“Well,” Avasarala said, amused that he’d actually tracked that down, “we can at least say that one’s less likely to be it, then.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Gorman Le said. “Ma’am, if we could get further data… I’m certain that Medina Station has flight records for all of these. Maybe others. And for the ones that didn’t have trouble. If we could just—”
“If we controlled Medina Station,” Avasarala said, “a lot of things would be different. Do we have anything from our Martian friends about why their rogue navy was so interested in the Laconia gate?”
“Not even confirmation that that’s where the breakaway ships went.”
Avasarala scowled. “Keeping their knees closed after they’re already fucked. Typical. I’ll talk to Smith. We can’t get Medina, but we should fucking well manage access to all the data we do have.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Gorman Le said, but he said it to her back. She was already moving on.
Motion helped. The sense of doing things, of progressing, of the problems getting clearer and the solutions—where there were any—getting closer kept the despair at bay. It was harder for Smith. He was a world away from his home and his staff. There just wasn’t as much Martian infrastructure on Luna. When he wasn’t in meetings or trading messages across twelve minutes of light delay, he sat in his suite and watched the newsfeeds calling him an idiot and a buffoon and the man whose inattention had let the Martian Congressional Republic Navy be sold to terrorists and pirates. He didn’t even have managing the worst catastrophe in human history to keep his mind off feeling sorry for himself.
He met her at the door. In simple sand-colored slacks and a white collarless shirt with the sleeves rolled up, he could have been a salesman or a minor prelate. His smile was professionally genuine and warm, the same way it always was. She stepped into the rooms and glanced around. No one. Not even security. A private audience indeed. Score one for Said.
Their breakfast waited in the dining room—poached eggs and thick, buttered toast. The sort of simple, elegant fare that she imagined royalty through the ages had enjoyed while the people they ruled died. She also saw the half-empty bottle of wine on the floor by the sofa, the wall screen tuned to an entertainment feed showing a slightly risqué comedy that had come out three years earlier. Shannon Poe and Lakash Hedayat were naked and trying to cover themselves with the same beach towel without looking at the other or touching skin to skin. In context, it might have been funny. Smith followed her gaze and turned off the screen.
“Laughter,” he said. “A balm in hard times.”
“I’ll have to try it,” she said. He pulled her chair out for her, and she let him. “I had a few things I wanted to run past you, but before that? I understand why your intelligence service is hiding information about Duarte, but why the fuck are you keeping the data about the gate-eaten ships to yourself? Are you looking to trade it for something, because unless it’s sexual favors, we haven’t got jack shit.”
“The eggs are good,” Smith said.
“You want eggs? I’ll have them squeeze a chicken. I want the data on the missing ships.”
Smith smiled and nodded as if she’d said something mild and polite. The pale flesh of the egg dripped gold on the way to his mouth. The yolk spattered his shirtfront, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I… You’ll have to take the matter up with my successor. I’ve had word today. The opposition is calling for a vote of no confidence. I will be out of office by this evening.”
Avasarala took in a deep breath and let it out through her teeth. The silence between them was rich until she broke it. “Fuck.”
“They’re angry and they’re frightened. They need someone to blame. I’m the obvious choice.”
“Who are they putting up?”
“Olivia Liu and Chahaya Nelson were both mentioned. It’s going to be Emily Richards, though.”
Avasarala chewed a bite of egg, but didn’t taste it. Richards wasn’t bad. She was serious, at least. Liu and Nelson were too entrenched in what Mars had been. They wouldn’t be ready for what it was becoming. Richards women made good policy. Always had.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “This must be hard for you.”
“Politicians are gamblers,” Smith said. “We do our best to bend the odds, but the universe does what it does.”
Bullshit, she thought. Politicians are the frontal lobes of the body politic. The universe does what it does. They’d be better off without him. Only not yet.
“You have a day,” she said. “Get me the data before it’s too late.”
“Chrisjen—”
“What are they going to do? Fire you? Fuck them—give me the data so I can get the problems fixed. If they give you too much shit, I’ll offer you asylum.”
He laughed and leaned back in his chair. His eyes shifted to the dead wall screen, then back to her. She wondered if the wine by the sofa had been his first bottle.
“Promise?” he asked as if it was a joke. She smiled.
The Strategy and Response Committee. Admirals Pycior and Souther. Parris Kanter from Human Development back at The Hague. Michael Harrow from Aquaculture. Barry Li and Simon Gutierrez from Transportation and Tariffs. Not the dream team she’d have chosen, but the best of who she had left. Sitting around the dark glass table, they all looked as tired as she felt. Good. They should be.
“Mars,” Avasarala said. “Smith is out on his ass. Emily Richards is taking over. I’m reaching out to her now. I don’t know whether she’ll be more open, but I wouldn’t assume it. What do you have?”
Li spoke first. Exhaustion made his lisp worse, but the sharpness of his intelligence made his eyes seem brighter. “We’re maintaining relief routes in Africa and Europe. Our next area of focus is East Asia.”
“There weren’t any strikes there,” Avasarala said.
“But they took the worst of the ash fall,” Li said. “I have my people working out routes and probable needs. Information from the ground is sketchy.”
“The Belt?” she said.
“The Belt’s the Belt,” Pycior said. “There’s a wide variety of response. Ganymede is still maintaining neutrality, but it’s firmly in the Free Navy’s sphere of control. If we could offer protection, it would likely declare for us. The OPA is divided. Tycho Station, Kelso Station, and Rhea are the only ones who’ve condemned the Free Navy. The Trojan stations and Iapetus aren’t declaring anything. Most of the rest of the Belt… It’s for the Free Navy. As long as they keep promising food, material, and protection, it’s going to be hard for moderate Belters to organize, even assuming they want to.”
Souther cleared his throat. He spoke in a high voice that reminded her of singing. “We’ve taken apart the Azure Dragon’s comm logs. They indicate that there’s a high-level Free Navy meeting on Ceres right now. Inaros and his four captains.”
“What are they meeting about?” Avasarala snapped.
“No one seemed to know,” Souther said. “But we don’t have evidence of a second shepherd vessel. We’ve identified seven more major rock strikes that are presently en route to Earth. We’re tracking them, and we’re ready to take them out.”
Meaning they were unpinned. Avasarala leaned forward, pressing her fingers to her lips. Her mind danced across the solar system. Medina Station. Rhea, declaring against the Free Navy. The food and supplies of Ganymede. The starvation and death on Earth. The Martian Navy divided between the mysterious Duarte and his black market Free Navy and Smith. Now Richards. The lost colonies. Fred Johnson’s OPA and all the factions he couldn’t influence or command. The colony ships being preyed upon by the Free Navy pirates, and the stations and asteroids gaining the benefit of the piracy. And the missing ships. And the stolen protomolecule sample.