Babylon's Ashes

Whatever it had been before—engineers’ workspace, security building, storage—the room was now the war council of the Free Navy. Karal, Wings, Filip, Sárta from the Pella. Captain Lister from the Coin Silver, Captain Chou from the Lína. They sat on white upholstered chairs, their uniforms lending them a formality. They stood and saluted when he entered the room. Except for Filip who nodded as a son to his parent.

“Thank you for coming,” Marco said. “We have plans to make. This assault must not go unanswered. We have to mount a counterstrike and show the inners that we aren’t intimidated. Show our strength.”

A murmur of agreement passed through the room, no one actually speaking loud enough to be heard. Only not to be out of line.

Except, to his surprise, Filip.

“Another one?” his son said. “The last grand gesture did so well, que?”

Marco froze. The anger in Filip’s voice—more than anger, contempt—was like being slapped. All around the room, the others went silent and still.

“Something to say, Filipito?” Marco asked, his voice low and calm and rich with threat. But Filip chose not to hear it.

“Yeah, something. We had this conversation before, yeah? Walked away from Ceres and said we needed to plan a show of strength. Counterattack. Keep them afraid of us. We did this before, and now we’re here again.” Filip’s face was flushed, his breath fast and heaving like he’d run to get here. “Only last time it wasn’t esá coyos la, was it? It was Dawes and Rosenfeld and Sanjrani. And Pa, yeah? Inner circle. Heart of the Free Navy. Part of the plan.”

“You’re tired, Filip,” Marco said. “You should go rest.”

“How does this get different from last time you said it?” Filip said. “Tell me that.”

Rage rose up in Marco’s breast, filling his head with heat and fumes. He could smell it like a chemical fire.

“Want to know, me,” Filip said, voice trembling. “This plan we’ve got. And the last plan before it. And the one before that. Which one’s the real plan? Is there? Or are we just falling down and pretending we meant to?”

Marco smiled. When he stepped toward his son, Filip braced against a blow. Jaw tight. Hands in fists. Marco tousled his hair.

“Boys, eh?” he said to the others. “Boys and their tantrums. Captain Chou. Can we hear your report?”

Chou cleared his throat. “We have a few targets might serve,” he said, pulling up his hand terminal and sending a data file to the wall screen. “Depends how it fits with the larger strategy.”

Filip went white, his jaw jutting out. Chou went on talking, gesturing at the wall screen as he listed his suggestions and plans. Marco kept his gaze on his son and let the others pretend nothing was happening but the meeting. If you act like a child, you will be treated like a child. Embarrass me and I will embarrass you.

Filip swallowed, turned, and walked out of the room, shoulders back and head held high. Marco laughed as the door shut, just loud enough he was certain Filip would hear him.

He turned to the wall screen. “You don’t list Tycho,” he said. “Why not?”

Chou looked at his list, then back at Marco. “You want to take Tycho?”

“Why not?” Marco said. “These battles we’re fighting now? They’re the inners turning us against each other. Tricking us into killing our own. Belter against Belter, and for what? We can never win Earth and Mars over. They’ll never see us as people. But Aimee Ostman? Carlos Walker? They should be on our side. Would be, if they weren’t still stuck in a past that’s gone, gone, gone. Yeah?”

“You say it,” Chou said, nodding but dour.

“Tycho has always been a jewel of the Belt. A source of our pride and a symbol of our success. It’s why Fred Johnson squatted on it all those years. Now another Earther who thinks he’s the savior of the poor backward Belt. Why should we let James Holden keep what was never his?” Marco grinned and let the syllables drip out of his mouth. “Tycho Station. Gather up all the ships we can, and burn there in force before the inners can regroup. We’re faster than them. Smarter. And when we reach Tycho, we will see them rise up to greet us and toss Holden out the airlock, I will guarantee that.”

Lister cleared his throat. “Rocinante’s not on Tycho, though.”

Marco frowned. A little stab of confusion and resentment pricked his heart. “What?”

“Los dué ships we sent after Ostman’s ice hauler? Giambattista? No transponders, but came close enough they got drive signatures off the escort ship. Esá es la Rocinante.”

The room was silent. Marco felt something crawling up the back of his neck. All the years he’d kept quiet track of where Naomi was, what she was doing, and now she and her lover had slipped away without his knowledge. It felt like a threat. Like a trap.

“The Rocinante,” he said, speaking each word carefully, “is running escort on Ostman’s old, broken-down ice hauler?”

“Looks like,” Lister said.