”

  The man allowed his forearms to rest on the table, hands tucked wearily within. “I feel spent,” he admitted. “It seems there is always some emergency or another.”

  Emory could only guess at the veracity of his statement. “In hydroponics,” he replied with what he hoped was suitable sympathy, “we are kept busy on the singular task of growing food. I can understand that you must have so much more to manage.”

  Spender’s eyes crinkled, but it wasn’t so much a smile as it was weary resignation. “Put out one fire, and another starts.”

  “Metaphorically and otherwise.”

  “You aren’t kidding, friend.”

  Emory nodded at that, then, with a rueful smile, pushed his porridge toward the man. “Here, if you’d like.”

  Spender looked at it as if he’d rather eat anything but the soppy beige stuff, but when he looked up, the look had faded to one of remorse. “No, I couldn’t. You must know how the food situation is looking.”

  Ah. He did. Most certainly, he did. His husband spoke often of feeling the weight of the lives still in stasis upon him, but Emory felt the weight of the lives he saw every day. Good men and women of every species.

  They all needed food.

  And the irradiated remains of their stock was not cooperating.

  Emory laced his hands together. Squeezed them until the knuckles turned white. “I do,” he confirmed when Spender said nothing else. “I am worried, Assistant Director. The progress with the seeds—”

  “Yes, the progress.” Spender leaned forward, weight on his elbows. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Tell me, do you think you’ll see a breakthrough soon?”

  Around them, the usual hub of diners trying to make the best of their third meal buzzed and hummed. Few enough seemed to take note of them, and even less seemed to care.

  Emory thought about it. “If by ‘soon,’ you mean within the next two weeks? Unlikely. Samples need time to incubate, and we are investigating the genetic damage—”

  Again, Spender interrupted him. “I see, I see. Good progress,” he said with a smile, a reassuring nod. “How’s the team?”

  Another pause. Emory studied William Spender’s face, searching for the motive in the questions. Admittedly, people were less his forte than plants. The man appeared little more than interested.

  As assistant to Directors Tann and Addison, of course he would be.

  Emory spread his hands, forcing his fingers to unlock before he hurt himself in his anxiousness. “They struggle,” he admitted. “We are not so deep into the station that we aren’t aware every moment of the Scourge.” Spender nodded encouragingly. “We are all overworked, and rightfully so,” he added, “but exhaustion and fear make for poor bedfellows.”

  “Of course, of course.” Spender looked down again at the gruel offered him. With one finger, he slid it back up the table at Emory. “You better eat this,” he said ruefully. “I have a suspicion that it’s all we’re going to get for a while.”

  “Rations?” A pause, then Emory clarified, “I mean, is our food to be fully rationed?”

  “Rationed?” Spender shook his head, smiling dismissively as he rose to his feet. “Not yet, friend. Not yet.” A pause, and then as if he thought better of it, he only reached over to shake Emory’s hand and repeated, “Not yet.”

  With that, William Spender made his farewells and left the mess hall.

  Emory watched him go, with doubt churning in an already knotted gut.

  He missed home. He missed his old lab, to be sure, but he missed the comforts he and Reggie had carved for themselves. A home Reggie could return to between outposts. A place to let go of the weight of the worlds upon them.

  Here, weight was all they seemed to have.

  First, the weight of the thousands still in stasis.

  Now the weight of men and women about to be very hungry.

  Not yet, Spender had said. Rueful. As if it were inevitable.

  Emory folded his hands together and rested his forehead against them.

  Most of all? He missed his husband. More than ever, he wanted Reggie to take a break, come and see him so that he could share these new worries. Talk it over.

  Face it together.

  But for now, all he could do was gather himself, his courage and his failing strength, and shake off the miasma of fatigue for one more effort at hydroponics.

  An effort that would turn into two. Then three. Then days.

  One breakthrough. That was all they needed.

  Because rumors were already starting to spread: Supplies are running low.

  Spender knew. Emory had to trust that this meant the directors did too.

  They’d all come up with something.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “Na’to’s finally got it!”

  “Well, sing a goddamn chorus of whatever,” Arvex growled in comms. His voice had gotten surlier and surlier, and swapping out with his other two meatheads hadn’t softened it any. Now he was back out on deck watch, one krogan—Wratch, Andria had learned—perched just by the hatch.

  All of them had taken a turn for the irritated.

  As the hours clocked in, and Na’to only occasionally muttered to himself, the krogan had run out of ways to taunt him, and Reggie, and even Andria. They’d also run out of ways to bait each other.

  Now Arvex sounded like he was ready to wring salarian neck to get out of the warzone the Nexus’s steady drift had placed them in.

  The palp of the Scourge had spread. Somehow, as if pushed by an unseen force, the past few hours had seen it increase in length.

  Worrisome.

  “The good news,” she said, tapping her comm feed, “is that we’re just about done consolidating power through this auxiliary.”

  “What’s the bad news?” Reg asked behind her.

  She was very much aware of three krogan heads all focused on her. Even if two of them remained outside an airlock. “Well,” she said slowly. “The bad news is that once we’re done here, you, me and Na’to get to go have dinner.”

  A beat.

  “Why is that bad?” Reg asked.

  “You clearly don’t pay attention to what you eat,” Kaje said. He’d taken up position near Reg, taking a break between shifts playing Shoot the Trash.

  Andria hid a smile. “Basically.”

  “Hey, if it means I can have dinner with Emory, I’m all for,” Reg replied defensively.

  “Oh, right. The sweet couple.” Andria made a gagging sound.

  “Don’t be jealous.”

  “You know I am.”

  “What are you humans babbling about now?” Na’to’s voice finally cracked the comm, sounding tired but triumphant. “I look away for just a minute and you’re already engaging in verbal showdowns?”

  “A minute?” This from Wratch. Sheer disbelief. “What kind of salarian loses track of time?”

  “A brilliant one,” Na’to said primly. Andria watched the camera feed bounce as he pulled himself out of the hatch. The wires, fuses and platelets attaching it all securely whizzed by in a streaming blur.

  “Uh…”

  “Shut it, Wratch. Like you never lost time in the varren pits,” Kaje laughed.

  “No, that—”

  A clatter drew Andria’s attention. Then another. She looked around, saw Reg doing the same.

  Then Kaje surged to his feet. He pointed out over the emergency bulkhead. “It’s moving!”

  “Shit,” Andria hissed, already reaching for the next frequency in her omni-tool. “Shit, shit—Engineering to bridge, I’m looking at a tangle of Scourge just outside Warehouse 7B.”

  “Copy that, engineering,” someone said. She didn’t know anyone in bridge, had no idea who was talking, what rank. “Approximate depth?”

  “The hell if I know!” She scanned the black, trusting Reg to
keep a close hand on their friend’s gear. “It’s all over the place up here, one wrong move and—”

  A large shadow loomed slowly into view. Brilliant lines of gold and red energy laced across them, through them, as if something superheated had dragged through the plates.

  Her mouth dropped open.

  Kaje reached out, caught her by the arm and dragged it closer to his face. “Those explorers sucked out of Dock 11? Yeah,” he growled into the mic, “they’re coming back!”

  * * *

  Addison met Sloane coming out of central commons, synthetic feathers in her hair and a puzzled sort of amusement twisting her usual broody expression.

  “Hey,” she said by way of greeting. Her eyebrows knotted. “Did you shoot a giant chicken?”

  Sloane looked down at her Avenger, then up again with the same odd look. As if she’d stumbled into an alternate dimension and wasn’t sure how to proceed. “Hey, Addison.” A pause. She offered a hand. “Pinch me, would you?”

  Addison blinked. Then, when Sloane didn’t drop her hand, she took a fold of the security director’s skin and pinched.

  Hard.

  “Son of a—thank you,” she said sharply, jerking her hand back. She looked back at the commons door, and for the first time, Addison heard what sounded like screaming.

  Her eyes widened. “Sloane, you didn’t.”

  Sloane, shaking out her hand, moved away from the door. “Please. One, there’s no chickens to shoot here, unless you’re counting turians—”

  Addison cleared her throat.

  “Two,” Sloane added, “I didn’t shoot anyway. They’re…” A pause.

  Addison splayed her hands, eyebrows raising even higher. “What? Because from here, it kind of sounds like someone’s getting cannibalized. And you have a gun.”

  To her surprise, a half-smile curved Sloane’s mouth. She gestured, with the hand she’d pinched and not the firearm. “You can look, but maybe you shouldn’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s a mess.”

  “Sloane.”

  This time, when the security director started laughing, Addison threw her hands up. She marched around the woman, waved frantically when the sound of screaming intensified. The door slid open and Addison saw…