James Corey - Babylon's Ashes

Except that Holden also wasn’t.

Especially now that his parents had come up the well from Earth, the impulse to stay close surprised him. He’d spent most of his adult life off-planet. If anyone had asked, he’d have told them that he didn’t miss Earth. Some people, yes. Some places from his childhood, maybe. But there’d been no sense of longing for the planet itself. It was only now that it had been attacked that he wanted to protect it. Maybe it was always like that. He’d outgrown his childhood home, but in the back of his mind, the unexamined assumption was that it would still be there. Changed, maybe. Grown a little older. But there. Only it wasn’t now. Wanting to stay was the same as wanting to go back a little in time to when it hadn’t happened.

Fred Johnson sent a message. He and weapons technicians Sun-yi Steinberg and Gor Droga were finishing their last meeting. As soon as the new hull was welded into place and the pressure tests complete, they could go. If Holden had any last business on Luna, this was the time for it.

He had some last business on Luna.

The torches flared and died and flared again. The Rocinante was remade a little, the same way it had been over and over through the years. Little changes adding up over time as the ship moved from what it had been to what it would be next. Just like all the people she carried.

“You okay?” Bobbie asked.

“What?” Holden said.

“You were sighing,” she said.

“He does that sometimes,” Alex said.

“I do?” Holden said, realizing as he did that Bobbie was still looped in on the Rocinante -only channel. That he was glad she was. “I didn’t know I did that.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Naomi said. “It’s cute.”

“So,” he said. “When you’re done with that, Naomi? Fred’s on his way.”

“Yeah,” she said, and he was probably just imagining the dread in her voice. “All right.”

The cart that drove them down toward the refugee station ran on electromagnetic track that held the wheels to the ground. Part-grumble, part-chime, the sound was loud enough that Holden felt he had to raise his voice a little to be heard over it.

“If she’s still being paid through the UN or Mars, that would be different,” Holden said. “If we’re offering her a place on the ship permanently, I just think we need to be careful about how we do it.”

“She’s good,” Naomi said. “She’s actually trained for a ship like the Roci , which is more than any of us can say. She gets along with the crew. Why wouldn’t you want Bobbie on board?”

The air in the deeper corridors was damp and close. The environmental systems were working at their full capacity, and a little bit more. People shuffled out of the cart’s way, some staring at them as they passed, some not seeming to look at anything.

The refugee station stank of loss and waiting. Almost every person they passed was a lifetime that had been severed from its roots. Holden and Naomi were the lucky ones here. They still had their home, even if it was a changed one.

“It’s not Bobbie,” Holden said. “Of course I want Bobbie. But the terms … Do we pay her? Do we redistribute ownership of the Roci so that she’s got the same stake in her that all of us do? I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

Naomi looked at him, her eyebrows rising. “Why not?”

“Because whatever we do with Bobbie sets the precedent for what we do with any other crew we bring on.”

“Meaning Clarissa.”

“I don’t want to give Clarissa Mao ownership of the Roci ,” Holden said. “I just … She’s here, and okay, fine. I’m still not sanguine about that, but I can deal with it. And I want to bring Bobbie all the way into the crew, but I just— I can’t. I can’t agree that Clarissa ever gets to call my ship her home. There’s a difference between letting her be there and pretending she’s like Bobbie. Or you. Or me.”

“No forgiveness?” Naomi asked, halfway between teasing and serious.

“Plenty of forgiveness. Loads of forgiveness. Some boundaries too.”

The cart lurched to the left, slowed. The chiming sound cycled lower as it stopped. Father Anton was waiting at the door, smiling and nodding to them as they lifted themselves out and bounce-shuffled forward. The quarters for Holden’s parents were better than most. The suite was tight and too small, but private. His mothers and fathers didn’t have to share it with anyone outside the family. Mother Tamara’s yellow curry scented the air. Father Tom and Father Cesar stood in the doorway to one of the bedrooms, arms around each other’s hips. Father Dimitri leaned against the arm of an old sofa, while Mother Elise and Mother Tamara came in from the little kitchen. Father Joseph and Mother Sophie sat on the couch, a thin magnetic chess set between them, the pieces scattered by their game. Everyone was smiling, including him, and none of them meant it.

It was goodbye again. When he’d left for his doomed tour in the Navy, there’d been a moment like this too. A leave-taking that meant something they couldn’t be sure of. Maybe he’d be back in a few weeks. Or never. Maybe they’d be here on Luna, or transfer to L-4. Or something else might happen. Without the farm and decades of social inertia to hold them together, maybe they would break apart. A sudden, oceanic sadness washed through Holden, and he had to fight to keep it from showing. Protecting his parents from his distress one more time. Just the way they were doing for him.

One by one, and then in groups, they hugged. Mother Elise held Naomi’s hand and told her to take care of her little boy. Naomi solemnly agreed that she’d do what she could. If this might be the last time he had his parents all together, he was grateful that Naomi was there to be part of it, right up until Father Cesar said goodbye.

Cesar’s skin was wrinkled as a turtle’s, dark as fresh-turned earth. There were tears in his eyes as he took Holden’s hand. “You did good, boy. You made everyone proud of you.”

“Thank you,” Holden said.

“You go give those fucking skinnies hell, yeah?”

Over Cesar’s left shoulder, Naomi went stiff. Her smile, which had been soft and warm and amused, became polite. Holden felt it like a punch in the gut. But Cesar didn’t even seem to know that he’d said something rude. Holden was trapped between asking his father to apologize and preserving this last moment. Naomi, talking to Mother Tamara, plucked at her hair. Pulled it over her eyes.

Shit.

“You know,” Holden said. “That’s—”

“That’s what he’ll do,” Naomi said. “You can count on Jim.”

Her eyes were on his, and they were hard and dark. Don’t make this more awkward than it already is glowed in them as clearly as if she’d written it. Holden grinned, hugged Father Cesar one last time, and started the retreat to the door, the cart, the Rocinante . All eight of his parents crowded outside the door to watch him go. He felt them there even when the cart turned the corner and started up the ramp toward the docks. Naomi sat silently. Holden sighed.

“Okay,” he said. “I see now why you didn’t want to do that. I’m really sorry that—”

“Don’t,” Naomi said. “Let’s don’t.”

“I think I owe you an apology.”

She shifted to look straight at him. “Your father owes me an apology. One of your fathers. But I’m going to let him off the hook.”

“All right,” Holden said. The cart lurched to the right. A man with a thick beard trotted out of their way. “I was going to defend you.”