Work Text:
Medina Station
When Naomi Nagata calls in real time after months of delays, it takes Camina Drummer exactly one and a half minutes to completely and utterly fuck things up.
The hopeful, dreamy glow in Naomi’s eyes stings as if she has reached through the screen and pressed down on all the implants in Drummer’s back. Her back, which throbs with every increase in gravity, that same force which will now pull Naomi down towards the shackles of a distant rock.
“They were foolish,” she sneers, “to think they could live there.”
Drummer knows she has screwed up the moment she sees Naomi’s face fall on the video screen. Still, she presses on, because those Belters on Ilus are foolish, and Naomi needs to know this if she’s going to follow James fucking Holden down where no sensible Belter should set foot. If Naomi is going to go where Drummer could not follow.
Naomi ends the call quickly then, the glowing timestamp flashing across the screen proving that this is the shortest conversation they have had in months.
Drummer finishes pulling on her uniform, zipping it tight up to the throat. The satisfaction of being right is a poor antidote to the hollowness expanding in her chest.
The Behemoth
The last time Drummer slept in the nude, she was nineteen and believed she might be in love. She would spend hours wrapped in sweaty sheets, bite-shaped bruises blooming over her neck and breasts as the girl between her legs drove her wild. After, she would melt into that hot, sticky embrace and whisper promises she would break within a week.
Her later lovers know not to linger in her bed. She makes sure of it. Camina Drummer sleeps in leggings and a singlet so if her notifications chirp, she can be ready in seconds. There is a gun by her bunk and another in her desk. She takes pride in being prepared, and bedmates generally do not contribute to that.
And yet, when Naomi drapes an arm around her waist and nestles into the pillow, Drummer does not send her away.
Naomi’s lips brush against her shoulder and she opens her eyes, lashes crusted with sleep. The filters on the Behemoth suck any moisture out of the air; optimised to supply a thirsty crew. “Hey,” Naomi murmurs, her arm curling tighter around Drummer’s torso.
Drummer’s skin tingles under Naomi’s touch. She traces the curve of Naomi’s knuckle, a small indulgence, then lifts Naomi’s hand from her waist. “I have to be on shift.”
“Not for another half hour. We’ve got time.” Naomi’s fingertips dance over her shoulder blade and down across her back, lingering on the swell of her hip.
It takes all of Drummer’s self-control not to arch into Naomi’s palm. She lifts Naomi’s hand away again, more firmly this time, and rolls over to face her. “I have to make sure funds get to Sanchez’s people. Do that before the shift starts.”
Naomi’s brow wrinkles as she comes up to lean on her elbow. “The skiff driver?”
Drummer lifts her hand in a shrug, shifting the pillow out from beneath her head. “He had family on Tycho. Husband, kids. Not their fault he took pixie dust. They will be provided for.” Plus, I want to get to the bridge before that dzhemang Ashford, she adds silently.
A smile plays at the corner of Naomi’s mouth. She leans forward, the sheets rustling as they fall down the length of her waist. “You look after your people,” Naomi says. It’s a change from the look of horror Naomi gave her when Drummer wanted to deal with the drug dealer. They kiss, and the roughness of Naomi’s chapped lips tastes something like forgiveness.
“Make sure the corridor is clear when you leave,” Drummer reminds her, as she always does.
To her credit, Naomi rolls her eyes only slightly as she slides out of the bunk. “Mi pochuye to. But I don’t care what anyone else thinks about us.”
Drummer doesn’t have that luxury. Or maybe Naomi is just braver than she is.
Medina Station
Ashford waits until they are alone in her office before he calls her out on her vote to let Marco live. At least he has now developed the decency not to do so in public.
“And if Marco breaks his word, he breaks it to all the factions,” Drummer remarks, even as the doubt creeps into her thoughts. “He’d be signing his own death warrant.”
“If we catch him.” Ashford’s emphasis is clear. “I fear we may not get another chance.”
Drummer’s ribs tighten, sending needles of pain down her spine. When they first entered that airlock she had fully anticipated sending that sonofabitch Marco floating into space. An earlier version of herself would have done exactly that. Back when her votes did not carry consequences far beyond the confines of her own ship. She longs to press her fingers against her aching temples, to unlock her mag boots and let herself drift for a while. She settles for holding a deep breath, letting it out slowly in the vain hope that Ashford might not notice.
Perhaps all she has to look forward to now is a lifetime of chipping away at parts of herself.
“Wasn’t long ago you’d be casting the vote to send Marco out for a long walk into the void,” Ashford remarks, echoing her thoughts.
Drummer squares her shoulders, aiming for her usual poker-straight stance, even if it does not come to her as easily as it once did. “Times change. We must change with them. Or isn’t that what you told me?”
Ashford leans his elbows against the command system. The dim, greenish light of the Tynan casts shadows across his face which throw his melted mass of scars into sharp relief. “Ya. I did. Well. I hope for all our sakes my vote was the wrong one.”
Drummer stiffens her spine, keeping her gaze fixed on the blackness of space taunting her from the screen.
+++++
A mere half hour after she returns to Medina Station, her personal mailbox lights up on her hand terminal. Encrypted. Earth transmission. The sender is none other than the UN president herself, Chrisjen Avasarala.
Personal correspondence from the highest Earth office. Her life has certainly taken a turn.
Avasarala’s face flickers to life on her screen. The woman has jewels dripping from her ears and neck, like ice crystals chipped from the surface of a frozen asteroid. Her shoulders are draped in a shimmering purple fabric. A rockhopper crew could pool their entire salary and still not be able to afford fabric like that.
Her voice, on the other hand, is a nail scraping over skin. “Camina Drummer. I thank you for your swift actions on the destruction of Earth colonisation vessels. Your leadership is a credit to the ideals of the Belt. If I may, I would like to propose a personal, private communications channel with Medina Station and yourself. We could be a great benefit to each other.”
Private communications channel. Now there’s a fancy term for ‘spy.’ Avasarala does not even bother to detail what these supposed benefits may be, which speaks volumes on her opinion of Drummer’s intelligence.
Drummer loosens her collar and deletes the message without considering a reply. “Fuck you, inya,” she grumbles at the screen. That woman’s voice makes her head ache. She pours a glass of whiskey and raises it to the insipid Mormon murals in a sarcastic toast.
The whiskey does little to soothe the pain pounding from her forehead to the base of her spine, but it does induce a pleasant brain fog. Naomi’s name drifts across her screen and she vaguely considers activating the contact. How do you phrase “I had your asshole ex in an airlock but voted to let him go because these factions keep breathing down my neck and I had to consider politics over you,” without losing a friend?
The Rocinante’s last transmission was a garble of nonsense about metal insects and James Holden being a moron. Naomi has enough to worry about without knowing that Marco is throwing a tantrum across the system.
Besides, they will catch him again. They will catch him, and she will make him lead her to Naomi’s son.
At least the whiskey makes it seem less like a lie.
The Behemoth
When it comes to sex, Naomi is loud. She moans and curses, oh-fuck-Camina-yes, shouts and laughs when she comes.
Right now, Naomi is on all fours, her head thrown back, the curve of her spine arched and gleaming with exertion as she gasps and yells, her ass pressing into Drummer’s hips until Drummer shudders with every rock and thrust, barely hanging on to the rhythm. She reaches around to stroke Naomi’s sodden clit, willing her on, watching the muscle of Naomi’s shoulders go taut and tremble until finally, Naomi collapses onto her forearms, screaming her release.
Drummer lets her ride out the aftershocks, muttering filthy nothings as she slides her hands over Naomi’s hips, supporting her off the strap-on and down onto the mattress. Naomi stretches out her back and shoulders, sighing happily when Drummer lies beside her.
Drummer is about to start unbuckling the harness around her hips when Naomi reaches over to run her forefinger over the glistening, rounded tip jutting obscenely towards the ceiling. The gravity is just low enough to allow a tiny bead of moisture to float up and hover between them. “Been a while since I was on the receiving end of one of these,” Naomi observes, as if she were remarking on a new set of engine parts.
Drummer pauses, one hand at the buckle. “You strap?”
“Mhmm.” Naomi sounds almost bored, but a mischievous smile breaks out on her face. “Holden likes to take it sometimes.”
“Huh.” The dildo rolls slowly off the edge of the bunk as Drummer sinks back onto the pillow, eyebrow raised. “Didn’t think he had it in him.”
Naomi’s laugh echoes off the cool, metal walls. Her skin still shimmers with sweat and Drummer touches her lips to Naomi’s shoulder, taking the salty-sweet taste as a reward for her efforts. Naomi tucks a loose strand of hair behind Drummer’s ear. “Thanks for letting me blow off steam.”
The words leave a bitter taste on Drummer’s tongue. “Glad to be of service,” she says, and she cannot make it sound like a joke.
At least Naomi has the grace to blush. Her lips press together into a thin line, just for a moment, before softening in a way which seems far too deliberate. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
When Drummer does not respond, Naomi scoots closer, rubbing her hand over Drummer’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she says, and she sounds… worried, maybe? Naomi ducks her head, her shoulders rising and falling in a quick sigh.
Pashang, she can’t leave Naomi hanging. This woman lights a fire inside her like no one else does, and she could never disappoint her. Drummer tugs on Naomi’s wrist until Naomi collapses against her chest, capturing her startled gasp in a kiss.
The kiss is lazy at first, neither being in a particular hurry after the first fuck. But then Naomi’s leg slips between Drummer’s thighs, a thumb brushes over her nipple, and Drummer presses back, tightening her grip, impatient for more.
Her eyes drift closed as Naomi kisses the sharp corner of the tattoo pointing to her throat, sending shudders down the length of her spine. “Poor Captain,” Naomi hums against her neck. “Time to let someone take care of you, ya?”
Her kisses travel along Drummer’s collarbone, down her sternum, linger deliciously on her breasts, then her ribs, stomach, hips…
“Fuck.”
Blood wells when Drummer bites down on her lip, drifting up, and up, and up.
Medina Station
Naomi calls as the Roci passes through the Ring space. It’s the first time they have spoken in months. When Naomi’s face appears on the screen, Drummer has to force her expression to remain neutral. Naomi is thin, terribly so, with deep rings under her eyes. Her skin seems stretched over her skull.
Still, her lips stretch into a shaky smile. “Oye, Camina.”
“Naomi.” Drummer nods her head in greeting. “You’re back from Ilus. Heard it was quite the shit storm.”
“That’s an understatement.” Naomi laughs, but there’s a hollow edge to it Drummer has never heard before. Beautiful, romantic Naomi. Always hopeful. Never wavering in her belief that people could be better. What has shaken her faith?
Perhaps she has heard about Marco. It can only be a matter of time before Naomi catches up with the newsflashes. “Had our share of excitement too,” Drummer throws out, letting the words hang in an invitation to confide.
“You’ll have to tell me about that sometime,” Naomi says instead, and it shouldn’t hurt as much as it does.
They exchange pleasantries after that, a few jokes and irrelevant updates. Naomi is following tutorials from a botanist and trying to grow a miniature garden aboard the Roci. Drummer grumbles over the lack of functionality of Mormon office furniture. Eventually the list of neutral topics grows thin and the spectre of Marco still looms. Naomi must have heard. She must.
“I..” Drummer swallows, unable to look at the grainy image of Naomi’s face. The words should be so easy. Marco is on the loose. He has your son. “I should…”
Naomi glances somewhere to the left of the screen. “I’m sorry,” she interrupts, echoing the apology with a rapid gesture. “I’m needed on the bridge. We’ll talk soon, ke?”
Drummer’s nerve fails her. “Take care, Naomi.”
Coward.
Naomi ends the transmission and the black screen flashes accusingly. Drummer is about to head for the bottle of whiskey on her desk and indulge in some good, old-fashioned self-pity when an urgent message lights up the screen again. This time, the signature is from Klaes Ashford.
The transmission is audio only and poor quality at that, but Marco’s silky drawl is unmistakeable.
“Die in darkness, beratna.”
+++++
First, she feels nothing.
Then, her stomach roils, leaving her bent over the desk, propped on her elbows, sweating through waves of nausea.
Death is nothing unexpected. Growing up with a few inches of metal between you and the vacuum of space tends to breed a certain fatalism. She has seen friends shot to pieces, choked in their suits, spun into a merciless oblivion. Ashford has been luckier than most, to live long enough for scars to heal and hair to grey.
She remembers glittering glasses full of rum at the end of a shift, after a particularly irritating negotiation with those UNN fuckers. Ashford had fallen into reminiscing; as he was wont to do, spinning tales from the pirate exploits of his youth. She had countered with a few anecdotes of her own, nothing too personal, but enough that he chuckled and poured her another glass. “My daughter was like you,” he had said. “Good aim, sharp mind. A true Belter.”
His eyes had grown misty then, and the stories drifted to the memories of his daughter; a redhead, named Annie after the legendary pirate queen of an ancient sea. A pierced reactor had been her end. Ashford had made it into a suit and out the airlock before the hull got blown to hell. Annie had not.
Drummer had raised her glass in a toast. “Yam seng, then. To Annie.”
Ashford lifted his own glass and clinked it against hers. “To all those who float among the stars.”
She had rolled her eyes and smirked at his sentimentality, but the alcoholic burn scratched suspiciously in her throat on its way down.
Now she rubs a furious hand over her stinging eyes. This is her failure. Her price for inviting other factions into that airlock and forgetting the power of men who string pretty speeches together even when they have nothing to say. Men who talk of sacrifice and get everyone killed except themselves.
She opens a new message and enters the names of some of her contacts on Ceres. I need a ship. And a crew.
For Ashford.
For Naomi.
She has work to do.