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.