Nemesis Games

He told himself it was temporary. That before long, he’d have Alex back in the cockpit and Amos down in engineering. Naomi beside him, telling him gently what he was screwing up and how to do it better. He’d go to Luna, and they’d be there. All of them. Somehow.

Except he still hadn’t heard from Naomi. He’d gotten a short text-only message from Mother Tamara that his parents were all right for now, but that ash was falling on the ranch like snow in winter. And nothing from Amos.

Sometimes people knew when they were saying their last goodbyes, but not always. Not often. Most people’s last parting of ways were so small, the people involved didn’t even notice them. Now, in the darkness of the command deck with a half-liter bulb of bourbon floating beside him and the audio system playing twelve-bar blues, Holden was pretty sure he’d said a couple of his own final goodbyes and not known it. He replayed everything in his head, his memories becoming less authentic and more painful every time he did.

“We’re all that’s left,” he said to the ship. “You’re all I’ve got.”

The Rocinante didn’t answer for a long moment, and then, weirdly, it did. A bright yellow incoming request alert appeared on his console. Holden wiped his teary eyes with a sleeve and accepted it. Fred Johnson appeared in a window, his brows furrowed.

“Holden?”

“Fred?”

“Are you all right?”

“Ah. Yes?”

Fred leaned forward, his head growing massive on the screen. “I’ve been trying to reach your hand terminal for the past fifteen minutes.”

Holden looked around the command deck, then nodded. “I may have left it in my pants. In my quarters. I think I did.”

“Are you drunk?”

“I think I am.” He had to concentrate not to slur.

“And you’re not wearing pants?”

“I’m not ready to take our relationship there yet.”

“Well, have the med bay give you something to sober you up and get your ass covered. I’m sending the flight crew over.”

Holden turned up the lights and killed the music feed. “What’s going on?”

“We’re getting reports. The Martian prime minister’s under attack. The ships your man Alex found were decoys to draw off the escort.”

“But,” Holden said, “the new escort ships —”

“Are the ones shooting at him.”

Holden cursed under his breath. “Alex is on that ship. Did we hear from Alex?”

“We haven’t heard from anybody. I was keeping some radio telescopes pointed that direction, and this is what they’re getting. I checked with Drummer and the engineering staff. They said the Roci’s got a clean bill of health, and I’m less and less interested in sitting around here waiting for whoever’s behind all this to take another swing at me.”

Holden undid the straps on his couch, floating forward. His head was a little swimmy. He looked around at the command deck. It was like some part of his brain was still expecting to see Alex and Naomi and Amos there with him. He hadn’t realized it was a habit, to look for his people before the Roci got under way. This, he realized, was the first time ever that they wouldn’t be there. It felt like a bad omen.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll clean up for company. When are you looking to go?”

“How soon is as soon as possible?”

“The reactor’s cold, and we’d want to top up the air and water,” Holden said. The alcohol fumes seemed to be burning away already, but he wasn’t entirely sure if that was true or if it just felt that way. “Plus I’m reliably informed that I need to get something from the med bay to sober me up and get my ass covered.”

“Glad you were paying attention,” Fred said. “So two hours?”

“I think we can manage that.”

“Let’s do.”

Holden pulled himself down the lift shaft hand over hand. A new crew coming onto his Rocinante. It was the obvious thing, of course. It had always been the plan, but now the prospect filled him with dread. Unfamiliar faces at the controls and in the crew quarters. Voices in the ship that weren’t the ones he’d gotten used to in the years since the Donnager. Even when they’d been carrying passengers, his crew had been at the heart of the ship. This was something else, and he didn’t like it.

He stopped at the med bay on the way to his quarters. Sober, the symbolic implications of a new temporary crew for the trip to Luna didn’t seem quite as ominous, but the thought stayed at the back of his mind: without Naomi – without all his crew – the Rocinante wasn’t going to be what she had been. When he checked his hand terminal, the only messages were from Fred. Alex’s silence didn’t help.

The transport tube’s connection to the airlock was a gentle thump, like Tycho Station clearing its throat. Holden was at the airlock to let them in. Eight people – six Belters, and two who looked like they’d come from Earth, all wearing Tycho Station flight suits and hauling small personal kits – floated into the space among the lockers. Drummer was with them, wearing her security uniform.

“Captain Holden?” Drummer said. “I’d like to introduce Captain Foster Sales and his crew.”