“Come on,” Rona said, pushing at his leg. Then, without warning, Konecheck roared and Morris shrieked. A gun went off as Amos made it up onto the ledge and got his feet under him. Konecheck was holding Morris up off the ground. The guard’s head hung slack and boneless in a way that clarified the situation. Clarissa had collapsed at the gray-haired prisoner’s feet.
For a fraction of a second, Konecheck’s gaze locked with his. Amos saw a base, animal pleasure in the man. The joy of a schoolboy burning ants with his magnifying glass. Faster than anything human, Konecheck dropped the dead guard and surged forward, his feet digging into the slick mud as he ran. Amos stepped into the attack, which wasn’t what the guy had expected, and got a solid punch in under his rib cage. But then Konecheck’s elbow came out of nowhere and hit Amos’ ear hard enough that the world started spinning. Amos stumbled, and the other guy’s grip was on his belt and arm. Amos felt himself lifted up over Konecheck’s head. He looked down the shaft and saw Rona looking up at him wide-eyed and openmouthed. The black was a long way down. Amos wondered if he’d see Lydia again when he got to the bottom. Probably not, but it was pretty as a last thought.
The gunshot made Konecheck stumble and Amos twisted into the slackness of his grip, falling backward and landing hard. Clarissa was lying over Morris’ body, her two hands around the dead man’s fist, taking aim again. Blood poured down Konecheck’s chest, but before he could launch himself at the girl, Rona’s hand came up over the edge of the shaft and grabbed his ankle. Konecheck kicked back, his muscles flickering too fast to see, and Rona yelped. But by then Amos was on his feet again, knees bent deep to keep his center of gravity low. The world was still spinning. He couldn’t trust his inner ear to tell him which way was up. But he’d spent a lot of years in free fall. Ignoring vertigo just meant it was a day that ended in y.
He landed a straight kick in Konecheck’s crotch that probably castrated him, and the man stepped back, eyes wide. He had maybe a tenth of a second to look surprised as he fell back down into the Pit. Then that part was done.
Amos sat down, rubbing his injured ear as Rona crawled up into the bleak half-light. She was crying and turning slowly, taking in the devastation all around them with disbelief and horror. The woman’s hands flapped at her sides like she was pretending to be a penguin. Her distress would have been funny if it hadn’t been so sincere. Losing everything should at least be dignified.
“Where’d it go?” she shouted over the rushing of the wind, like anyone could answer. And then, “Oh my God. Esme.”
Clarissa had rolled onto her back, her arms spread to the filthy rain, her head resting on the dead man like he was a pillow. Her eyes were closed, but he could see her rib cage moving. Amos squinted up at Rona. “Esme? That one of your people?”
She nodded without looking at him.
“Yeah,” Amos said. “Look, if you need to go look for her, that’s all right with me.”
“The prisoner… I have to…”
“It’s all right. I’ll keep Peaches out of trouble. You know. Until you get back.”
The absurdity of it seemed lost on the woman. She stumbled forward, heading for a low hill on the horizon. She wasn’t coming back. No one was coming back. There wasn’t anything to come back to.
Clarissa’s eyes were open now. As he watched, her mouth widened into a smile and she reached up, running damp hands through her hair. When she laughed, it sounded like pleasure.
“Wind,” she said. “Oh my God, I never thought I’d feel wind again. I never thought I’d be outside. It’s so beautiful.”
Amos glanced around the ruins and shrugged. “That’s got a lot to do with context, I guess.”
He was hungry and thirsty. Wet. They didn’t have shelter or clothes, and the only gun they had, they’d need to haul around a dead man to shoot. Until his body got cold, anyway.
“Well, fuck,” he said. “Where do we go from here, right?”
Clarissa extended a thin arm, pointing her pale finger to the sky. There, struggling behind the clouds and stratospheric debris, a perfect, pale disk. “Luna,” she said. “Staying on the planet’s going to mean dying when the food runs out. And the water.”
“I was thinking that too.”
“There are yachts. I know where the family kept them. But it’s a spaceport for rich people. Tons of security. We might need help breaking in.”
“I know some people,” Amos said. “I mean, y’know. If they’re still alive.”
“That’s a plan, then,” she said, but didn’t move. Her slur was going away, which meant she probably wasn’t bleeding into her brain. So that was one problem he didn’t have. Amos shifted, lying back on the dead man’s rib cage, the crown of his head touching hers. A little rest seemed like a fine thing, but they’d have to get moving soon. It was a long walk back to Baltimore. He wondered if they could find a car. Or, failing that, a couple of bicycles. His ear was starting to lose its angry throb. He’d probably be able to walk soon.
In the black sky, the pale circle dimmed behind a thicker roil of cloud and ash, then vanished for a moment before struggling back.
“It’s funny,” Clarissa said. “Most of human history, going to the moon was impossible. A dream beyond anyone’s imagination. And then, for a while, it was an adventure. And then it was trivial. Yesterday, it was trivial. And now, it’s almost impossible again.”
“Yeah,” Amos said, “well…”
He felt her shift, tuning her head as if to see him better. “What?”
He gestured up toward the sky. “Pretty sure that’s the sun. I get what you’re saying though.”
Chapter Twenty-seven: Alex
His head hurt. His back hurt. He couldn’t feel his legs. It was all distressing until his mind came back enough for him to realize it meant he hadn’t died. The medical bay chimed, something cool pumped into his arm, and his consciousness faded away again.
When he woke this time, he felt almost human. The medical bay was huge. Easily five times what they had on the Rocinante, but smaller than the full, multiunit hospital of the Behemoth. The anti-spalling coating on the walls was the soft brown of bread crusts. He tried to sit up, then reconsidered.
“Ah, Mister Kamal. Are you feeling better?”
The doctor was a thin-faced, pale-skinned woman with eyes the color of ice. Her uniform was MCRN. He nodded to her more out of social habit than because he was feeling better.
“Am I going to be okay?” Alex said.
“Depends,” she said. “Keep eating like you’re twenty, and it’ll haunt you.”
Alex laughed and a spike of pain cut through his belly. The doctor grimaced and put a hand on his shoulder.
“You did get a little surgery while you were out. That burn you were on made your ulcer way worse.”
“I have an ulcer?”
“You used to. Now you have a reconstructed stem graft, but it’s still settling into place. Give it a few days, and it’ll be much better.”
“Yeah,” Alex said, resting his head back on the pillow. “I’ve been under a little stress lately. Is Bobbie okay?”
“She’s fine. They’ve been debriefing her. I imagine they’ll want to chat with you too, now that you’re back around.”