The second message was from Alex.
Bobbie Draper and he were on the prime minister’s ship and burning for Luna with the escort fleet watching their backs. Everyone was pretty freaked-out, but he thought they were okay for the time being. The relief ships were on their way and due in a day or two. He hadn’t had any word from Naomi, wherever she was. Or, more to the point, from Amos. He made a joke about Amos surviving anything, and how this wasn’t the first planet that had blown up on him, but the humor carried the same dread and fear that Holden felt. When Alex signed off, he replayed the whole message from the start three more times, just to hear the familiar voice.
He started to record a response, but the restaurant was too open and too public for the things he wanted to say, so he promised himself he’d get to it when he was back in his quarters. He finished as much of the curry as he could stomach and the restaurant light slowly shifted from yellow to gold, the colors of a false sunset on a planet many of the people there had never seen except on screens. He paid the check and the waiter came, offering a variety of after-dinner desserts or drinks. The man’s gaze lingered long enough that, while it was all within the bounds of politeness, it was pretty clear that Holden could have asked for some other things too.
Holden’s mind shifted on most of the questions. More food, more drink, more sleep, more sex. Any sex. He was aware of a deep and oceanic cavern of want in his belly. Something that was like hunger or thirst, exhaustion or lust, but that wouldn’t be satisfied. He didn’t have words for it, except that it left him quick to anger and despair. Lingering behind it all, the fear that he wouldn’t ever have his crew back on his ship made him feel gut-punched.
And then the word for it came. He was homesick, and the Rocinante, wonderful as she was, wasn’t home unless Alex and Amos and Naomi were in her. He wondered how long the feeling would last if they never came back. How long he’d wait for them, even once he knew they wouldn’t return. The waiter smiled gently down at him.
“Nothing,” Holden said. “Thanks.”
He walked out to the main corridor, mentally rehearsing what he’d say to Alex and how he’d say it. Anything he said was going to be examined by the Martian communications service, so he didn’t want to put anything in it that was open to misinterpretation. The problem with that being that he always knew what he meant by things, and didn’t see the other readings until someone made them. Maybe he could just make a few jokes and say that he was ready to have everyone back together.
When his hand terminal buzzed a connection request, he accepted it, his mind primed to expect Alex even though light delay made that impossible. Drummer scowled out at him from the screen. “Mister Holden, I was wondering if you could stop by the auxiliary security office.”
“I guess,” Holden said, suddenly wary. He still half expected Drummer to turn out to be playing some angle of her own. “Is it something I should know about now?”
A stream of cursing came from the background, growing louder. Drummer stepped aside and Fred lurched into the screen. “If we were talking about it on the network, you wouldn’t be coming in here.”
“Right,” Holden said. “On my way.”
In the security office, Fred was pacing, his hands clasped behind his back, when Holden arrived. He nodded sharply by way of greeting. Drummer, at her seat, was a model of the crisp professionalism designed to offer no reason for the boss to yell at you. That was fine. Holden didn’t mind being the one who got yelled at.
“What’s the matter?”
“Medina went dark,” Fred said. “She was supposed to report in this morning, but with everything being at loose ends, I didn’t worry. She’s missed two opportunities since then. And… Drummer? Show him.”
The security chief pulled up a schematic of the solar system. At scale, even Jupiter and the sun were hardly more than a bright pixel. Thousands of dots showed the traffic in-system. Ships and bases, satellites and probes and navigation buoys. All of humanity in a nutshell. With a motion and a syllable, most of the clutter vanished. In its place, a couple dozen green dots with the word UNDETERMINED where the identification codes should be made a rough cloud. Someone’s statistics run with a small but significant correlation.
“As soon as the station went dark,” Drummer said, “we saw these. Twenty-five new plumes. All of them have drive signatures that match Martian military ships, and all of them are under heavy burn for the Ring.”
“Heavy burn?”
“Eight to ten g to start, curving down, which means they’re running at the limit of their drives.”