James Corey - Abaddon's Gate

“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.