As soon as Fred made the decision to go to Luna, Holden had moved his things back to the Rocinante. And then the rest of the crew’s possessions too. He’d found Amos’ clothes neatly folded and regimented in a rough canvas bag. Alex’s had been thrown haphazardly in a case, half in a mesh bag and half not, though which set was clean and which bound for the laundry, Holden couldn’t tell. Naomi’s things had been in his suite. A spare pair of boots, an unpaired sock, underwear. She’d left a model of a Martian combat mech – bright red and flat black and no bigger than his thumb – on the bathroom counter. He didn’t know if it held some special meaning to her or if she would even remember where she’d gotten it from. He was careful to take it with him, though. Careful to wrap it and put it in a cushioned box. It was the closest thing he had to taking care of the woman it belonged to, so that was what he did.

Being back in the Rocinante was like coming home, except that it was too empty. The narrow corridors of the crew deck seemed too wide. The occasional ticking and popping of the expansion joints adjusting to shifts in temperature were like the knocking of ghosts. When the repair team were somewhere he could hear them, Holden resented the voices and footsteps that weren’t his crew’s. When they were gone, the silence oppressed him.

He told himself it was temporary. That before long, he’d have Alex back in the cockpit and Amos down in engineering. Naomi beside him, telling him gently what he was screwing up and how to do it better. He’d go to Luna, and they’d be there. All of them. Somehow.

Except he still hadn’t heard from Naomi. He’d gotten a short text-only message from Mother Tamara that his parents were all right for now, but that ash was falling on the ranch like snow in winter. And nothing from Amos.

Sometimes people knew when they were saying their last goodbyes, but not always. Not often. Most people’s last parting of ways were so small, the people involved didn’t even notice them. Now, in the darkness of the command deck with a half-liter bulb of bourbon floating beside him and the audio system playing twelve-bar blues, Holden was pretty sure he’d said a couple of his own final goodbyes and not known it. He replayed everything in his head, his memories becoming less authentic and more painful every time he did.

“We’re all that’s left,” he said to the ship. “You’re all I’ve got.”