“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.