Cibola Burn

“We’re taking him in,” Murtry said, pointing at Basia. “One way or the other. We’ll let the assault on one of my people slide for now. Emotions running hot, and all.”

“We’re all leaving anyway,” Holden said, keeping his voice low, appealing to Murtry rather than the crowd.

“You have no authority to order anyone to leave,” Murtry replied. “I hoped we were done with that.”

“In the meantime,” Holden continued as though Murtry hadn’t spoken, “the UN is taking custody of this man. Basia. As part of our investigation. He’ll be secure on my ship, he won’t be a threat to your people down here, and when we all get back you can present your evidence and have him arrested.”

“ ‘Get back,’ ” Murtry said with a lazy smile. “Just going to keep him in a holding cell for the next few years? Because I accused him of something?”

“If I have to,” Holden said. “Because I don’t believe for a second that you wouldn’t kill him.”

Murtry shrugged. “Okay. He’s your baggage, then. Just keep him off my planet.”

Basia looked stunned, his eyes focused on nothing in particular. The colonists began organizing a firefighting detail to put the blaze out. Murtry and his team stood and watched, not offering to help, a visible reminder of the threat they presented next to the violence of their handiwork.

Holden headed back into town, Basia and Amos in tow. He patted his pockets looking for his hand terminal before remembering he’d dropped it on the run out to the fight. He’d never find it in the dark, so he borrowed Amos’ and called the ship.

“Naomi,” he said once she’d picked up. “Bring the Roci down to the landing area. We’re going to need you to offload our heavier armor and some bigger firepower.”

“This doesn’t sound good,” she said.

“It’s not. Have you heard back from the UN or Fred yet?”

“Nothing yet. I take it this means RCE and the Ganymede folks aren’t in a big hurry to leave?”

“No,” Holden said with a heavy sigh. “No, they’d rather stay here and kill each other right up until the alien shit starts turning them into spare parts.”

“And you?” she said. She meant was he coming up the well too. It was the sane thing to do.

“Not yet,” he said. “If it escalates any more, maybe.”

“ ‘It’ the aliens or ‘it’ the people?”

“Right?”

“Alex has seen a few more power spikes, and there’s more movement, but it’s pretty far south of you. If it starts looking more interesting, I’ll let you know.”

“Thank you. Oh, and you’ll be picking up a passenger.”

“Que?”

“It’s complicated, but we’re putting him on the Roci because he isn’t safe down here anymore. I owe this guy, Naomi. He tried to save my life. Take good care of him.”

“Okay.”

“And honey?” Holden said, unable to keep the worry out of his voice. “When you get back up, keep a close eye on the Israel. I think things might be about to go all the way bad down here, and when they do, they may go bad up there too.”

“Ha!” Naomi said, and he could hear the smile in her voice. “Let ’em try.”

Chapter Nineteen: Havelock

The corridor stretched forty meters between the recycling tanks and the secondary machine shop with hatches inset every ten meters. Open lifts at either end led to environmental control fore and hydroponics aft. The age of the Israel showed not only in the design of the walls and the grating of the floor, but also in the green-gray finish of the ceramic. Harsh edges at the doorways marked where safety design had improved in the decades since the ship first flew out past the orbit of Mars. A white scar splashed across one wall where something drastic had happened in some previous era of the ship’s history and been patched like painting over graffiti. Havelock fought the urge to press himself into the corner nearest the doorway.

It was hard. His species had evolved in the gravity well of Earth, had grown and developed in it. His hindbrain told him that pressure meant safety. The angry whispers of the men in the hall set his heart tripping over faster, and the wall, centimeters from his back, seemed to pull at him like a magnet. It was an error waiting to happen. Lean in, push against the wall, and it would push back, sending him out into the open air of the corridor. And the firing lines. The second law of thermodynamics as applied to gunfights.

“Clear,” one of the engineers said, and Havelock was torn between pleasure and annoyance. Not clear, he thought. They hadn’t seen him, so they thought he wasn’t there. He held the gun at his leg, stayed still. Waited. Didn’t hug the wall.