Cibola Burn Read online

  “You don’t mean that. It’s going to be okay.”

  “Elvi?” Fayez said, with a sardonic chuckle. “I believe that it isn’t.”

  Chapter Three: Havelock

  “H

  ey,” the engineer said blearily from the cell. “Havelock. You’re not still pissed, are you?”

  Not my job to be pissed, Williams,” Havelock replied from where he floated beside his desk. The internal security station of the Edward Israel was small. Two desks, eight cells, a space as much brig as office. And with the ship in high orbit, the loss of effective gravity made it seem even smaller.

  “Look, I know I got out of line, but I’m sober now. You can let me out.”

  Havelock checked his hand terminal.

  “Another fifty minutes,” he said, “and you’ll be free to go.”

  “C’mon, Havelock. Have a heart.”

  “It’s policy. Nothing I can do about it.”

  Dimitri Havelock had worked security contracts for eight different corporations over thirteen years. Pinkwater, Star Helix, el-Hashem Cooperative, Stone & Sibbets, among others. Even, briefly, Protogen. He’d been in the Belt, on Earth, Mars, and Luna. He’d done long-haul work on supply ships heading from Ganymede to Earth. He’d dealt with everything from riots to intimate violence to drug trafficking to one idiot who’d had a thing for stealing people’s socks. He hadn’t seen everything, but he’d seen a lot. Enough to know he’d probably never see everything. And enough to recognize that how he reacted to a crisis was more about the people on his team than with the crisis itself.

  When the reactor had gone on Aten Base, his partner and supervisor had both panicked, and Havelock remembered the overwhelming fear in his own gut. When the riots had started on Ceres after the ice hauler Canterbury had been destroyed, his partner had been more weary than fearful, and Havelock had faced the situation with the same grim resignation. When the Ebisu had been quarantined for nipahvirus, his boss had been energized – almost elated – running the ship like a puzzle that had to be solved, and Havelock had been caught up in the pleasure of doing an important thing well.

  Humans, Havelock knew from long experience, were first and foremost social animals, and he himself was profoundly human. It was more romantic – hell, more masculine – to pretend he was an island, unaffected by the waves of emotion around him. But it wasn’t true, and he’d made his peace with that fact.

  When the word came that the heavy shuttle’s landing pad had exploded and the reports of casualties started coming in, Murtry’s response had been an efficient and focused rage, and so Havelock’s had been too. All the activity was on the planetary surface, so the only outlet had been on the Edward Israel itself. And how things went on the Israel were firmly in Havelock’s wheelhouse.

  “Please?” Williams whined from the cell. “I need to get some clean clothes. It’s not going to make any difference, is it? A few minutes?”

  “If it’s not going make any difference, it won’t matter if you see it through,” Havelock said. “Forty-five minutes, and you’re on your way. Just sit back and try to enjoy them.”

  “Can’t sit back when you’re floating in orbit.”

  “It’s a metaphor. Don’t be a literalist.”

  The Edward Israel assignment had been a great contract. Royal Charter Energy was the first real expedition out into the new systems that the rings had opened up, and the importance the company put on the mission’s success were reflected in the size of the benefit package they were willing to put together. Every day on the Israel had been paid a hazard bonus, even when they were just loading on supplies and crew from Luna. And with almost a year and a half out, a six-year stretch before the scheduled return to Earth, and another eighteen months back – all at full pay – it was almost less a contract than a career plan.

  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 pos
t-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.

  “We could take custody of the ship,” Wei said. “It was Mao-Kwikowski before they got broken up. Its salvage status is very murky. Call it illegal, put a few people on her, and we could shut her down.”

  “Noted,” Murtry said. “How is the crew, Havelock?”

  “Shocked, sir. Scared. Angry. They’re scientists. They looked on the squatters as an annoyance and a threat to their data. For most of them, this is outside their experience.”

  Murtry stroked his chin with the back of his hand. “What are they going to do about it?”

  “So far? Get drunk. Yell at each other or at us. Design theoretical judicial systems. Most of them seem to want the whole thing to just go away so they can get on with their research.”

  Murtry chuckled. “God bless the eggheads. All right.”

  “We still have the two light atmospheric shuttles,” Havelock went on. “I can get pilots for them, and we can evacuate the people we have on the ground.”

  “No evac. The squatters don’t get to win this,” Murtry said. “No one that goes down there comes back up. We put more people down there to support them. Whatever their research is, we make damned sure it’s moving forward and everyone down there sees it’s moving forward.”

  “Yes, sir,” Havelock said, feeling vaguely embarrassed.

  “Reeve, you’re going down. Deal with the locals. Find out what you can. Keep our people safe. We want a show of force.”

  “But nothing strong enough they can use it for sympathy on the newsfeeds back home,” Reeve said as if he were agreeing.

  “Wei, I want your eyes on the enemy ship. If it starts warming up its drive, I want to know.”

  “Permission to put my comm laser upgrade into effect?”

  The Edward Israel didn’t have torpedo tubes or gauss guns. The closest they had to a weapon was an ancient comm laser that could be hacked to cutting strength. The ship had been designed when the dangers of space were all about radiation and air supply, not intentional violence. It was almost quaint.

  “No,” Murtry said. “Just monitor what they’re doing, listen to the chatter, and bring it back to me. If someone needs to make the call, that’s me. No initiative. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Havelock, you’re going to be up here coordinating with the team on the ground. Use the shuttles however they need to be used to get personnel and materials down to the surface. We’re here to establish a base. We’ll start establishing it.”

  “And if there’s another attack, sir?” Wei asked.

  “Then that’s a decision the squatters will have made, and we’ll respect their choice,” Murtry said.

  “I’m not sure what you mean, sir,” she said.

  Murtry’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “There’s a dignity in consequences.”

  Havelock’s quarters were only slightly larger than the cells in the brig, but much more comfortable. He was webbed into his crash couch at the end of his shift when a soft knock came at the door and Murtry pulled himself in. The security chief was scowling, but no more so than usual.

  “Anything up, chief?” Havelock asked.

  “You’ve worked with Belters,” Murtry said. “What do you think of ’em?”

  “They’re people,” Havelock said. “Some are better than others. I still have friends on Ceres.”

  “Fine. But what do you think of Belters?”

  Havelock shifted, the motion setting him drifting up against his restraints as he thought. “They’re insular. Tribal, almost. I think what they have most in common is that they don’t like inner planet types. A Martian can sometimes pass, though. They have the whole low-g physiology thing.”

  “So mostly they hate Earthers,” Murtry said.

  “That’s what pulls them together. That thing where they’re oppressed by Earth is just about the one thing they have in common. So they cultivate it. Hating people like us is what makes them them.”

  Murtry nodded. “You know there are people that would call you prejudiced for saying that.”

  “It’s only prejudice when you haven’t been there,” Havelock said. “I was on Ceres Station just before it broke for the OPA. For me, it’s all lived experience.”

  “Well, I think you’re right,” Murtry said. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you. Off the record. Most of the people we’ve got on the ship are Earthers or at least Martian. But there are a few Belt types. Like that mechanical tech. What’s his name?”

  “Bischen?”

  “Him. Just keep an eye on those ones.”

  “Is there something going on?”

  “Just that the squatters are mostly Belt and outer planets, and the RCE is an Earth company. I don’t want anyone getting their loyalties confused.”

  “Yes, sir,” Havelock said. And then, more tentatively, “Is something happening, sir?”

  “Not right away. But… well, you might as well know. I’ve had word from the home office. My request for latitude was respectfully declined. Apparently there’s some politicking about how this gets handled. The OPA and the UN are talking about what they want to have happen. Want to make sure the squatters are treated well.”

  Murtry’s anger was understated but profound, and Havelock found himself resonating with it.

  “But we have the charter. We have a right to be here.”

  “We do.”

  “And we aren’t the ones who started killing people.”

  “We’re not.”

  “So what are we supposed to do? Sit on our hands while the Belters kill us and take our things?”

  “The sale of the lithium from their illegal mining operations has been frozen,” Murtry said. “And we are instructed not to do anything to incite further conflict.”

  “That’s bullshit. How are we supposed to do our work if we’re being all careful not to offend the bastards who are shooting at us?”

  Murtry’s shrug was an agreement. When he spoke, his calm, laconic tone barely covered his contempt.

  “Apparently they’re sending us a mediator.”

  Interlude: The Investigator

  — it reaches out it reaches out it reaches out it reaches out —

  One hundred and thirteen times a second, nothing answers and it reaches out. It is not conscious, though parts of it are. There are structures within it that were once separate organisms; aboriginal, evolved, and complex. It is designed to improvise, to use what is there and then move on. Good enough is good enough, and so the artifacts are ignored or adapted. The conscious parts try to make sense of the reaching out. Try to interpret it.

  One imagines an insect’s leg twitching twitching twitching. One hears a spark closing a gap, the ticking so fast it becomes a drone. Another, oblivious, reexperiences her flesh falling from her bones, the nausea and fear, and begs for death as she has for years now. Her name is Maria. It does not let her die. It does not comfort her. It is unaware of her because it is unaware.

  But unaware is not inactive. It finds power where it can, nestled in a bath of low radiation. Tiny struc
tures, smaller than atoms, harvest the energy of the fast-moving particles that pass through it. Subatomic windmills. It eats the void and it reaches out it reaches out it reaches out.

  In the artifacts that are conscious, memories of vanished lives still flicker. Tissues that were changed without dying hold the moment that a boy heard his sister was leaving home. They hold multiplication tables. They hold images of sexuality and violence and beauty. They hold the memories of flesh that no longer exists. They hold metaphors: mitochondria, starfish, Hitler’s-brain-in-a-jar, hell realm. They dream. Structures that were neurons twitch and loop and burn and dream. Images and words and pain and fear, endless. An overwhelming sense of illness. An old man’s remembered voice whispering dry words that it is unaware of. Full fathom five thy father lies. Of his bones are coral made.