He’d been so focused for so long on distracting himself from Naomi’s absence, now she was back, he felt almost overwhelmed. Monica was right. Things had changed, and he didn’t know anymore what his place was in them. Even if he turned away from Fred and Avasarala and the politics of his own minor celebrity, what could an independent ship do in this new, remade solar system? Were there banks that would be able to pay him if he took a job flying cargo to the Jovian moons? And the colonists that had already gone through the rings to new, alien worlds? Would the Free Navy really stop resupply from getting out to them, and the raw materials and discoveries they made from getting back?
More than anything, the attacks seemed inevitable and petty. If the inner planets hadn’t spent generations showing the Belters that they were disposable, there might have been some way… some way to adapt their skills and lifestyles into this larger human expansion. A way to draw all humanity forward, and not just part of it.
And how long would Inaros and people like him really be able to keep the flood of colonists out? Or maybe there was still something more, some layer of the plan that they hadn’t seen yet? The idea filled him with something he decided to call dread because that was a better name than fear.
The monitor chimed. Alex, requesting a connection. Holden accepted it gratefully.
“Hey there, Cap’n,” Alex said through a grin. “How’re you doing?”
“Fine, I think. Just killing some time away from the cabin so I don’t wake Naomi up. I figure she’ll be asleep for twelve, fourteen hours.”
“You’re a good man,” Alex said.
“You?”
“I’ve been showin’ your temporary pilot all the ways he could have beaten me to the Chetzemoka if he’d thought of them.”
“Be nice,” Holden said, but he didn’t really mean it. “Where are you? I’ll come join you.”
“Engineering,” Alex said. “Which was part of why I wanted to talk to you. I just got some good news from Luna.”
Chapter Forty-nine: Amos
L
oading mechs moved pallets of gray or white plastic crates along the length of the Aldrin docks and drowned out the jabber of human voices with the clanks and whirring of machines. Stokes and the other refugees from Rattlesnake Island were in a huddle along one gray wall, trying to only block the cart traffic a little bit while a civil servant with an oversized terminal processed them one at a time. The security force in black armor stood arrayed before the lock to the Zhang Guo, scowling. The wall screen was set to look outside at that truck-tire gray moonscape.
Chrisjen Avasarala’s red sari stood out, a vibrant spot of color, and her voice cut through the clamor like it wasn’t there.
“What the fuck do you mean we can’t go on the ship?” she said.
“No warrant,” Amos said. “Nobody’s getting on my boat here without a warrant.”
Avasarala tilted her head, then looked at the woman in charge of the security squad.
“Seeing that you and he seemed to have an understanding, ma’am,” the security chief said, “I didn’t want to press the point.”
Avasarala waved her hand impatiently like she was fanning away smoke. “Burton, for one thing, that’s not your fucking ship.”
“Sure it is,” Amos said. “Salvage.”
“No. When you break into someone’s private hangar and drive out in their ship, it’s not salvage. That’s still theft.”
“You sure about that? Because it was looking awfully busted up down there. I’m pretty sure that was salvage.”
“For another thing, we’re under martial law, so I can do very nearly whatever the fuck I want. Including march through your precious little ship there towing you along behind in a ball gag and lacy underwear. So your warrant bullshit? You can roll that up and fuck it. Now tell me why I’m here.”
“You know just ’cause you can do something, it doesn’t mean you should. I don’t look great in frills.”
She crossed her arms. “Why am I here, Amos?”
Amos scratched his cheek and looked back at the Zhang Guo. Stokes and the servants were all out, but Erich and Peaches and the crew from Baltimore were all still inside. Some of them, including Erich, were either living under fake identities or weren’t in the system at all.
“Here’s the thing,” Amos said. “If you did go in there, you might feel like you had to do something. And then I might feel like I had to do something. And then we’d all be doing things, and we’d all wind up having a worse day, just in general.”
Avasarala’s face went calm, her eyes focused a few centimeters to Amos’ left. The security chief started to say something, but Avasarala put out a palm to stop her. After a few seconds, Avasarala grunted, shook her head, and turned to the security force. “You can skip this one. Go get a beer instead or something. It’s all right.”