Persepolis Rising (Expanse 7)

ex 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.