Babylon's Ashes

“All right, it’s a little like an intelligence service. My point is, yes, the information will leak, if not in detail, at least in broad strokes. Trying to keep it secret would be an exercise in frustration. And counterproductive, really. If we’re tiptoeing around the Free Navy, it makes it seem like we’re afraid of them. It strengthens my hand if these people see me coming in unafraid. Not foolhardy, but not intimidated.”

“Like on a gunship,” Holden said. “But not one that works for Earth or Mars. Maybe an independent that’s done some work with the OPA on and off. One that Marco has already tried to blow up a couple times and failed.”

The whiskey really was very good. Rich and complex, with the aromatics of an oak cask and a pleasant bite. He handed the bulb back over to Holden and shook his head when the captain offered him a second shot. Holden emptied his own bulb, thought for a moment, refilled it, and emptied it again.

“You know,” Holden said, putting bulbs and bottle back in his locker, “Inaros is going to disrupt this meeting.”

“That’s why I’m not sending you messages through the comm system. I don’t know how much has been compromised, and I’m a strong believer in the security of the air gap. But the truth is, as much as we’ll keep the details away from him, I’m hoping he’ll try. There’s nothing like attacking in anger to leave you exposed. And if he turns toward us, it gives Pa some breathing room.”

“I thought you were against joining forces with her.”

“I am. It was a bad move, and I expect we’ll pay for it. But since we’ve done it, we should do the hell out of it. Better to be decisive and wrong than to let them see us wobble.”

Holden leaned against the wall, his arms crossed. Scowling. Fred waited.

“How does this end?” Holden said.

“We keep trying to draw him into making a mistake. He keeps doing the same to us. Whoever screws up last loses. Whoever screws up second to last wins. That’s what war is.”

“Not sure I was asking about the war,” Holden said.

“No? What then?”

“You always said you were looking for a place at the table. How do we win the peace? How does that end?”

Fred was quiet for a long time, a sense of mourning blooming in his chest, thick and aching. “Honestly, then? I don’t know how it ends. I don’t even know if it ends. I dedicated my life to this fight. First one side, and then the other. But now, I look at it? What’s happened with the gates. What’s happened to Earth. I don’t recognize this anymore. I keep doing what I can because I don’t know what else to do.”

Holden took a deep breath and let it out through his teeth. “When should we be ready to go?”

“I told Drummer I’d be wrapping things up here for two weeks. I’d like to leave four days from now. While any of Marco’s people who find out about it are still putting together their plans. Make them move before they’re ready.”

“All right,” Holden said. “We’ll take you.”

“I’ll have my people report whenever you need them. I’ll see myself out,” Fred said with a nod, and headed for the lift.

On the way back down, he closed his eyes and let the thin vibration of the mechanism rattle up through the soles of his feet, up his aching spine, to the crown of his head. There was still so much that needed doing before he left Ceres. He still had to meet with the crew of the Minsky, but he’d promised to consult with Avasarala’s solicitor general before he did, so that he didn’t accidentally obligate Earth to anything by saying the wrong phrase. And he wanted patrol rotations set for at least a month, so that his unexpected absence wouldn’t throw anything off. And he wanted sleep.

As he stepped out the airlock again, his hand terminal chirped. A new message had arrived from Earth. From Avasarala. He paused in the wide air of the docks. The roar of the air recyclers and the clang of the loading mechs. The smell of lubricant and dust. His security detail was already moving toward him, ready to usher him back into his fishbowl. He waved them back and started the message.

Avasarala was in a corridor, shuffling briskly in the lunar microgravity. She looked as tired as he did, but she had a thin, amused smile. He’d never known anyone in his life who could be so cheerfully disappointed in humanity.

“I’ve run your list past my relief coordinator,” she said—what would it be? Eight minutes ago? Ten? He used to be able to calculate light delay in his head. “It didn’t quite bring him to orgasm, but I think he may want to take you out for drinks when you’re in town. Be careful with him. He’s got busy hands.”

Someone off screen interrupted. Avasarala’s eyes flickered away from the camera and she shook her head. “Does he want me to wipe his ass for him too? His job is to make decisions, not ask me what decisions he ought to make.” A curt, deferential voice said yes, ma’am or something like it, and she started walking again.