Persepolis Rising by James S. A. Corey
When Trejo spoke again, his voice was lower. “Tanaka filed her report. She’ll be boarding a shuttle shortly to take up a post on the Tempest.”
“Oh,” Singh replied, hoping it came off as casual.
“Don’t misunderstand me. She’s a fine operator, and her experience is more than welcome there. But if there are problems with her, I would like to know what they are.”
“I’m sure her talents will—” Singh started, but Trejo cut him off without raising his voice.
“If she’s going to take a command role on my ship, I’m going to need to understand why you removed her from yours,” the admiral said, his voice as gentle as though he’d asked for the time. “That’s what I’m asking you for.”
“Yes, sir,” Singh replied. If I understood it myself, he thought. The fury at everyone and everything that had followed the attack had faded, leaving behind only a vaguely unsettled feeling, like the adolescent fear of forgotten homework. Like there was something that needed to be done, something that would cause trouble if it wasn’t, but he had no idea what the thing was or even how to find out.
“Anytime, Sonny,” Trejo said.
Singh took a deep breath that stuttered a little. He hated that it did. “It was my feeling, at the time, that failing to respond to the attack on my person, and by extension on the authority of the high consul and the empire itself, would only serve to embolden any dissident elements here on the station. I felt that a strong response was needed to enforce the message that this was now our station, that we weren’t going anywhere, and that any attempt to hinder our work would fail. End the idea of a rebellion before it could begin.”
“And you believe Colonel Tanaka didn’t understand or support this position?” Trejo asked.
“She counseled a more conciliatory approach. I believe her experience in the Martian military guided her here, but that it was not experience that translated well to this new situation. She disagreed, and stated that she would not support the new security measures, deeming them too harsh. I relieved her at that point.”
“Why did her considerable experience not translate, do you think?” Trejo asked. The words could have been taken as mocking or rhetorical, but something in the old man’s voice made it seem like genuine curiosity.
If there’s no cover, the only thing to do is charge. How did he keep finding himself in these situations?
Singh cleared his throat. “Colonel Tanaka learned about rebel pacification by dealing with a belligerent but unaligned population. The Belters were not citizens of Mars, though they fell under Martian influence and regulation. To some degree, ‘winning hearts’ was always part of the mandate. She still thinks that way. She wants to approach this insurgency in that way. Crack down on only those involved in the attack, and attempt to win the cooperation of the rest of the populace through kindness.”
“You disagree with this assessment,” Trejo said.
“I do. By mandate from the high consul himself, all humans are citizens of the Laconian Empire. The people on Medina are not a neutral third party placed between us and an insurgent faction. They are Laconians, and the insurgents are not a foreign government resisting conquest, they are criminals. Any other reaction defies the imperial mandate and legitimizes them. I don’t need to win their hearts. I need them to understand that all the previous political bodies and relationships are irrelevant. We are not conquering new territory, we are enforcing the law in our empire.”
Trejo smiled. “That could have come straight out of a political theory class at the academy. I wasn’t asking for a book report, Captain. Do you believe all of that is true?”
It was a strange question. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t, Admiral.”
“It is certainly the official position of the empire, and accurately stated,” Trejo agreed.
“Sir, if that’s all, I—”
“Why,” Trejo asked, as if Singh hadn’t spoken at all, “did the high consul place you here, do you think?”
“Sir?”
“Your educational credentials are impeccable. I’ve read your paper analyzing Duarte’s theories on empire through logistical control. And I’d bet even he was impressed. You attributed some truly unique ideas to his text that I’m pretty sure aren’t actually in there.”
“Thank you, sir,” Singh replied, trying to keep it from sounding like a question and failing.
“But you did exactly one tour on a naval vessel prior to this posting. And there are probably a hundred more like me and Tanaka on Laconia who have actual combat-command experience. Why you and not any of them?”
Singh had wondered that himself. “I honestly can’t answer that, sir.”
“And that’s the only right answer, Sonny. No, you don’t know. But I’m going to give you a hint. Do you know how to polish a rock?”
“No, sir.”
“You put it in a tumbler with a lot of other rocks and some sand and you roll them around for a couple of weeks until all the edges are worn off and they’re nice and shiny. We’re taking control of thirteen hundred different worlds, and we’ve only got a hundred old farts like me and Tanaka, and a couple thousand university-educated greenhorns like yourself.”
Singh had no idea what a greenhorn was. It sounded like a Mariner Valley idiom. But the context was clear. And so was the point.
“Colonel Tanaka was placed here to—” Singh started.
“To rub some of the stupid off you. Tanaka’s been fighting insurgents since before you were born. She’s killed more people than you’ve met. But we’ve already got a Colonel Tanaka. Putting her in charge doesn’t create anything new. Hopefully this little dust-up has knocked some of your edges off, or this will be a waste of everyone’s time. Tanaka’s scheduled to fly out in an hour. I think you owe her a conversation.”
“Yes, sir,” Singh replied. It tasted like more bile in his mouth, but the admiral was right.
Trejo rose. The meeting was ended.
“Dismissed, Captain. Make sure Medina’s still here when I get back.”
“Understood, Admiral.”
The bravest thing would have been to go to the Tempest. The easiest thing, to record a message and send it through the Medina system where the security measures would forgive not having the conversation in real time. He split the difference.
The Belter whiskey that someone had left in his old cabin on the Storm tasted like acid and mushrooms, but Singh drank it anyway. The alcohol seemed to finally cut through the last of the bile in his mouth and throat. He kicked his boots off, propped his heels on his desk, and waited for the knot in his chest to loosen, even if only a little bit.
It should have been obvious from the start. Looking back on it, the only thing Singh had to recommend him for the governorship was his absolute commitment to High Consul Duarte’s vision. But that’s all they’d asked from him. They needed to take the inexperienced true believers like himself and drop them into the deep center of the lake, then hope they learned enough to swim back to shore. And everything about Tanaka: her arrogance, her contempt for his inexperience, her refusal to just accept his orders at face value. All of those were exactly the reason she’d been placed under his command. Throwing her out in a fit of pique was the sort of adolescent behavior they were trying to burn out of his system.
He had fucked it up.
The fact that Admiral Trejo understood that he’d done it in the blind panic that followed his first time under fire was both a relief and a humiliation. It was also probably the only reason he hadn’t been relieved of command. Trejo saw what had gone wrong and still felt like Singh had something to offer. That he wasn’t fit for the rubbish bin just yet. Comforting and humiliating, again.
He took another drink of the whiskey. It left his throat warm. That was about the best he could say for it. That was enough.
There was another trap ahead. Singh found that he could sense it. He could feel Trejo’s attention, waiting to see how he’d navigate his way out now that his mistake had been
Maybe the right thing was to be willing to fail honorably. Even if he did get sent home to Nat and the monster, the disgrace would be less if he knew he’d done the fully adult thing.
He pulled the screen off his wrist and flattened it out on his desk. “Colonel Tanaka, video and voice,” he said to it.
“Tanaka here,” she said a moment later. On the small screen, her face was compressed down to only the most prominent features. Dark, heavy eyebrows. Wide jaw. Flattened, slightly off-center nose. It made her look dangerous and angry. She was probably both right now.
“Colonel,” Singh said, trying to keep his tone even and informational. He thought he mostly succeeded. A call to finalize some trivial bureaucratic details.
“Governor,” she said, actually achieving the emotionless affect he was only trying for.
“I spoke to Admiral Trejo about your transfer. He said he was happy to move you into a command position on the Tempest, and I did nothing to dissuade him from this.”
“Thank you for not attempting to torpedo my career,” she said, not sounding grateful at all. The fact that she didn’t say, Fuck you, little man, you couldn’t have hurt me even if you wanted to was as polite as this was likely to get.
“I want you to know that I recognize that in my heightened emotional state following the attack, I made some poor decisions, not least of which was removing you from your command.”
There was a pause. A fraction of a fraction of a second, but it was there.
“Really,” she said. The large eyebrows moved up a millimeter.
“Yes. And if I could take that back without compounding my error, I would. But the most important thing now, to both my staff and to the citizens of Medina, is the appearance of calm authority at the top. To make so drastic a move as relieving you only to rescind it would make us … make me appear weak and indecisive. So your transfer will be recorded as a move to put additional combat experience on Admiral Trejo’s staff, now that we’ve secured the station and he’s moving into the attack on Sol. It will not put a blemish on your outstanding record. Unfortunately, my apologies and regrets will have to remain unofficial for now.”
Tanaka frowned, though it looked more like surprise than anger. “I appreciate that, Governor.”
“Good luck and godspeed in Sol, Colonel. We will all be waiting for word of your mission’s success. Singh out.”
He closed the connection and drank off the last of the terrible Belter whiskey. He wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol, but he felt like a weight he’d been carrying ever since landing on Medina was lifting. This was his station now. His command, to fail or succeed at entirely on his own merits. And now he felt that the worst mistake he was likely to make was behind him, and it hadn’t actually been all that bad.
Things could only get better from here.
Chapter Twenty-One: Holden
Rather than leave them sneaking into and out of the refugee camps in the drum or Laconian-assigned quarters, Saba gave Holden and the crew access to a smuggler’s cabin: a six-rack berth his people had carved out of a service tunnel where the station records were out of date and missing. It was a tight fit, and Alex snored a little, but it was better than the alternatives.
The room where they spent most of their time had been meant for midlevel storage. Not the deep pockets of the generation ship traveling through the vast abyss between the stars. Not the immediate, day-to-day pantry of the men and women whose lives would begin and end in the journey without seeing either end. Built-in yellow guides marked where crates of tools and imperishable rations would have been stacked along the deck and walls. History hadn’t taken the room that way.
Cushions of gel and fabric covered the floor around a half-dismantled holographic display that acted as a low table. The air recyclers were set to minimum to keep the usage footprint of the space as low as it could be, and a battery-driven fan moved the thick air. Lengths of printed textile—Holden couldn’t tell if it was cloth or plastic or carbon mesh—draped the walls and rustled in the little breeze. He didn’t know if those were functional somehow, or if the impulse to decorate interiors just outlived all political circumstances. Mostly, it reminded Holden of a Moroccan restaurant he used to go to on Iapetus, back when he’d been hauling ice for Pur ’n’ Kleen.
Saba and four people Holden assumed were his lieutenants sat across from him and the crew and refilled their cups with a smoky tea whenever they got low. In addition to being captain of a supply ship called the Malaclypse that was stuck in dock just like the Roci, Saba was married to Drummer. At first, Holden had been worried that what he’d done with Freehold was going to haunt him, but when he brought it up, Saba had waved it away. It happened in a dream, Saba said, which was a little confusing until Naomi told him it was an old-timey Belter idiom for Don’t worry about it.
Even after a long life spent outside Earth’s gravity well, Holden was impressed by all the things he didn’t know.
“Perdón,” a Belter woman said, squeezing her way past the guard at the door. “Saba? Are you ready for food yet?”
Saba mostly managed to keep his smile polite. “No, Karo. Bist bien.”
The woman bobbed her hands, nodding like a Belter. She swept her gaze over the rest of them, but paused a little bit at the Rocinante’s crew—Holden, Naomi, Bobbie, Alex, Amos, and Clarissa. “Any of you? We’ve got mushroom bacon.”
Bobbie cracked her knuckles meditatively. Holden was pretty sure that was a sign of annoyance.
“That’s fine,” he said. “We’re good. Thank you.”
The woman bobbed her hands again and squeezed back out. It was the third interruption of the morning. That was a little strange, but Holden put it down to a level of general anxiety for everyone. With the occupying force settled in, the freedom Saba’s underground had to operate was thin as a razor blade, but everyone still wanted to be doing something.
“I’m sorry,” Holden said, shifting which leg was folded under him. If he was always going to have one leg asleep, better to alternate them, he figured. “You were saying?”
Saba leaned forward. It didn’t seem like sitting on the cushions made his legs go to sleep, but he was younger than Holden by a decade or two. “We need to find the balance, sa sa? The more of our own that we build, the more there is for us to use. But the more there is for them to find.”
One of Saba’s lieutenants, who’d spent the morning arguing for building a fully separate comm system by threading hair-thin cables through the water system, cleared her throat.
“The way I see it, we serve three masters: making space for ourselves, making tools for ourselves, and keeping space and tools from the inners. We have three percent of Medina now set where security can’t see it. We have support from the crew. We have transmission out to and back from Sol gate. Have to look at the margin of what we risk against what we’d get from it. All I’m saying.”
“Well, sure,” Holden said, and Saba tilted his head. In his peripheral vision, Bobbie leaned in. When he looked over at her, her expression was empty, but he had years of experience to tell him she was evaluating something. A threat, maybe, except that she was looking at him.
Holden shifted his legs again. “It’s just that anything we do, we have to assume it’s temporary, right?”
“Can’t build on stone out here,” Saba said with a grin, but Holden was pretty sure he hadn’t understood the point he was getting at.
“Medina is our station,” Holden said. “We know it better. All the niches and passages, all the undocumented features. All the tricks and doors and corners. And that’s going to be true right up until it isn’t. These people aren’t dumb. They’re busy right now, and maybe they’ll stay that way for a while.
Saba shifted, sipped his tea, and nodded. “Good point, coyo,” he said. “Maybe also, we start looking at evacuation plans. How not to spend a long life in a jail cell or a short one in an airlock.”
“Whatever goals we pick,” Holden said. “I just don’t think we should spend the extra effort to make it something that’s going to last a decade when we’re probably looking at less than eight or ten weeks of freedom.”
The way he said it, it sounded like an apology. Saba rubbed his palm across his chin. The room had gone so quiet, Holden could hear the hush of the man’s stubble against his hand even over the whir of the fan. Eight or ten weeks of freedom. It was the first time anyone in the meetings had guessed at the time frame. Whatever little apocalypse took out the underground, Holden expected it would be less than a springtime back on Earth.
“Is fair point,” Saba said as a noise came from the corridor. Voices. A thin-faced man with a scar over his left eye leaned into the room, looked around, and nodded.
“New reports from upstairs if you want them,” Scar-eye said. “Doesn’t look like much of anything new. Checkpoints still on the move, and they put some stupid coyo in their public prison for being out after curfew, is all.”
“I don’t think—” Saba began.
Bobbie interrupted him. “Maybe you should. We could take a break. Right, Holden?”
“Um,” Holden said. “Sure.”
Saba shrugged with his hands. “Bien á. Maybe bring in some lunch, yeah?”
The meeting shifted. It was all the same people in the same space, but the motion of it changed. Holden leaned in and kissed Naomi gently on the cheek. She leaned her head against his as if it were only affection.