“Please,” Addison said, “the details.”
“Copy that. Eos is a no go. Affected by Scourge. Atmosphere highly radiated… unsafe. No signs of life.”
Addison stopped listening. She’d heard it before. Six times. The same damn thing. The comm officer relayed various statistics and readings, oblivious to the fact that every scout returning before her had met the same result.
There was only one left, now. Only one…
The krogan gathered their equipment and began to file out of the room, accompanied by Sloane.
“…permission to resupply and head back in search of the Boundless.”
“Wait,” she said, barely in control of her own voice. “Repeat?”
“Boundless,” the woman repeated. “Scout 8. Requesting permission to go after them.”
“What are you talking about?”
Sascha and Apriia were both staring at her, their faces pinched in dread or concern or both. Addison ignored them. She’d missed something, and there was no escaping it now.
“…were behind us,” the woman replied impatiently. “Kandros reported… uninhabitable. And then they sent a distress call. We lost them a few seconds later.”
Sloane was there. She shoved Addison aside. “Repeat that?”
“Boundless reported an anomaly and then… vanished. We’d like to return to look for them.”
“Why the hell didn’t you do that when it happened?” Sloane bellowed into the mic. Despite that, the voice on the speaker did not waver.
“We did,” the woman said. “Circled back immediately, at great risk to everyone aboard. Searched for as long as we could. But Marco’s… critical. We’re out of food. We did everything possible. There was no trace. I’m sorry. We all agreed, though, we’d like to go back—”
“We understand, Scout 7,” Tann said.
“Bullshit we do,” Sloane hissed at him. Once again Addison felt trapped between them. This time as two unbearable truths registered at once.
She and Tann might have sent Sloane’s best officer to his death, and every scout ship had failed.
There would be no resupply, no haven to colonize. Nowhere to go if the Nexus went critical.
Addison slumped back against the wall.
The mission was doomed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Frustration burned inside Calix’s gut.
It had been two weeks since Irida had been arrested. Two weeks of scrutiny as Sloane Kelly and her team scoured everything, physical and electronic, trying to discover if she had shared the bulkhead codes with anyone.
Of course, Calix felt responsible. In the note she left with the stolen database, Irida had justified it as “doing her part to mind the rations.” She had gone too far, too fast, but as the days progressed…
Calix had yet to tell his team why Irida had been locked up. They asked, daily, but he just said he knew as much as they did. Claimed Sloane had told him only that the woman had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and they were holding her for questioning. That wore thin each day this went on, but if he told them the truth they might get similar ideas of how to help.
Things were bad and getting worse by the moment. Everybody walked around like they expected to be jumped—by security, by the krogan, by their own friends and comrades. Fights had started breaking out between teammates. Things went missing constantly.
His own team had started hoarding. Turian rations, human rations. Tools. Sneaking whatever they could, whenever they could get it. Calix pretended not to see, and his team saw him pretending not to see. He realized that they took it as tacit approval.
Meanwhile, Irida waited in a cell. For his help? For rescue?
For… change.
Calix sat on the corner of an appropriated metal crate, watching the krogan work on a heavily damaged hydroponics bay. The finesse technicians had already come and gone, only to report an issue in the structural integrity of the space itself. The seedlings were too fragile to flourish in anything less than optimal conditions.
That left them with two mostly functional bays, and that wouldn’t put a dent in ration concerns. Especially since—to his critical eye—one looked much less healthy than the other.
The krogan—Nakmor grunts Kaje and Wratch, respectively—worked in tandem. The curses they threw at each other seemed more like encouragement than anger, though rivalry was always a factor in krogan communications.
“You weld like a drunk vorcha,” Kaje grunted.
The other krogan snorted long and loud. “At least I don’t look like one.”
“Said who? Your human buddy?”
“Said your mother,” Wratch replied.
The bantering went back and forth like this with no regard for Calix’s presence, and he chuckled softly. He appreciated that. Nice to sit in the gloom and just be for a while. Pockets like this were becoming exceedingly rare.
His chuckle caught Wratch’s attention. The big krogan slammed a metal bar hard against the panel, holding it easily with one hand while he glowered across the gloomy distance.
“What’s so funny?” he growled. They always growled. He didn’t take it personally.
“Just enjoying the company, fellas.”
Kaje’s omni-tool glowed as the welder activated, searing off any chance at conversation while the metal sizzled and fused. Once done, he glanced over, too.
“You’re engineering, yeah?” His voice was no less grumbly—big krogan throats led to deep voices, even in the rare women Calix had known of—but of a sharper pitch. Like a supersized rotary drill. Embedded in granite.
“Life support and stasis pods,” Calix said. He braced a hand on his thigh, elbow out, and strengthened his balance with a foot against the crate. It gave him a clearer view of both of the technicians.
“He makes sure the clan leader stays asleep,” Wratch added to his partner. The other krogan grunted what Calix assumed to be thanks. Or just acknowledgement. Either way, not a threat. “Sent the appetiz—” The krogan paused. Then, grimly, “The salarian worked with him.”
“Right.” Another nod, this one, Calix felt, for Na’to. And Nakmor Arvex.
“You both seem to be in good spirits,” Calix said thoughtfully. “Given everything.”
“Scarce food and a barren environment, right?” Kaje chuckled, the sound like boulders grating. “Just like home.” Another clang rang out over the large bay, echoing back from the gloom. He grinned a very, very wide and toothy grin over the paneling he worked to replace.
Wratch echoed the mirth, and Calix couldn’t help joining in the laughter. They had a point. “At least we should hear from the scouts soon,” he said.
The krogan exchanged heavy glances.
“Uh-oh,” Kaje rumbled.
“Uh-oh,” echoed the other. Wratch looked back at him, bracing his folded arms on the bar that had been welded in place. “You don’t know, do you?”
Calix went very still on the crate. “Know? Know what?” The worry festering in his gut froze around the edges.
Kaje slugged Wratch in the arm. Hard.
“They’re keeping it secret, idiot.”
Wratch shrugged off the blow, snapping once in irritation, and looked back at Calix.
“Scouts already came back.”
“What?! When?”
“Most, anyway,” Kaje corrected.
“When?” Calix repeated. He could feel the muscles tightening in his mandibles.
Both krogan shrugged in mountainous tandem. “Few weeks.”
For a moment, Calix couldn’t even find the words. Couldn’t settle on any one feeling. Shock. Anger. Betrayal.