Persepolis Rising

by James S. A. Corey

  “Madam President,” Singh said, leaning forward and waiting until her attention was fully on him before he continued. “I advise you to take this very seriously. The high consul wants a fully functioning legislature and bureaucracy, and believes that the existing one, with some modification of course, fits the bill. I strongly advise that you not give him a reason to think it’s better to tear this down and build something new in its place. Do we understand each other?”

  Fisk nodded. Her hands were fidgeting in her lap again.

  “Excellent,” Singh said. He stood up and extended his hand. Fisk stood and took it. “I look forward to working with you as High Consul Duarte’s representative. We have much to do, but I believe it will be exciting and rewarding work.”

  Singh released her hand and gave a small bow.

  “What comes next?” Fisk asked.

  “I would recommend you begin by familiarizing yourself with the document I sent you. It contains all the provisional rules for the Association Legislature, until such time as more permanent protocols can be voted into place.”

  “Okay,” Fisk said.

  “I know you will be quite busy,” Singh told her, gently guiding her past his Marine guards and over to the door. “But I look forward to our next meeting.”

  Once she’d left, he let out a long sigh and leaned against the wall.

  “One more, Lieutenant, then we can break for lunch,” he said.

  “Yes, sir,” Kasik said. “Next is Onni Langstiver, head of station security for Medina.”

  Singh smiled a little, thinking how Tanaka would have reacted to hearing that title. “Former head of security,” he said as he returned to his desk. “Give me a moment. Let him wait.”

  “Yes, sir,” Kasik said. “Can I get you anything in the meantime? Water? Coffee?”

  “The water here tastes like old piss, and the coffee tastes like old piss run through a gym sock,” Singh said. “The recycling systems on this station are decades out of date and badly maintained.”

  “Yes, sir,” Kasik replied. “I can have water brought from the Storm for you.”

  “Or,” Singh said, turning to his aide, “we can go about actually fixing the problems here.”

  “Yes, sir,” Kasik said, bobbing his head. If Singh hadn’t been tired already and irritable, he would have let it sit there. But the constant pushing back from his own people and the natives of Medina had scratched him enough to raise welts, and he couldn’t quite rein himself in.

  “If the posting here becomes permanent,” he said, “and there is no reason to think it won’t, I will be bringing my family to this station. I won’t have my daughter drinking badly recycled water, breathing badly filtered air, and attending badly run schools.”

  Kasik had found a bottle of water from somewhere, and was pouring it into the coffee machine.

  “Yes, sir,” he said, like it had become an autonomic reaction.

  “Lieutenant, look at me.”

  “Sir?” Kasik said, turning around.

  “What we’re doing here is important. Not just for Laconia but for all of humanity. These people? They need us. They even need us to show them that they need us. When you have children, you’ll understand why that matters. Until then, you will behave at all times as an example of Laconian character and discipline. If you don’t understand why that’s critical, you will act as though you understand, or I will place you in charge of personally scrubbing the water-recycling system until it produces laboratory-grade potables. Are we clear?”

  If there was a flicker of resentment in the man’s eyes, it was a natural reaction to discipline.

  “Crystal, Governor Singh.”

  “Excellent. Then send their former head of security in.”

  Onni Langstiver was a lanky Belter type in a sloppy Medina Security uniform, with greasy hair and a permanent sneer curling his lip. He looked over Singh’s Marine guards just inside the door, then gave Singh himself a look of such low cunning that he almost had the man turned back out again.

  “I’m here,” Onni said. “You want, bossmang?”

  “We’re going to discuss your change in status on this station,” Singh said.

  “Discuss? Bist bien. Let’s discuss.” Onni shrugged, then walked toward the guest chair.

  “Do not sit,” Singh said. Something in his tone brought Onni up short, and the man frowned at him as if really seeing him for the first time. “You won’t be here long.”

  Onni shrugged again, a short lift of both hands that did not involve the shoulders. The psy-ops briefing on Belter culture had talked about this. That most of their physical gestures had evolved to use the hands only, because they spent so much time in vacuum suits that body language was invisible. It also talked about their cultural conviction that they were the put-upon victims in all interactions with non-Belters. Well, if this Onni had come into the room expecting to be victimized, Singh would oblige him.

  “You are no longer the head of security on Medina Station,” Singh said.

  “Who’s the new boss?” Onni replied. He wasn’t angry, which was interesting.

  “It doesn’t matter to you,” Singh said with a smile. “Because you no longer work for station security. In fact, you no longer hold any official duties of any kind on this station. The last official task you will perform is to hand over all personal files related to this station that are not in the official database. Failure to do this will result in arrest and prosecution by a military tribunal of the Laconian Navy.”

  “Sure, sure, jefelito. Only you know most that’s gone. Purged,” Onni said.

  “What you have, you will surrender.”

  “You’re the man now.”

  “You may leave.”

  A smile passed over Onni’s face, soft and ingratiating. Singh had seen this before, from the playground to the academy. He’d seen it as a boy in the eyes of the science team that had been on Laconia when Duarte’s ships arrived and on the football team when the woman who’d been their coach was reassigned and a new man stepped in. Respect for power, yes, but also the scent of opportunity. The opportunism of making good with the new powers.

  “One thing, bossmang,” Onni said, as Singh had known he would.

  “No, not one more—”

  “No, no, no. Wait. You’ve got to hear this one.”

  “Fine,” Singh said. “Out with it.”

  “So that weapon your big ship used? The magnetic one?”

  “The Tempest. Yes, what about it?”

  “Yeah, so,” Onni said, then paused to scratch his greasy hair and smirk. “When you hit the hub station with it? Where the rail guns were?”

  “Yes,” Singh said. “We have extensive experience with similar artifacts, and judged the risk to be minimal.”

  “Okay. So when that beam thing hit the hub station that pinché ball glowed bright yellow for que, fifteen seconds. Anytime anything hits the ball that dumps any energy into it, you get these little flashes of yellow. This is the first time the whole damn thing lit up, and fifteen seconds is a long time.”

  “I’m having trouble understanding your point,” Singh said.

  “So during that fifteen seconds, all thirteen hundred rings dumped a massive gamma-ray burst into their systems. Hard enough that four ships on approach to the rings had their crews cooked. Emergency systems kicked in, autopilot stopped the ships, so we don’t have four unmanned projectiles flying through the rings at us, but …”

  Onni lifted his hands as if he was presenting a gift. Singh blinked and sat back. Something shifted in his belly. An emotion he hadn’t felt since he’d arrived at Medina. Surprise. Maybe even hope. The ring space was, by the best understanding of the science teams, one of the most energetically active things in the perceivable universe. The power required to keep the space itself from collapsing was astounding even to people who routinely built things like Magnetar-class battleships. The effect Langstiver described wouldn’t even be a rounding error in the overall system, but the applicat
ion of it could mean a significant windfall.

  “How do you know this?”

  The Belter spread his hands. “I live here. I know things not everybody knows.”

  “Is this correct?” Singh said, not to Onni but to Kasik.

  “I’ll have a report prepared immediately,” Kasik replied, and left the room already talking at his wrist.

  “So, yeah,” Onni continued, laughing a little now. Acting as if he’d already ingratiated himself. If he wasn’t corrected, it would become true. “Transport Union’s gonna be pissed you just cooked four of their freighter crews.”

  Singh considered the man. He would need local contacts. Natives of Medina Station who were loyal to the new power structure and supporters of Laconian rule. The prospect of having this bootlicker as one of the first among them was beneath his dignity.

  “Dismissed,” Singh said to the man. He needed to call Trejo on the Tempest and report this.

  Onni’s face fell. The smile faded first into surprise and then indignation and resentment. Rejection bloomed into hatred while Singh watched. He’d rarely made a decision proven right so definitively or so quickly. People of this low character would never be part of his administration, and it was telling that Onni had managed to gain power on Medina.

  “Bossmang, you gotta listen to me,” Onni said.

  “I said you’re dismissed,” Singh barked at him, then looked to one of his Marine guards. She immediately grabbed Onni by the arm, halfway lifting him off the ground with her armor’s augmented strength.

  “Ouch! Fuck!” Onni yelled as she dragged him out of the room.

  “Have a cart brought around,” Singh said to the remaining Marine. “I want to go to the ops center and look over the data about this gamma-ray burst.”

  “Aye, sir,” the Marine said, then stepped out of the room.

  Singh needed to corroborate Onni’s story first, then get a full report to Admiral Trejo. If the man was correct, then they had the ability to release a lethal gamma-ray burst through the gates whenever they wished. Could there be a more powerful means of controlling travel through the network? It had the potential to shave months off their timetable in establishing control over the various colony worlds.

  For the first time that day, Singh felt himself relax. He might have just won the empire for Laconia, all without firing a shot in anger.

  Chapter Fifteen: Bobbie

  As an operator in the Orbital Drop Task Force, Bobbie had trained with Spec Ops personnel from every command in the Martian military for a single purpose: the invasion of Earth. And while the old axiom “If you wish for peace, prepare for war” was not without its skeptics, that skepticism wasn’t shared by the Martian military. The doctrine that drove Mars in the century and a half following its declaration of independence relied on it. Mars would never have as large a population or as big an industrial base as Earth. The only thing that prevented Earth from reconquering her wayward colony was a constant demonstration of Mars’ willingness and ability to hit back hard. As long as they could land on Earth streets, Earth would hesitate to fight in their tunnels.

  Bobbie and her fellow Marines in Force Recon regularly and visibly trained for that day. They took drugs and worked out in full gravity until Earth would be merely uncomfortable, not bone-crushing. They practiced dropping from orbit in troop carriers and one-person pods. They trained in urban pacification and insurgent elimination. They learned to make up for what they lacked in troop numbers by using aggression and intimidation to keep the conquered people in line. She had literally spent years preparing to move through the streets of Earth commanding obedience through the threat of death.

  The invasion and conquest of Medina Station was civilized by comparison. She wondered whether that would last.

  Four Laconian Marines in their power armor stood watch in the dock offices, mag boots locked to the deck, and kept a close eye on the line of people waiting to talk to the dockmaster. But while they appeared vigilant, they were not aggressive. They acted like their presence was sufficiently intimidating to keep the populace in line. With some sort of slug thrower built into the armor in each forearm, and a pair of what looked like grenade launchers on each shoulder, Bobbie decided they were right. There were probably thirty people on the float waiting for the dockmaster. The four Laconians looked like they could have handled ten times that number.

  She’d been like them, once.

  “I like your suit,” she said to the Laconian closest to her.

  “Excuse me?” he said, not looking at her, continuing to scan the room.

  “I like your suit. I wore an old Goliath back in the day.”

  That got his attention. The Laconian looked her over once, feet on up. He was so much like the teams she’d trained with when she’d joined up, it felt like looking back through time. She wondered if he was as ignorant as she’d been back then. Probably. Hell, maybe more so.

  “MMC Force Recon?” he said. There was something like respect in his voice.

  “Once was,” she agreed. “You guys have made some improvements.”

  “Studied the Recon operators at the academy,” the Laconian said. “You guys were the real deal. Heart breakers and life takers.”

  “Less and less of both, as time goes on,” Bobbie said, and tried out a smile. The Laconian smiled back. He was half her age, at most, but it was nice to know she could still pull ’em when she wanted to. She could have imagined the kid on the tube station back at home. Shit, he probably had family back on Mars.

  “I bet you do okay,” he replied, still smiling. “You see any action?”

  She smiled back, and the kid realized what he’d said. A little blush touched his cheek.

  “Some,” Bobbie said. “I was on Ganymede in the lead-up to the Io Campaign. And I was on Io.”

  “No shit?”

  “I don’t suppose there’s any way an old Marine could try one of those suits out, is there?” Bobbie said, ratcheting the smile up a notch. I don’t use sex as a weapon, she thought to herself. But I’d love to get my hands on your outfit.

  The Laconian started to reply, then got a distant look on his face that Bobbie recognized. Someone on the group comm was talking in his ear.

  “Move along, citizen,” he said to her, the smile gone.

  “Thanks for the time,” she said, then pulled herself to the back of her line.

  The wait was long and uncomfortably warm. The others there with her had flight-suit patches from a dozen other ships, and the same hangdog expression. It was like they were being treated this way because they’d done something to deserve it. Bobbie tried not to look like that.

  The dockmaster’s office was small and harshly lit. She identified herself and her ship, and before she could give any context, the new dockmaster cut her off.

  “As a military vessel, the Ceres-registered ship called Rocinante is now impounded by the Laconian Naval Command.” He was a small, dark man in a Laconian naval uniform, and the look on his face was the mix of boredom and irritation shared by all natural-born bureaucrats. A screen on the wall listed all the ships in the slow zone and their statuses: LOCKDOWN in red, over and over again like it was a mantra. The counter in front of him glowed with the name CHIEF PETTY OFFICER NARWA.

  “Okay,” Bobbie said. She’d waited in line for nearly two hours to get up to the window, and she certainly hadn’t done it to be told things she already knew. Behind her, the press of bodies was enough to give the office a little extra warmth, the air a little too much closeness. “I understand that. But I have questions.”

  “I feel like I’ve told you everything you need to know,” Narwa said.

  “Look, Chief,” Bobbie said, “I just need to get a few clarifying details and I’m out of your hair.”

  Narwa gave her a delicate shrug of his shoulders. If there had been any spin gravity, he’d have leaned on the counter. He looked like a guy who ran a noodle shop in Innis Shallows. She wondered if they were related.

  “I own tha
t ship,” Bobbie continued. “Is this a permanent impound? Are you commandeering it? Will I be paid any compensation for the loss of the ship? Will I or my crew be allowed on board to get our personal effects if the ship is being confiscated?”

  “A few points?” Narwa said.

  “Just those,” Bobbie agreed. “For now.”

  Narwa pulled something up on the counter and flicked it over to her. She felt her hand terminal buzz in her pocket.

  “This is the form you can fill out to file for return of property or compensation for the loss of the ship. We are not thieves. The navy will provide one or the other.”

  “What about our stuff,” Bobbie asked. “While the naval wheels of justice slowly turn?”

  “This form,” Narwa said, and her terminal buzzed again, “is to get an escorted pass onto the ship to get your personal items off it. They’re usually processed within forty-eight hours, so you shouldn’t have to wait long.”

  “Well, thank—” Bobbie started, but Narwa was already looking at the person behind her in line and yelling, “Next.”

  “Any word from Holden and Naomi yet?” Alex asked.

  “Not yet,” Amos said, tapping his hand terminal with a thumb. “System’s pretty loaded up right now, though. May be getting stuck in queue.”

  “They have it in lockdown,” she said. “There’s not going to be free comms on Medina that aren’t getting scanned by their systems.”

  “Sounds like that could add some time to delivery,” Amos said.

  “Standard occupation protocols care a lot more about security than convenience,” Bobbie said. “Message tracking, air-gapped encryption, pattern-based censorship, human-review censorship, throttled traffic. You name it.”

  It fit with everything else that was suddenly changed and beyond her control. She couldn’t have her ship. She couldn’t get her people back together. She had to ask permission and an escort to let her retrieve her own clothes. So of course their messages were getting stuck in Medina’s system. They’d found a bar on the inner face of the drum. The long ramp from the transfer point at the center of spin had been thick with carts and people on foot, some heading up toward the docks, and many—like them—coming back down. The grim expressions had been the same both ways.