Cibola Burn

And still, Havelock had hesitated before he signed up.

He’d seen the footage from Eros and Ganymede, the bloodbath in the so-called slow zone when the alien defenses had stopped the ships suddenly enough to slaughter a third of the people in them. With the massive density of scientists and engineers packed into the Israel, it was impossible to forget that they were going into the unknown. Here there be monsters.

And now Governor Trying was dead. Severn Astrapani, the statistician who’d sung Ryu-pop classics in the talent competition, was dead. Amanda Chu, who’d flirted with Havelock one time when they were both a little tipsy, was dead. Half the men and women on the first team were injured. The supplies on the heavy shuttle – and the heavy shuttle itself – were gone. And the quiet that came over the Edward Israel was like the moment of shock between the impact of a blow and the pain. And then the rage and the grief. Not only the crew’s. Havelock’s too.

His hand terminal chimed. The message was tagged for security services. Murtry, Wei, Trajan, Smith, and himself. Havelock opened it with a sense of pleasure. He might be the least senior person in the room, but he was still in the room. Being included made him feel like maybe he’d have some control over events after all. It was an illusion, but that didn’t bother him. He took in the message quickly, nodded to himself, and keyed the release code for the cell.

“You’re in luck,” he said. “I’ve got a meeting I have to be at.”

Williams pulled himself out of the cell. His salt-and-pepper hair was disarrayed and his skin looked grayer than usual. “Thank you,” he said sullenly.

“Just don’t do that again,” Havelock said. “Things are going to be hard enough without people who should know better making it worse.”

“I was just drunk,” the engineer said. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“I know,” Havelock said. “Just don’t let it happen again. All right?”

Williams nodded, not making eye contact, then pulled himself along the handholds and launched himself up the tube toward the crew quarters and clothes that weren’t ripped or stained with vomit. Havelock waited until he’d gone, then shut down the security station and headed toward the meeting room.

Murtry was already there. He was a small man, but with an energy that seemed to radiate from him like heat. Havelock knew that the security chief had worked corporate prisons and high-end industrial security his whole career. Between that and the simple fact that he’d been put in charge of the Israel, he didn’t have to work for respect from the team. Floating beside him, information specialist Chandra Wei and ground operations second Hassan Smith looked serious and grim.

“Havelock,” Murtry said.

“Sir.” Havelock nodded back, taking hold of a handhold and turning himself so that his head was in the same basic orientation as everyone else’s. A few seconds later, Reeve, Murtry’s second, floated in.

Murtry nodded. “Close the door, Reeve.”

“Trajan?” Wei asked, but from the bleak sound of her voice, she already suspected the answer.

“Trajan died in the shuttle,” Murtry said. “Smith? You’re getting promoted.”

“Sorry to hear that, sir,” Smith said. “Trajan was a good officer, and a professional. She’ll be missed.”

“Yeah,” Murtry said. “So we’re here to talk about the response plan.”

“Drop a rock on the squatters?” Wei said, her voice joking in a way that had nothing to do with humor. Murtry smiled anyway.

“We’re going to play it a little more by the book for now,” Murtry said. “Besides, we still have people down there. I’ve sent back to the home office, and I’ve asked for latitude in how we engage the issue. I’m fairly sure, given the circumstances, we’ll have cover from them if it comes to that.”

“We’re a year and a half from anywhere,” Wei said. The implication – No one can stop us from doing anything we choose – hung in the air.

“We’re also hours away from every screen and newsfeed from Earth to Neptune,” Reeve said. “This sucks, but we’ve got the moral high ground. If we overreact, it’ll be another round of the evil corporations oppressing the poor Belters. We’re in a post-Protogen world. We don’t win that.”

“Didn’t know they’d made you political officer,” Wei said, and Reeve’s jaw went tight. When Murtry spoke, his voice was calm and level and threatening as a rattlesnake.

“That. We’re not doing that.”

“Sir?” Reeve said.

“The thing where we start sniping at each other. We don’t do that here.”

Wei and Reeve looked at each other.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Wei said. “I was out of line.”

“Not a problem, because it’s not going to happen again,” Murtry said. “What action have we seen from the Barbapiccola?”

“Nothing,” Wei said. “The Belters sent condolences and offers of aid, as if there was a damn thing they could do.”

“Are they warming up the engines?”

“Not that I can tell,” Wei said.

“We’re keeping an eye on that,” Murtry said. It was a statement and a question.