Persepolis Rising

Chapter Forty-Six: Singh

He didn’t see the catastrophe coming. Even when the scope of it became clear, he struggled to understand it. Blindsided.

The talk in the station—the talk everywhere—was about Sol system and the surrender. Singh watched it play out in newsfeeds and discussion forums, taking the role of official censor more for the joy of being present in the unfolding of history than from any immediate need. The combined fleet of the Transport Union and the EMC beaten and standing down. The newsfeeds from the local sources in Sol system were anguish and despair, with only a few outlets calling unconvincingly for the battle to continue.

For their own side, Carrie Fisk and the Laconian Congress of Worlds proved to be an apt tool for the job, praising the Transport Union’s capitulation as a moment of liberation for the former colony worlds. The rules and restrictions on trade are no longer being dictated by the generational politics of Sol. By being outside the system of favoritism, nepotism, political horse-trading and compromise, Laconia is positioned to bring exactly the reforms that humanity needs. He noticed that she shied away from mentioning High Consul Duarte’s name. It was always just Laconia.

Which was fine. The two were essentially the same.

But it was the conversation beyond her and other specifically recruited allies that made him feel best. Governor Kwan from Bara Gaon Complex issued a statement of support for the new administration so quickly that Singh was almost certain it had been recorded in advance. Auberon’s local parliament also sent a public message to put themselves in place as early supporters of the new regime. New Spain, New Roma, Nyingchi Xin, Félicité, Paradíso, Pátria, Asylum, Chrysanthemum, Ríocht. Major colonies, some with populations already in the millions, had seen the battle at Leuctra Point and drawn the only sane conclusion. The power center of the human race had shifted, and the wise were shifting with it.

The imminent arrival of the Typhoon also helped. He had known Rear Admiral Song since he’d entered the service. Not that they’d ever been close, but she was a face and a name that carried a weight of familiarity. He’d only traded a handful of messages with her, mostly to arrange the piece for the newsfeeds, but speaking to her had reminded him powerfully of home. The routines he’d had on Laconia, the taste of the tea, the little part where he would sit with Elsa when she was newborn and Natalia was sleeping. Watching sunbirds dive into the pond. Sending James Holden back had begun it, and the coming of the Typhoon would complete it. Traffic to and from Laconia. Proof that the great roads of space were open.

The longing it called forth in him was vast and complex. The open sky that he wouldn’t see as long as he remained governor of Medina. The touch of his wife’s skin against his, which he could look forward to. His daughter’s laughter and the soft sounds she made at the edge of sleep.

There was a way in which every day since he’d stepped off the Storm had been a pause, like holding his breath. And soon, soon, his real work could begin. With the Typhoon in place and Sol system conquered, the empire would be unassailable, and humanity’s future assured. He’d ignored his own anxiety and impatience, and now that he could almost relax, he felt them straining for that release.

Taken together, all the good news nearly made up for the bad.

“By comparison, the attack was minor,” Overstreet said, walking beside him as they went to the executive commissary. “We lost two Marines, but the infrastructure damage was trivial compared with the previous attack.”

Singh wasn’t sure whether they had come off the patterned time for the executive staff or if word had spread before him and cleared the commissary, but only four people were seated at tables enough for fifty. The door attendant ushered them to a small table set apart from the rest, where they wouldn’t be casually overheard. He and Overstreet made their requests—green tea for Singh, a local drink called black castle for Overstreet—before they went on with the their conversation.

“We have them on the run,” Singh said. “Smaller attacks, targets of convenience instead of strategic ones? This underground is running out of steam.”

“That is certainly possible, sir,” Overstreet agreed. “Still, I’ll feel better when we have them all in custody.”

It probably wasn’t another dig at his decision to send away Holden, but Singh felt a little sting all the same. The drinks arrived with a small plate of pastries. Overstreet held back until Singh had taken one. A small point, but one that Singh appreciated.

“What is the status of our friend’s operation?” he asked.

Overstreet leaned forward, folding his hands around the cup of black castle. His mouth narrowed. “We should know in about half an hour now. If your informant is what he claims to be, he and his co-conspirators will be walking into the power-routing station. I have five officers and five Marines waiting for them.”

“Do you expect a fight?”

“I’m hoping for one,” Overstreet said. “There’s nothing the troops would like better than an excuse to break a couple heads.”

“I need those brains intact.”

“Fingers, then,” Overstreet said with a chuckle. “No one loves a mad bomber.”

“Fair enough. The informant, though. He goes free.”

Overstreet nodded, but he looked like he’d tasted something bitter. Singh leaned in a degree and let the silence ask the question for him. Overstreet met his eyes, looked away, and shrugged.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea, sir. If we take the others and he slips away, his people will know he’s working for us. They could turn him back.”

Singh felt a stab of annoyance, but he pushed it down. He had to remember what he’d learned with Tanaka. Better that he be patient.

“You think he may be a triple agent?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time something like that had happened. The one thing you know about someone who’s willing to compromise his allies is that he’s willing to compromise his allies.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Question him, the same as the others,” Overstreet said. “When his trial comes up, put a word in the judge’s ear.”

Singh sipped his tea. It was still a little too hot. It scalded. “I’m not certain that helps us build a network of locals who will work with us.”

“If I do my job right, we’ll be able to put a replacement in his spot. And a little clemency come sentencing time is more than he deserves.”

It felt like a betrayal. The man, compromised though he was, had done his part. He’d brought the information to prevent the sabotage of Medina’s sensors to Singh. Handing him over for trial didn’t seem like a just reward for loyalty. But Overstreet had a point. Jordao was a member of a conspiracy against the station and Laconia. He likely had blood on his hands, and there was a greater loyalty that a governor owed to his own people than anything a local thug could command.

“Fair enough,” Singh said. “A normal interrogation. But tell your people just that. If they need to take their frustrations out on someone, make it the ones who weren’t working with us.”

“I can do that,” Overstreet agreed. And a moment later, “It’ll be good having this wrapped up before the Typhoon gets here. I was hoping this wouldn’t drag on.”

“To a degree,” Singh said, “it’s to be expected. Periods of transition invite a certain—”

Overstreet started. He put his black castle down fast enough that it sloshed onto the table, then he checked the monitor on his wrist. The red of a priority alert glowed there like a little flame. He tapped it with a scowl. His eyes went dead. Singh’s breath went shallow.

Something had happened. Another terrorist attack.

“What is it?” Singh asked.

“We have an unauthorized launch,” Overstreet said, standing up. Singh stood with him, drinks and baked goods forgotten. Adrenaline surged through him. A ship—even a small one—crashing into Medina could do terrible damage. Could crack the drum, destroy the station. Overstreet was already walking for the security station, fast, scissoring steps that weren’t quite running and weren’t quite anything else. Singh had to trot to catch up.

“What ship?” Singh asked.

“Old Martian gunship,” Overstreet said. “Name’s the Rocinante.”

“James Holden’s ship?” What did that mean? Was his crew making some kind of doomed bid to catch the Lightbreaker and bring him back? Or take revenge for his loss?

“It has capacity for twenty missiles and a keel-mounted rail gun. Not to mention a fusion drive that could melt the station to slag if it chose to,” Overstreet said, “but it hasn’t opened fire. It’s staying close to the station with maneuvering thrusters.”

“Can we take them out?”

“We destroyed Medina’s defenses when we took it,” Overstreet said. “We have a few that were repairable, but without the supplies from the Typhoon, our abilities are limited.”

“The Storm, then,” Singh said.

Overstreet took a deep breath, turning smartly at the intersection. Surprise and anxiety made the security office seem kilometers away. “I don’t like the idea of having a close-quarters battle between those ships right near the station. If the Rocinante is just trying to escape, there’s an argument for letting it go.”

“We can’t rely on the enemy’s goodwill to protect us,” Singh said, and opened a priority connection to the Storm. Commander Davenport, his executive officer on the journey out, answered like he’d been waiting.

“Davenport, this is Governor Singh. I am formally instructing you to leave dock immediately and protect the station from the gunship Rocinante.”

“Yes, sir,” Davenport said, then hesitated. “We are presently at less than full crew, sir—”

“A little short-staffed now is better than a full ship too late. Try to chase them away from the station before you engage.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, and he dropped the connection.

Ahead of them, security was clearing the corridor. An emergency alert sounded and a gentle voice began. This is an emergency alert. Report to shelters immediately and await official instructions. This is an emergency alert.

The security center was buzzing like a kicked hive. Voices raised in alarm thickened the air. The feeds from drones and surveillance cameras filled every screen. Singh assumed it was all in response to the Rocinante’s launch until an older woman in security uniform barked at them. “Major Overstreet, sir! We have reports of a riot in the detention cells.”

“What?” Singh said.

Overstreet’s voice was level and calm. Like a pilot whose ship was coming to pieces around him. “What do we know?”

“Someone overrode the containment on the cells. There was some kind of explosion. The guards have retreated to the security lock, but I’m getting reports of gunfire from the civilian side too. I have two fire teams on their way.”

“Good,” Overstreet said. He turned to Singh. “Sir, it is my opinion that the sabotage effort your friend discovered is part of a much larger operation, and whatever the enemy has in mind, it’s happening right now.”

Singh shook his head, not as disagreement, but like a drunk man trying to clear away the fog. Some part of him was still thinking that because they had the guard force ready to keep the station sensor arrays up, things were under control. That he was prepared for whatever was happening, even as it bloomed out around him.

“I understand,” he said.

“As your chief of security, I recommend that we get you and any other essential personnel in lockdown until the situation is better controlled.”

“Of course. I’ll return to my office.”

“Might not want to stay that near an obvious target, sir. I have a secure position prepared. I’ll have a fire team escort you and stay there until we understand better what we’re looking at,” Overstreet said. He turned to the older woman and gestured toward Singh. “He needs an escort.”

“On their way, sir.”

Belay that, Singh thought. I’ll stay here. Except that it was a stupid impulse, based in pride. A leader should stand with his team in a time of crisis, but—as much as it galled him—Overstreet was that leader in this moment. He would only get in the way. And even so, part of him wanted to remain. To be seen to be in control.

“I will expect updates,” Singh said. “When you need my authorization, I will be waiting.”

“Thank you, sir,” Overstreet said without missing a beat, then turned away. A moment later, four Marines in power armor stepped in through the main door and saluted.

“Governor Singh, sir.”

“You’re my escort, then?” Singh said with a smile that he hoped looked confident. “Let’s be on our way.”

As they walked, Singh consulted his own wrist monitor. There was too much happening—too many individual groups coordinating on the fly—to have a complete picture of the situation. The Storm was maneuvering, and the Rocinante hadn’t yet made an aggressive move. The riot at the detention cells was growing more violent, and the Marine fire team was requesting permission to escalate to lethal countermeasures. And Overstreet’s words came back, haunting with their implications: My best estimate is that a third of our operating personnel are open to working against us.

The hardest thing was to trust his own people to do their jobs well, but it was what he had to do. He wondered if the high consul suffered the same thing—knowing that all the critical action would be taken by others who were guided by his orders, but in conditions he could only guess at, and in places where his intervention, even if it were possible, could only muddy the waters. It was a subtle and terrible insight. The powerlessness of control.

The warning echoed through the station. A man ran through an intersection ahead of them without pausing to look. Singh’s legs burned a little from his pace.

“Where are we going?” he asked the head of the fire team.

“We have a hard shelter at the end of this corridor, sir. It’s a bit away from the main offices to be a less obvious target, but it has independent environmental controls and—”

The Marine froze in midstride. Singh felt a rush of fear, looked down the corridor to see what danger the man was reacting to. There was nothing.

“What’s the matter?” he said. It was only when he got no answer that he realized all the Marines had stopped. Their visors were opaque, their radios silent, their power armor in lockdown. Singh stood, suddenly alone and terribly aware of his own vulnerability. The back of his head itched at the idea that someone might be targeting him right then, and he had no protection.

For a moment, he saw Kasik again, dying before him. Was all of this a distraction to pull him away from safety? Hands trembling, he strode fast down the corridor to the first door. A public restroom. He stepped in, made certain he was alone, and locked the door behind him. His heart was beating hard enough to feel the ticking of it in his neck. Leaning against a narrow sink, he pulled his monitor and keyed in his security codes. His Marine lockdown hadn’t been triggered. The Marines shouldn’t have been disabled. Someone was putting out a false shutdown signal.

Overstreet answered his connection request at once.

“My fire team is disabled,” he said.

“Yes, sir. I’m seeing the same with all the powered teams. Stay where you are. I am sending a conventional escort to your location.”

“What the hell is going on out there? I need a report!”

Annoyance flickered across Overstreet’s face, gone almost before Singh could register it. “The loss of functioning fire teams has let the situation at the detention cells deteriorate. I have initial reports that something’s happening at the dockmaster’s office. I’m waiting for better intelligence on that, but I am seeing what looks like several ships getting ready for launch. The Storm has engaged with the Rocinante, but not conclusively as yet.”

Now, may I please go do my job instead of talking about it? He didn’t say it, but Singh heard it anyway.

“I will wait for the second escort,” Singh said. “Carry on.”

He dropped the connection. In the mirror, he looked small. Frightened. He stood, straightened his uniform, and composed himself until his reflection looked more like a man confident in his control of the situation. It was important when his people came that he give the right impression. That was all he could do now.

Something thumped deep below him. A strike on the station drum, maybe. A sign of the battle going on all around him while he hid in a public toilet.

The underground had caught him unprepared. To give them their due, he’d underestimated their coordination and their numbers and their will. He had been told that the Belters of the old regime had a culture of violent resistance. After the sabotage of the oxygen tank, he had thought he understood what that meant, but he hadn’t appreciated the depth of it until now.

Their plan was unfolding right now all around the station. All he could hope was that the one place he knew that he was ahead of them would prove decisive. If disabling the sensor arrays was critical to their plan, he could still bring all the rest of it crashing down.