Expanse 05 - Nemesis Games, Page 38

  Her voice broke on the last word, and tears appeared in her eyes. Alex felt a tightness in his chest and a sense of sorrow he’d managed to ignore until it now welled up in him. Avasarala took a deep breath, sneered, and turned her gaze back to the camera. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand angrily. Like they’d betrayed her.

  “So. No more fucking around. I love and adore you, and I can’t wait for you – all of you – to be where I can keep you safe. Be careful. And send me the fucking data. Now.”

  The message ended. Bobbie let out a long, shuddering breath. Alex was pretty sure if he looked back, she’d be weeping too. Smith’s voice came from the door to the cabin.

  “I’ve told her all I know about them,” Smith said. “The ships were not listed as missing. The crews aboard them all check out as Martian citizens. But so did the false escort ships. Until I have a complete audit of the military’s personnel and supply databases, I don’t know what I’m looking at.”

  Alex coughed to clear his throat before he spoke. “Avasarala’s not always the most trusting person, Nate. It ain’t just you.”

  “She’s thorough,” Smith said. “And she’s in a hard position. Sergeant Draper?”

  There was a long silence. When Alex looked back, Bobbie’s expression was closed. Her lips pressed to a single line. “On my own initiative and without direction from Avasarala I… When I found evidence that something had gone missing, I checked to see what commanding officers were in charge of that materiel. I didn’t see any pattern in it, but someone else might. If they saw it.”

  Alex closed the panel Avasarala had been in. The air seemed fragile. Smith took a short breath, made a small, noncommittal sound in the back of his throat. “Please see that I get a copy too, Sergeant Draper.”

  He closed the door to the cabin behind him. Alex sat up in his couch. “You know,” he said, “you have a really weird relationship with treason. On the one hand, I think you may be the most patriotic person I’ve ever met, and on the other hand —”

  “I know. It’s been confusing for me too. For a long time now.”

  “Your loyalty to the corps and your loyalty to that woman ever really come to blows, it’ll be a hard day.”

  “It won’t happen,” Bobbie said. “She won’t let it.”

  “No?”

  “She’d lose,” Bobbie said. “She hates losing.”

  The message from the Pella came three hours later. From the first instant, it was clear that it was a press release. The answer to the questions everyone had been asking: Who did all this, and why? The man was seated at a desk, two different banners showing the split circle of the OPA on the wall behind him. His uniform was crisp and unfamiliar, his eyes soulful and gentle to the point of being nearly apologetic, his voice low and rich as a viol.

  “My name,” he said, “is Marco Inaros, commander of the Free Navy. We are the legitimate military voice of the outer planets, and we are now in a position to explain both to the oppressors on Earth and Mars and also to the liberated people of the Belt the terms on which this new chapter of human liberty, dignity, and freedom are founded. We recognize the right of Earth and Mars to exist, but their sovereignty ends at their respective atmospheres. The vacuum is ours. All travel between the planets of the solar system are the right and privilege of the OPA and will be enforced by the Free Navy. All taxes and tariffs imposed by Earth and Mars are illegal, and will not be respected. Reparations for the damage done by the inner planets to the free citizens of the system will be assayed, and failure to repay them for the benefit of the full human race will be considered a criminal act.”

  A throbbing had come into the man’s voice without it ever seeming to make his words affected or musical. He leaned in toward the camera, and it felt both intimate and powerful.

  “With the opening of the alien gates, we are at a crossroads in human history. We have already seen how easy it would be to carry our legacies of exploitation, injustice, prejudice, and oppression to these new worlds. But there is an alternative. The Free Navy and the society and culture of the Belt are representatives of that new pathway. We will begin again and remake humanity without the corruption, greed, and hatred that the inner planets could not transcend. We will take what is ours by right, yes, but more than that, we will lead the Belt to a new, better form. A more human form.

  “As of now, the gates to the other worlds are closed. The inner planet colony ships will be redirected to existing stations in our system, and the goods they carry contributed to building the strong outer planets that we have always deserved. We no longer recognize or accept the yoke of the inner planets anywhere in the system. The moons of Saturn and Jupiter are ours by right. Pallas Station, Ceres Station, every pocket of air in the Belt with even one human in it, all are the natural and legal property of their inhabitants. We pledge our lives to protect those people, citizens of the greater humanity, against the historical and established crimes of economy and violence they have suffered at the gun barrels of Earth and Mars.

  “I am Marco Inaros. I am commander of the Free Navy. And I call upon all free men and women of the Belt to rise up now in joy and glorious resolve. The Free Navy pledges you all the safety of our protection. This day is ours. Tomorrow is ours. The future of humanity is ours. Today, and forevermore, we are free.”

  On the screen, Marco Inaros lifted his hand in the Belter idiom of greeting, militarizing the motion with his precision and focus. His face was an icon of resolve and strength and masculine beauty.

  “We are your arm,” he said. “And we will strike your enemies wherever they are. We are the Free Navy. Citizens of the Belt and of the new humanity, we are yours.”

  A rising chord picked up and broke into a traditional Belter protest song transformed into something martial and rousing. The new anthem of an invented nation. The image faded to a split circle and then to white. The crew of the Razorback were quiet.

  “Well,” Bobbie said. “He’s pretty. And he’s really charismatic. But, wow, that speech.”

  “It probably sounded good in his head,” Alex said. “And really, when your prelude is you kill a couple billion people, anything you say is going to sound a little megalomaniacal and creepy, right?”

  Smith’s voice was calm, but the dread in it carried through. “He wasn’t talking to us.” He stood in the door to the cabin, his arms stretched to brace against the frame. His amiable smile hadn’t changed, but its meaning had. “That was meant for the Belters. And what they heard in him – what they saw in him – won’t be anything like what we did. For them, he just declared victory.”

  Chapter Thirty-eight: Amos

  Ash sifted down, coating everything with a few millimeters of gray. Everything stank of it. They got off the road to let relief convoys go by twice, and then once when an old electric service truck whined by, its bed filled with six or seven huddled figures. They slept when it got too dark to see, hauling the bikes into the bushes or alleys. The dead guy’s emergency rations tasted like crap, but they didn’t seem to be toxic.

  After four days, the plants along the roadside started showing signs of dying: green leaves turning brown and curving toward the earth. The birds, on the other hand, were going crazy. They filled the air with chirps and trills and songs. It was probably sparrow for Holy shit, what’s going on, we’re all gonna die, but it sounded pretty. Amos tried to keep clear of the bigger cities, but there wasn’t a lot of space left in that part of the world that wasn’t paved.

  Passing through Harrisonburg they were followed by a dozen dogs for about ten kilometers, the pack building up its nerve to attack. He let Peaches go ahead for that part, but it never got serious enough to make him spend bullets. When they started getting in toward Baltimore, there stopped being a way to keep clear of people.

  They were still about a day from the arcology, and the smell of the world had changed to salt water and rot, when they ran into the other crew. They were moving down a commercial street, the bikes making their soft chain-hiss,
and he caught sight of the others in the gloom, heading toward them. Amos slowed down, but didn’t stop. Peaches matched him. From the smear of light in the east, he guessed it was about ten in the morning, but the darkness still made it hard to be sure how many of them there were. Four he could see for sure. Maybe more trailing a little way behind. Hard to say.

  They were smeared with ash, the same as everything. If they had weapons, Amos didn’t see them. Handguns, maybe. So he had them for range if he wanted to start shooting. They were walking, so outrunning them was also an option, if it came to that. Thing was, Peaches didn’t look like anywhere near the threat she was, and pretty much everyone was going to be going off appearances. It was that kind of misunderstanding that got people killed.

  The other group slowed down, but didn’t stop. Wary, but not disinterested. Amos stood up on his pedals.

  “Peaches? How’s about you hang back a little.”

  “Draw down on them?”

  “Nah. Let’s be neighbors first.”

  Her bike slowed and fell behind. Ahead on the street, the others made their own calculations and came to a different conclusion. All four stepped out toward Amos together, chins raised in a diffident greeting. No trouble unless there’s trouble. Amos smiled amiably, and it occurred to him this was exactly the kind of situation that had taught him how to smile like that.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey.” One of the four stepped closer. He was older. He moved gracefully, center of gravity low. Maybe a veteran. Maybe just someone who’d boxed some. Amos pointed his smile at the guy, then the other three. Tension crept up the back of his neck and into his shoulders. He breathed through it, forcing himself to relax. “Coming from Baltimore?”

  “Monkton,” the fighter said.

  “Yeah? Towers or the flats?”

  The fighter’s mouth twitched into a little smile. “Z tower,” he said.

  “Zadislaw,” Amos said. “Had a friend lived there once. Long time ago. How is it up there?”

  “It’s ten thousand people in a box with no food and not much water.”

  “Not so great, then.”

  “Power supply’s all fucked up. And Baltimore’s worse. No offense meant, but I’d say you’re heading the wrong way.” The fighter licked his lips. “Nice bikes.”

  “They do what we need ’em to,” Amos agreed. “Only gets worse south of here. We’re walking away from the strike.”

  “Keep going south, though, it gets warm again. That’s where we’re headed. Baja complex.”

  One of the others cleared her throat. “I’ve got a cousin down there.”

  Amos whistled between his teeth. “That’s a hell of a walk you got there.”

  “Walk there or freeze here,” the fighter said. “You and your friend there ought to come with us.”

  “I appreciate the invite, but we’ve got people we’re meeting up with in Baltimore.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “It’s more like a working hypothesis, but it’s the plan for now.”

  The fighter’s gaze flickered down to the bike again, then up to Amos’ face. The man studiously avoided looking at the rifle hanging on Amos’ back. He waited to see which way they were going. The other man nodded.

  “Well, good luck to you. We’re all going to need it.”

  “That’s truth,” Amos said. “Tell Baja hi for me when you get there.”

  “Will.”

  The fighter started off down the street, the others with him. Amos loosened the strap that held the rifle, but he didn’t draw the weapon. The four walkers moved down the ash-gray road. Peaches rode up, passing them. The last in their formation turned to watch her pass, but no one made a move.

  “Everything all right?” she asked.

  “Sure,” Amos said. The shadows of the other crew faded into the gloom.

  “Talked them out of any unpleasant actions?”

  “Me? Nope. They did most of that themselves. Best defense we’ve got right now is everyone’s in the habit of not killing each other and taking their shit. Pretty soon, people are just going to start assuming anyone they don’t know is out to slit their throats. If they’re lucky.”

  She looked at him. Her face was smooth, her eyes intelligent and hard. “You don’t sound upset at the prospect.”

  “I’m comfortable with it.”

  With every kilometer traveled they came closer to the sea and the stink of rot and salt grew worse. They hit the high-water mark: the place where the charge of the floodwaters had broken. The line of debris was so clear and distinct it looked deliberate. A short wall made of wreckage and mortared with mud. Once they passed it, the ash was thick with mud and the roads were covered in broken wood and construction plastic, ruined clothes and waterlogged furniture, blackened plants killed by darkness and ash and salt water. And the bodies of dead people and animals that no one was going to bother cleaning up. The bikes threw up gobbets of the muddy road and they had to push harder, bearing down with all their weight, to keep the wheels spinning.

  When they were still about twenty klicks from the arcology, Amos ran into a pit filled with water and covered over with a scum of ash. It bent the bicycle’s front rim. He left it where it lay, and Peaches dropped hers beside it.

  He was aware of voices around him. Every step of the way, they were being watched. But between having rifles and not seeming to have anything much else, no one tried to stop them. All around, the ground floors of the buildings were gutted, walls cracked by the pitiless water, and the contents of the stores and apartments and offices puked out into the streets. Some places, the second story was just as bad; some places it was better. Above that, the city seemed almost untouched. Amos kept imagining the place like it was a healthy-looking guy with exposed bone and gangrene from the ankle down.

  “Something funny?” Peaches asked.

  “Nope,” Amos said. “I was just thinking.”

  The arcology was no different. It loomed up among the ruins, towering over the debris-choked streets now the way it had over the maintained streets before. The reactor that powered the vast building seemed to still be running, because lights glowed in half of the windows. If he just put his hand over the bottom layer, Amos could almost pretend the ash was snow, and all this was nothing more than the worst Christmas in history.

  They trudged into the lowest level. Icy mud stuck his pants to his skin up to the knee. Glass pipes and footprints showed where people had been but there was no one standing guard. At least no one they saw.

  “What if your friend’s not here?” Peaches asked as Amos poked at the elevator’s call button.

  “Then we think of something else.”

  “Any idea what?”

  “Still nope.”

  He was more than half-surprised when the elevator doors opened. Flood damage could have ruined the mechanism. Of course it could also get stuck halfway up, and they could die in it. When he selected the club level, the screen clicked to life. A broad-faced woman with a scar across her upper lip sneered out at him.

  “The fuck you want?”

  “Amos. Friend of Erich’s.”

  “We got no fucking handouts.”

  “Not looking for any,” Amos said. “Want to talk about a job.”

  “No jobs either.”

  Amos smiled. “You new at this, Butch? I have a job. I’m here to see if Erich wants in. This is the part where you go tell him there’s some psycho in the elevator wants to talk with him, then he says who is it, and you say the guy calls himself Amos, and Erich tries not to look surprised and tells you to let me up and —”

  “For fuck’s sake!” Erich’s voice was distant, but recognizable. “Let him up, or he’ll talk all day.”

  Butch scowled into the screen and blinked out to the blue arcology menu system. But the car started up.

  “Good news is he’s here,” Amos said.

  Erich’s office looked the same as the last time Amos had been in it – the same wall screen showing the
same ocean view, the rubber ball instead of a chair, the desk encrusted with decks and monitors. Even Erich didn’t look different. Maybe better dressed, even. It was the context that changed it all. The screen showed an ocean of gray and white, and Erich’s clothes looked like a costume.

  Butch and the four other heavily armed thugs with professional trigger discipline who’d escorted them from the elevator walked out, closing the door behind them. Erich waited until they’d gone before he spoke, but the tiny fist of his bad arm was opening and closing the way it did when he was nervous.

  “Well. Amos. You’re looking more alive than I’d expected.”

  “Not looking too dead yourself.”

  “As I recall the way we left it, you weren’t ever coming back to my city. Open season, I called it.”

  “Wait a second,” Peaches said. “He said if you came back here, he’d kill you?”

  “Nah,” Amos said. “He broadly implied that one of his employees would kill me.”

  Peaches hoisted an eyebrow. “Yeah, because that’s different.”

  “If this is about the old man, I haven’t checked to see if he made it or not. Deal was he kept the house, and I did that. More than that, and I’ve got other problems.”

  “And I got no trouble to cause,” Amos said. “I figured things had changed enough maybe the old rules weren’t a great fit for the new situation.”

  Erich walked over to the wall screen, limping. A few seagulls circled, black against the colorless sky. From the last time he’d been there, Amos knew the buildings that should have provided a foreground. Most of them were still in place close in. Out toward the shoreline, things were shorter now.

  “I was right here when it happened,” Erich said. “It wasn’t a wave like a wave, you know? Like a surfer wave? It was just the whole fucking ocean humping up and crawling onto shore. There’s whole neighborhoods I used to run just aren’t there now.”