Джеймс Кори - Persepolis Rising

Naomi finished chewing a mouthful and said, "What's going on?"

"Did you guys read my threat assessment on Freehold?"

"Skimmed it," Holden replied.

"First-generation colony," Naomi said. "Eight years since founding, and it's still only got one township on it in a semiarid temperate zone. Low-level agriculture, but most of the food supply is salvaged hydroponics. Some goats and chickens, but the livestock is surviving on the hydroponics too, so not the most efficient model. Lithium in the planetary crust and a weirdly lot of uranium trapped in polar glaciers that hopefully means it'll be easily harvested helium if they ever get the infrastructure to mine something. Charter that calls for radical personal autonomy enforced by a citizen militia made up of the whole colonial population."

"Really?" Holden said. "The whole population?"

"So three hundred people who like guns," Naomi said, then pointed at Holden. "This one will insist on getting off the ship and speaking to them in person."

"Right?" Bobbie said, then quickly shoveled a heaping scoop of eggs into her mouth. They were as good as her nose had promised they'd be.

"This has to be done face-to-face," Holden said. "If not, we could just have radioed the message to them from Medina and saved ourselves the trip."

"Diplomacy is your thing," Bobbie said. "I'm strictly concerned with tactical issues. And when we talk to the powers that be on Freehold, we'll be telling them there's no reason not to just start shooting and hope for the best."

Holden pushed his half-empty plate away and leaned back with a frown. "Explain that."

"You really should read my assessments."

Naomi grabbed Holden's mug and moved over to the coffee machine. "I think I know where she's going with this. You want any coffee, Bobbie?"

"Yes, thank you," Bobbie said, then pulled up the tactical assessment on her hand terminal. "These are people who left Earth to form a colony based on personal sovereignty. They believe in the absolute right of each citizen to defend themselves and their property, with lethal force if necessary. And they are well armed for this purpose."

"I followed that part," Holden said.

"They are also years from self-sustaining at this point. The reason they're relying on hydroponics is that they're having a difficult time developing soil for their greenhouses. Something about the mineral content. The money they've been able to get from preliminary mining futures is all going to Auberon for agricultural supplies trying to get around that. They don't agree that the Transport Union should be taking tariffs on any basic life-sustaining trade. Which is what got us here."

Naomi handed her a steaming mug of coffee with lots of cream, just the way she liked it. Holden nodded in a way that probably meant trouble. He'd understood what she was saying.

"How long till they have local crops?" Naomi asked, leaning over her shoulder to look at the report.

"I don't know, but that's not the issue here--"

"The issue here," Holden said, "is that we're delivering a death sentence. Isn't that right? We're going to land and tell them they're cut off from trading with other colonies. And they know they're going to run out of usable food in a few months, and won't be able to grow their own for years. The union is putting them in an impossible position. And by union right now, I mean us. We are."

"Yes," Bobbie agreed, glad he seemed to understand. "These are people who believe in the inviolate right to use lethal force in defense of their own lives. When we land and tell them they're cut off, we'll leave them with no reason not to try to take the ship."

"I don't understand the penalty," Naomi said. "Seems harsh."

"Drummer's been waiting for this one, I'd guess," Holden said. He didn't look happy. "The first colony to really test how far the union will go to protect its monopoly on gate usage. And she's going to crush this first example so hard that no one else will even try. She's killing one colony now so she doesn't have to kill thirteen hundred colonies later."

The idea hung in the air like smoke over a poker game. Naomi's expression mirrored Bobbie's concern. Holden had the inward focus he got when he was thinking about something too hard for safety. A three-year timeout was rough. A three-year timeout when you'd start starving in less than one was something worse. Motive enough for violence, at least. Maybe something more.

"So," Bobbie said, "this is going to be interesting."

Chapter Three: Santiago Jilie Singh

Singh felt a tingle on his wrist and slid back his sleeve. The monitor wrapped around his forearm saw him look and displayed a notification of his most urgent task: the upcoming audience with the high consul.

He reset the notification timer to one-half hour before the meeting itself. His data pad had been riding on his arm or in his pocket for nearly five years. It knew everything there was to know about him. It was treating his upcoming audience with the high consul as if it were the single most important event of his life.

It wasn't wrong.

He pulled the sleeve back into place, giving it one sharp tug to smooth out any new wrinkles, and inspected himself in his mirror. His blue-and-white dress uniform fit him like a glove, emphasizing the muscular frame he spent an hour every day sculpting in the gym. The newly acquired captain's stars glittered on his collar, polished to a golden gleam. His chin and scalp were freshly shaved, and he imagined it gave him the feral, predatory quality that befit a military man.

"Still preening?" Natalia said from the bathroom. She opened the door and came out in a cloud of steam, her hair dripping wet. "A man so handsome needs to be groped, I think."

"No," Singh said, backing away. "If you get water on me--"

"Too late," his wife laughed, darting forward to grab him. She hugged him tight around the waist, her wet hair on his shoulder.

"Nat," he said, meaning to complain but finding himself unable to. Her towel had come loose when she grabbed him, and in the mirror he could see the gentle curve of her hip. He put a hand on it and squeezed. "I'm all wet now."

"You'll dry," she said, reaching behind him to pinch his butt. The newly promoted captain in the Laconian navy gave an undignified yelp. He felt another buzz in his wrist, and for a moment Singh thought the pad on his arm was disapproving of all this tomfoolery.

He pushed his sleeve back again, and saw that it was just a notification that his car would arrive in twenty minutes.

"Car will be here soon," he said with regret, burying his nose in his wife's wet hair for a moment.

"And it's time to get Elsa up," Natalia agreed. "It's your big day. You pick: wake the monster, or make breakfast?"

"I'll take monster duty this morning."

"Be careful. She'll care even less about not messing up your clean new uniform," Natalia said as she pulled on a robe. "Breakfast in ten, sailor."

But it took nearly fifteen minutes to drag Elsa out of her crib, change her diaper, get her dressed, and carry her into their kitchen. Natalia had already put plates piled high with pancakes and fresh apples on the table, and the smell of chai filled the air.

Singh's wrist buzzed, and he didn't need to look to know it was the five-minute warning for his car. He strapped Elsa into her high chair and put the smallest plate of apple slices in front of her. She chortled and smacked her palm down onto them, spraying droplets of juice everywhere.

"Will you have time to eat?" Natalia asked.

"I'm afraid I won't," Singh said, pulling up his sleeve and scrolling through the day's schedule. "Monster just did not want to put pants on today."

"I think her single biggest disagreement with preschool is their pants requirement," Natalia said with a smile. Then she glanced down at the meeting schedule on his arm and sobered. "What time should we expect you?"