Fred nodded. “Happens to the best of us from time to time. Where do we stand?”
Drummer answered. “The crew’s initiating the warm-up. We haven’t had anyone reporting trouble, so you should be good to go on schedule.”
“Excellent,” Fred said. “Of course, they’ve probably taken all the good bunks by now.”
“All the bunks are the same,” Holden said. “Except mine. You can’t have mine.”
“Wouldn’t think of it, Captain,” Fred said. “The Martian convoy’s put out a distress call. The original escort’s trying to burn back toward them, but the mystery ships are engaging in force now. As ambushes go, this one’s looking pretty effective.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Holden said. “Still nothing from Alex.”
“Well. We can hope for the best,” Fred said. “Latest intel shows the attackers have stopped firing. So that makes it look like a boarding action.”
Holden’s blood went cold. “Protocol is they blow the ship if boarders get close to taking engineering or the CIC.”
“That’s so that the enemy doesn’t compromise your codes,” Drummer said. “They rode in on Martian naval ships. That damage is already done.”
The three were silent for a moment. When Fred spoke, his voice was low and mordant. “Well, that’s cheerful. You coming to help this along, Captain?”
Holden looked at Drummer. She held herself professionally at attention, but he thought he saw a glimmer of unease in her eyes. Fred Johnson had run Tycho Station for almost two decades, and now he was leaving. He might not come back. And Holden might not either.
Everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.
“Let’s give this part to Foster,” Holden said. “Let him get a feel for the ship. There’s something I need to take care of on the station before we go.”
Monica was in new rooms. To look at her, sitting on the couch, it was like she was meeting him for the first time. The months they’d spent – her crew and his – shipping out to the Ring, the desperate work she’d done on the Behemoth back before it became Medina Station, her abduction and his rescue of her. All of it was gone. Her expression was polite, and it was closed.
“So,” Holden said. “I’m about to take off. I’m not sure when or even if I’ll see you again. And I feel like we’re not good.”
“Why do you feel like that?”
“Off the record?”
The silence cooled the room, then Monica took her new hand terminal out of her pocket and tapped it twice. It chimed and she rested it on her thigh. “Fine. Off the record.”
“Because I lied to you, and you know it. And you’re angry about it. And because you tried to get me to talk about things I didn’t want to talk about by springing questions on me in the middle of an interview, and I’m angry with you about that.”
Monica sighed, but her face softened. She looked older now than when they’d first met. Still camera-ready and perfect at all times, but worn by the universe. “What happened to you, Holden? You used to be the man who didn’t hide anything. You were the one voice everyone could trust, because even if you didn’t know all of it, you’d at least tell the truth you did know. This reading the press release thing? It’s not you.”
“Fred asked me not to say that he’d been targeted.”
“Or that they got away with the protomolecule sample,” Monica said, then held up her hand terminal. “We’re off the record. Do me the courtesy of not lying to me now too.”
“And that they got away with the protomolecule,” Holden said.
Monica’s face softened. She scratched her arm, fingernails hissing against the cloth. “That’s critical. That’s the scariest thing that’s happened since this all started. Don’t you think that people have a right to know the danger they’re in?”
“Fred knows. He’s told Avasarala and Smith. Earth and Mars know. The OPA knows. Panicking people for no reason —”
“Panicking at this point isn’t unreasonable,” Monica said. “And deciding for people what they should get to know so they do what you think they should do? That isn’t how the good guys act, and you know it. It’s paternalistic, it’s condescending, and it’s beneath you. Maybe not them. The political movers and shakers. But it’s beneath you.”
Holden felt a warmth rising in his chest. Shame or anger or something more complicated, he couldn’t say. He remembered Mother Tamara saying It hurts most if there’s something true in it. He wanted to say something mean. To hit back. He laced his fin
gers together. “Does what you do matter?”
“What?”
“Reporting? Telling things to people. Does it have any power?”