“I grew up here,” he said, his voice shaking. “Everything I’ve ever done – every meal I ever ate, every toilet I ever pissed in, every girl I ever rolled around with? It’s all been inside the 695.” For a second, it looked like he was going to cry again. “I’ve seen things come and go. I’ve seen shit times turn into normal and turn back to shit, and keep telling myself this is like that. It’s just the churn. But it’s not, is it?”
“No,” Peaches said. “It isn’t. This is something new.”
Erich turned back to the screen, touching it with the fingertips of his good hand. “That’s my city out there. It’s a mean, shitty place, and it’ll break anyone who pretends different. But… but it’s gone, isn’t it?”
“Probably,” Peaches said. “But starting over’s not always bad. Even the way I did it had some light in it. And what you’ve got is better than what I had.”
Erich bowed his head. His sigh sounded like something bigger than him being released. Peaches took his good hand in both of hers and the two of them were silent for a long moment.
Amos cleared his throat. “So. That means you’re in, right?”
Chapter Thirty-nine: Naomi
She didn’t have days. Hours maybe. For all she knew, minutes. And the plan still had holes in it.
She sat in the mess, hunched over a bowl of bread pudding. People passed through from the crew quarters, some wearing Martian uniforms, some their normal clothes, a few in a new Free Navy uniform, but the other tables stayed empty apart from her and Cyn. Before she’d been almost crew. Now she was a prisoner, and as a prisoner, her schedule had changed. She’d eat when other people weren’t eating; she’d exercise when other people weren’t exercising; she’d sleep in the dark with her door locked from the outside.
She was grateful for it. She needed the quiet of her own mind now, and strangely, she felt comfortable there. Something had happened in the last days. She couldn’t put her finger on when or how, but the dark thoughts had either vanished or else grown so vast she couldn’t see their horizons. She didn’t think she was crazy. She had felt her mind fishtailing out from under her one time and another in her life, and this was very different. She understood she might die, that Jim might die, that Marco might sail from success to success, that Filip might never forgive or even understand her. And she could tell that all of those facts mattered to her, and mattered deeply. But they didn’t overwhelm her. Not anymore.
The umbilical linking the ship
s was fifty meters at full extension. Not even as wide as a soccer field. The link between the ships was between the cargo-level airlocks, where it was easier to access engineering and move supplies, which left the crew-level airlocks unused. There were EVA suits in the lockers there. With a strip of welding tape or a crowbar, she could get one in only a couple of minutes. Get into the suit, out the Pella’s airlock, force the airlock on the Chetzemoka all in the time between the drives cutting off and the Chetzemoka firing her maneuvering thrusters. There were no calculations for it. It would be very, very close, but she thought it was possible. And since it was possible, it was necessary.
There were problems, of course, that needed solving. For one thing she didn’t have welding tape or a crowbar, and with her escorts now treating her as untrustworthy, her opportunity to steal either while running an inventory was gone. Second, once Marco saw she’d taken an EVA suit and made the jump, she had no way to keep him from firing a missile at the Chetzemoka. Or worse, finding some way to disable the proximity trap and come back for her. If she could get a suit on the sly, though, so that the inventory said they still had a full complement, they might think she’d killed herself. If she was dead, she posed no threat. She knew the inventory system well enough, she thought she could force an update. She knew she could, given enough time and access. But she only had hours. Maybe hours. Maybe less.
A familiar, sharp voice came from the screen where a newsfeed was still playing to the empty room. “Secretary-General Gao was more than the leader of my government. She was also a close personal friend, and I will miss her company deeply.”
Avasarala’s expression was careful, composed. Even through the screen and a couple hundred thousand kilometers, she radiated certainty and calm. Naomi knew it might all be an act, but if it was, it was a good act. The reporter was a young man with close-cut dark hair who leaned forward and tried to look up to the task of interviewing her. “The other casualties of the war have —”
“No,” Avasarala said. “Not war. Not casualties. These aren’t casualties. They’re murders. This isn’t a war. Marco Inaros can claim to be an admiral in command of a great navy if he wants. I can claim to be the f—Buddha. That doesn’t make it true. He’s a criminal with a lot of stolen ships and more innocent blood on his hands than anyone in history. He’s a monstrous little boy.”
Naomi took another bite of bread pudding. Whatever they used to make the raisins wasn’t convincing, but it didn’t taste bad. For a moment, her thoughts weren’t on welding tape and inventory cheats.
“So you don’t consider this an act of war?”
“War by who? War is a conflict between governments, yes? What sort of government does he represent? When was he elected? Who appointed him? Now, after the fact, he’s scrambling to say he represents Belters. So what? Any petty thug in his position would want to call it war because it makes him sound serious.”
The reporter looked like he’d swallowed something sour and unexpected. “I’m sorry. Are you saying this attack isn’t serious?”
“This attack is the greatest tragedy in human history,” Avasarala said, her voice deep and throbbing. She dominated the screen. “But it was carried out by shortsighted, narcissistic criminals. They want a war? Too bad. They get an arrest, processing, and a fair trial with whatever lawyer they can afford. They want the Belt to rise up so they can hide behind the good, decent people who live there? Belters aren’t thugs, and they aren’t murderers. They are men and women who love their children the same as any of us. They are good and evil and wise and foolish and human. And this ‘Free Navy’ will never be able to kill enough people to make Earth forget that shared humanity. Let the Belt consult its own conscience, and you’ll see compassion and decency and kindness flourish in any gravity or none. Earth has been bloodied, but we will not be debased. Not on my fucking watch.”
The old woman sat back in her seat, her eyes fiery and defiant. The reporter glanced into the camera and then back to his notes. “The relief effort on Earth is, of course, a massive undertaking.”
“It is,” she said. “We have reactors in every major city on the planet running at top efficiency to provide power for —”
The screen went blank. Cyn put his hand terminal down on the table with an angry click. Naomi looked up at him from behind her hair.
“Esá bitch needs sa yutak cut,” Cyn said. His face was dark with rage. “Lesson á totas like her, yeah?”
“For for?” Naomi said, shrugging. “Kill her, and another one will take her place. She’s good at what she does, but even if you did slit her throat, there’d just be someone else in the same chair saying the same things.”
Cyn shook his head. “Not like that.”
“Close by.”
“No,” he said, his chin jutting a centimeter forward. “Not like that. Alles la about big social movements y ages of history y sa? Stories they make up later so it makes sense. Not like that, not real. It’s people do things. Marco. Filipito. You. Me.”
“You say so,” Naomi said.