James Corey - Abaddon's Gate

“It doesn’t matter what I would or wouldn’t do,” Pa said. “It’s not my command, so it’s not my decision.”

“Unless something happens to the captain,” Bull said. “Then it would be.”

Pa went still. The sound of the music, the shifting patterns of lights, all of it seemed to recede. They were in their own small universe together. Pa thumbed on the bulb’s magnet and stuck it to the wall beside her.

“There are still hours before the burn starts. And then travel time. The situation may change, but I won’t take part in mutiny,” she said.

“Maybe you wouldn’t have to. Doesn’t have to have anything to do with you. But unless you’re going to specifically order me not to—”

“I am specifically ordering you, Mister Baca. I am ordering you not to take any action against the captain. I am ordering you to respect the chain of command. And if that means I have to commit to following through on Ashford’s orders, then I’ll make that commitment. Do you understand me?”

“Yeah,” Bull said slowly. “Either we’re all going to die, or we’re going through the Ring.”

Eleven people showed up for Anna’s first worship service. The contrast with her congregation on Europa was unsettling at first. On Europa, she’d have had twenty or so families straggling in over the half hour before the service began, and a few drifting in late. They’d have been all ages, from grandparents rolling in on personal mobility devices to screaming children and infants. Some would come in their Sunday best formal wear, others in ratty casual clothes. The buzz of conversation prior to the service would be in mixed Russian, English, and outer planets polyglot. By the end of the worship meeting, a few might be snoring in their pews.

Her UNN congregation showed up in a single group at exactly 9:55 a.m. Instead of walking in and taking seats, they floated in as a loose clump and then just hovered in a disconcerting cloud in front of her podium. They wore spotless dress uniforms so crisply pressed they looked sharp enough to cut skin. They didn’t speak, they just stared at her expectantly. And they were all so young. The oldest couldn’t have been more than twenty-five.

The unusual circumstances rendered her standard worship service inappropriate—no need for a children’s message or church announcements—so Anna launched directly into a prayer, followed by a scripture reading and a short sermon. She’d considered doing a sermon on duty and sacrifice; it seemed appropriate in the martial setting. But she had instead decided to speak mostly on God’s love. Given the fear Chris had expressed a few days prior, it felt like the better choice.

When she’d finished, she closed with another prayer, then served communion. The gentle ritual seemed to ease the tension she felt in the room. Each of her eleven young soldiers came up to her makeshift table, took a bulb of grape juice and a wafer, and returned to their prior position floating nearby. She read the familiar words in Matthew and Luke, then spoke the blessing. They ate the bread and drank from the bulb. And, as had always happened since the very first church service she could remember, Anna felt something vast and quiet settle on her. She also felt the shiver that tried to crawl up her spine competing with a threatening belly laugh. She had a sudden vision of Jesus, who’d asked His disciples to keep doing this in remembrance of Him, watching her little congregation as they floated in microgravity and drank reconstituted grape beverage out of suction bulbs. It seemed to stretch the boundaries of what He’d meant by this .

A final prayer and the service was over. Not one of her congregation pushed toward the door to leave. Eleven young faces stared at her, waiting. The oppressive aura of fear she’d managed to push away during the communion crept back into the room.

Anna pulled herself around the podium and joined their loose cloud. “Should I expect anyone next week? You guys are making me nervous.”

Chris spoke first. “No, it was real nice.” He seemed to want to say more, but stopped and looked down at his hands instead.

“Back on Europa, people would have brought snacks and coffee for after the service,” Anna said. “We could do that next time, if you want.”

A few halfhearted nods. A muscular young woman in a marine uniform pulled her hand terminal halfway out of her pocket to check the time. Anna felt herself losing them. They needed something else from her, but they weren’t going to ask for it. And it definitely wasn’t coffee and snacks.

“I had a whole sermon on David,” she said, keeping her tone casual. Conversational. “On the burden we place on our soldiers. The sacrifices we ask you to make for the rest of us.”

Chris looked up from his hands. The young marine put her hand terminal away. With her podium behind her, the meeting room was just a featureless gray box. The little knot of soldiers floated in front of her, and suddenly the perspective shifted and she was above them, falling toward them. She blinked rapidly to break up the scene and swallowed to get the lemony taste of nausea out of her throat.

“David?” a young man with brown hair and dark skin said. He had an accent that she thought might be Australian.

“King of Israel,” another young man said.

“That’s just the nice version,” the marine countered. “He’s the guy who killed one of his own men so he could sleep with his wife.”

“He fought for his country and his faith,” Anna cut in, using the teacher’s voice she used in Bible classes for teenagers. The one that made sure everyone knew she was the voice of authority. “That’s the part I care about right now. Before he was a king, he was a soldier. Often unappreciated by those he served. He put his body over and over again between danger and those he’d sworn to protect, even when his leaders were unworthy of him.”

A few more nods. No one looking at hand terminals. She felt herself getting them all back.

“And we’ve been asking that of our soldiers since the beginning of time,” she continued. “Everyone here gave up something to be here. Often we’re unworthy of you and you do it anyway.”

“So why didn’t you?” Chris asked. “You know, do the David sermon?”

“Because I’m scared,” Anna said, taking Chris’ hand with her left, and the hand of the Australian boy with her right. Without anyone saying anything, the loose cloud became a circle of held hands. “I’m so afraid. And I don’t want to talk about soldiers and sacrifice. I want to talk about God watching me. Caring about what happens to me. And I thought maybe other people would too.”

More nods. Chris said, “When the skinnies blew that ship, I thought we were all dead.”

“No shit,” the marine said. She gave Anna an embarrassed look. “Sorry, ma’am.”

“It’s okay.”

“They say they didn’t,” another woman said. “They shot at Holden.”

“Yeah, and then their whole ship mysteriously turned off. If the dusters hadn’t pinged Holden, he’d have flown off scot free.”

“They’re gonna follow him,” the young marine said.

“Dusters say they’ll smoke them if they go in.”

“Fuck the dusters,” the Australian said. “We’ll grease every one of them if they start anything.”

“Okay,” Anna cut in, keeping her voice gentle. “Dusters are Martians. They prefer Martians. And calling people from the outer planets skinnies is also rude. Epithets like that are an attempt to dehumanize a group so that you won’t feel as bad about killing them.”

The marine snorted and looked away.

“And,” Anna continued, “fighting out here is the last thing we should be doing. Am I right?”