Persepolis Rising

  “So this was a good thing?” Singh said.

  “No,” Overstreet said. “But it was all the bad things they could throw at us at once. I feel confident that they didn’t hold anything back. So however bad this looks—and it looks very bad—we’re going to end with Medina carrying a smaller insurgent population, with fewer resources at their disposal, and the main body of the underground scattered to the colonial systems.”

  “The colonies,” Singh said. “Yes.”

  “The loss of the Storm … well, that’s not inconsiderable. If we hadn’t pulled most of the crew off to assist with other operations … Or if your XO had scuttled the ship once it was clear they couldn’t repel the boarders …”

  “Talk to me about the colonies,” Singh said.

  Overstreet blinked his too-blue eyes in something like confusion. “Sir?”

  “The colonies,” Singh said. “That’s where the terrorists have gone. That’s where the next wave of this will take place, yes?”

  “That matches my analysis, sir.”

  “So how we proceed here should be considered in light of the colonies. We should examine how likely they are to cooperate with the enemy. And how we can affect those decisions.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “An example needs to be made. Something that not only restores confidence in the safety of Medina and the gate network, but displays what Laconian civilization stands for. What we believe. What we are willing to do to ensure our control over this situation.”

  Overstreet was silent for a moment. Singh paged through the lists of the missing. The faces of the enemy. There were pages of them, but not uncountably many. This was still a solvable problem.

  “What exactly are we willing to do, sir?” Overstreet asked, and his tone told Singh that he knew what was coming.

  “A white list,” Singh said. “I would like you to identify the people who we are certain are not involved with the insurgency. The people we know absolutely that we can trust.”

  “And the others?”

  Singh closed the image down. The enemy vanished. “An example has to be made.”

  Overstreet went very still. For a moment, the only sound was the hum of the air recyclers.

  “I see,” Overstreet said. “So a step up from counterinsurgency.”

  “It’s been justified.”

  “The official position of the high consul is that these are all Laconian citizens. That the terrorists are Laconian citizens who are also criminals.”

  “I know,” Singh said. “But I also know that I was placed in command of Medina to learn from practice what theory can never teach. And this is the lesson that James Holden and his friends have taught me. Will you refuse to respect the chain of command?”

  Overstreet chuckled at that. Singh didn’t know why.

  “No, sir, I will follow the chain of command, as is my duty.”

  “Good. Please prepare the cull, then. I will trust your judgment on who best belongs on the white list.”

  “Yes, sir,” Overstreet said. “Only I have other orders. Sir.”

  A thrill of confusion moved up Singh’s spine. “Other orders? From whom?”

  “Standing orders I received from Colonel Tanaka when I accepted this position. So ultimately from Admiral Trejo. You see, sir, the high consul made it very clear to Admiral Trejo that the rule of the empire is permanent. And if history shows us anything, it’s that people hold grudges for generations. Whole societies have lived and died because of their antipathy born out of events that happened generations before. Or maybe things that got so mythologized, they were just pissed off about stories of things that never happened in the first place. The admiral was adamant that we hold ourselves to a higher standard. As we always have.” Overstreet spread his hands in a gesture that meant What can you do? His right hand held a gun.

  Singh felt his heart catch and then stumble like it was running down a hill. “May I ask what your orders are?”

  “I’m to set an example, sir. Restore confidence in the safety of Medina and the gate network, and display what Laconian civilization stands for. Including that we who have accepted the burden of government hold ourselves and each other to the highest possible standard.”

  Singh stood. His legs felt weak. This wasn’t possible. This wasn’t happening.

  “But I was loyal,” he said. “I’ve obeyed.”

  “You’ve given me an order to kill Laconian citizens who have not been found guilty of a crime.”

  “But—”

  “For what it’s worth, I don’t disagree with you. These people are scum. They don’t deserve or understand what we’ve brought them. For me, I think they never will. But their children might. Their grandchildren or their great-grandchildren. The story of Medina will be that Governor Singh mismanaged the station, lost his ship to a band of malcontents, lost his perspective. And when he let his wounded pride exceed the mandates of the high consul’s directives, he was removed for the protection of the everyday citizens in his care. You see the difference? If you kill an insurgent, you’re the enemy of all their friends. All their family. And then there’s an expectation. Precedent. Enemies for generations. Forever. If you kill your own—even the highest among your own—to protect someone powerless, they remember that too. It sows gratitude. It sows trust. Generations from now your sacrifice will lead to the peace, prosperity, and fellow feeling among all humanity.”

  The air was gone. He couldn’t catch his breath. His mind rejected everything he’d heard. He was going to see Natalia again. He was going to hold the monster in his arms and hear her gabble on about school and the dream she’d had and whether they could get a pet for their apartment. All of that was still true. It couldn’t have changed. Not so quickly. Not so finally.

  “Plus, it’ll put Governor Song on notice,” Overstreet said. He stood. “I’m very sorry about this, but it could be worse. You could be going to the Pen.”

  He lifted the gun.

  “Wait!” Singh said. “Wait. Do you believe all that? About what killing me is supposed to achieve?”

  “I am an officer of the Laconian Empire, Governor Singh. I believe what I’m told to believe.”

  Chapter Fifty-One: Drummer

  It was three months before the Heart of the Tempest came to the transfer station at Lagrange-5. People’s Home arrived behind it, like a servant waiting for the right moment to bow.

  In those long, surreal weeks, the system had changed past all recognition. Or at least it had for Drummer. The surrender of the union ships had let the EMC fleet follow suit. There were some signs that the Tempest had suffered from the pounding it had taken—fluctuations of its heat signature, a reluctance to turn to port, the decision not to burn at more than about a fifth of a g. It didn’t matter. If Laconia was bloodied, it was unbowed. Drummer couldn’t say as much for herself.

  A new armada of ships that had followed the Typhoon to Medina paused there for less than a day before they burned through the Sol gate. They were smaller ships, of a more familiar design, and fewer than a dozen of them dominated the solar system. The newsfeeds had nothing but the names of the new Laconian Protector-class destroyers—Daskell, Ackermann, Ekandjo, Smith—and their locations in the system. Where they were and where they might go.

  Ganymede and Iapetus, inspired by God knew what quixotic impulse, declared that whatever the union and the EMC had said, they hadn’t surrendered. Two of the new ships had gone to each station, and the defiant announcements had ended quickly after that. The independent feeds that called out against Laconia grew fewer and more tentative. Ceres Station had a welcoming committee when the Ekanjo docked there, and pictures of the governor of Ceres shaking the hand of the Laconian captain became the iconic image of the moment. Of the capitulation. Two smiling men. The end of one age, the beginning of something new.

  The ship that came to escort People’s Home was named the Stover, and by escort, they meant occupy.

  By then, People’s Home had gathered back most of
the citizens who’d fled before the battle. Not all, of course. Some of the evacuation ships scattered themselves out among the smaller settlements and asteroids. Got quiet in hopes that with just a dozen ships, Laconia would overlook them. Maybe it even worked. For those who came back to the void city, Captain Rowman Perkins became their new leader. He was an older Martian man with close-cut white hair and skin the color of stained oak, with a folksy Mariner Valley drawl, kind eyes, and a fire team of Marines in power armor ready to make his wishes into law. When he’d come to her office, he’d had the courtesy to sit in the chair on the opposite side of the desk while they spoke. It was a small politeness that nailed in as much as anything had how utterly defeated she was. Laconia wasn’t here to bully her or belittle her. It made no difference to Perkins whether he lost face before her. He’d come to take what he wanted—what he wanted was absolute authority—and he was going to get it. Gently was fine. Less gently was fine as well. The illusion of choice was hers.

  She’d chosen.

  House arrest was better than being in the brig. Her couch, her clothes, her files and access, though without any broadcast privileges and a Laconian censor looking over her data streams. She dreaded the moment when Saba reached out to her and gave himself away, but that message never came. She assumed that the detention and cooperation of the Transport Union president was useful to Perkins and Trejo and Duarte. Her confinement rooms, her escort to the gym, her meals delivered by Laconian soldiers were all part of the narrative of victory, broadcast through thirteen hundred worlds as a warning to behave well. Before Laconia even the union fell. Even Mars. Even Earth. What hope could any colony world have against them?

  That was speculation, of course. Newsfeeds weren’t on her diet anymore. But she could watch old movies, listen to music, eat what she wanted, play games, sleep as much as she cared to sleep, exercise her way through all the routines she’d told herself she’d engage with if she ever had the time.

  On the best days, house arrest was almost like an enforced vacation. For the first time in her adult life, she had no responsibilities. No long-term political aspirations to cultivate and attend to. No journalists or administrators or officials to spar with. The problems of who passed through which gate, of what artifacts were banned and which were taxed, of how to balance the needs of the colony worlds, all belonged to someone else now. Except for Saba’s absence, it was the life she’d imagined retiring to when her term was complete.

  On the worst days, her rooms were a box of crushing depression and failure, and death would be the only release.

  Her handlers dealt with all of her moods with the same equanimity and insincere kindness. They were good to her because they chose to be. If they chose otherwise, that would be up to them as well. Her opinions didn’t matter unless someone else decided that they did. And she had every reason to believe it was going to be like this—her rooms, the gym, her rooms again, under guard and cut off from humanity—for the rest of her life.

  And then, three months after her surrender, the Heart of the Tempest came to the transfer station at Lagrange-5, and Drummer went with it.

  Vaughn came to her like a ghost from a past life. If she’d needed any measure of how her isolation had affected her, it was how glad she was to see him. His face seemed to have cracked a few new crags down the cheeks and across his forehead. He held himself with the same formality, but instead of radiating his usual low-level contempt, he seemed fragile. Like bread that had been hollowed out inside so that all that remained was the crust.

  Or maybe that was her, and she wanted to see how she felt reflected in someone else. To not be so alone with it.

  He stood in her doorway while she gathered herself.

  “There’s a meeting, ma’am,” he said. “Admiral Trejo asked me to … help you prepare.”

  “Trejo?” she said, and it felt almost like a conversation they would have had before. “Is he here?”

  “More that we’re there, but yes. The secretary-general, yourself, and Admiral Trejo. A few others. They didn’t give me the whole list, but they seem to want you presentable. And there’s this.”

  He held out a hand terminal. She took it, spooled through the file trees it had access to. It was a thin list, but it had the advantage of being new. Things she hadn’t already been looking at for weeks had a certain charm. A text file with her name. She opened it.

  NOTE TO THE SPEAKER: IT IS IMPORTANT THAT THE SYSTEMS OUTSIDE OF SOL NO LONGER BE REFERRED TO AS “COLONIES.” IN THIS AND ANY OFF-THE-CUFF REMARKS, THEY ARE TO BE CALLED “PLANETS” OR “SYSTEMS.” NO PRIMACY SHOULD BE AFFORDED TO EARTH, MARS, OR THE SOL SYSTEM.

  QUESTIONER: MONICA STUART

  QUESTION: IS THE TRANSPORT UNION COOPERATING IN THE TRANSFER OF CONTROL?

  ANSWER: THE TRANSPORT UNION HAS ALWAYS BEEN A TEMPORARY STRUCTURE. BEFORE OUR LACONIAN FRIENDS ARRIVED, WE WERE ALREADY IN TALKS WITH THE UN AND THE EARTH-MARS COALITION TO DRAFT A CHARTER THAT WOULD GIVE OVER GREATER ENFORCEMENT POWERS TO A STANDING MILITARY. THE LACONIAN FLEET IS THE CLEAR CHOICE TO FILL THAT VACUUM, AND THE UNION IS PLEASED TO WORK WITH HIGH CONSUL DUARTE AND PRESIDENT FISK TO SEE THAT TRADE BETWEEN THE PLANETS (SEE NOTE) IS EFFICIENT AND FREE.

  QUESTIONER: AUDEN TAMMET

  QUESTION: IS THE UNION READY TO PAY REPARATIONS TO LACONIA FOR THE DAMAGE DONE TO ITS SHIPS?

  “Press conference, is it?” Drummer asked.

  “That appears to be part of the agenda,” Vaughn said. “You may, of course, choose to deviate from the script—”

  “May I?”

  “—but the Laconian censor will be reviewing everything before it goes out. And there are less pleasant accommodations than this.”

  Drummer spooled through the script. Three pages of questions, all of them staged, written, and approved. “So you’re saying I should do this?”

  “You gain nothing by refusing. And there is a certain dignity in living to fight another day.”

  “Or just living,” Drummer said.

  “Or that.”

  Drummer sighed. “I suppose I should make myself presentable. How much time do I have?”

  The conference room was the same one she’d been in when TSL-5 had opened for business. The vaulted ceiling seemed grander now than it had. The wait staff circulated with flutes of champagne and hors d’oeuvres—tank-grown shrimp, real cheddar, dates wrapped in bacon that had once actually been a pig. The wall screens with their views of Earth and Luna, People’s Home and the Tempest, were crisp and beautiful. High-level officials mingled and chatted as if the system of humanity hadn’t been turned on its ear. As if history were what it had always been. The absence of a few—Emily Santos-Baca, for instance—was something only she seemed to notice.

  The secretary-general was in a pale suit with a collarless shirt and a golden pin in his lapel. He was smiling and shaking hands with the people around him. She’d expected him to be more somber, but in fairness, the transfer station had always been something of a humiliation for him. A place in the universe that defined the limits of his authority. Before, it had been her on the other side of that membrane. Now it was Laconia. So in a way, he’d already had more of a chance to get used to this.

  The man he was laughing with, hand on his shoulder, was unmistakable. Admiral Trejo was smaller than she’d expected. Thicker about the chest and belly in a way that didn’t speak as much to muscle or fat as genetics and age. His hair was thinning, and not styled to disguise the fact. His eyes were a bright green that would have seemed affected if they’d been fake.

  Trejo noticed her, broke off his conversation with the secretary-general, and trundled over toward her. He was just the slightest bit bowlegged. Drummer felt an irrational twitch of betrayal. The man who’d destroyed and humiliated her should at least have been a bronzed Adonis, not a normal human being. It would have made it easier to swallow if she’d been beaten by a god.

  “President Drummer,” he said, putting out his hand. “I’m glad we could finally meet in more settled circumst
ances.”

  “Just Drummer,” she said, and found herself shaking his hand. “I think we can dispense with the ‘president’ part.”

  “Oh, I hope not,” Trejo said. “Transitions like this are delicate times. And the more profound the changes that are coming, the more important that it appear to have continuity. Don’t you think?”

  “If you say so,” she said.

  A waiter slid by, and she took a glass. She didn’t need the alcohol as much as the idea of it. But, Lord, she needed something.

  “I’m sorry your husband couldn’t be here,” Trejo said. There was nothing in his voice that couldn’t just be a pleasantry, except that Saba’s name had been linked to the embarrassment on Medina. She’d heard that much before her detainment. She felt a thrill of fear now. Did Trejo know something? Was he about to tell her Saba had been caught? Been killed?

  “I’m sorry too,” she said. “I miss him very much. But we have always had different careers.”

  “I hope to meet him one day,” Trejo said, and she relaxed a notch. He wasn’t dead. Trejo saw her response and smiled a soft, rueful smile. “It would be useful, I think, if you could help to resolve things with him. Chaos is bad for everyone.”

  “I don’t have any way to reach him,” Drummer said. She didn’t go on with And I don’t know what I’d tell him if I did.

  “Fair enough,” Trejo said. “We’ll have that conversation another time, yes? Right now, there’s something else I wanted to speak with you about. High Consul Duarte wants to convene the important people in humanity’s new endeavors on Laconia. A kind of permanent convocation of the best minds and most influential people. He’s asked me to extend an invitation to you.”

  The politeness of it was foul. The pretense that she was still autonomous, the master of her own fate. Oh, she could probably refuse. Duarte seemed smart enough not to welcome people into his projects who were willing to openly oppose him. But there would be consequences. That they weren’t even spelled out made them more ominous.