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“You know, I never hated Mars.”
Bobbie lets her eyebrows inch upwards, but doesn’t turn around. If she shifts the gun just so, she can see Chrisjen’s distorted reflection in the shiny lower receiver.
“You don’t believe me.”
“I’m just cleaning my rifle, ma’am.”
“Bullshit. It’s half-reassembled already.”
“Yeah,” she continues lightly, “Yeah, I think I missed a spot. Must be preoccupied.”
“Then talk to me.”
Finally, without even meaning to, Bobbie does turn. If it were anyone else, she would say that Chrisjen was hovering in the doorway. As it is, the doorway is just… a convenient frame, a shape that gives flavour to the background of Chrisjen’s existence.
Bobbie never really cared about word choice until she herself became a part of that existence.
“Rather not talk politics, ma’am, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Politics? That’s what’s bothering you?” In Luna’s low gravity the small woman almost floats towards her, the beaded hems of her sari rippling like some kind of decorative fish. “I thought you were too disciplined to worry about my dirty games.”
“I did too. I don’t like it, Chrisjen.”
They lock gazes for a moment, both a little taken aback.
“Sorry. Ma’am.”
“No.” Chrisjen’s hand is on her arm, too gentle. “No. I’m sick of you talking to me like I’m your fucking general. I want to be Chrisjen to you.”
Something flutters, then tightens, in Bobbie’s chest. They’ve never quite spoken directly about the thing growing between them -- the need to be near each other, to see and touch each other --
To rush into the medbay and clutch at her without thinking, to kneel at her side and hold her and stroke her face and then -- and then --
“I can lose people, you know. I’m not weak.”
The puzzled look on Chrisjen’s face reminds her what they’re actually talking about and she flusters a bit. “I’m not weak. Your ‘game’ doesn’t scare me. I just don’t agree with it.”
She scoffs. “Of course you aren’t weak.”
Her eyes are so perfectly black that Bobbie has to look away. Pulling her arm out from under her grip, she begins to clip the last pieces of her forgotten rifle into place. “What was that about not hating Martians? You’ve certainly had enough of us killed.”
She was trying for a playful tone, but Chrisjen nods and scrubs the uncharacteristically soft expression from her face. “When the situation called for it, yes, I’ve killed Martians. But that doesn’t mean I hate Mars.”
This smarts a bit. “We are Mars. It’s our blood.”
“Yes, yes, but you aren’t Mars. The idea of Mars, the dream of Mars, it doesn’t have anything to do with you.”
“Fuck you, ma’am.”
“My grandmother remembered a time before the Epstein drive,” Chrisjen continues, unabashed. “Her mother, a time before Mars was anything more than a shiny red rock. Humanity has been dreaming of Mars, or something like it, since before we’d perfected the submarine. The Martian dream is the dream of, of reaching higher than you’re allowed, of touching something glorious and forbidden -- do you really think a couple of nothing revolutions could tear that from us?”
Fighting the urge to roll her eyes, Bobbie puts the rifle away and pauses before unlocking another. “A woman can hope.”
“Yes. She can. You’re finally getting the point.”
“I’m going back because I’m a good Marine, and I know my duty. My people need me now.” The gun is heavy in her hand. “More than ever.”
“If they need you so much, why did they abandon you?”
She feels herself scowling and doesn’t try to hide it. “I abandoned them. Not all Martians are like you.”
“Oh, now the little soldier bares her teeth.” Her voice doesn’t rise, exactly, but it gleams like a blade. “You think you can enact change from inside that prison they call a power suit? You think the Martian government -- the Martians like me -- will suddenly start caring about the wellbeing of their citizens just because you do what they ask? You think they wouldn’t kill your team all over again if it suits them--?”
The way Chrisjen cuts off then seems to question whether she’s gone too far, and for a moment Bobbie thinks she has. For a moment she’s willing to bite the small woman’s head off. But the fact that she cared -- that she stopped, reined herself in, before getting what she wanted -- Chrisjen would never do that. Not for anyone else.
So instead, Bobbie turns to set down the rifle, and lets her shoulders sag. Suddenly she’s very, very tired.
“I won’t let them do that again. To anyone.”
“You can’t stop them, Bobbie. Not by yourself.”
She feels, rather than hears, the whisper of silk moving closer. There’s a moment of hesitation before Chrisjen’s hand comes to settle on the small of her back. Her fingers are cold, even through Bobbie’s jumpsuit.
“Come to Earth. There’s so much you can do -- to help all of humanity, Mars included. And we have the resources to take down the people who betrayed you, if that’s your condition, but… we need you.”
Bobbie says nothing.
“I need you.”
Again, so close.
“Come with me. Please.”
“I can’t.”
“You can. You can do anything you want to, Bobbie.”
“I want to go home.”
“You could, for a while. I won’t ask you again.” There’s a stony, warning quality to her voice now. More like the Chrisjen she knows. “Things will never go back to the way they were. But you can help me make them better.”
“You won’t ask me again?”
“No.”
“Good. Don’t. My planet needs me.”
There’s a moment of silence, and the hand pulls away. She can almost feel Chrisjen shrugging off whatever emotion she was feeling, ever so briefly, and drawing her shoulders back into a cool air of authority.
Giving up on the second rifle, Bobbie shoves it back into its spot untouched before she meets Chrisjen’s eyes again. Her face isn’t as... closed. As she expected.
“Are you mad?” The question escapes her before she can shut herself up and she curses internally. Trust that woman to make her guileless as a child.
“A little.” She bites off a rueful laugh. “I can’t honestly say I expected anything else. You’re very much like me, Bobbie.”
“Maybe. Maybe you’re the one that’s like me.”
Chrisjen laughs for real then, her face lighting up for one painful moment. “Fuck. I’ll miss you, Sergeant Draper.”
“Yeah.” Bobbie smiles softly. “I’ll miss you too. Chrisjen.”
And that’s the end of it, really.
***
Except it isn’t.
Bobbie’s already half-strapped in when her hand terminal chimes, and she considers letting it be until the transport has left and settled into low-g. Still, if there’s any business left unfinished on Luna…
The message is encrypted, anonymous. The main part of it -- a file titled “Collateral” -- is… fuck, it’s definitely Earth intelligence, definitely indication of a leak somewhere deep in the Martian military. She entertains, briefly, the idea of leaving it unopened and notifying the proper authorities, but she knows that won’t happen. It’s open before she can have second thoughts.
Like it says on the tin. The file is actually four separate ones, each one with the name of one of her military superiors in ascending order. Each one containing… very sensitive information. The kind of information that would allow Bobbie to stand them down, and tell them exactly where to stick their “sacrifice the few for the good of the many” excuses.
Of course Bobbie won’t use it. She’s a good soldier, she reasons with herself, she trusts in discipline and obedience. But fuck, it feels good to know no one will be screwing her over again anytime soon.
The message attached is almost an afterthought. Have it your way then. Give them hell, my Martian dream.
It isn’t signed.
It doesn’t have to be.