The Rocinante had decelerated toward Tycho harder than they’d planned, burning off the speed they’d poured on during the battle and pressing them all down a little more than usual, like an illness or a regret. Holden held a little ceremony in the galley where each of them shared some memory of Fred Johnson and they let their various griefs blur together. The only ones not to speak were Amos, smiling his amiable and meaningless smile, and Clarissa, her brow furrowed in concentration like it was all a puzzle she was trying to solve.
When they broke up, Holden noticed that Alex and Sandra Ip went off together, but he didn’t have time or enough moral high ground to worry about fraternization. Every hour that passed had taken them a few thousand klicks closer to Tycho and the meeting there. All of his spare time was in his cabin with the door closed trading messages across the emptiness of the system. Michio Pa. Drummer on Tycho. A man named Damian Short, who’d taken the reins on Ceres. But mostly Chrisjen Avasarala.
Every long, heavy day, he traded messages with Luna. Long lectures from Avasarala on how to conduct a meeting, how to present himself and his arguments. More importantly, how to listen to what the others said and didn’t say. She sent him dossiers on all the major OPA players who would be there: Aimee Ostman, Micah al-Dujaili, Liang Goodfortune, Carlos Walker. Everything Avasarala knew about them—who their families were, what their factions within the OPA had done and what she only suspected they’d done. The depth of background was overwhelming, group loyalties intersecting and drawing apart, personal insults affecting political agreements, and political agreements shaping relationships. And along with it, Avasarala pouring the distilled insights of a lifetime of political life into his ears until he was drunk with it to the edge of nausea.
Strength by itself is just bullying, capitulation by itself is an invitation to get fucked; only mixed strategies survive. Everything is personal, but they know that too. They can smell pandering like a fart. If you treat them like they’re a treasure box where if you just tweak them the right way, the policy you want falls out, you’re already fucked. They’ll misjudge you, so be ready to use t
hat.
By the time he walked into the meeting room on Tycho, he intended to have a little, simplified version of Avasarala that lived in the back of his mind. It felt like doing a decade of work in a few days because it sort of was. He got to where he couldn’t sleep and he couldn’t stay awake. When they finally reached Tycho Station, it was hard to say whether the dread was more powerful or the relief.
Walking the habitation ring of Tycho the first time after their return had been eerie. Everything was perfectly familiar—the pale foam of the walls, the slightly astringent smell in the air, the sound of bhangra music leaking from some distant workroom—but it all meant something different now. Tycho was Fred Johnson’s house, only now it wasn’t. Holden kept having the nagging sense that someone was missing, and then remembering who it was.
Drummer had done her mourning in private. When she escorted them in, she was the head of security that she’d been before: sharp and aware and businesslike. She’d met them at the docks with a convoy of carts, each one with a pair of armed guards. That didn’t make Holden feel better.
“So who’s in charge here now?” he’d asked as they paused at the bulkhead that marked the administrative section.
“Technically, Bredon Tycho and the board of directors,” she said. “Except they’re mostly on Earth or Luna. Never been out here. Always pleased to keep their hands clean. We’re here, so until someone comes and makes a strong opposing case, we run it.”
“We?”
Drummer nodded. Her eyes got a little harder, and he couldn’t say if it was grief in them or anger. “Johnson wanted me to keep an eye on the place until he got back. That’s what I plan to do.”
There were supposed to be four people waiting for him.
There were five.
He recognized all the faces that Avasarala had prepared him for. Carlos Walker, wide shoulders and face, even shorter than Clarissa, had an uncanny air of stillness. Aimee Ostman could have passed for a middle-grade science teacher, but was responsible for more attacks against inner-planet military targets than all the rest combined. Liang Goodfortune, who Fred had only managed to lure to the table by offering amnesty for their daughter, a former OPA hitter still housed in a numbers-only prison on Luna. Micah al-Dujaili, with his fat, red-veined drunkard’s nose, who’d spent half his lifetime coordinating free schools and medical clinics throughout the Belt. Whose brother had been captain of the Witch of Endor when the Free Navy destroyed it.
The fifth person had the white hair of an old man, pocked cheeks, and a deferential smile that was almost an apology, but not quite. Holden recognized him, but wasn’t sure from where. He tried to keep his poker face, but the fifth man saw through the effort without seeming to realize it was there.
“Anderson Dawes,” the man said. “I don’t think we’ve ever met person to person, but Fred talked about you often. And, of course, your reputation.”
Holden shook hands with the former governor of Ceres Station and master of Marco Inaros’ inner circle, his mind racing. “I was wondering if you’d be here,” he lied.
“I hadn’t announced myself,” Dawes said. “Tycho’s a risky place for a man in my position. I was relying on Fred to vouch for me. We worked together for many years. I was sorry to hear about him.”
“It’s a loss,” Holden said. “Fred was a good man. I’ll miss him.”
“As will we all,” Dawes said. “I hope you don’t mind my arriving unannounced. Aimee reached out to me when she knew she was coming, and I asked her to let me follow along.”
Good, great, the more the merrier, Holden thought, but the little version of Avasarala in his imagination frowned. “I’m glad you’re here, but you can’t be in this meeting.”
“I can vouch for him,” Aimee Ostman said.
Holden nodded, tried to imagine what Avasarala would say, but it was the old, almost-forgotten voice of Miller that came to him. “There’s a way we do things. This isn’t it. I hope you don’t mind waiting outside, Mr. Dawes. Naomi, could you see that our friend here finds someplace comfortable?”
Naomi stepped forward. Dawes shifted his weight to the back of his feet, surprised. This is your house, Avasarala said in Holden’s mind. If they don’t respect you here, they won’t respect you anywhere. Dawes gathered up his hand terminal and a white ceramic cup, nodding to Holden with a tight smile as he left. Holden took his seat, grateful for the solid and looming presence of Bobbie at his side. Aimee Ostman’s lips were pressed thin. If you’re looking for mutual respect, you can start by asking before you invite people to my secret meetings. It seemed like a rude thing to say out loud.
“If you’re looking for mutual respect, you can start by asking before you invite people to my secret meetings.”
Aimee Ostman cleared her throat and looked away.
“All right,” Holden said. “This was supposed to be Fred Johnson’s presentation, but he’s gone. I know you all came here on the strength of his word and his reputation. And I know you’re all concerned about Marco Inaros and the Free Navy. But I also know this is the first time any of you have met me, and I may not have your full confidence.”
“You’re James Holden,” Liang Goodfortune said in a tone that meant Of course you don’t have our full confidence.
“I took the liberty of arranging an introduction,” he said, shifting the message from his hand terminal to the monitors on the table.