Persepolis Rising (The Expanse, #7)

“Dismissed,” Singh said, then gestured at one of his Marine guards, who ushered the AWP chief out of the room. Putting Medina Station in order was messy. He had imagined, coming out, that as governor of the station, he would be kept apart from the normal rank-and-file citizens and laborers. That he would have a status that kept those around him a little more in awe, with underlings to deal directly with the hands-on administration. In practice, Admiral Trejo had the role of power, and he was the underling. He accepted it with good grace. It would all be more pleasant in a few months, when the new defense emplacements were complete and the Tempest could progress to the next phase of their mission.

The briefings he’d had on the way out—all information gleaned from passively monitoring the backsplash radio that leaked through Laconia’s ring gate—were accurate, but wildly incomplete. It left him feeling a half step behind himself all the time. It wasn’t even the basic structures—those were constrained by the biological and energetic needs of the ships and station and so were, in a sense, predictable. It was the cultural forms and expectations. The absurdities and accidents of human character that affected the flow of goods and information in ways that were as unpredictable as they were exhausting. Like having to throw an entire branch of Medina’s infrastructure staff in the brig.

“Who’s next,” Singh asked his aide, a junior lieutenant named Kasik he’d grabbed from the admin pool on the Storm. Kasik scrolled through a list on his monitor.

“You have Carrie Fisk next,” Kasik said.

“The president of the Association of Worlds,” Singh said with a laugh. “Bring her in.”

Carrie Fisk entered his office, her frown lines and fidgety hands telling Singh she’d be trying to hide her fear with anger. She was a short, thin woman, with a severe face and beautiful black hair piled up on her head. Her clothes were expensive. Someone from one of the richer colonies, then. He knew her from the newsfeeds they’d captured. She looked thinner and less pleasant in person.

Singh gestured at the chair across from his desk and said, “Please sit, Madam President.”

She sat, the anger dissipating at his politeness.

“Thank you.”

“Madam President, I have news,” Singh said, flicking a document from his monitor at her. The hand terminal in her pocket chimed. “And it will be good news or bad news, depending on how seriously you take your job, and how much you like doing actual work. You may read that later, to get all the details.”

She’d started to take the terminal out of her pocket, but slid it back in at his words. “I take my job very seriously.”

“Excellent, because it seems you used to have a title that held no actual power, except that you presided over the Association of Worlds in their meetings here. Which is a body that negotiates interplanetary laws it has absolutely no ability to enforce. Earth and Mars haven’t formally joined your coalition, and the Transport Union has been in a position to dictate terms in all your agreements. Or so I am led to understand. My access to the newsfeeds has been limited.” He tried for a self-deprecating smile, and thought he probably got about three-quarters of the way there.

“It’s a start,” Fisk said, the frown returning to her face. “At least we have people here talking out their problems, rather than immediately reaching for a gun.”

“I agree,” Singh said. “And more importantly, so does High Consul Duarte. The document I just sent you empowers the Association of Worlds to make laws that will have binding authority on the member systems, which now includes every human colony. You, as president of that body, will be granted a variety of legislative powers to aid in that cause.”

“And who is granting us this new power?” Fisk asked. Her face had twisted up like he’d asked her to eat something distasteful. She knew the answer to his question, but she wanted him to say it so that she could begin her counterargument. A counterargument Singh had no interest in entertaining.

“High Consul Winston Duarte, who is now the supreme executive authority of the Association of Worlds and all subsidiary governments. All edicts passed by this body that are not vetoed by executive power will have the force of law, backed by the military power of Laconia.”

“I don’t know if—”

“Madam President,” Singh said, leaning forward and waiting until her attention was fully on him before he continued. “I advise you to take this very seriously. The high consul wants a fully functioning legislature and bureaucracy, and believes that the existing one, with some modification of course, fits the bill. I strongly advise that you not give him a reason to think it’s better to tear this down and build something new in its place. Do we understand each other?”

Fisk nodded. Her hands were fidgeting in her lap again.

“Excellent,” Singh said. He stood up and extended his hand. Fisk stood and took it. “I look forward to working with you as High Consul Duarte’s representative. We have much to do, but I believe it will be exciting and rewarding work.”

Singh released her hand and gave a small bow.

“What comes next?” Fisk asked.

“I would recommend you begin by familiarizing yourself with the document I sent you. It contains all the provisional rules for the Association Legislature, until such time as more permanent protocols can be voted into place.”

“Okay,” Fisk said.

“I know you will be quite busy,” Singh told her, gently guiding her past his Marine guards and over to the door. “But I look forward to our next meeting.”

Once she’d left, he let out a long sigh and leaned against the wall.

“One more, Lieutenant, then we can break for lunch,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” Kasik said. “Next is Onni Langstiver, head of station security for Medina.”

Singh smiled a little, thinking how Tanaka would have reacted to hearing that title. “Former head of security,” he said as he returned to his desk. “Give me a moment. Let him wait.”

“Yes, sir,” Kasik said. “Can I get you anything in the meantime? Water? Coffee?”

“The water here tastes like old piss, and the coffee tastes like old piss run through a gym sock,” Singh said. “The recycling systems on this station are decades out of date and badly maintained.”

“Yes, sir,” Kasik replied. “I can have water brought from the Storm for you.”

“Or,” Singh said, turning to his aide, “we can go about actually fixing the problems here.”

“Yes, sir,” Kasik said, bobbing his head. If Singh hadn’t been tired already and irritable, he would have let it sit there. But the constant pushing back from his own people and the natives of Medina had scratched him enough to raise welts, and he couldn’t quite rein himself in.

“If the posting here becomes permanent,” he said, “and there is no reason to think it won’t, I will be bringing my family to this station. I won’t have my daughter drinking badly recycled water, breathing badly filtered air, and attending badly run schools.”

Kasik had found a bottle of water from somewhere, and was pouring it into the coffee machine.

“Yes, sir,” he said, like it had become an autonomic reaction.

“Lieutenant, look at me.”

“Sir?” Kasik said, turning around.

“What we’re doing here is important. Not just for Laconia but for all of humanity. These people? They need us. They even need us to show them that they need us. When you have children, you’ll understand why that matters. Until then, you will behave at all times as an example of Laconian character and discipline. If you don’t understand why that’s critical, you will act as though you understand, or I will place you in charge of personally scrubbing the water-recycling system until it produces laboratory-grade potables. Are we clear?”

If there was a flicker of resentment in the man’s eyes, it was a natural reaction to discipline.

“Crystal, Governor Singh.”

“Excellent. Then send their former head of security in.”

Onni Langstiver was a lanky Belter type in a sloppy Medina Security uniform, with greasy hair and a permanent sneer curling his lip. He looked over Singh’s Marine guards just inside the door, then gave Singh himself a look of such low cunning that he almost had the man turned back out again.

“I’m here,” Onni said. “You want, bossmang?”

“We’re going to discuss your change in status on this station,” Singh said.

“Discuss? Bist bien. Let’s discuss.” Onni shrugged, then walked toward the guest chair.

“Do not sit,” Singh said. Something in his tone brought Onni up short, and the man frowned at him as if really seeing him for the first time. “You won’t be here long.”

Onni shrugged again, a short lift of both hands that did not involve the shoulders. The psy-ops briefing on Belter culture had talked about this. That most of their physical gestures had evolved to use the hands only, because they spent so much time in vacuum suits that body language was invisible. It also talked about their cultural conviction that they were the put-upon victims in all interactions with non-Belters. Well, if this Onni had come into the room expecting to be victimized, Singh would oblige him.

“You are no longer the head of security on Medina Station,” Singh said.