Fred Johnson kept walking. The gently curving corridor with its view of the construction sphere was like Tycho Station’s boast that it had not been destroyed. The people they passed nodded to Fred and Holden. Some wore green armbands in solidarity, and more than a few of those had the OPA split circle with an additional split at ninety degrees to the first. Others had a stylized globe and the words ONE PEOPLE OPA & EARTH. The physical damage to the station was for the most part limited to the engineering and drive levels at the bottom of the sphere and Fred’s office on the ring, but Holden couldn’t help feeling that the deeper injury was to Tycho’s story about itself. Not long ago, Tycho – like Ceres – had been one of the jewels of the outer planets. Part of a greater argument about the independence of the Belt.

Now that Belters had attacked it, it had become something else. The sense of unity with Earth wasn’t so much a real sympathy for the government that had so recently been the enemy, than a statement of separation from the OPA. Tycho Station for Tycho Station, and fuck anyone who crossed them.

Or he may have been projecting, since he was feeling more than a little like that himself.

“She was being a journalist,” Fred said. “That kind of thing? It’s what they do.”

“We just saved her life. If it wasn’t for us, she’d have been carried off the station to God knows where and… I don’t know. Tortured or something.”

“That’s true,” Fred said. They reached the lift, passing through doors that opened in anticipation of them. Fred’s rank still had its privileges, and first priority on lifts was one. “But we also lied to her. And she knew it.”

Holden bit back an objection because it wasn’t much more than We did not and he knew that actually they did. It wasn’t something he’d have done, just a few years before. Then, he’d have told the truth, the whole truth, and let the chips fall wherever they fell. He didn’t know if it bothered him more that he’d changed or that he hadn’t noticed it until someone else pointed it out.

Fred looked over to him with a weary smile. “ ‘Be angry at the sun for setting if these things anger you.’ A poet named Jeffers said that.”

“Yeah, but was he talking about journalists and politicians lying to each other?”

“Matter of fact, he was.”

The lift shifted and dropped. Fred leaned against the back wall with a groan.

“We didn’t have to do that,” Holden said.

“Yes we did,” Fred said. “After a loss, the most important thing for a leader to do is be seen. And be seen walking under their own damned power. Sets the narrative.”

“Still.”