On the screen, Marco Inaros lifted his hand in the Belter idiom of greeting, militarizing the motion with his precision and focus. His face was an icon of resolve and strength and masculine beauty.
“We are your arm,” he said. “And we will strike your enemies wherever they are. We are the Free Navy. Citizens of the Belt and of the new humanity, we are yours.”
A rising chord picked up and broke into a traditional Belter protest song transformed into something martial and rousing. The new anthem of an invented nation. The image faded to a split circle and then to white. The crew of the Razorback were quiet.
“Well,” Bobbie said. “He’s pretty. And he’s really charismatic. But, wow, that speech.”
“It probably sounded good in his head,” Alex said. “And really, when your prelude is you kill a couple billion people, anything you say is going to sound a little megalomaniacal and creepy, right?”
Smith’s voice was calm, but the dread in it carried through. “He wasn’t talking to us.” He stood in the door to the cabin, his arms stretched to brace against the frame. His amiable smile hadn’t changed, but its meaning had. “That was meant for the Belters. And what they heard in him – what they saw in him – won’t be anything like what we did. For them, he just declared victory.”
Chapter Thirty-eight: Amos
A
sh sifted down, coating everything with a few millimeters of gray. Everything stank of it. They got off the road to let relief convoys go by twice, and then once when an old electric service truck whined by, its bed filled with six or seven huddled figures. They slept when it got too dark to see, hauling the bikes into the bushes or alleys. The dead guy’s emergency rations tasted like crap, but they didn’t seem to be toxic.
After four days, the plants along the roadside started showing signs of dying: green leaves turning brown and curving toward the earth. The birds, on the other hand, were going crazy. They filled the air with chirps and trills and songs. It was probably sparrow for Holy shit, what’s going on, we’re all gonna die, but it sounded pretty. Amos tried to keep clear of the bigger cities, but there wasn’t a lot of space left in that part of the world that wasn’t paved.
Passing through Harrisonburg they were followed by a dozen dogs for about ten kilometers, the pack building up its nerve to attack. He let Peaches go ahead for that part, but it never got serious enough to make him spend bullets. When they started getting in toward Baltimore, there stopped being a way to keep clear of people.
They were still about a day from the arcology, and the smell of the world had changed to salt water and rot, when they ran into the other crew. They were moving down a commercial street, the bikes making their soft chain-hiss, and he caught sight of the others in the gloom, heading toward them. Amos slowed down, but didn’t stop. Peaches matched him. From the smear of light in the east, he guessed it was about ten in the morning, but the darkness still made it hard to be sure how many of them there were. Four he could see for sure. Maybe more trailing a little way behind. Hard to say.
They were smeared with ash, the same as everything. If they had weapons, Amos didn’t see them. Handguns, maybe. So he had them for range if he wanted to start shooting. They were walking, so outrunning them was also an option, if it came to that. Thing was, Peaches didn’t look like anywhere near the threat she was, and pretty much everyone was going to be going off appearances. It was that kind of misunderstanding that got people killed.
The other group slowed down, but didn’t stop. Wary, but not disinterested. Amos stood up on his pedals.
“Peaches? How’s about you hang back a little.”
“Draw down on them?”
“Nah. Let’s be neighbors first.”
Her bike slowed and fell behind. Ahead on the street, the others made their own calculations and came to a different conclusion. All four stepped out toward Amos together, chins raised in a diffident greeting. No trouble unless there’s trouble. Amos smiled amiably, and it occurred to him this was exactly the kind of situation that had taught him how to smile like that.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey.” One of the four stepped closer. He was older. He moved gracefully, center of gravity low. Maybe a veteran. Maybe just someone who’d boxed some. Amos pointed his smile at the guy, then the other three. Tension crept up the back of his neck and into his shoulders. He breathed through it, forcing himself to relax. “Coming from Baltimore?”
“Monkton,” the fighter said.
“Yeah? Towers or the flats?”
The fighter’s mouth twitched into a little smile. “Z tower,” he said.
“Zadislaw,” Amos said. “Had a friend lived there once. Long time ago. How is it up there?”
“It’s ten thousand people in a box with no food and not much water.”