“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,” Al