Nemesis Games

Chapter Eighteen: Holden

The construction sphere of Tycho Station glittered around Holden, brighter than stars. Ships hung in their berths in all states of undress, the Rocinante just one among many. Other ships hung in the center, awaiting clearance to leave. The sparks of welding rigs and the white plumes of maneuvering thrusters blinked into and out of existence like fireflies. The only sound he heard was his own breath, the only smell the too-clean scent of bottled air. The dirty green-gray EVA suit had TYCHO SECURITY stenciled on the arm in orange, and the rifle in his hand had come from Fred’s weapons locker.

Station security was on high alert, Drummer and her teams all set to watch each other on the assumption—and Holden was too painfully aware that it wasn’t anything more—that if there was a dissident faction within them, they’d be outnumbered by the ones loyal to Fred. When they’d started out from the airlock, Holden had turned on the security system. It highlighted slightly over a thousand possible sniper’s nests. He’d turned it off again.

Fred floated ahead of him strapped into a bright yellow salvage mech. The rescue-and-recovery kit looked like a massive backpack slung across the mech’s shoulders. A burst of white gas came from the mech’s left side, and Fred drifted elegantly to the right. For a moment, Holden’s brain interpreted the dozens of shipping containers clustered in the empty space outside the massive warehouse bays as being below them, as if he and Fed were divers in a vast airless sea; then they flipped and he was rising up toward them feetfirst. He turned the HUD back on, resetting its display priorities, and one container took on a green overlay. The target. Monica Stuart’s prison, or else her tomb.

“How’re you doing back there?” Fred asked in his ear.

“I’m solid,” Holden said, then curled his lip in annoyance and turned his mic on. “I’m solid except that this isn’t my usual suit of armor. The controls on this thing are all just a little bit wrong.”

“Keep you from dying if they start shooting at us.”

“Sure, unless they’re good at it.”

“We can hope they’re bad,” Fred said. “Get ready. I’m heading in.”

As soon as they’d identified the container, Holden had thought they’d send out a mech, haul it into a bay, and open it. He hadn’t thought about the possibility of booby traps until Fred pointed it out. The container’s data showed awaiting pickup, but the frame that should have said what ship it was slated for was garbled. The image from Monica’s feed didn’t show anything beyond the access door. For all they knew, she could be sitting on tanks of acetylene and oxygen wired to the same circuit as the docking clamps. What they knew for certain was that the main doors were bolted and sealed. But even those could be wired to a trigger. The lowest-risk option, according to Fred, was to cut a hole into the visible doorframe and send someone in to take a look. And the only someone he was sure he could trust was Holden.

Fred positioned himself in front of the container’s doors, and the mech’s massive arm reached back and plucked the r-and-r pack loose. Fred unpacked it with a speed and efficiency of movement that made it seem like something he did all the time. The thin plastic emergency airlock, a single-use cutting torch, two emergency pressure suits, a distress beacon, and a small, sealed crate of medical supplies all took their places in the vacuum around him like they’d been hooked in place. Holden had spent enough years bucking ice to admire how little drift each piece of equipment had.

“Wish me luck,” Fred said.

“Don’t blow up,” Holden replied. Fred’s mic cut out on his chuckle, and the mech’s arms swung into motion with a surgical speed and precision. The welding torch bloomed, slicing through the metal while a sealant foam injector followed to keep the air in the box from venting. Holden opened a connection to the lab and the captured image from Monica’s feed. A brightness like a star shone there.

“We’ve got confirmation,” Holden said. “This is the right one.”

“I saw,” Fred replied, finishing the cut. He smoothed the airlock over the scar, pressing the adhesive against the surface, and then opened the outer zipper. “You’re up.”

Holden moved forward. Fred held out a bulky three-fingered mech claw, and Holden gave it the rifle, scooping up the medical bag and emergency suit.

“If anything looks suspicious, just get back out,” Fred said. “We’ll take our chances with a real demolitions tech.”

“I’ll just pop my head in,” Holden said.

“Sure you will,” Fred said. The angle of the faceplate made Fred’s smile impossible to see, but he could hear it. Holden pulled the outer sheet of the lock over him, sealed it, inflated the blister, and opened the interior sheet. The cut was a square, a meter to each side, black scorch marks with a pale beige foam between them. Holden put a foot on the uncut container door, locking the mag boot in place, and kicked in. The foam splintered and broke inward; the cut panel floated into the container. Dull buttery light spilled out.

Monica Stuart lay strapped in a crash couch. Her eyes were open but glazed, her mouth slack. A cut across her cheek had a ridge of black scab. A cheap autodoc was clamped to the wall, a tube reaching out to her neck like a leash. There didn’t seem to be anything else there. Nothing with a big CAUTION EXPLOSIVES sign anyway.

When Holden grabbed the edge of the crash couch, it shifted on its gimbals. Her eyes looked into his, and he thought he saw a flicker of emotion there—confusion and maybe relief. He took the needle out of her neck gently. A tiny spurt of clear liquid bubbling and dancing in the air. He cracked the emergency medical kit open and strapped it over her arm. Forty long seconds later, it reported that she appeared sedated but stable and asked if Holden wanted to intervene.

“How’s it going in there?” Fred asked, and this time Holden remembered to turn on the mic.

“I’ve got her.”

Three hours later, they were in the medical bay on Tycho Station proper. The room was sealed off, four guards posted outside and all network connections to the suite physically disabled. Three other beds sat empty, the patients, if there were any, rerouted to other places. It was half recovery room, half protective custody, and Holden could only wonder if Monica understood how much of that security was just theater.

“That wasn’t fun,” Monica said.

“I know,” Holden said. “You’ve been through a lot.”

“I have.” The words were slushy, like she was drunk, but her eyes had the sharpness and focus Holden was used to seeing in them.

Fred, standing at the foot of the bed, crossed his arms. “I’m sorry, Monica, but I’m going to have to ask you some questions.”

Her smile reached her eyes. “Usually goes the other way.”

“Yes, but I usually don’t answer. I’m hoping you will.”

She took a deep breath. “Okay. What do you have?”

“Why don’t we start with how you wound up in that container,” Fred said.

Her shrug looked sore and painful. “Not much to tell there. I was in my quarters and the door opened. Two guys came in. I sent an emergency alert to security, screamed a lot, and tried to get away from them. But then they sprayed something in my face and I blacked out.”

“The door opened,” Fred said. “You didn’t answer it?”

“No.”

Fred’s expression didn’t change, but Holden had the sense of growing weight in the angle of his shoulders. “Go on.”

“I came to when they were loading me into the crash couch. I couldn’t move much,” Monica went on, “but I managed to turn my camera rig on.”

“Did you hear anyone speaking?”

“Did,” she said. “They were Belters. That’s what you’re getting at, isn’t it?”

“It’s one thing. Can you tell me what they said?”

“They called me some unpleasant names,” Monica said. “There was something about a trigger. I couldn’t follow all of it.”

“Belter creole can be hard to follow.”

“And I’d been drugged and assaulted,” Monica said, her voice growing hard. Fred lifted his hands, placating.

“No offense meant,” he said. “Do you remember anything specific that—”

“This is about the missing colony ships, isn’t it?”

“It’s early to say what this is ‘about,’” Fred said, and then, grudgingly, “but that’s certainly one possibility.”

“The OPA’s doing it, then. Only you didn’t know about it.”

“I’m not confirming or denying anything, just at the moment.”

“Then neither am I,” Monica said, crossing her arms.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Holden said. “Come on, you two. We’re all on the same side here, right?”

“Not without terms,” Monica said.

Fred’s jaw went tight. “We just saved your life.”

“Thanks for that,” Monica said. “I’m included in the investigation. All of it. Exclusive interviews with both of you. I’ll give you everything I have about the colony ships and my abduction. Even the parts I didn’t tell Holden. And fair warning before I go public with any of this.”

“Wait a minute,” Holden said. “There were parts you didn’t tell me?”

“Final approval before anything sees air,” Fred said.

“Not a chance,” Monica said. “And you need me.”

“Final approval exclusively for issues of security and safety,” Fred said. “And two weeks lead time.”

Monica’s eyes were bright and hungry. Holden had traveled with her for weeks going out to the Ring the first time, and he felt like he knew her. The ruthlessness in her expression was surprising. Fred only seemed amused by it.

“One week lead time, and nothing unreasonably withheld,” she said and pointed an accusing finger at Fred. “I’m trusting you on that.”

Fred looked to Holden, his smile thin and unamused. “Well, now I’ve got two people I know aren’t working for the other side.”

The thing Holden hadn’t known—No, that wasn’t true. The thing Holden had known, but hadn’t appreciated, was the number of ships moving through the rings and out to the vast spread of new planets. Monica’s full logs tracked the almost five hundred ships that had made the transit. Many were smaller even than the Rocinante, traveling together in groups to make a claim on a new and unknown world or else to join newly founded steadings on places with names like Paris and New Mars and Firdaws. Other ships were larger—true colony ships loaded with the same kinds of supplies that, generations before, humanity had taken out to Luna, Mars, and the Jovian moons.

The first one to vanish had been the Sigyn. She’d been a converted water hauler a little newer than the Canterbury. Then the Highland Swing, a tiny rock hopper that had been nearly gutted to put in an Epstein drive with three times the power a ship like that could ever have used. The Rabia Balkhi that she’d shown him had the best footage of its transit, but it wasn’t the first or the last to disappear. As he went through, he made note of the types and profiles of all the missing ships to forward on to Alex. The Pau Kant could be any of them.

There was another pattern to the vanishing too. The ships that went missing did so during times of high traffic when Medina Station’s attention was stretched between five or six different ships. And afterward—this was interesting—the ring through which the missing ship had passed showed not a spike in radiation but a discontinuity—a moment when the background levels changed suddenly. It wasn’t something that other transits seemed to have. Monica had interpreted it as evidence of alien technology doing something inscrutable and eerie. Knowing what they did now, it looked to Holden more like a glitch left over where the data had been doctored. Like switching the crate that Monica had been taken away in or vanishing into a men’s room and never coming out, someone would have had to hide the “missing” ships coming back through the ring. If there was a similar glitch in the sensor data of the ring that led back to humanity’s home system—

“Holden?”

The security office around him was empty. Fred had cleared it for his “personal use”—meaning as the center for his private investigation of how deeply he had been compromised. The security personnel Holden had walked past coming in seemed nonplussed to be turned out of their own offices, but no one had raised any objection. Or at least none that he’d heard.

Fred stood in the archway of the short hall that led to the interrogation rooms. He was in civilian clothes, well tailored. A scattering of white stubble dusted his chin and cheeks, and his eyes were bloodshot and the yellow of old ivory. His spine was stiff though, and his demeanor sharp enough to cut.

“Did you hear something?” Holden asked.

“I’ve had a conversation with an associate of mine who I’ve known for a long time. Light delay always makes these things painfully slow, but… I have a better idea what I’m looking at. A start, anyway.”

“Can you trust them?”

Fred’s smile was weary. “If Anderson Dawes is against me, I’m screwed whatever I do.”

“All right,” Holden said. “So where do we start?”

“If I could borrow you for a few minutes,” Fred said, nodding back toward the interrogation rooms.

“You want to question me?”

“More use you as a prop in a little play I’m putting on.”

“Seriously?”

“If it works, it’ll save us time.”

Holden stood. “And if it doesn’t?”

“Then it won’t.”

“Good enough.”

The interrogation room was bare, cold, and unfriendly. A steel table bolted to the floor separated the single backless stool from three gel-cushioned chairs. Monica was already sitting in one. The cut on her face was looking much better—little more than a long red welt. Without makeup, she looked harder. Older. It suited her. Fred gestured to the seat at the other side for Holden, then sat in the middle.

“Just look serious and let me do the talking,” he said.

Holden caught Monica’s gaze and lifted his eyebrows. What is this? She cracked a thin smile. Guess we’ll find out.

The door opened, and Drummer walked in. Sakai followed her. The chief engineer’s gaze flickered from Holden to Monica and back. Drummer guided him to a stool.

“Thank you,” Fred said. Drummer nodded and walked tightly out of the room. She might have been pissed at being kept out of the proceedings. Or maybe it was something else. Holden could see how something like this could lead to crippling paranoia pretty quickly.

Fred sighed. When he spoke, his voice was soft and warm as flannel. “So. I think you know what this is about.”

Sakai opened his mouth, shut it. And then it was like watching a mask fall away. His features settled into an image of perfect, burning hatred.

“You know what?” Sakai said. “Fuck you.”

Fred sat still, his expression set. It was like he hadn’t heard the words at all. Sakai clenched his jaw and scowled at the silence until the pressure built up and it became too much to bear.

“You arrogant fucking Earthers. All of you. Out here in the Belt leading the poor skinnies to salvation? Is that who you think you are? Do you have any idea how fucking patronizing you are? All of you. All of you. The Belt doesn’t need Earther bitches like you to save us. We save ourselves, and you assholes can pay for it, yeah?”

Holden felt a flush of anger rising in his chest, but Fred’s voice was calm and soft.

“I’m hearing you say you resent me for being from Earth. Am I getting that right?”

Sakai leaned back on the stool, caught his balance, then turned and spat on the decking. Fred waited again, but this time Sakai let the silence stretch. After a few moments Fred shrugged, then sighed and stood up. When he leaned forward and hit Sakai it was such a simple, pedestrian movement, Holden wasn’t even shocked until Sakai fell over. Blood poured down the engineer’s lip.

“I have given up my life and the lives of people I care for a hell of a lot more than you to protect and defend the Belt,” Fred growled. “And I am not in the mood to have some jumped-up terrorist piece of shit tell me different.”

“I’m not scared of you,” Sakai said in a voice that made it very clear to Holden he was desperately scared. Holden was a little unnerved himself. He’d seen Fred Johnson angry before, but the white-hot rage radiating from the man now was another thing entirely. Fred’s eyes didn’t flicker. This was the man who had led armies and massacred thousands. The killer. Sakai shrank from his pitiless regard like it was a physical blow.

“Drummer!”

The head of security opened the door and stepped in. If she was surprised, it didn’t show in her face. Fred didn’t look at her.

“Mister Drummer, take this piece of shit to the brig. Put him in an isolation cell, and be sure he gets enough kibble and water that he doesn’t die. No one in, no one out. And I want a complete audit of his station presence. Who he’s talked to. Who he’s traded messages with. How often he’s taken a shit. Everything goes through code analysis.”

“Yes, sir,” Drummer said, paused. And then, “Should I take the station off lockdown?”

“No,” Fred said.

“Yes, sir,” Drummer repeated, and then helped Sakai to his feet and ushered him out the door. Holden cleared his throat.

“We need to double-check the work on the Rocinante,” he said, “because there’s no way I’m flying something that guy did the safety inspections for.”

Monica whistled low.

“Schismatic OPA faction?” she said. “Well. It wouldn’t be the first time a revolutionary leader was targeted by the extreme wing of his own side.”

“It wouldn’t,” Fred agreed. “What bothers me is that they’re feeling secure enough to tip their hand.”