Work Text:
Clarissa sat quietly, pale, thin hands folded in her lap as Holden installed a medical restraint cuff to her ankle. A short distance away, Amos and Alex stood, alert with guns at the ready although she could tell from the way that they held the guns that they did not expect to need them. There was nothing in her face or posture that indicated that she wanted to use her implants – whether to kill or maim.
And they were right. She'd had enough killing for several lifetimes. Sometimes she wondered if she'd ever get rid of the smell of blood from her nostrils … the taste of blood from her mouth and throat and the sound of screams from her nightmares.
She stared down at Holden's dark head as he crouched at her feet, fastening the cuff around her ankle. The three kilos of formed yellow plastic clung to her slender ankle, tight and heavy. Her mouth twisted in a wry smile. It was like the tale of Cinderella gone very, very wrong … The cuff was set to sedate her on a signal from any of the crew, or if it detected any of the products of her artificial glands, or if she left the crew decks of the ship… It was uncomfortable to wear – but it at least allowed her a degree of freedom around the ship. Far more than she deserved.
She found herself listening to the crew's conversations wistfully. They were a tight knit group … more like a family than she'd ever seen her own family behave. The Mao clan had been so distant … each individual doing his or her own thing, desperate to be different. Be free. So different from this tribe of people who clearly wanted to be around one another - who anticipated one another's comments and jokes.
“So, just to check, are you still plannin’ to kill the captain? Because, you know, if you are it seems like you at least owe us a warning," Alex asked her one day as they sat in the galley drinking coffee and half-watching the screen on the wall that was playing old earth movies. She liked the Martian pilot with his wry smile and exaggerated Mariner Valley drawl. He was always kind and polite to her, an understandable wariness about his dark eyes but he had a very gentle manner and he treated her with respect that she knew she did not deserve but appreciated deeply.
“I’m not,” she told him gravely.
“And if you were?” he questioned curiously, tossing her a tube of chocolate paste that passed for confectionary.
“I’d still say I wasn’t. But I’m not," she assured him, her eyes sincere.
“Fair enough," he accepted and leaned back in his chair and continued watching the black and white movie with its exaggerated facial expressions and melodramatic acting. He was a talker, giving a running commentary. The other crew would tell him to shut up and let them watch the damned movie. Not Clarissa. She rather enjoyed his inability to stay silent.
*
The Rocinante was built floor by floor from the reactor up to the engineering deck, to the machine shop, then the galley and crew cabins and medical bays, storage deck containing the crew airlock, then on up to the command deck and pilot’s station farthest forward. Under thrust, it would be like a narrow building.
Clarissa kept to her room on the Roci, going out to the galley and the head when she needed to. It wasn’t fear that kept her in her room, so much as the sense of wanting to stay out of the way of the crew. It wasn’t her ship, it was theirs. She wasn’t one of them, and she didn’t deserve to be. She was a paid passenger, and not a fare they’d even wanted. The awareness of that weighed on her. These days, a great many things weighed on her - including the heavy restraint cuff on her ankle. She was keenly aware of the things that she had done, aware that when she returned to earth, she was destined to be executed or imprisoned for life – and that would hardly begin to make up for the crime she had committed.
Sometimes she wondered what had caused her to go mad … had it been grief? Anger? Humiliation? Whatever it had been, that feeling had gone long ago and her conscience made itself felt with a vengeance.
When her bunk began stated to feel like her cell on the Behemoth, that was enough to drive her out of her quarters – a little. She’d seen the galley before in simulations, when she’d been planning how to destroy it, where to place her override. It looked different in person. Not smaller or larger … just different. It was no longer a hypothetical space to be assessed … It was a place she now associated with the smell of freshly brewed coffee, of food, of chatter and laughter. It felt strangely homey. Not her home - someone else's home. - but homey nonetheless.
The crew moved through the space going from one place to another. They ate their meals and had their meetings and Clarissa moved out of their way, careful not to catch their eye in case they noticed she was there and asked her to leave the room even though they never did. She felt as though she’d already lost her place in the world in preparation for her eventual death or imprisonment, but she regarded the warm, close ties of the members of the Roci with wistful, haunted eyes.
The Rocinante was not a small ship. Confined as she was to the crew decks, she rarely ran into the others except when they were coming to the galley or the head. She had no access to ops, the airlock deck, the machine shop, engineering or even sick bay.
Thus, they mostly ignored her as though she was a ghost and sometimes she wondered if she didn't step out of their way if they might move right through her …
Not Amos Burton, though. He had a way of watching her calmly in a way that was not unfriendly, but also not precisely warm. It was possible he was merely keeping an eye on her, making sure that she no longer posed a danger to the crew.
She'd heard him when the crew had been debating her fate.
“Look, Red … everybody in this room except maybe you and the captain has a flexible sense of morality. None of us got clean hands. That’s not the point.”
He might behave like an amiable truck driver, but she knew he'd have no hesitation in killing her if she showed any signs of being a threat …
*
“Well,” Holden said, his voice grim, “we have a major problem." Clarissa glanced back at him from where she was standing at the counter, pouring herself a class of water. "We’re out of coffee.”
The exaggerated despair in his voice made her smile.
“We still got beer,” Amos offered with a nonchalant shrug.
“Yes,” Holden said. “But beer is not coffee. I’ve put in a request with the Behemoth, but I haven’t heard back, and I can’t see going into the vast and unknown void without coffee.” Even Clarissa knew of Holden's coffee addiction. When the machine broken down or for some reason power was out to the galley, Holden's voice could be heard over the ship-wide comm, sometimes urgent, sometimes plaintive,"Naomi … Amos – the coffee machine isn't working."
Alex looked over at Clarissa and grinned. “The captain doesn’t like the fake coffee the Roci makes,” he said by way of explanation. “Gives him gas.”
Clarissa didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure she was supposed to.
“It does not,” Holden disagreed. “That was one time.”
“More than once, Cap’n,” Amos said. “And no offence, but it does smell like a squirrel crawled up your ass and died there.” Clarissa's eyes widened and she looked over at Holden to see how he would respond to Amos' insult.
“Okay,” Holden said, a broad grin on his face, “you’ve got no room to complain. As I recall, I was the one who cleaned your bunk after that experiment with vodka goulash.”
“He’s got a point,” Alex said. “That stuff was damned nasty.”
“I just about shat out my intestinal lining, that’s true,” Amos said, his expression philosophical, “but I’d still put that against the captain’s coffee farts.”
Alex made a fake gagging noise, and Amos buzzed his lips against his palm, making a rude sound. Naomi looked from one to the other like she didn’t know whether to laugh or smack them.
“I don’t get gas,” Holden said. “I just like the taste of real coffee better.”
Naomi put her hand on Clarissa’s forearm and leaned close. Her smile was gentle and unexpected given that Clarissa had almost killed the Belter woman …
“Have I mentioned how nice it is to have another woman on the ship?” Naomi asked her.
It was a joke. Clarissa understood that. But it was a joke that included her, and the tears in her eyes surprised her.
*
Holden behaved differently to the rest of the crew. He tended to avoid her, avoid speaking with her, even avoided looking anywhere near where she might be. The things she had done clearly made him very uncomfortable in her presence.
When he did look at her, it was with a faint abstracted frown on his brow, like she was a problem that he didn't know how to solve and wished would just go away. She knew that she'd been forced upon him, that Anna had made him an offer that simply could not have refused and thereby bought Clarissa self passage back to earth …
They weren’t friends. They wouldn’t be, because some things couldn’t be made right.
She’d have to be okay with that.
*
Amos smelled of solvent and sweat. Of all the crew, he was the one most like the people she knew. Soladad and Stanni. And Ren. He came into the galley with a welding rig on, the mask pushed up over his forehead. He smiled when he saw her standing by the coffee machine.
“You did a number on the place,” Amos said. She knew that if the occasion arose, he would be perfectly willing to kill her. But until that moment, he’d be jovial and casual. That counted for more than she’d expected. “I mean, you had a salvage mech. Those are pretty much built for peeling steel.”
“I didn’t at the end,” she said. “It ran out of power. The locker in the airlock was all me.”
“Really?” he said
“Yeah," she said softly, her eyes downcast, remembering the rage .. the mindless way her bloodied fingers had clawed at the metal…
“Well,” he said, pulling a bulb of the fake coffee from the machine and drifting over to the table. “That was pretty impressive, then.” She picked up a bulb and cautiously sat across from him as he seemed to expect it.
She imagined him working, the mask down to hide his face, the sparks flickering as his face was taut with concentration, the muscles in his powerful arms flexing beneath the skin.
"Pretty crazy stuff by the way."
"What?"
"Taking an EVA suit to walk through space from the Thomas Prince over to the Roci."
She nodded. "I was pretty out of my mind with … craziness," she agreed quietly. It was hard to remember why she had been like that … she almost felt like a different person. She remembered the feel of her magnetic boots clicking against the hull of the Prince until she reached its edge, almost 50 kilograms of half mech and emergency airlock folded on her back…flinging herself into the gap…
She shivered, not wanting to think about it anymore. “What was the problem?” she asked, trying to change the subject.
“Hmm?” he asked, taking a sip of his coffee.
“You said I really did a number on something. What’s the problem?”
“Deck hatch between the machine shop and here gets stuck. Ever since you crumpled it up. Binds about half open.”
“Did you check the retracting arm?” she asked him.
Amos turned to her, frowning. She shrugged. “Sometimes these door actuators put on an uneven load when they start to burn out. We probably swapped out four or five of them on the trip out here.”
“Yeah?”
“Just a thought,” she said. And then a moment later, “When we get back to Luna, they’re going to kill me, aren’t they?” she asked him. She knew he wouldn't lie to her … there was something about him that she found herself trusting. There was a dangerous stillness to him but also an honesty in his eyes and his manner of speaking.
“If you’re lucky, yeah. UN still has the death penalty on the books, but they don’t use it much. I figure you’ll be living in a tiny cell for the rest of your life. If it was me, I’d prefer a bullet.” He didn’t try to varnish the truth and she appreciated it.
“How long until we get there?”
“About five weeks.”
They were silent for a moment.
“I’ll miss this place,” she confided honestly, her voice soft and sincere.
Amos shrugged. “You might as well make yourself useful while you're here.."
Her eyes widened. "What?"
He ignored her question. "Actuator arm, huh? Worth checking. You want to help me take a look?”
“I can’t,” she said, gesturing at the clamp on her leg.
He stared down at it. “Shit, I can reprogram that. Least enough to get you down to the machine shop. We’ll grab you a tool belt, Peaches. Let’s crack that thing open.”
An hour later, she was running her hand over the frame of the door, looking for the telltale scrape of binding sites. This was me, she thought. I broke it.
“What’cha think, Peaches?” Amos asked from behind her.
“Feels good to fix something,” she told him with a smile on her pale face and when Amos smiled back at her, a flicker of warmth curled in her breast.
*
In the next few weeks, the pair of them systematically repaired the damage to the Roci outside and inside under Naomi's critical eye.
"You sure it's a good idea letting her hold a blow torch?" Holden asked wryly one morning and Naomi rolled her eyes at him.
"Jim – she could probably kill you with her pinky if she activated her implants. I wouldn't worry …"
He wanted to hold onto the disgust, the hatred but it was hard to despise someone so quiet who took such pleasure from chocolate pudding in a mug, who discharged her ship duties without complaint.
When Amos entered ops one evening when Holden was taking late night watch, he wasn't as surprised as he might have been when Amos declared.
"Need to talk to you about Peaches."
"OK," Holden replied, as the mechanic dropped down into one of the chairs in ops.
"You're on pretty good terms with people in high places … namely our potty-mouthed friend friend Avasarala …"
"I wouldn't say we're friends, though Amos," Holden told him, sensing where this was going.
"She's a big deal in the UN …"
"Yes."
"The same UN that's probably going to kill the shit out of Peaches when she gets back to Lunar unless someone puts in a good word for her."
"Amos …" Holden's voice was stern.
"I ever ask you for much, captain?" Amos asked him idly, leaning back in his chair.
"Tell me you're not going to try and guilt me, Amos …"
Amos rotated one shoulder and stretched, wincing with pain. He still wasn't fully recovered from the injuries caused when the Roci had come to a standstill in the slow-zone. With a pang, Holden remembered again how close he had come to losing his entire crew … The damage and injuries from high-g trauma could be horrifically fatal…
"Nope … but what I am doing is I'm asking you for a favour."
"You asking me as a friend or a member of the Roci crew?" Holden wanted to know.
"Don't matter to me – whatever is more likely to get you to say yes," Amos told him bluntly and Holden smiled wryly.
"She's killed a lot of people, Amos … almost killed Naomi … I know she's been helping you out with repairs but I have to admit I'm a little surprised that you – "
"Captain, not all of us are lucky enough to be squeaky clean like you … most of us have rolled in darkness for so long, it's hard to know if we're the good guys or the bad guys. I know Peaches has done some bad things in her time – so send her to jail. Don't kill her. Let her have a chance to turn herself around."
"Amos, I can't promise – "
"Don't need you to promise me nothing, captain. Just try," Amos told him, rolling to his feet and standing in front of his captain, a very serious expression on his face. "Do it for me," he asked and then he was gone.
*
As they prepared for landing on Lunar, it was Amos who insisted on attending to the unpleasant necessities. He didn't want to see the UN police forces manhandling Peaches, so it was he who put the cuffs around her narrow wrists, shackled her ankles and reprogrammed the cuff on her ankle.
" I don't know how to thank you, Amos …" she started to say. "I know that I'm heading towards a bullet in the – "
"No… no you're not," he told her firmly. "Captain's pulled some strings with people who have pulled other strings … you're going to prison … you're not gonna be executed.'
Clarissa's dark eyes widened. "But I thought you said that a bullet would be better – "
"Dead is dead, Peaches … no coming back from that. But if you're still alive – maybe you still got a hope at … something better ..."
She nodded, her throat tight. "You said once you'd be able to kill me if I put a foot wrong – "
"Still could," he told her with a crooked grin.
"I know that … but would you?"
He shook his head. "Nah. I wouldn't."
When they landed, the crew of the Roci gathered to watch Clarissa being led away by the UN officers, her small jumpsuited figure looking very tiny amidst the tall, burly officers who were on high alert and had been warned to expect a dangerous murderer.
Clarissa turned her head slightly as she waited for the lift doors to open and she saw Amos nod at her. Then she was gone and Amos exhaled slowly.
"Thank you, captain," he told Holden quietly before shoving his hands in his pockets and slouching his way back to the machine shop.