James Corey - Babylon's Ashes

The temptation to lie back, put his head to the pillow, and let his gritty, tired eyes close was as powerful as hunger and sex had been four decades back. The weight of the idea as much as exhaustion pulled him down. It was stupid for anyone, much less a man his age, to be pushing that hard, and the governor’s bed was soft and inviting, the sheets clean and crisp. But if he did, his eyes would open the moment his head touched the pillow. Restlessness would twist him, knotting the sheets around his legs until he gave up, two or three wasted hours later. One more shift, and he’d be spent enough to let the pills work. He’d fall into the blackness behind his eyes, consciousness blinking blissfully out. But not yet.

His first lover—Diane Redstone, her name was—had a phrase for moments like this. Nice woods , she’d say, and then get up out of their bed and go to work. He hadn’t understood where the saying came from until years after they parted for the last time. Now that he did, he couldn’t help harboring an irrational dislike of Robert Frost.

He pulled up his hand terminal, considered himself through its tiny eyes, and pressed Record.

“Message received. I’ll do what I can to keep our mutual acquaintance in line. But I’d also point out that he’s a resource we’d be foolish to squander. Neither of us is in a position to do some things that Holden and his people can. Speaking of which, I’m including a salvage manifest for the Minsky . It’s a big ship, and well supplied. It’s within my power as acting governor of Ceres to claim emergency powers and seize property for the common good. That’s not Holden’s law, that’s just law. I’ll be sending it and a third of its cargo back down to Earth, and the August Marchant and Bethany Thomas as escort. There’s enough in there to keep a midsized city alive. Just a drop in the bucket, I know, but that’s how buckets get filled.”

He tried to think of anything else he should say, and couldn’t decide if there was too much or not enough. Either way, it could wait. He reviewed the message, encrypted and queued it, and then levered himself up off the bed. There’d be time to sleep later.

His security detail met him outside his door and followed him to the carts in the main corridor. His was sheathed in bulletproof glass. Sitting in it made him feel like he’d put his head in a fishbowl. But until he was certain that Inaros didn’t have more people mixed in among the millions of legitimate citizens, he was stuck with it. And since he’d never be certain, he figured he might as well get used to it. They lurched out into the corridor—one security cart going before him and another behind, leaving enough room that a bomb would have a hard time taking out all three at once. The logic of the battlefield. And everything was a battlefield now.

The citizens of Ceres made way for them, standing against the corridor walls and staring as they passed. Fred felt like he should genuflect to them. Or wave. Anderson Dawes—his old friend and enemy—had run this station for years. He couldn’t imagine the man putting up with this. But Ceres had been a different place then.

The governor’s palace was close to the docks, out near the skin of the station where the spin gravity was greatest and the Coriolis least. The Rocinante had its own berth in the same dock as the Minsky , and when Fred’s cart pulled to a stop by the loading dock, James Holden was already there.

“I was wondering if you were going to come over,” Holden said as Fred pulled himself out of the cart. “Because I couldn’t help noticing that someone shot at us.”

“Really? And here, I thought they shot at the pirates.”

Holden closed his mouth, his face turning a little darker. But then he shrugged. “Okay, that’s a fair point, but it was still a dick move.”

“It wasn’t my people,” Fred said, moving toward the Rocinante ’s airlock. Holden took the hint and fell in step beside him.

“I guessed that from the way that not every other ship in the fleet followed suit. And thank you for that, by the way.”

“You’re welcome,” Fred said as they passed into the ship’s cargo hold. Amos Burton—wide-shouldered and friendly—stopped the mech he was driving and let them pass through with a nod. Fred had never met the infamous Clarissa Mao in person, but the girl who ducked away from the lift and into the machine shop was unmistakable. Wasn’t the strangest alliance he’d seen, but it was close. Fred waited until Holden was on the lift too and then set the controls for the crew deck. When they were out of earshot, Fred continued. “There’s something I need to discuss with you.”

“Is it about how someone shot at us, because I’m still kind of stuck on that.”

“I’ve got a team on it. We know it was Free Navy sympathizers, and we know which supply dump they raided to get the munitions, and no, that’s not why I came.”

“Are you going to arrest me for aiding a pirate?”

Fred chuckled. “It had crossed my mind, but no.”

“Bobbie? Because I’m not sure this whole ambassador thing is working out for her.”

“Not that either. You know I’ve been working on a summit. High-level meeting with the branches of the OPA that haven’t declared for the Free Navy.”

“The pajama party.”

Fred winced. “I wish you wouldn’t call it that.”

“Sorry. I just like the visual. Your very serious meeting of OPA leaders.”

The lift stopped at the crew deck. Fred got off, turning toward Holden’s cabin. Their footsteps on the decking sounded louder than Fred remembered, but it was probably just that the full crew wasn’t there any longer to provide the background noises of human life. No conversations, no music, no laughter. Or maybe it was only that it seemed that way to Fred.

“They won’t come to Ceres.” Fred sighed. “Not with the fleet here.”

“I can’t recommend sending the fleet away, though.”

“No, that would be bad. We’ve agreed on Tycho Station, but only with the provision that no UN or MCRN ships come.”

Holden paused at his cabin door. His brow was furrowed. It made him look younger than he was. “We’re going to my cabin because I have that whiskey you like, aren’t we?”

“We are,” Fred said. Holden considered for a moment, shrugged, and led the way in. The captain’s cabin was larger than the others on the corvette, but felt smaller by having many of Naomi Nagata’s possessions in the space too. Holden opened a locker and pulled a flask and two bulbs out, filling them as he spoke.

“What are the chances of pulling together a meeting like this and not having Marco find out about it?”

“Poor,” Fred said, taking the bulb Holden held out to him. “But that’s going to be true no matter what we try to organize. The OPA’s not an intelligence service. Everything out here runs on gossip and personal relationships.”

“Unlike intelligence services?” Holden said, and Fred laughed.

“All right, it’s a little like an intelligence service. My point is, yes, the information will leak, if not in detail, at least in broad strokes. Trying to keep it secret would be an exercise in frustration. And counterproductive, really. If we’re tiptoeing around the Free Navy, it makes it seem like we’re afraid of them. It strengthens my hand if these people see me coming in unafraid. Not foolhardy, but not intimidated.”

“Like on a gunship,” Holden said. “But not one that works for Earth or Mars. Maybe an independent that’s done some work with the OPA on and off. One that Marco has already tried to blow up a couple times and failed.”

The whiskey really was very good. Rich and complex, with the aromatics of an oak cask and a pleasant bite. He handed the bulb back over to Holden and shook his head when the captain offered him a second shot. Holden emptied his own bulb, thought for a moment, refilled it, and emptied it again.