“Hey there,” Bobbie said into the camera, and a loneliness Naomi hadn’t known she felt swamped her for a moment. She felt the memory of that last hug before she’d left Sol, and it was more alive and real to her than the last time she’d seen Jim. “I have something. An opportunity, I think. Alex wants me to run it past you.”
Naomi listened as Bobbie laid out the situation. The Storm trapped in Sol, first by the catastrophe in the slow zone, and now by the Tempest’s presence. The antimatter.
She felt herself sliding into the same analytic mind-set that had been her whole life in the container. She’d hardly been out—a few weeks on the Bhikaji Cama and now here with Chava—and slipping back already felt cold and constraining. Her mind ticked through the implications of Bobbie’s plan: the exposure of the Storm, the scrutiny that would fall on the Jovian moon bases, the symbolic and practical effects of Duarte’s losing a second Magnetar-class ship.
And as she did, a quiet part of her mourned.
The day she’d gone into the container and committed herself to living as a pea in a shell game had been the day she left the Rocinante behind. It felt like relief at the time. Like her soul had been rubbed raw, and the container was her bandage. Her whole life, she’d survived the unsurvivable by falling back and getting small. And every time, she had come back healed. Scarred, sometimes. But healed.
All it had taken was a handful of human interactions to show her that the Naomi who had fled into the container wasn’t the one who’d come out. Time had passed, and she had found what peace she was going to find.
When she’d taken up Saba’s role, it had been from necessity, but it had also been because she was ready to. It was only after the fact that she was starting to see what leaders were. The price the position required.
The water started hissing, and a door opened and closed from back in Chava’s bedroom. She was awake and taking a morning shower. It would be time for Naomi to go to bed soon. It was also safe to respond to Bobbie without being an impolite guest. Funny how that still seemed to matter.
She set her hand terminal up with the camera pointing to her, then used the security filter to strip out the background. If the signal was intercepted, there wouldn’t be artifacts leading back to Chava. It left Naomi looking like she was floating in a featureless void. She started the recording.
“Hey, Bobbie. Your plan . . . looks solid. I know that’s not the argument I was making the last time we spoke, but the situation’s changed. Several situations have. I still maintain that working through political means to a peaceful endgame is critical. But if there is a chance to do that without a Magnetar-class ship keeping its boot on Sol system’s throat, it’ll be easier. If it was just a ship, I think I might still have some reservations, but you’re right. Duarte made the Tempest a symbol. We don’t often get the chance to kill the enemy’s story about itself.
“Good hunting. I love you.”
She closed the message, fed it into the local encryption, and queued it to be sent to Bone and his system network. It might take days for it to get onto a bottle and through the gates. She tapped the table with her fingertips, wanting to call it back. There was still time to stop it. Soon there wouldn’t be.
“Hey,” Chava said as she stepped in from her bedroom. She was already dressed for her shift. Sharp, professional clothing, hair neat. “What are you up to this fine morning?”
“Second-guessing myself,” Naomi said. “And I think it’s my evening. I did make you coffee, though.”
“You are a kind and thoughtful woman,” Chava said as she poured herself a cup. The drift of the coffee to the cup was like watching the slow fountain. “You’re going to have traffic analysis problems, though.”
“You mean the way that vastly more bottles come into and out of Auberon than any other system?” Naomi said. “Yes, that’s an issue. Is it a hint? I know you weren’t looking for a roommate.”
“You can stay as long as it’s the smart move. But maybe not after?” Chava’s smile faded. “What’s wrong?”
Naomi chuckled. “You mean apart from maybe having sent two of the people I care about most to their deaths?” She wiped her eyes. “Shit.”
Chava put down her cup. She took Naomi’s hand in hers. The feeling of fingers against her own was almost more than Naomi could stand, and she held on like Chava was a tether.
“I spent a lot of my life trying not to be a particular kind of person,” Naomi said. “Trying not to make certain kinds of decisions. But here I am all the same.”
They were silent together for a moment. When Chava spoke, her voice was light. Almost conversational. “When I was in my apprenticeship, back in the day? The hardest thing I had to do was manual docking. Every time the qualification run came, it didn’t matter how much I’d practiced. I’d take the controls, override the system so I had control. The only thing in my head was Don’t fuck up, don’t fuck up, don’t fuck up. And then I’d fuck up. I focused so hard on the thing I was afraid of, I ran straight into its arms every single time.”
“Are you trying to make me feel better?”
“No,” Chava said. “We’re too old for that. I’m trying to make you feel like you aren’t alone in it. That’s all I’ve got.”
Something in Naomi’s chest shifted. A titanic emotion breaking free. She braced herself for sobs, but all that came out was a profound sigh. The dream had been there all along, never quite given up. She would find a way to bring her family back together. They would all survive the meat grinder of history. Everything would somehow be well.
There had been a moment. It hadn’t been that long ago. All she’d had to do was announce herself, accept Duarte’s invitation, and leave all the struggle behind. She couldn’t remember quite how she’d decided on this path, but she saw that she had. There was no one to blame but herself. She conjured up the dream of waking up beside Jim. Drinking coffee with him. Hearing Alex and Amos joking with the subtle hum of the Rocinante behind them. She let it go.
She squeezed Chava’s hand and let that go too.
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Elvi
Elvi sat in the back of the car. The driver was a young man with close-cut, tightly curled hair. Mostly what she saw of him was the back of his neck. As the State Building fell away behind them, the city itself spread out. She could still remember the first time she’d seen it, brought in by soldiers with the scrupulous politeness of a concierge at a luxury hotel, only with sidearms. The streets were wider than anywhere she’d ever been, with greenways along the sides. Buildings rose up, tall and beautiful, with solar collection windows and rooftop gardens like Frank Lloyd Wright had been reborn and made skyscrapers. The scale of the place was massive and boastful. She remembered being overwhelmed by it, the first time.
Now, it seemed weirdly brittle. Millions of people lived in the capital city, and almost none of them had been there longer than a decade. The traffic was stopped for her motorcade, and she saw the normal people—civilians and citizens and military with status lower than hers—craning their necks as she passed, trying to figure out who she was and whether they should be excited to see her. There were no monuments, no billboards, no old neighbor-hoods. She sort of hated it.
“Would you like some water, ma’am?” the driver asked.
“No,” Elvi said. “Thank you.”
He nodded without looking back at her. She leaned back into the plush seat and tried to straighten her leg. It didn’t help the ache.
The labs were massive. Technically it was part of the University of Laconia, but it was run like a military camp. The gate guards waved them through without checking, and the car took a looping path through campus, heading toward the pens. She fidgeted with her cane. As they made the last turn, a man came into view, clearly waiting for her. The relief that flooded her when she saw that it wasn’t Paolo Cortázar was telling.
“Dr. Ochida,” she said as she levered herself up out of the car.
“Dr. Okoye. It’s good to have you back. I heard about your fieldwork. I have to say, you aren’t selling me on it over nice safe labs.”
“Well, the data was interesting,” she said as they started down the path to the Pen. It was a dark, windowless cube, hardened against attack even in the heart of the empire, where attack seemed impossible. They said God didn’t play dice, but if He did, they’d look like the Pen. Huge, square, and inscrutable.
“I hear they’re sending you into the holy of holies,” Ochida said. “Paolo’s very close with his senescence project.”
“It wasn’t my choice.”
“The high consul does what the high consul does,” Ochida said as they reached the guards. Elvi handed over her ID badge and submitted to the verification scan. It was just a touch on her wrist, but it felt more invasive than that.