After that, the process took on a life of its own. Calix became less the technical expert and more of a runner, moving from pod to pod and entering his maintenance override. Sloane debated asking for that ability when they’d started. Things would go a lot quicker if more people had it.
And another part of her didn’t like the knowledge being held by just two people. It was risky, given the danger they were all in. Those concerns, however, lost out to the down side—if the override privs were disseminated, and people started waking whomever they wanted to without oversight, they could wind up with catastrophic overpopulation.
The list was already massive enough.
Eight teams followed Calix, a security officer and a life-support tech in each, to handle the health assessments and brief those who awakened. Doctors and nurses first, then the engineering teams responsible for all of the Nexus’s complex machinery and technology, then various assistants and other random crew either Tann or Addison had insisted be part of the effort.
By the end of it all, the operation had become self-sustaining. At least until the end of the list.
Then it was time to put them all to work.
That evening, dead on her feet, Sloane left the security duty in Kandros’s capable hands and found a couch to collapse on in one of the less-devastated common areas. Just as her eyes were sliding shut, Tann and Addison appeared.
Oh, come on…
“Ah, here she is,” Tann said, approaching.
Sloane sat up and propped herself against the cushion. “Now what?”
“Nothing, we just wanted an update.” Tann grinned. It was probably supposed to be sympathetic, perhaps even encouraging, but to Sloane he just looked smug. “But we can let you sleep.”
And risk getting called out on that, too? “No, it’s fine.” Sloane ran a hand over her face and blinked. She was too tired to point out that they couldn’t “let” her do anything. A cup of water appeared in her hand and she gulped it down. Only after did she realize Addison had handed it to her. Sloane muttered thanks.
Now, the summary. “Team leaders from every critical systems group are up, plus some of their crews,” she said. “About a hundred and fifty in all. Sadly, fourteen from the list were dead in their pods, which had failed because of… well, you know. We left them that way, no need to add more to the morgue if they’re already contained.”
“How awful.”
“Terrible,” Tann agreed. “Still, it is a better ratio than I’d expected.”
Sloane could only nod. With some sleep and a meal, she might rip into him for how callous he sounded, but right now she just wanted to get this over with and lay down. “Kesh woke a similar number of krogan, so we’re about halfway through the list.”
“Any casualties from their ranks?” Tann asked.
“A few. They fared a little better.”
“That’s… good,” Addison said, but awkwardly.
“Yes,” Tann agreed. “Excellent news, indeed. However, I thought you’d be through the entire list by now.”
Right. Like he could do better. Sloane eyed him. “Each person we awaken needs some handling, diagnosis, and a briefing.”
“Still, our capability to do that should multiply, yes?”
“Doesn’t matter. Only Kesh and her chief life-support tech, Calix, have the maintenance override code needed to open the pods.” She held up a hand. “And before you ask, we’re not handing that code out, because we don’t want mistakes, or more people up than we can handle. Even I don’t have it.”
He didn’t seem impressed. By the lack of sharing or the numbers, she couldn’t tell. “Fair enough,” Tann said, though his tone carried a lot of skepticism.
She changed the subject, trading her successes for his. “Any news about what caused all this?”
Tann folded his hands, looked at Addison.
She shook her head, frustration evident. “We’re still blind. Sensor logs are a mess of garbage and false alarms.”
“The sensors were, in fact, damaged during flight, but not to the level the logs seem to indicate,” Tann added. Sloane didn’t fail to note that he left the admission of failure to someone else, while swooping in with his own version of silver lining.
Bureaucrats. They were all the same, weren’t they?
Sloane barely even cared enough to nod, then yawned. “Okay. Let me know what you learn. Can I sleep now?”
“Of course,” Tann said hurriedly, just as Addison patted her shoulder and said, “Rest while you can.”
She fell onto the cushions, closed her eyes, and was asleep in seconds.
Her dreams were of Elysium, horrors witnessed and committed during the Skyllian Blitz. Pirate assaults had never been a joyride, but the Blitz was something else entirely. The tiny contingent of Alliance uniforms in the far-flung outpost had no reason to assume they’d end up braced against a whole fleet, much less one with a cause.
The conflict had made some soldiers’ careers. Made them heroes, earned them choice placement. Blooded men and women with the char of real battle in their eyes.
But it broke others.
Sloane didn’t know where she’d fallen in—somewhere between blooded and broken—but she’d never forgotten those long days. The worst days of her life, no matter what battles she fought after, or what pirates came through the Traverse later.
It was the kind of thing she’d joined the Initiative to get away from.
But if nothing else, it was also something that left a permanent scar. An instinct, honed there and in a dozen other combat theaters. That instinct brought her instantly awake, pistol drawn and aimed at the intruder.
It took a few seconds for Sloane to remember where she was. The couch in the common area. Several dozen others were sleeping around her, wherever they could find space. Still others remained awake, tucking into rations or talking in hushed tones. A few were crying, or shell-shocked, or both.
On the couch opposite her, a human man she did not know sat, waiting. He stared at her wide-eyed, and slowly brought his hands up to signal surrender. Sloane realized then she had her pistol aimed right between his eyes. She lowered it.
“Who are you?”
“William Spender.”
“I know that name,” Sloane said, trying hard to shove the groggy fatigue from her head. “Why do I know that name?”
“Colonial Affairs. I’m Foster Addison’s second-in-command.” A beat. “Assistant Director Spender.”
“Ah.” Another wonk. Fantastic. She holstered the weapon and rubbed her eyes. The man, Spender, lifted a mug from the table and held it out to her. Steam rose from within.
Maybe not so much a wonk after all.
Sloane’s mood brightened. “Coffee?”
He paused. Looked down into the mug. Winced. “Oatmeal,” he admitted.
“I hate you.” Mood souring just as fast, Sloane took it anyway. There was no spoon, so she gulped it. The warm sludge hadn’t been sweetened, but even she could admit that it tasted surprisingly good.
Spender looked around. “I could try to find some coffee.”
“Forget it,” she said around a mouthful, “I don’t hate you.”
The man smiled. “You just love coffee?”
She didn’t answer. Just shrugged amiably.
William Spender, Assistant Director, had the most punchable of faces—that of a politician’s over eager intern. Brown hair he’d somehow found the time to comb, clean teeth, and big too-sincere-to-be-sincere eyes that all but telegraphed intent. Please let me help you so that I may appear helpful. Sloane held her amusement in check and finished the food.