Persepolis Rising полностью

Clarissa smiled and shrugged. “I feel a little better, and I’ve got enough blockers.”

Bobbie put a hand on her thin shoulder. “We’ll take care of you,” she said.

“I know you will,” Clarissa said.

“All right, then,” Bobbie said. “The way I see it, the next step is find someone who can get messages back to the union. Or Earth-Mars. See if there’s anyone out there with a plan, or if we’re going to have to make one up on our own.”

“We can do that,” Amos said. “Shouldn’t be hard.”

“You sure?” Alex said. “This is Medina Station under occupation by a bunch of splinter Martian military expats. It’s not Baltimore.”

Amos’ smile was as placid as always. “Everywhere’s Baltimore.”

Bobbie had known and worked with Amos Burton for years, and he kept being able to surprise her. For the next two days, Amos took the lead, moving through Medina Station apparently without any particular aim or purpose. They went to sit in a bar by the water recycling plant, went to interview with a pop-up service that was matching people who’d been locked off their ships with accommodations, played a little dirt football with a crew of technicians whose old split-circle OPA tattoos had been softened and smudged by the years.

Every now and then, Bobbie caught something—a phrase or a gesture—that didn’t quite feel right, like there was a second conversation going on at some frequency her ears couldn’t pick up. She took up her position at Amos’ back and watched for threats, either from the Laconians or the locals.

Everywhere they went, the station seemed to be on the edge of something. It was in the air and the voices of everyone they spoke to. Guards in power armor. Checkpoints. The Laconians had erected an open-air jail, and filled it with men and women living behind bars like animals at a particularly shitty zoo. With hand terminals locked down and the internal communications network restricted to the point of uselessness, every conversation seemed fraught and dangerous. Anything worth encrypting is worth not putting on a network in the first place, Amos would sometimes say. Bobbie had never really thought about how much communication changed when every time you spoke, you had to be close enough that the other person could stab you if they wanted to. Never before, anyway.

And then, after three days, the old Belter who’d been the opposing goalie at their football game came to them at the little public table where they were eating mushrooms and noodles, nodded to Amos, and walked away. The big man got up, stretched his neck until it popped, and turned to Bobbie.

“We’ve got a thing,” he said.

“A good one or a bad one?” she said.

“One or the other.”

Bobbie took a last mouthful of her breakfast, chewed, and swallowed. “Understood,” she said. “Let’s go.”

Clarissa and Alex stood when she did. Part of her wanted to order them to stay back. If things went south, they’d be safe. As if anywhere was safe. She didn’t say anything.

The old Belter led them to an access corridor with a ramp that sank down, out toward the skin of the drum and the emptiness beyond it, the void always just underfoot. They passed two different concealed guard posts that she saw, and while she didn’t think there were any others that had escaped her notice, she couldn’t be sure. The old Belter didn’t say anything, and Amos didn’t try to strike up a conversation.

The warehouse they ended up in was half filled with storage boxes fixed to the deck with maglocks. The lighting was harsh, restricted-wavelength worklights with a flicker that made her feel like her vision was strobing if she moved her hand too quickly. Three men leaned on the crates, their arms loose at their sides so they wouldn’t have to spend the quarter second uncrossing them if things came to violence. Bobbie felt a warmth in her gut, a presentiment of trouble that was almost welcome. Invading ships with unimaginable weapons, protomolecule technology that could rip atoms apart, sudden empires imposed without warning or precedent. She’d grit her teeth and move forward because there wasn’t another option. But thugs in warehouses was territory she understood.

The man in the middle of the three was a Belter, tall and muscular. His skin was the same brown as his hair and eyes. Even if he hadn’t been pretty, he’d have been striking. And he was pretty.

“Heard you wanted to talk,” he said.

Amos looked back at her, and pointed to the pretty man with his chin. He’d gotten them this far, but she was the boss. This was hers now.

“Who’d you hear we wanted to talk to?” Bobbie asked, stepping forward. Clarissa shifted out to her side. As weak and compromised as she looked, they’d underestimate her. Bobbie didn’t know what using the implants would do to Clarissa, but by the time it took its toll, all three of the men would be incapacitated or dead. And that was without her and Amos weighing in.

The pretty man tilted his head.

“Names are dangerous, coyo,” he said.