Abaddon's Gate e-3

by James S. A. Corey

  “You don’t have a sufficient complement left on your ship to run it. Not even as a skeleton crew. Between the injured and the medics and the injured medics, I’ve got two-thirds of your people here right now.”

  “And I thank you for that.”

  “My point is you have a third or less of your crew left standing. You’re pulling double, maybe triple shifts. Earth is still making noise about transferring Holden to them until he’s answered charges for the Seung Un.” He hadn’t mentioned Clarissa Mao’s confession. That was a card he could play another time. He lifted his hand. “All of us have watched someone we cared about die because of something we don’t understand. All of us are grieving and scared. If we don’t all come together, someone’s going to do something we’ll all regret.”

  “The Martian military code requires—”

  “I’ve got an open investigation here. I’ll share all the information we’ve gathered. Some of it’s pretty damn interesting.”

  Something moved in his chest, and he was coughing so hard he couldn’t speak or listen. Phlegm filled his mouth, and he leaned over, supporting himself with his arms, to spit it out. Maybe there was something to this sitting-up thing.

  “The Martian military code prohibits the surrender of prisoners except in cases of trades authorized by the government. We can’t talk to the MCR, so nothing’s getting authorized.”

  “You could surrender to me.”

  She laughed that time. The façade of military propriety cracked.

  “I wish. I’d be able get a full shift’s sleep. But that tin can you’re in couldn’t take us, even if we could fight.”

  “Which we can’t, so we’re pretty much down to angry letters at twenty paces. I appreciate the call,” he said. “I’ll let the captain know it’s no-go. But hey, lemme ask you. What are you guys gonna do when Earth sends a couple dozen marines with cutting torches and kitchen knives?”

  “Fight with cutting torches and knives,” she said. “This is the Hammurabi signing off.”

  Bull watched the dull standby screen for half a minute before he put it down. He’d have to tell Pa, but he wasn’t looking forward to that. She had enough on her plate coordinating all the things he couldn’t because he was trapped in the medical ward.

  No matter what Holden’s criminal status with Earth and Mars was, no matter how many people took the blame for the things he was accused of, it didn’t matter. It was a pretext. He was the only person not covered by military treaty who could be debriefed about whatever was on the alien station. Earth wanted him. The OPA wanted him. Mars had him, and wouldn’t give him up just for the joy of having something other people wanted.

  And sooner or later some Martian with too much stress and not enough sleep who thought Holden was responsible for drawing them all through the Ring was going to take revenge for a lover or friend who’d died. Bull scratched at his neck, the stubble rough against his fingertips. His body, empty, splayed out before him in the one-third g.

  “Bull?”

  He looked up. The nurse seemed, if anything, more tired than the doctor had been.

  “You’ve got a couple visitors, if you’re up for it,” he said.

  “Depends. Who you got?”

  “Priest,” he said. It took a moment to realize it wasn’t a name but a job description.

  “The Russian from the Rocinante?”

  The nurse shook his head. “The politician. Cortez.”

  “What does he want?”

  “As far as I can tell? Save your soul. He’s talking about protecting humanity from the devil. I think he wants you to help with that.”

  “Tell him to talk to Serge at the security office. Who else wants a piece of me?”

  The nurse’s expression changed. For a moment, Bull couldn’t say what was strange about it, then he realized it was the first time in his memory he’d seen the nurse smile.

  “Someone’s got a little prezzie for you,” the nurse said, then leaned back out into the corridor. “Okay. Come on in.”

  Bull coughed again, bringing up more phlegm. Sam appeared in the doorway, grinning. Behind her, two techs were carrying a blue plastic crate so big he could have put Sam inside it.

  “Rosenberg? You been wasting time when you should be fixing my ship?”

  “You’ve still got one more mutiny before it’s your ship,” Sam said. “And yeah, when the crew heard about what happened with you and Ashford, some of us wanted to put together a little present.”

  Bull shifted, then caught himself. He was so used to having the muscles in his trunk to hold himself up that every time he began to fall, it was a little surprising. It was one of the things he missed about null g. Sam didn’t notice, or pretended not to. She shifted to the side and took hold of the crate’s release bar like a stage magician about to reveal an illusion. Doctor Sterling appeared in the doorway, a sly smile haunting her lips. Bull had the uncomfortable feeling of walking in on his own surprise party.

  “You’re making me nervous,” he said.

  “You’re getting smarter,” she said. “Ready?”

  “Yeah, I don’t think so.”

  The crate slid open. The mech inside looked complicated, blocky, and thick. Bull laughed for lack of anything he could think to say.

  “It’s a standard lifting mech,” Sam said, “but we carved a bunch of the reinforcing out of its tummy and put in a TLS orthosis the medics gave me. We swapped out the leg actuation with a simple joystick control. It won’t take you dancing, and you’re still going to need help going potty, but you’re not stuck in bed. It’s not as comfortable as a top-end wheelchair, but it will get you anywhere in the ship you want to go, whether it was built for accessibility or not.”

  Bull thought he was about to cough again until he felt the tears welling up in his eyes.

  “Aw shit, Sam.”

  “None of that, you big baby. Let’s just get you in and adjust the support plates.”

  Sam took one shoulder, the nurse the other. The sensation of being carried was strange. Bull didn’t know the last time anyone had picked him up. The brace in the guts of the mech was like a girdle, and Sam had put straps along the mech’s struts to keep his legs from flapping around. It was an inversion of the usual; instead of using his legs to move the mech, he was using the mech to move his legs. For the first time since the catastrophe, Bull walked down the short hall and into the general ward. Sam kept pace, her gaze on the mechanism like a mother duck taking her ducklings for their first swim. His sense of wrongness didn’t leave, but it lessened.

  The worst of the injured from all three sides were here, men and women, Belter and Earther and Martian. A bald man with skin an unhealthy yellow struggled to breathe; a woman so young-looking Bull could hardly believe she wasn’t a child lay almost naked in a bed, her skin mostly burned away and a distant look in her eyes; a thick-bodied man with an Old Testament prophet’s beard and body hair like a chimp moaned and shifted through his sedation. In the disposable plastic medical gowns, there was nothing to show who belonged to what side. They were people, and they were on his ship, so they were his people.

  At the end of the corridor, Corin stood in front of a doorway, a pistol on her hip. Her salute was on the edge between serious and mocking.

  “Macht sly, chief,” she said. “Suits.”

  “Thank you,” Bull said.

  “Here to see the prisoners?”

  “Sure,” Bull said. He hadn’t meant to go anywhere in particular, but since he could, he could. The lockdown ward was smaller, but other than one of his security staff at the door, there weren’t any signs that the patients here were different. Prisoners was a strong word. None of them were legally bound. They ranged from high-value civilians from Earth to the highest-ranking Martian wounded. Anyone whom Bull thought might be particularly useful, now or later. All of the dozen beds were full.

  “How’s it feeling?” Sam asked.

  “Seems like it lists to the right a little,” Bull said.

&n
bsp; “Yeah, I was thinking maybe—”

  The new voice came from the farthest bed, weak and confused but unmistakable:

  “Sam?”

  Sam’s attention snapped to the back, and she took a couple tentative steps toward the woman who had spoken.

  “Naomi? Oh holy crap, sweetie. What happened to you?”

  “Got in a fight,” the XO of the Rocinante said through bruised and broken lips. “Whipped her ass.”

  “You know Nagata?” Bull asked.

  “From the bad old days,” Sam said, taking her hand. “We were roommates for about six days while she and Jim Holden were having a fight.”

  “Where,” Naomi said. “Where’s my crew?”

  “They’re here,” Bull said, maneuvering his mech closer to her. “All but Holden.”

  “They’re all right?”

  “I’ve felt better,” a balding, slightly pudgy man with skin the color of toast said. He had the drawl of Mariner Valley on Mars or West Texas on Earth. It was hard to tell the difference.

  “Alex,” Naomi said. “Where’s Amos?”

  “Next bed over,” Alex said. “He’s been sleepin’ a lot. What happened, anyway? We get arrested?”

  “There was an accident,” Bull said. “A lot of people got hurt.”

  “But we ain’t arrested,” Alex said.

  “No.”

  “Well that’s all right, then.”

  On her bed, Naomi Nagata had visibly relaxed. Knowing her crew were alive and with her carried a lot of weight. Bull filed the information away in case it was useful later.

  “The woman who attacked you is under arrest,” Bull said.

  “She’s the one. The bomb,” Naomi said.

  “We’re looking into that,” he said, trying to keep his tone reassuring. Another coughing fit spoiled the effect.

  Naomi frowned, remembering something. Bull wished he could take her other hand. Build some rapport. The mech was a fine way to walk around, but there were other ways it was limiting.

  “Jim?” she said.

  “Captain Holden has been taken into custody by the Martian navy,” Bull said. “I’m trying to negotiate his release into our custody, but it’s not going very well so far.”

  Naomi smiled as if he’d given her good news and nodded. Her eyes closed.

  “What ’bout Miller?”

  “Who?” Bull asked, but she was already asleep. Sam shifted to Alex’s bed and Bull stepped over to look down on the Rocinante’s sleeping mechanic. Amos Burton. They were a pretty sad bunch, and far too small a crew to run a ship like theirs safely. Maybe Jakande could get some pointers from them.

  Until he got Holden, they were going to be at a disadvantage. The man was a professional symbol, and creating calm when there was no reason for it was all about symbols. Captain Jakande wouldn’t bend, because if she did, she’d be court-martialed when they got back. If they got back. Bull didn’t like it, but he understood it. If they’d been anywhere but the slow zone, they’d all have been rattling sabers and baring teeth. Instead, all they could do was talk…

  Bull’s mouth went dry. Sam was still looking at Naomi Nagata’s bed, her face angry and despairing.

  “Sam,” Bull said. “Got a minute?”

  She looked up and nodded. Bull flicked the little joystick, and the mech trod awkwardly around. He steered it back out through the door and back to his own private room. By the time they got there, Sam’s expression had shifted to curious. Bull closed the door, coughing. He felt a little light-headed and his heart was racing. Fear, excitement, or being vertical for the first time since they’d passed through the Ring, he didn’t know.

  “What’s up, boss?”

  “The comm laser,” Bull said. “Say I wanted to make it into a weapon. What’s the most power we could put through it?”

  Sam’s frown was more than an engineer making mental calculations. The spin gravity made her seem older. Or maybe bathing in death and fear just did that to people.

  “I can make it about as hot as the middle of a star for a fraction of a second,” Sam said. “It’d burn that side of the ship down to a bad smell, though.”

  “What’s the most we could do and get, say, three shots out of it? And not melt our ship?”

  “It can already carve through a ship’s hull if you’ve got time to spare. I can probably pare that time down a bit.”

  “Get that going, will you?”

  Sam shook her head.

  “What?” Bull asked.

  “That big glowy ball out there can turn off inertia when it feels threatened. I don’t feel comfortable making light into a weapon. Seriously, what if it decides to stop all the photons or something?”

  “If we have it, we won’t need to use it.”

  Sam shook her head again.

  “I can’t do that for you, Bull.”

  “What about the captain? Would you do it for a Belter?”

  Sam’s cheeks flushed. It might have been embarrassment or anger.

  “Cheap shot.”

  “Sorry, but would you take a direct order from Captain Pa?”

  “From her, yes. But not because she’s a Belter. Because she’s the captain and I trust her judgment.”

  “More than mine.”

  Sam held up her hands in a Belter shrug.

  “Last time I just did whatever you told me to, I wound up under house arrest.”

  Bull had to give her the point. He fumbled to extricate his arm from the mech, scooped up his hand terminal, and put in a priority connection request to Pa. She took it almost immediately. She looked older too, worn, solid, certain. Crisis suited her.

  “Mister Baca,” she said. “Where do we stand?”

  “Captain Jakande isn’t going to bring her people over, even though they all know it would be better. And she won’t give up Holden.”

  “All right,” Pa said. “Well, we tried.”

  “But she might surrender to you,” Bull said. “And seems to me it’s going to be a lot easier being sheriff if we can get the only gun in the slow zone.”

  Pa tilted her head.

  “Go on,” she said.

  Chapter Thirty-Four: Clarissa

  The guards came, brought thinly rationed food-grade protein and measured bottles of water, led the prisoners to the head with pistols drawn, and then took them back. For the most part, Clarissa lay on the floor or stretched, hummed old songs to herself or drew on the skin of her arms—white fingernail scratches. The boredom would have been crushing if she’d felt it, but she seemed to have unconnected from time.

  The only times she cried were when she thought of killing Ren and when she remembered her father. The only things she anticipated at all were another visit from Tilly or her mysterious friend, and death.

  The woman came first, and when she did, Clarissa recognized her. With her red hair pulled down by spin, her face looked softer, but the eyes were unforgettable. The woman from the galley on the Thomas Prince. And then, later, from the Rocinante. Anna. She’d told Naomi that her name was Anna.

  Just one more person Clarissa had tried to kill once.

  “I have permission to speak with her,” Anna said. The guard—a broad-faced man with a scarred arm that he wore like a decoration—crossed his arms.

  “She’s here, si no? Talk away.”

  “Absolutely not,” Anna said. “This is a private conversation. I can’t have it in front of the others.”

  “You can’t have it anywhere else,” the guard said. “You know how many people this coya killed? She’s got implants. Dangerous.”

  “She knows,” Clarissa said, and Anna flashed a smile at her like they’d shared a joke. A feeling of unease cooled Clarissa’s gut. There was something threatening about a woman who could take being attacked and treat it like it was a shared intimacy. Clarissa wondered whether she wanted to talk with her after all.

  “It’s the risk I came here to take,” Anna said. “You can find us a place. An… an interview room. You have those, don�
�t you?”

  The guard’s stance settled deeper into his knees and hips, immovable.

  “Can stay here until the sun burns out,” he said. “That door’s staying closed.”

  “It’s all right,” Clarissa said.

  “No it isn’t,” Anna said. “I’m her priest, and the things we need to talk about are private. Please open the door and take us someplace we can talk.”

  “Jojo,” the captain at the far end of the hall said. Ashford. That was his name. “It’s all right. You can put them in the meat freezer. It’s not in use and it locks from the outside.”

  “Then I get a dead preacher, ano sa?”

  “I believe that you won’t,” Anna said.

  “Then you believe in vacuum fairies,” the guard said, but he unlocked the cell door. The bars swung open. Clarissa hesitated. Behind guard and priest, the disgraced Captain Ashford watched her, peering through his bars to get a look. He needed to shave and he looked like he’d been crying. For a moment, Clarissa gripped the cold steel bars of her door. The urge to pull them closed, to retreat, was almost overwhelming.

  “It’s all right,” Anna said.

  Clarissa let go of the door and stepped out. The guard drew his sidearm and pressed it against the back of her neck. Anna looked pained. Ashford’s expression didn’t shift a millimeter.

  “Is that necessary?” Anna asked.

  “Implants,” the guard said and prodded Clarissa to move forward. She walked.

  The freezer was warm and larger than the galley back on the Cerisier. Strips of metal ran along floor and ceiling and both walls with notches every few centimeters to allow the Mormon colonists who never were to lock walls and partitions into place. It made sense that the veterinary stalls that had been pressed into service as her prison would be near the slaughterhouse. Harsh white light spilled from LEDs set into the walls, unsoftened and directional, casting hard shadows.

  “I’m back in fifteen minutes,” the guard said as he pushed Clarissa through the doorway. “Anything looks funny, I’ll shoot you.”

  “Thank you for giving us privacy,” Anna said, stepping through after her. The door closed. The latch sounded like the gates of hell, closing. The lights flickered, and the first thought that flashed across Clarissa’s mind, rich with disapproval, was, Shouldn’t tie the locking magnet to the same circuit as the control board. It was like a relic from another life.