You were the one who stepped away from your duties, Sloane. You said you knew I’d make decisions whether I had your advice or not, so what difference did it make? We were only doing what we’re supposed to do. We thought you’d be pleased.
The Kandros bit, though, that made her fume. The rest of it? Okay, fine, you sent some shuttles. Not the end of the universe. But deliberately or not they’d taken one of her best people out from under her, for months the message had said, and she knew—hoped at least—that he wouldn’t have agreed unless he believed she was on board with the idea.
He wouldn’t have thought that, not with any kind of certainty, unless Spender had really sold him on it.
Weasel, she thought, sourly. She punched the wall again. Thought about kicking his door in after all, just to toss the room about a bit, like they used to do when they had a suspect they couldn’t quite nail down, but wanted to send a message.
The problem was, until she could talk to Kandros, find out who told him what and when, there was no way to know exactly what had happened. For now, she decided, she’d have to swallow this. Pretend it didn’t bother her, if only to make calling them on it later that much sweeter.
In the meantime, she’d keep a very close eye. To do otherwise was too dangerous.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“Hey, Reg? You better come quick, man.”
Reg cracked open a crusted eyelid, expecting to see the bunk he shared with his husband empty. That was the usual. Most times, Emory was gone by the time Reg woke up, and Reg was often up too late for Emory.
This time, in the shadows lit by a faint blue glow, he was very much aware of the weight pressed in against his side, and Emory’s breath on his shoulder.
That meant it was somewhere past his bedtime, and before Emory’s wake-up.
His surly glare lifted to the culprit. A roommate. One of several who swapped in and out per shift. What was his name? Aldrin. Alder. Something. “What is it?” he grumbled, careful not to shake his sleeping botanist awake.
The guy lifted his light, the better to outline the path to the door. “It’s your crew,” he said, whispering. “The asari. She’s tearing up the commons.”
Ah, shit.Irida, not again.
Exhaustion clung to his muscles, gritted up his eyes. Reg wanted nothing more than to nestle back in, arm around his husband, and go back to sleep for the few hours they got.
Instead, knowing he had no other choice, he carefully eased his arm out from under Emory’s motionless body. The cot creaked as he shifted over, then rolled off to land heavily on his feet.
Emory stirred. “Nn?”
Wincing, Reg reached up and smoothed back Emory’s pale brown hair. “Go back to sleep, babe,” he said, and dropped a kiss on his forehead. “I’ll be back.”
“Nn.”
With any luck, Emory wouldn’t even remember the exchange. The man was as ragged as Calix and his unit were. As Reg himself was.
And Irida, she’d taken Na’to’s death hard.
Muttering under his breath, Reg pulled the crumpled uniform on over his boxers and T-shirt, aware that all of them could use a good washing. Rations meant less wash, more wear. A fact he found skin-crawling, but necessary.
By the time he joined the human—Alden, for sure—out of the quiet dorm, he was a little more awake.
A lot more resigned. “Let me guess,” he said as he made his way to the commons. “She’s throwing things again?”
“Shields, mostly.”
Reg blinked at him. “What?”
Alden shook his head. “Just… man, you’ll see.”
And he did. It was hard to miss. A handful of people loitered outside the commons, in various stages of upset, while a few clustered around the door. From inside, Reg could hear shouting. Yelling. Swearing.
And crashes. Tables, he figured. Dishes. Hardy stuff, the things in commons, which made it easy to throw.
Heaving a sigh, he edged into the crowd, pushing them aside with a burly strength nobody wanted to contest. Reg had that going for him, at least. He was big. A brawny guy, with a head to keep it that way. It made for an unusual pairing, what with Emory’s slim nerd-build, but it made him happy to think he could protect his husband if it came to it.
Much as he wanted to protect his team.
Especially, he thought as he pushed his way fully into commons, the ones still reeling after Na’to’s loss.
Irida had, as Alden suggested, been playing with shields. Two people were held aloft in biotic balls of energy, both swearing up a storm, while another rolled across the floor. Irida sat on the table in the middle of a mess of them, many shoved aside or turned over, drinks pooling in a combined morass of sweet and sour and sharply alcoholic.
He cringed as he stepped over a brew that smelled krogan.
He ought to know. Wratch and Kaje had dragged him out to “celebrate” after Arvex and Na’to went up in Scourge smoke. He’d barely escaped with his intestines intact.
Two of the Nakmor grunts now sat in the corner, nursing their drinks without care. If they were at all bothered by the asari’s display, they didn’t seem to show it.
Irida glared at him. “Look! Pets.” A wave of her hand sent one biotic shield slamming into the other.
Reg winced as they yelped. Shouted.
Slowly, he lifted a hand, inserted his body between her sight and her playthings. The bottle in her other hand tipped toward her mouth.
“Irida,” he sighed. “Come on, you don’t drink well.”
“I drink,” she said curtly, “just fine.”
Crash! A table. One shield flickered, winked out. The human went rolling ass over elbows and lay stunned just in front of the door. “Call… Call security!”
“No, don’t,” Reg called over his shoulder. “She’s just…” Drunk. Hurting. Grieving. “She’s working through it. I got this.”
“Yeaaaaaah,” the asari slurred, leaning forward. The bottle she cradled tipped its contents.
More krogan brew.
Damn.
Reg took a few steps closer. Reached out to encircle the bottle with gentle fingers. His hand engulfed most of it. “Come on, Violet. Let’s go walk this off.”
“No!” She jerked. A sharp scream and crash said the other shield had fizzled out, leaving its prisoner free to clamber unsteadily to freedom.
Reg’s heart ached for the girl. However old she was, whatever years she had on Reg, he didn’t need to be ancient to see how badly she was coping. The team had been together for years. Served together. Fought together.
He tried for logic. “Come on. You know we’re getting rationed, let’s not make it worse for the boozers, huh?”
“Rationed.” She spat the word. “What good?” She tugged at the bottle. Seemed confused when it didn’t so much as budge under Reg’s grip. “Rations won’t bring ’im back.”
His gut kicked. Sorrow plucked at his voice as he murmured. “I know, Violet. I know. But Na’to, he wouldn’t want you to wreck yourself—or the commons,” he added, looking around, “like this.”
“How’d you know?” She glared at him, with her pale purple eyes wide and wet. “How’d anyone know?”
“Shit,” murmured someone behind him. “She’s a mess.”
He glanced over his shoulder, saw Nnebron as he edged his way in. His smile, Reg knew, was sad. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Come on, let’s get her somewhere quiet.”
Wordless now, Nnebron approached on Reg’s left, popping out with a smile from behind the larger man. “Hey, Violet, you game to help me with something?”
She stared at him, bemused. Swaying. “Maybe.” She didn’t fight when Reg looped an arm around her shoulder. “Will I need my leathers?”