Holden turned up the lights and killed the music feed. “What’s going on?”
“We’re getting reports. The Martian prime minister’s under attack. The ships your man Alex found were decoys to draw off the escort.”
“But,” Holden said, “the new escort ships—”
“Are the ones shooting at him.”
Holden cursed under his breath. “Alex is on that ship. Did we hear from Alex?”
“We haven’t heard from anybody. I was keeping some radio telescopes pointed that direction, and this is what they’re getting. I checked with Drummer and the engineering staff. They said the Roci’s got a clean bill of health, and I’m less and less interested in sitting around here waiting for whoever’s behind all this to take another swing at me.”
Holden undid the straps on his couch, floating forward. His head was a little swimmy. He looked around at the command deck. It was like some part of his brain was still expecting to see Alex and Naomi and Amos there with him. He hadn’t realized it was a habit, to look for his people before the Roci got under way. This, he realized, was the first time ever that they wouldn’t be there. It felt like a bad omen.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll clean up for company. When are you looking to go?”
“How soon is as soon as possible?”
“The reactor’s cold, and we’d want to top up the air and water,” Holden said. The alcohol fumes seemed to be burning away already, but he wasn’t entirely sure if that was true or if it just felt that way. “Plus I’m reliably informed that I need to get something from the med bay to sober me up and get my ass covered.”
“Glad you were paying attention,” Fred said. “So two hours?”
“I think we can manage that.”
“Let’s do.”
Holden pulled himself down the lift shaft hand over hand. A new crew coming onto his Rocinante. It was the obvious thing, of course. It had always been the plan, but now the prospect filled him with dread. Unfamiliar faces at the controls and in the crew quarters. Voices in the ship that weren’t the ones he’d gotten used to in the years since the Donnager. Even when they’d been carrying passengers, his crew had been at the heart of the ship. This was something else, and he didn’t like it.
He stopped at the med bay on the way to his quarters. Sober, the symbolic implications of a new temporary crew for the trip to Luna didn’t seem quite as ominous, but the thought stayed at the back of his mind: without Naomi—without all his crew—the Rocinante wasn’t going to be what she had been. When he checked his hand terminal, the only messages were from Fred. Alex’s silence didn’t help.
The transport tube’s connection to the airlock was a gentle thump, like Tycho Station clearing its throat. Holden was at the airlock to let them in. Eight people—six Belters, and two who looked like they’d come from Earth, all wearing Tycho Station flight suits and hauling small personal kits—floated into the space among the lockers. Drummer was with them, wearing her security uniform.
“Captain Holden?” Drummer said. “I’d like to introduce Captain Foster Sales and his crew.”
The man who floated up, arms braced, looked too young to be a captain. Close-cropped black hair transitioned into a glossy beard that tried and failed to lend the boyish features some gravitas. He was introduced to the others—pilots Arnold Mfume and Chava Lombaugh, engineers Sandra Ip and Zach Kazantzakis, weapons technicians Gor Droga and Sun-yi Steinberg, communications specialist Maura Patel. By the end of the little ceremony, Holden was pretty sure he’d already forgotten all of their names.
Drummer seemed to read his unease, because when the crew broke to their stations, she lingered and drew him aside. “They’re good people, Captain. I vetted all of them myself. None of them are the bad guys.”
“Yeah,” Holden said. “That’s good.”
Her smile was weirdly gentle. “It’s weird for me too.”
“Yeah?” he said.
“On my watch, they broke into the station, stole the fucking protomolecule. They tried to kill the boss. I’m spending all day projecting an attitude of calm and control, and come sleep shift, I’m grinding my teeth and staring at the wall. Now the old man’s leaving? Honest to God, I’m shitting bricks here.”
Holden blew out a long breath. “Thanks for that.”
“Anytime, sir. Everyone you meet’s fighting a hard battle.”
“Should I know anything about…” He nodded toward the door. Drummer briefed him in quick, simple sentences. Ip’s roommate had been one of the turncoats, and she still felt betrayed. Steinberg and Mfume both had a hard time losing face, and while it wasn’t usually a problem, if they got into a spat, someone would have to step in and deescalate. Droga had family on Earth, and he was worried and angry and grieving. Holden made a note to speak to the man if he had a chance. With every small detail, every fault and vulnerability, every strength and peculiar virtue, Holden felt something in his chest grow calmer.
Okay, these men and women weren’t his family, but they were his crew. They wouldn’t ever mean what Alex and Amos and Naomi meant, but for the next weeks, he was their captain. And that was enough.
For now, that was enough.
When Fred came through the airlock, Drummer was just finishing her rundown of Maura Patel’s insomnia problem. Fred landed feetfirst on the wall, ankles hooked into the handholds like he’d been born in the Belt. He stood at ninety degrees to them, a rough smile on his face and a small personal kit strapped to his back.
“Well, what are you two doing?”
“Drummer is very gently telling me how to put on my big-boy pants,” Holden said.
“Really?” Fred asked.
“It’s possible I was getting a little maudlin.”
Fred nodded. “Happens to the best of us from time to time. Where do we stand?”
Drummer answered. “The crew’s initiating the warm-up. We haven’t had anyone reporting trouble, so you should be good to go on schedule.”
“Excellent,” Fred said. “Of course, they’ve probably taken all the good bunks by now.”
“All the bunks are the same,” Holden said. “Except mine. You can’t have mine.”
“Wouldn’t think of it, Captain,” Fred said. “The Martian convoy’s put out a distress call. The original escort’s trying to burn back toward them, but the mystery ships are engaging in force now. As ambushes go, this one’s looking pretty effective.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Holden said. “Still nothing from Alex.”
“Well. We can hope for the best,” Fred said. “Latest intel shows the attackers have stopped firing. So that makes it look like a boarding action.”
Holden’s blood went cold. “Protocol is they blow the ship if boarders get close to taking engineering or the CIC.”
“That’s so that the enemy doesn’t compromise your codes,” Drummer said. “They rode in on Martian naval ships. That damage is already done.”
The three were silent for a moment. When Fred spoke, his voice was low and mordant. “Well, that’s cheerful. You coming to help this along, Captain?”
Holden looked at Drummer. She held herself professionally at attention, but he thought he saw a glimmer of unease in her eyes. Fred Johnson had run Tycho Station for almost two decades, and now he was leaving. He might not come back. And Holden might not either.
Everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.
“Let’s give this part to Foster,” Holden said. “Let him get a feel for the ship. There’s something I need to take care of on the station before we go.”
Monica was in new rooms. To look at her, sitting on the couch, it was like she was meeting him for the first time. The months they’d spent—her crew and his—shipping out to the Ring, the desperate work she’d done on the Behemoth back before it became Medina Station, her abduction and his rescue of her. All of it was gone. Her expression was polite, and it was closed.