Anxious curiosity shone in every expression—even Vaughn’s—as she passed. She could have played the message there, in front of all of them. Maybe she should have. Nothing in it would be secret for long anyway. But she didn’t want anyone watching her when she saw it. Except Saba, and she wanted him there badly.
In her office, she closed the door, then locked it. The little fern in the corner held its fronds high in the null g. A few things she hadn’t stowed—a drinking bulb, a printout on plastic flimsy, a clump of potting soil—floated in the air. She’d spent too long in spin gravity. She’d come to assume it would always be there, a few years’ habit enough to erase generations of experience and Belter identity.
She was aware that her brain wasn’t functioning normally. She felt more like she was piloting her body than living it. She knew it was shock and trauma, but knowing it changed nothing.
She strapped herself into her chair, took control of her personal interface, and opened her pending messages. Three were listed as unread. One was from the commander of one of the refugee ships, one from a captain of one of the EMC ships, and the last was listed as Admiral Anton Trejo of the Laconian Imperial Navy. Somewhere in a different universe, the Klaxons stopped their wailing. She wished now that she’d brought Vaughn at least. And maybe a whiskey.
She started the message playback.
Trejo sat at his station, his uniform immaculate and pressed. His thinning black hair was in place and his eyes a bright green. He didn’t even have the good taste to look disheveled. His smile radiated warmth and sympathy. She half expected him to start talking to her about his relationship to God or a business opportunity she should keep quiet about for fear of starting a rush.
“President Drummer, I hope.” He drawled like someone from the Mariner Valley. “If not, then please accept my condolences for her passing. I am Admiral Trejo of the Laconian battleship Heart of the Tempest, but you knew that. I’m reaching out to you now because I don’t want to be misunderstood. Despite all the hostilities the Transport Union and the Earth-Mars Coalition have greeted me with, we’re not enemies. Not you and me. Not the union and the empire. Not Sol system and Laconia. The high consul knew that there would be resistance to this change. We all did, and we respect that you had to do the things you’ve done.
“When people like you and I enter into a new phase of history, there’s … I don’t know what you’d call it. Birth pangs? There’s a time when you have to expect violence, even though you don’t celebrate it. When the high consul first explained to me the parameters of this mission, I wasn’t pleased. One ship, no backup, against an entire system? But he brought me around. And this moment, this message, is part of why I felt that his approach was the only moral way forward.
“I have tried to reach Secretary-General Li, but he isn’t returning my messages yet. You’re here, and you are at least equal in dignity to anyone on the inner planets. You can end this. I understand that you had to fight. You had to try to destroy me. I don’t blame you for this. But I am permitted at this point to accept your surrender. Do this, and the inner planets will follow you. You will be treated fairly by the new administration. I promise you that.
“If you are not yet willing to accept defeat, then I would ask you, out of what I hope is mutual respect, to tell me one thing. What is the number of dead that you need in order to show history that your choice to end this was wisdom? That carrying on the fight would not have been bravery but foolishness. A hundred more. A thousand more. A million. A billion. Only say how many more corpses will make this possible for you, and I will provide them.” He spread his hands. “Tell me the number. I await your reply.”
The message ended. Drummer floated against her restraints and thought about whether to play the message again, if only to give herself a few more moments before she went back to the command center. She could feel her pulse in her throat and in her wrists—a throbbing exhaustion. Released herself, pushed toward the door, down the short hall.
They were all silent when she arrived. She looked at her crash couch, there before the display. The moth-eaten wave of green. The tiny, indomitable dot of orange.
“Vaughn, I’ll need you to send a message to the Heart of the Tempest.”
“Ma’am,” Vaughn said, nodding crisply. I could order him to his death. I could tell them all to fight to the last breath.
“The message is this: ‘The number is zero.’ Send that, and then order all union ships to stand down.”
She looked for some reaction in Vaughn’s face. Rage or relief or disappointment. It was like expecting emotions from a stone.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Is there anything else?”
“No,” she said.
There is nothing else. No way forward. Her fight was over. If there was any hope to stand against this empire, it was someplace else now.
If.
Chapter Forty-Six: Singh
He didn’t see the catastrophe coming. Even when the scope of it became clear, he struggled to understand it. Blindsided.
The talk in the station—the talk everywhere—was about Sol system and the surrender. Singh watched it play out in newsfeeds and discussion forums, taking the role of official censor more for the joy of being present in the unfolding of history than from any immediate need. The combined fleet of the Transport Union and the EMC beaten and standing down. The newsfeeds from the local sources in Sol system were anguish and despair, with only a few outlets calling unconvincingly for the battle to continue.
For their own side, Carrie Fisk and the Laconian Congress of Worlds proved to be an apt tool for the job, praising the Transport Union’s capitulation as a moment of liberation for the former colony worlds. The rules and restrictions on trade are no longer being dictated by the generational politics of Sol. By being outside the system of favoritism, nepotism, political horse-trading and compromise, Laconia is positioned to bring exactly the reforms that humanity needs. He noticed that she shied away from mentioning High Consul Duarte’s name. It was always just Laconia.
Which was fine. The two were essentially the same.
But it was the conversation beyond her and other specifically recruited allies that made him feel best. Governor Kwan from Bara Gaon Complex issued a statement of support for the new administration so quickly that Singh was almost certain it had been recorded in advance. Auberon’s local parliament also sent a public message to put themselves in place as early supporters of the new regime. New Spain, New Roma, Nyingchi Xin, Félicité, Paradíso, Pátria, Asylum, Chrysanthemum, Ríocht. Major colonies, some with populations already in the millions, had seen the battle at Leuctra Point and drawn the only sane conclusion. The power center of the human race had shifted, and the wise were shifting with it.
The imminent arrival of the Typhoon also helped. He had known Rear Admiral Song since he’d entered the service. Not that they’d ever been close, but she was a face and a name that carried a weight of familiarity. He’d only traded a handful of messages with her, mostly to arrange the piece for the newsfeeds, but speaking to her had reminded him powerfully of home. The routines he’d had on Laconia, the taste of the tea, the little part where he would sit with Elsa when she was newborn and Natalia was sleeping. Watching sunbirds dive into the pond. Sending James Holden back had begun it, and the coming of the Typhoon would complete it. Traffic to and from Laconia. Proof that the great roads of space were open.
The longing it called forth in him was vast and complex. The open sky that he wouldn’t see as long as he remained governor of Medina. The touch of his wife’s skin against his, which he could look forward to. His daughter’s laughter and the soft sounds she made at the edge of sleep.
There was a way in which every day since he’d stepped off the Storm had been a pause, like holding his breath. And soon, soon, his real work could begin. With the Typhoon in place and Sol system conquered, the empire would be unassailable, and humanity’s future assured. He’d ignored his own anxiety and impatience, and now that he c
ould almost relax, he felt them straining for that release.
Taken together, all the good news nearly made up for the bad.
“By comparison, the attack was minor,” Overstreet said, walking beside him as they went to the executive commissary. “We lost two Marines, but the infrastructure damage was trivial compared with the previous attack.”
Singh wasn’t sure whether they had come off the patterned time for the executive staff or if word had spread before him and cleared the commissary, but only four people were seated at tables enough for fifty. The door attendant ushered them to a small table set apart from the rest, where they wouldn’t be casually overheard. He and Overstreet made their requests—green tea for Singh, a local drink called black castle for Overstreet—before they went on with the their conversation.
“We have them on the run,” Singh said. “Smaller attacks, targets of convenience instead of strategic ones? This underground is running out of steam.”
“That is certainly possible, sir,” Overstreet agreed. “Still, I’ll feel better when we have them all in custody.”
It probably wasn’t another dig at his decision to send away Holden, but Singh felt a little sting all the same. The drinks arrived with a small plate of pastries. Overstreet held back until Singh had taken one. A small point, but one that Singh appreciated.
“What is the status of our friend’s operation?” he asked.
Overstreet leaned forward, folding his hands around the cup of black castle. His mouth narrowed. “We should know in about half an hour now. If your informant is what he claims to be, he and his co-conspirators will be walking into the power-routing station. I have five officers and five Marines waiting for them.”
“Do you expect a fight?”
“I’m hoping for one,” Overstreet said. “There’s nothing the troops would like better than an excuse to break a couple heads.”
“I need those brains intact.”
“Fingers, then,” Overstreet said with a chuckle. “No one loves a mad bomber.”
“Fair enough. The informant, though. He goes free.”
Overstreet nodded, but he looked like he’d tasted something bitter. Singh leaned in a degree and let the silence ask the question for him. Overstreet met his eyes, looked away, and shrugged.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea, sir. If we take the others and he slips away, his people will know he’s working for us. They could turn him back.”
Singh felt a stab of annoyance, but he pushed it down. He had to remember what he’d learned with Tanaka. Better that he be patient.
“You think he may be a triple agent?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time something like that had happened. The one thing you know about someone who’s willing to compromise his allies is that he’s willing to compromise his allies.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Question him, the same as the others,” Overstreet said. “When his trial comes up, put a word in the judge’s ear.”
Singh sipped his tea. It was still a little too hot. It scalded. “I’m not certain that helps us build a network of locals who will work with us.”
“If I do my job right, we’ll be able to put a replacement in his spot. And a little clemency come sentencing time is more than he deserves.”
It felt like a betrayal. The man, compromised though he was, had done his part. He’d brought the information to prevent the sabotage of Medina’s sensors to Singh. Handing him over for trial didn’t seem like a just reward for loyalty. But Overstreet had a point. Jordao was a member of a conspiracy against the station and Laconia. He likely had blood on his hands, and there was a greater loyalty that a governor owed to his own people than anything a local thug could command.
“Fair enough,” Singh said. “A normal interrogation. But tell your people just that. If they need to take their frustrations out on someone, make it the ones who weren’t working with us.”
“I can do that,” Overstreet agreed. And a moment later, “It’ll be good having this wrapped up before the Typhoon gets here. I was hoping this wouldn’t drag on.”
“To a degree,” Singh said, “it’s to be expected. Periods of transition invite a certain—”
Overstreet started. He put his black castle down fast enough that it sloshed onto the table, then he checked the monitor on his wrist. The red of a priority alert glowed there like a little flame. He tapped it with a scowl. His eyes went dead. Singh’s breath went shallow.
Something had happened. Another terrorist attack.
“What is it?” Singh asked.
“We have an unauthorized launch,” Overstreet said, standing up. Singh stood with him, drinks and baked goods forgotten. Adrenaline surged through him. A ship—even a small one—crashing into Medina could do terrible damage. Could crack the drum, destroy the station. Overstreet was already walking for the security station, fast, scissoring steps that weren’t quite running and weren’t quite anything else. Singh had to trot to catch up.
“What ship?” Singh asked.
“Old Martian gunship,” Overstreet said. “Name’s the Rocinante.”
“James Holden’s ship?” What did that mean? Was his crew making some kind of doomed bid to catch the Lightbreaker and bring him back? Or take revenge for his loss?
“It has capacity for twenty missiles and a keel-mounted rail gun. Not to mention a fusion drive that could melt the station to slag if it chose to,” Overstreet said, “but it hasn’t opened fire. It’s staying close to the station with maneuvering thrusters.”
“Can we take them out?”
“We destroyed Medina’s defenses when we took it,” Overstreet said. “We have a few that were repairable, but without the supplies from the Typhoon, our abilities are limited.”
“The Storm, then,” Singh said.
Overstreet took a deep breath, turning smartly at the intersection. Surprise and anxiety made the security office seem kilometers away. “I don’t like the idea of having a close-quarters battle between those ships right near the station. If the Rocinante is just trying to escape, there’s an argument for letting it go.”
“We can’t rely on the enemy’s goodwill to protect us,” Singh said, and opened a priority connection to the Storm. Commander Davenport, his executive officer on the journey out, answered like he’d been waiting.
“Davenport, this is Governor Singh. I am formally instructing you to leave dock immediately and protect the station from the gunship Rocinante.”
“Yes, sir,” Davenport said, then hesitated. “We are presently at less than full crew, sir—”
“A little short-staffed now is better than a full ship too late. Try to chase them away from the station before you engage.”
“Yes, sir,” he said, and he dropped the connection.
Ahead of them, security was clearing the corridor. An emergency alert sounded and a gentle voice began. This is an emergency alert. Report to shelters immediately and await official instructions. This is an emergency alert.
The security center was buzzing like a kicked hive. Voices raised in alarm thickened the air. The feeds from drones and surveillance cameras filled every screen. Singh assumed it was all in response to the Rocinante’s launch until an older woman in security uniform barked at them. “Major Overstreet, sir! We have reports of a riot in the detention cells.”
“What?” Singh said.
Overstreet’s voice was level and calm. Like a pilot whose ship was coming to pieces around him. “What do we know?”
“Someone overrode the containment on the cells. There was some kind of explosion. The guards have retreated to the security lock, but I’m getting reports of gunfire from the civilian side too. I have two fire teams on their way.”
“Good,” Overstreet said. He turned to Singh. “Sir, it is my opinion that the sabotage effort your friend discovered is part of a much larger operation, and whatever the enemy has in mind, it’s happening right now.”
Singh shook his head, not as disagreeme
nt, but like a drunk man trying to clear away the fog. Some part of him was still thinking that because they had the guard force ready to keep the station sensor arrays up, things were under control. That he was prepared for whatever was happening, even as it bloomed out around him.
“I understand,” he said.
“As your chief of security, I recommend that we get you and any other essential personnel in lockdown until the situation is better controlled.”
“Of course. I’ll return to my office.”
“Might not want to stay that near an obvious target, sir. I have a secure position prepared. I’ll have a fire team escort you and stay there until we understand better what we’re looking at,” Overstreet said. He turned to the older woman and gestured toward Singh. “He needs an escort.”
“On their way, sir.”
Belay that, Singh thought. I’ll stay here. Except that it was a stupid impulse, based in pride. A leader should stand with his team in a time of crisis, but—as much as it galled him—Overstreet was that leader in this moment. He would only get in the way. And even so, part of him wanted to remain. To be seen to be in control.
“I will expect updates,” Singh said. “When you need my authorization, I will be waiting.”
“Thank you, sir,” Overstreet said without missing a beat, then turned away. A moment later, four Marines in power armor stepped in through the main door and saluted.
“Governor Singh, sir.”
“You’re my escort, then?” Singh said with a smile that he hoped looked confident. “Let’s be on our way.”
As they walked, Singh consulted his own wrist monitor. There was too much happening—too many individual groups coordinating on the fly—to have a complete picture of the situation. The Storm was maneuvering, and the Rocinante hadn’t yet made an aggressive move. The riot at the detention cells was growing more violent, and the Marine fire team was requesting permission to escalate to lethal countermeasures. And Overstreet’s words came back, haunting with their implications: My best estimate is that a third of our operating personnel are open to working against us.
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