Persepolis Rising

Chapter Eighteen: Bobbie

A rope defined the line to the ships. Two and a half, maybe three hundred people, each with their fist on it, went the length of the dock and switched back twice. Men and women in the jumpsuits of dozens of different companies jostled in place in the dock’s microgravity, inching forward along the line as if registering their silent impatience would make the whole operation move faster. Laconian guards floated along the perimeter, rifles drawn and ready for violence. If it came to that, Bobbie thought, it wouldn’t be surgical. Not in a mob like this. If anyone started anything, the air recyclers would be spitting out blood clots for months. She hoped everyone else knew that too. She hoped they cared.

Every now and then, a team of Laconian military escorts came, took the people from the moored end of the line, checked their authorization, screened them for weapons, and led them off to their ship. Everyone on the rope would pull a little forward, grabbing on another half meter closer to their turn, feeling the weave of the strands, the grease from all the palms before their own. The unmoored end floated free, waiting for the next hapless crew to join the waiting horde.

They were lucky, Bobbie told herself. Most of the ships had full crews of twenty or thirty people. The Roci just had the four of them. They could all go aboard at once. Small blessings indeed. Almost too small to see.

The guards led away another group. They moved down the rope again, that much closer.

“How you holding together, Claire?” Bobbie asked.

Clarissa took a long, shuddering breath and nodded. When she spoke, the words came just a little too fast, and all the consonants had sharp edges. Like she was trying to rein them in and couldn’t. “It would be very nice to get to the med bay. But right now, it’s just euphoria and nausea. Nothing I can’t handle.”

“That changes,” Amos said, “you let me know.”

“Will,” she said. Bobbie wasn’t sure she liked the sound of that. There weren’t many actions Amos could take that would make the situation better. If putting their heads down and enduring wasn’t enough to get Clarissa to her medications, the options got bad fast.

“Anyone else think it’s cold in here?” Alex said.

“It is,” Clarissa said. “I think the pressure’s a little low too. The environmental systems are all off.”

“That doesn’t sound like a good thing,” Alex said.

“Belters,” Bobbie said. “We trained for this.”

“You trained for low air pressure?” Amos asked. He sounded amused. That was better than sounding frustrated.

“We trained for occupying Belter stations. One of the base tactics that Belters used was throwing environmental stasis off just enough that we’d have to keep bumping it up our priority queue. Someone somewhere on the station is trying to make it harder for these folks.”

“Huh,” Amos said. “That’s pretty ballsy.”

“It only works if the occupying force isn’t willing to just kill everyone and start over. So yeah. There’s an element of playing chicken.”

The group in front them on the rope wore gray-black jumpsuits with CHARLES BOYLE GAS TRANSPORT logos in green on the back. The one floating nearest them looked back over his shoulder, catching Bobbie’s eye almost shyly. She nodded, and the man nodded back, hesitated, tilted his head a centimeter forward.

“Perdó,” he said, nodding toward Clarissa. “La hija la? She’s sick?”

Bobbie felt herself tense. It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t an insult. It was just someone who wasn’t part of her crew putting themselves into her business. But maybe she was feeling as tense as Amos. She took a little breath and nodded.

The man tapped his compatriot ahead of him on the rope. They spoke for a moment in Belter cant so thick and fast, Bobbie couldn’t follow it, then they all released the rope and gestured Bobbie forward. Giving up their place in line so that Clarissa could get to the Roci a few minutes sooner. It was a tiny thing. A gesture. It shouldn’t have hit her as hard as it did.

“Thank you,” Bobbie said, and ushered the others forward. “Thank you very much.”

“Is is,” the man said, waving her thanks away. It wasn’t an idiom she’d heard before, but his expression explained it. We do what we can for each other.

The Laconians were efficient. The line moved quickly. Even with as many people as were waiting, the Roci crew reached the head of the line in only a couple of hours. An escort of four Marines checked her authorizations, scanned them all for weapons. Apart from a momentary hit of panic when they were looking at Clarissa’s scan—would her modifications keep them from letting her on? —everything went smoothly. And after all, her mods had been designed to get past security unnoticed. Good to know they were still doing their jobs, even while they killed her.

The Rocinante was waiting for them in the dock, loyal as a dog. When they cycled the airlock and pulled themselves in, Bobbie felt her shoulders relax. The air smelled familiar. It wasn’t even a particular scent so much as a sense of rightness. Of being home. Bobbie let herself imagine they were getting on board to leave, that they’d be burning for one of the gates. Diving down toward one sun or another.

Someday, maybe. Not now.

“You have one hour,” the escort lead said.

Bobbie shook her head. “My mechanic needs to be in the med bay for longer than that. She has to have a blood flush.”

“She’ll have to do the best she can in an hour. She can visit medical facilities on the station.”

Bobbie looked at the guard. The man had a wide face and skin just a shade darker than Bobbie’s own. A lifetime of habit mapped out how Bobbie would try disarming him, controlling his weapon, getting into cover. Chances weren’t great. The Laconians moved like they’d been well trained, and the oldest of them still looked to be hauling around a decade less than she was.

“It’s fine, Captain,” Clarissa said. “I can set the system to do a fast push and get blockers. I’ve done it before.”

“If you need another waiver,” the guard said, “you can apply for it once you’ve left.”

“Fine,” Bobbie said. “Let’s get on with this.”

They moved through the ship like they were visiting someone in prison. The guards went with them everywhere, examined everything they took from their cabins, watched every command they gave the ship, copied every report the ship returned. The resentment in Bobbie’s gut ached, but there wasn’t anything to be done about it. Their pass allowed them to retrieve personal items and any tools they needed for their work, provided they didn’t present a security risk. Which was a shame. There was a part of her that would have liked to explain that she worked as a mercenary so that she could walk out of here with Betsy around her like a shell.

As she packed her things from the captain’s cabin, her guard watching wordlessly from the doorway, she opened a connection to Alex.

“What’s the good word?” she said.

“Roci’s a little bored, but she’s in good condition,” Alex said from the flight deck. “A little impurity in the water supply we should look at, but it’s likely just a seal that’s wearing out. A little stray leaching.”

“Okay,” Bobbie said. She wanted to stay. She wanted to spend her hours polishing her ship and fixing every flaw they could put hands to. She had thirty-five minutes left. “Flag it. We’ll dig in next time.”

“Next time, Cap’n,” Alex agreed. Because there would be a next time. Even if there wasn’t, they were going to pretend there would be. She locked down her cabinets, checked the message queue from the ship’s system to make sure everything was getting to her hand terminal—or at least that the Laconian censors were locking everything down equally—and pulled herself back down the corridor and toward the lift.

“This a Martian ship?” her guard asked.

“It is,” Bobbie said as they reached the lift and headed down for the machine shop.

“I’ve seen some like her back home. First fleet had a lot like this.”

First fleet meaning all the ships that Duarte had stolen when he’d escaped to Laconia. But also, Bobbie realized, meaning there was a second fleet. One with ships like the monstrosity that had killed the Tori Byron.

“Must look pretty quaint, eh?” she said, trying to make light of it, inviting the guard to give something away. But if there had been an opportunity there, she’d missed it.

In the machine shop, Amos had almost finished collecting a set of safety-approved tools into a small ceramic toolbox. He nodded to her as she floated in, stopping herself on a handhold. She saw his sign again: YOU TAKE CARE OF HER. SHE TAKES CARE OF YOU. The words had more weight now. She’d barely had a chance to take care of the Rocinante, at least not as her captain. She hoped another chance would come.

“You ready to roll out?” she asked.

“Yep,” Amos said.

Clarissa and Alex were already in the airlock with their guard when Bobbie and Amos got there. Clarissa looked more relaxed, and there was more color in her skin. Alex would have seemed relaxed to anyone who didn’t know him, but Bobbie saw how he looked at the ship, how his hand lingered on the bulkhead. He knew as well as she did that there was no guarantee they’d ever be back.

The guards escorted them along the nearly empty docks, back toward the transfer point to the drum and spin gravity, then went back for the next crew to the next ship. When they were alone, Bobbie cleared her throat.

“All right. How did that go?” she asked.

“They’ve locked her down pretty tight,” Alex said. “But they didn’t get everything. Give me twenty minutes, I can probably get her working.”

“I’ve got a decent kit,” Amos said, holding up the toolbox. “Could get some low-level work with just this. Not cutting through any decking, though.”

“Claire?”

Clarissa smiled and shrugged. “I feel a little better, and I’ve got enough blockers.”

Bobbie put a hand on her thin shoulder. “We’ll take care of you,” she said.

“I know you will,” Clarissa said.

“All right, then,” Bobbie said. “The way I see it, the next step is find someone who can get messages back to the union. Or Earth-Mars. See if there’s anyone out there with a plan, or if we’re going to have to make one up on our own.”

“We can do that,” Amos said. “Shouldn’t be hard.”

“You sure?” Alex said. “This is Medina Station under occupation by a bunch of splinter Martian military expats. It’s not Baltimore.”

Amos’ smile was as placid as always. “Everywhere’s Baltimore.”

Bobbie had known and worked with Amos Burton for years, and he kept being able to surprise her. For the next two days, Amos took the lead, moving through Medina Station apparently without any particular aim or purpose. They went to sit in a bar by the water recycling plant, went to interview with a pop-up service that was matching people who’d been locked off their ships with accommodations, played a little dirt football with a crew of technicians whose old split-circle OPA tattoos had been softened and smudged by the years.

Every now and then, Bobbie caught something—a phrase or a gesture—that didn’t quite feel right, like there was a second conversation going on at some frequency her ears couldn’t pick up. She took up her position at Amos’ back and watched for threats, either from the Laconians or the locals.

Everywhere they went, the station seemed to be on the edge of something. It was in the air and the voices of everyone they spoke to. Guards in power armor. Checkpoints. The Laconians had erected an open-air jail, and filled it with men and women living behind bars like animals at a particularly shitty zoo. With hand terminals locked down and the internal communications network restricted to the point of uselessness, every conversation seemed fraught and dangerous. Anything worth encrypting is worth not putting on a network in the first place, Amos would sometimes say. Bobbie had never really thought about how much communication changed when every time you spoke, you had to be close enough that the other person could stab you if they wanted to. Never before, anyway.

And then, after three days, the old Belter who’d been the opposing goalie at their football game came to them at the little public table where they were eating mushrooms and noodles, nodded to Amos, and walked away. The big man got up, stretched his neck until it popped, and turned to Bobbie.

“We’ve got a thing,” he said.

“A good one or a bad one?” she said.

“One or the other.”

Bobbie took a last mouthful of her breakfast, chewed, and swallowed. “Understood,” she said. “Let’s go.”

Clarissa and Alex stood when she did. Part of her wanted to order them to stay back. If things went south, they’d be safe. As if anywhere was safe. She didn’t say anything.

The old Belter led them to an access corridor with a ramp that sank down, out toward the skin of the drum and the emptiness beyond it, the void always just underfoot. They passed two different concealed guard posts that she saw, and while she didn’t think there were any others that had escaped her notice, she couldn’t be sure. The old Belter didn’t say anything, and Amos didn’t try to strike up a conversation.

The warehouse they ended up in was half filled with storage boxes fixed to the deck with maglocks. The lighting was harsh, restricted-wavelength worklights with a flicker that made her feel like her vision was strobing if she moved her hand too quickly. Three men leaned on the crates, their arms loose at their sides so they wouldn’t have to spend the quarter second uncrossing them if things came to violence. Bobbie felt a warmth in her gut, a presentiment of trouble that was almost welcome. Invading ships with unimaginable weapons, protomolecule technology that could rip atoms apart, sudden empires imposed without warning or precedent. She’d grit her teeth and move forward because there wasn’t another option. But thugs in warehouses was territory she understood.

The man in the middle of the three was a Belter, tall and muscular. His skin was the same brown as his hair and eyes. Even if he hadn’t been pretty, he’d have been striking. And he was pretty.

“Heard you wanted to talk,” he said.

Amos looked back at her, and pointed to the pretty man with his chin. He’d gotten them this far, but she was the boss. This was hers now.

“Who’d you hear we wanted to talk to?” Bobbie asked, stepping forward. Clarissa shifted out to her side. As weak and compromised as she looked, they’d underestimate her. Bobbie didn’t know what using the implants would do to Clarissa, but by the time it took its toll, all three of the men would be incapacitated or dead. And that was without her and Amos weighing in.

The pretty man tilted his head.

“Names are dangerous, coyo,” he said.

Bobbie pointed a thumb to herself. “Captain Bobbie Draper.” She turned to the others. “Alex Kamal. Clarissa Mao. Amos Burton. Now, who the fuck are you?”

The pretty man scowled, tilting his head like he was trying to recall a song that was just at the edge of memory. It was a look she’d seen before, and she didn’t feel like helping him place her. Not yet, anyway.

“Saba,” the man said at last, “and that’s enough for you right now.”

“You’re playing this all pretty close to the chest, Saba,” Bobbie said.

“Not interested in being under the authority of the authorities,” he said. “I’ve got reasons for that.”

“Well, I’m not working for Laconia, so we can stop the bullshit, right?”

“Not sure we can,” Saba said. His hand terminal chimed—a sound Bobbie didn’t remember hearing since the crackdown—but he ignored it. Interesting that he had a working hand terminal, though. The chances that he was the real deal went up in her estimation.

“Heard you were looking to get in touch with the underground,” Saba said. “Leaves a man wondering why. You looking to trade with the new boss?”

“Nope,” Bobbie said.

“Then you thinking you’re going to come tell us what to do?”

Bobbie smiled. She could feel her teeth against her lips. Either they were going to back each other down, or this was going to end in blood. She hoped it was the former, but it wasn’t her call. “We were there when that fucking idiot tried to kill the governor. If that’s the level you people are working at, then yes, I’d be happy to help organize. Someone ought to.”

Saba’s face was cool. “Belters been standing under the oppressors’ boot for generations. You think you’ve got something to teach us?”

“Apparently so,” Bobbie said. “Seems like some of you assholes have gotten pretty rusty.”

A little darkness came to Saba’s olive cheeks. He stood up, stepped forward. Bobbie took her own step in to meet him. If she showed weakness now, they’d never take her seriously again. The chirp of his hand terminal seemed to come from another universe.

“What?” Bobbie said, not giving him the tempo. “You planning to do this without any allies? Without any support? You against the Laconian Empire? I’ve seen how that went up to now, and—”

“Saba!”

The new voice came from behind her. She didn’t want to turn her back on the three Belters, but she didn’t want someone unknown at her back either.

“Saba!” the voice said again. It sounded young. Excited. Bobbie threw a glance over her shoulder. A young woman in a green jumpsuit, grinning like someone had just given her a present.

“Que, Nanda?” Saba asked.

“Found someone,” the girl said. “Look.”

And from behind the girl, Holden and Naomi came into the room, squinting at the ugly light.

“Hey!” Holden said, and then “Bobbie. This is great. I wasn’t sure how we were going to find you.”

Saba whistled low. “James fucking Holden. You’ll no believe how much I’ve heard about you.”

“All good, I hope?” Holden said, walking forward, oblivious to the tension in the room. Or maybe choosing to ignore it. It was always hard to tell with him. “You’ve met my old crew already?”

“You crew?” Saba said, then looked at Bobbie as if seeing her for the first time. He laughed. “Savvy I did. Well, then. Welcome to the underground.”

She smiled, but something ugly plucked at her guts. James fucking Holden, Bobbie thought. Three magic words, and just like that, someone else was in charge.