Work Text:
Ceres
Her breath hitches in anticipation, her fingers digging half-moons into her knees.
Minerva laughs against her ear. “What do you want, Cami? I can do a great ring tat.”
Camina turns her head to give Minerva a quick kiss before pulling away. “Fuck that. My grandma had a ring tat. I want something new. Something like…” She grabs her hand terminal and sketches out a design on the screen. A sharp ‘V’ with spokes like a gear. If she’s going to be a tech, she might as well embrace it.
Minerva takes a critical look at the hand terminal, her brow furrowing beneath her spiked blue hair. “Well, it’s eye-catching, I’ll give you that.”
Camina flips her crossed fingers in Minerva’s direction. Minerva has gotten four new tattoos just in the six months they’ve been together, including an OPA symbol at her collarbone. She has no right to talk, and Camina will get the design she fucking wants.
Minerva rolls her eyes. “Tilt your head.”
Camina does so, trying not to think about the pain. Minerva’s studio doesn’t exactly have the latest equipment. She hears the switch and electrical fizz as Minerva charges up her tattoo lasers.
“Easy, girl,” Minerva whispers as her laser kisses Camina’s neck. “Got to look sharp if you want to run with the OPA.”
++++
Minerva was right, the loading mechanisms on Anderson Dawes’ ship are in urgent need of repair. At least all these years spent fixing equipment on the docks is finally coming in handy.
Dawes himself is standing at the other end of the cargo bay, deep in conversation with three other men. He did nod to her when she came aboard the ship, but other than that she hasn’t received much acknowledgement from anyone. The upper echelons of the OPA would be concerned with bigger things than a Ceres dock tech.
Camina tightens a bolt on the loading arm and tries not to overhear the talk across the cargo bay. She knows enough about Dawes to assume he would appreciate discretion.
She saw Dawes for the first time two weeks ago, but like any Ceres kid, she’s heard his name whispered for years. Minerva had offered to take Camina to the Hyperion to celebrate her nineteenth birthday, even if they both agree that basing birthdays on Earth years is a holdover from colonial bullshit. The Hyperion was full of OPA as always, and Dawes had stood up to offer a toast in honour of some crew who made a sacrifice. His voice carried right over the shouting and the music like it was no effort at all. Everyone fell silent.
A few days later Minerva had waltzed into their—well, Minerva’s—apartment with a grin spread across her face.
“Dawes wants a tech to look at his ship,” she had murmured, straddling Camina on the couch and undoing her belt. “Guess who I recommended?”
Camina can’t deny it, the thought of finally doing something useful with her skills is thrilling. Helping those who help the Belt.
She’s reconnecting some wires by the hangar door when a bullet zips past her ear, and the world becomes very, very fast.
Instinctively she dives behind a tall stack of crates as the cargo bay erupts into a cacophony of noise and gunfire. Shouts punctuate the sharp explosions and she hears the sound of feet running past the crates.
Her lungs ache as the blood and adrenaline pound in her ears. Her bent legs shake like jelly. Focus. She needs to focus if she has any hope of getting out of this alive.
Breathing through the fear, she peers around the edge of the crate.
One of the men to whom Dawes was speaking is lying prone on the cargo bay floor, another is hunched, doubled over. The third has his back to her and his gun trained on Dawes, who is pointing his own weapon back. He shouts something in Belter, but it doesn’t register.
“Easy, Sergei,” Dawes drawls calmly. “No one else needs to die over this.”
“Pashang,” the man swears, spitting onto the deck. “You skimped on the deal.”
A glint of metal catches Camina’s eye. A gun, probably belonging to the dead guy, has skidded over the floor to lie mere inches away from the crate.
Her mind does a frantic calculation. The man, Sergei or whatever his name is, has his back to her. She can grab the gun, if she moves quickly enough. She hopes she can move quickly enough.
She cannot hesitate. Whispering a quick plea to a god she has never believed in, she launches herself forward and her hand closes on the abandoned gun.
She holds her breath, aims, and fires.
It isn’t pretty. The bullet slices through the man’s throat and he collapses in a bloody, twitching mess on the deck, his eyes wide with confusion and horror. He isn’t dead.
She should pull the trigger again, she knows. It would be a mercy at this point. But all she can do is stare at the man’s face.
There is another, deafening crack of a gun, and Dawes steps into her line of vision, slipping his weapon into his holster. The men on the floor lie still.
“Well done, sesata,” Dawes says, like this was some afternoon sports exercise. “Most kids usually vomit after their first kill.”
Camina shrugs and looks up at him, swallowing down the sour taste at the back of her mouth. “I’m not most kids.”
“No, I’d say you’re not.” Dawes reaches to take the gun from her outstretched hand. She hadn’t even realised she was still holding it.
She feels his gaze on her face and tries to meet his eyes with the same intensity. Let him see that she is no weakling.
His expression is impossible to read beyond a mild curiosity. She rocks back and forth on her toes. Tries to appear taller than she is.
After an age, he speaks. “What was your name, sesata?”
“Drummer, bossmang. Camina Drummer.”
“Drummer…” He looks at her appraisingly. “I have a job near Pallas. We could use an extra gun hand.” He spreads his palms. “Unless, of course, you have a reason to stay?”
Minerva’s name plays on her lips. They have plans to go clubbing tonight after Camina finishes the repairs. She remembers all the soft promises Minerva breathed against her skin.
Tomorrow, Camina will need to report for work again, operating the docking clamps, unloading the cargo. How many ships has she released from those docks? Rockhoppers and haulers and Inner cruisers, sailing out into the vast black of space. The stars have always looked so bright.
What was it her mother used to tell her? We watch our own backs in the Belt. No one else will.
She pushes Minerva’s face out of her mind. “No reason to stay.”
Dawes’ smile grows wide.
It takes a while to travel to Pallas. Dawes has her doing target practice while the ship is at full thrust. He corrects her stance, teaches her to account for different levels of gravity. Camina focuses on her aim and not on the guilt churning her guts.
Eventually the ship breaks thrust, supposedly to allow a skiff to dock. “Klaes Ashford,” Dawes tells her. “He’ll be helping us take on the Inners.”
It’s at that moment she notices the proximity alert. Earther cargo transport, a few miles off.
Her stomach flips as though her mag boots have suddenly malfunctioned. Her mouth is sandpaper dry when she speaks, her eyes fixed on the alert. “That’s a civilian ship.”
Dawes chuckles as he claps her on the shoulder. His thumb lingers against her throat. “Not to worry, mali. Do your job.”
Tycho Station
Sixteen years later.
It’s taken eight years to build up Tycho Station to the point where it’s a viable OPA alternative to Inner corporations or the black market rings. Eight years of Drummer overseeing crews and keeping security in line while Fred negotiates ever more lucrative construction contracts. Eight goddamn years, and now Fred is willing to risk everything for politics and a blue-tinged dream.
Drummer tends to prioritise the practical side of her work. What Fred has never fully appreciated, could never appreciate the way she does, is that ideals are just pretty words when your main concern is having enough air to breathe.
To be fair, things do get thrown out of balance when carnivorous alien slime decides to build a gigantic ring in your solar system. Drummer glares at the thing on the newsfeed. “The fuck is that.”
Fred leans back in his chair, folding his hands over his chest. The news seems to barely phase him. “Whatever that thing is, Earth and Mars will be heading for it in no time. We need the Behemoth there. With you at the helm.”
She laughs in his face, not even attempting to hide her scorn at the name or the suggestion. “The Behemoth? We barely started retrofitting. It doesn’t even have proper guns.”
Fred doesn’t even blink. “You can keep up the work as you go.”
He would say that. Bastard.
Well, she isn’t letting him off that easy. “Sure this isn’t about you getting me out of the way so you can work on whatever scheme you cooked up with Dawes?”
Fred gives her a long look. “I want you on the Behemoth because you’re the right person for the job. Find a crew, people you trust. It’s time.”
The idea that he could try the same charisma shit on her that he pulls with the OPA faction leaders or the head of some Inner corporation he’s trying to sweet talk is infuriating. “Spare me the speeches, Freddy,” she scoffs, “they’ve never worked on me.”
To his credit, he drops the act, his face hardening as it typically does when the two of them are discussing a particularly tricky deal. “Fine. I need you on the Behemoth because I need someone I can trust. But I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think you were the best.”
Damn the man, she won’t let him flatter her. She’s known Fred since they were both angry and miserable and often drunk, following Dawes’ lead like the trained dogs he wanted them to be. Back when Fred was an Earther mass-murderer looking for redemption, and she was a growing from a girl desperate for approval into a woman who didn’t carry a chip so much as an anvil on her shoulder. “You always think about politics.”
“Maybe,” he admits, and she appreciates the honesty at last. “But that doesn’t make what I said any less true.”
He meets her eyes, holds them there. “Find someone you can trust, Drummer. First rule of command.”
Somehow, she finds herself agreeing.
She’s on her way back to her quarters when her hand terminal suddenly chirps a message alert. Another problem from the engineering crew, no doubt. The retrofit has kept throwing up new snags since they managed to bring the Nauvoo back to Tycho for docking.
Except the message on her hand terminal isn’t from anyone on the Tycho staff. It’s from Naomi Nagata.
You said I should come to you if I ever left the Roci.
Well now. This is quite a turn.
Drummer’s lips curve as she types a message back. Blue Bar. Ten minutes.
++++
Naomi Nagata is as beautiful as she ever was, but her face has sharpened since Drummer last saw her. Her dark skin takes on a deep, purplish glow in the light of bar, and Drummer can’t help pausing to admire the way shadows dance across her features. Eventually Naomi notices her across the room and she raises a glass as Drummer approaches.
“Naomi,” Drummer acknowledges, sliding onto the couch. She tries not to draw too close. “Been a long time.”
Naomi pours another glass from the bottle on the table. “I’m glad to see you, Drummer.”
“And I you.” Drummer watches Naomi closely. It wasn’t a trick of the light, Naomi’s mouth does seem tighter, her shoulders and back tense. There was a warmth in her eyes and laughter on her lips when they first met. The last few months may as well have been years, perhaps for them both.
“Drinks?” Drummer suggests, taking her cues from Naomi’s mood. “Dancing? Punching bags?”
Naomi does smile at that. “Month I’ve had; I could go for all three.”
“Let’s start with the first, then.” Drummer lifts her class to toast. “Yam seng.”
The drinks flow fast after that. Naomi doesn’t say much about what happened on Ganymede, and Drummer doesn’t push her. Naomi will talk when she’s ready.
Drummer is curious about one thing though. “What made you tell Fred about the protomolecule sample?”
Naomi winces as she downs her drink. “Spur of the moment decision, really. Mars has a sample, I thought Earth did too. I didn’t want to leave the Belt empty handed.”
Drummer watches the hardness around Naomi’s mouth. “Spur of the moment, you say.”
Naomi pauses with the glass halfway to her lips. Her eyes are unfocused, staring off into the depths of an unseen space. “I thought I was going to die.”
If Drummer were raised on the inner planets, she may have been shocked at this. But she is a Belter, and death always looms close in their world. Even so, the anger rises to a slow burn in her chest, tightening her fingers, gritting her teeth. Of course Jim fucking Holden would risk getting Naomi killed.
“When?” she insists, fighting to keep her voice calm.
Naomi shakes her head, still staring into the distance. “There were so many people… I couldn’t just leave.” She downs her drink, perhaps to drown the memory. “You know, maybe I could go for a punching bag.”
That is something to which Drummer can definitely relate. “I know just the place.”
++++
The cargo bays are strictly off limits for any off duty employees, but Drummer has never abided by that rule. It’s not as though she’s ever really off duty, anyway. Her hand terminal is always close by. So is her gun.
The corner of Cargo Bay Two is rigged up with basic gym equipment she installed many years ago, and the cargo crew know not to tamper with it. The rest of the bay is deserted, so Drummer strides right over to the bag hanging on a chain from the ceiling. “Here,” she says to Naomi, holding the bag steady to account for the lower gravity. “Unleash hell.”
Naomi’s eyes light up as she starts unzipping her jumpsuit. “Nice.”
She ties the sleeves of the suit around her waist as she steps up to the bag. Her undershirt clings to the curve of her breasts.
Nice indeed.
Drummer lifts her gaze to meet Naomi’s dark eyes, and Naomi’s lips curve into a knowing smirk. “Going to hold that bag for me?”
Drummer raises an eyebrow at the shift in Naomi’s tone. They’ve been here before, during their handball match many months ago and the dancing that followed. Naomi had hesitated back then, mumbling something about Holden. A man Naomi has persistently refused to mention this time.
Drummer leans into the bag. “Go on, then,” she says, the invitation heavy in her voice, “I’m waiting.”
Naomi moves close, ostensibly to line up the bag, and their hands brush. Drummer takes a slow breath.
Naomi’s punches, when she does get going, are far from the heaviest or the fastest that Drummer has ever encountered, but there’s still plenty of force behind them. Naomi could land a decent right hook on someone if she felt like it. Drummer widens her stance and bends her knees to take the impact. The bag shudders against her shoulder, the faux leather surface under her cheek growing slippery with perspiration. She hears Naomi’s grunts of effort on the other side of the bag, and the chain above them creaks.
After a particularly enthusiastic volley, the pressure falls away. When Drummer looks around the bag, Naomi has her hands on her hips, head thrown forward as she pants.
“Pashang,” Naomi gasps, a wide smile spreading across her face. Her skin glistens under the lights. “Guess I really needed that.”
A droplet of sweat slides down Naomi’s throat and over her collar bone. Drummer follows its motion, transfixed. “Nothing like going a few rounds to let off steam,” she says, slowly. “There’s a boxing ring on the recreation deck.”
Naomi’s lips quirk. “Well, Drummer, maybe you and I should spar sometime.”
Drummer hesitates for a moment. Then, “Camina.”
She’d almost forgotten the shape of her first name on her lips. She hasn’t thought of herself as ‘Camina’ in years, not since she returned from Pallas with a gun strapped to her hip and Minerva threw her out of their apartment, leaving her nowhere to go but crawling back to Dawes. It didn’t feel right to hear him say it, so Drummer it was and Drummer she has remained. But looking at Naomi now, standing beside her with her head tilted in a question, it feels like a gift. A piece of herself which she can still choose to give.
Naomi’s smile softens, and for a second, Drummer wonders if she made a mistake. Then Naomi moves towards her, their hips brushing but not quite touching, and she lays her hands on Drummer’s shoulders.
The breath halts in Drummer’s throat. Her hands rise to hover over Naomi’s hips, their faces moving closer so they’re barely an inch apart. Drummer could lift her head, or Naomi could lower hers, and their lips would meet.
The hand terminal in her back pocket pings.
God fucking damn it.
Naomi makes a sound that is half sigh, half laugh. “I guess you have to get that.”
Reluctantly, Drummer pulls the hand terminal out to check it. The message isn’t urgent; only a minor update to the docking schedule that doesn’t require her immediate attention. She could ignore it if she wanted to. She slides the terminal back.
Naomi gives her a small look of satisfaction as she strokes Drummer’s shoulder. “Anyone going to come down here?”
“No.” I have the authorisation code, Drummer wants to say, but the hand terminal sits heavy in her pocket.
She’s wanted Naomi almost since the moment she saw her. Wanted to feel Naomi’s mouth against her skin, hold Naomi’s body against her own. But that was before the Ring, before Fred sent her to salvage the Nauvoo, before he changed its name and ordered her to become captain of a ship she hadn’t even wanted to retrieve. Back when the world still made sense.
She steps back. She steps back, because she has a checklist waiting that is longer than her arm. She steps back, because her position on the station is the reason why she can access this place. She steps back, because Naomi still hasn’t spoken about why she left the Rocinante, and Drummer doesn’t want to be the distraction Naomi turns to while she works through whatever the fuck happened between her and Holden.
Naomi lowers her arms, staring at Drummer with confusion and something that seems horribly like hurt. Drummer balls her fingers into a fist and studies the storage containers bolted onto the shelves.
“So,” she says, “are you going to tell me why you’re really here?”
Naomi moves away, already pulling up the sleeves of her jumpsuit. There’s a resignation in her expression, or perhaps acceptance of the shifting mood. “Things are changing. I want to be a part of it. Thought Tycho would be the place for that.”
There it is again, this belief that the Belt is transforming, that a collection of factions scattered across space could actually unify into a nation. As if the Ceres thugs didn’t try to incite a mutiny on Tycho mere months ago.
Fred’s words echo in her mind. Find someone you can trust.
She folds her hands behind her back.
“If work is what you want, I have something for you. We’re retrofitting the Nauvoo. It’s going to be a warship.” She tries not to let the sarcasm drip from her voice at the thought. “I’ll need a chief engineer.”
The Behemoth, Part I
Fred insisted that Drummer take the captain’s cabin on board the Behemoth to help keep up appearances. Drummer does see the logic in it, but that doesn’t stop her avoiding spending much time there. The cabin is big; larger than her quarters on Tycho and certainly larger than any room she’s ever slept in. Maybe this qualifies as comfortable by Earther standards, but to her it just feels like a lot of wasted space.
Worse still, the far wall has an unfinished mural of some sort of Mormon religious figure sitting on top of a wagon on an open plain. She’s never understood the point of having stuff on the walls to begin with, and the look of self-righteous constipation on the man’s face is a constant reminder of who this cabin was meant to house.
But the captain’s cabin is private, and privacy is something she desperately needs right now. She locks the door and leans back against the bulkhead as her eyes close, trying to will away the throbbing pain in her skull.
She isn’t sure how long she’s been standing there when the speaker by the door crackles.
“It’s Naomi. Can I come in?”
Great. What the hell has gone wrong this time?
Drummer taps the wall panel and the door slides open. Naomi steps into the cabin, her toolbox held loosely in her hand. “Hey,” she says, setting the toolbox on the floor, “you left the command deck pretty quickly after that message from Dawes.”
Drummer snaps to attention. “People saying anything?”
“No one is saying a thing,” Naomi insists. “I wanted to check if you’re okay. I could tell something bothered you and as your chief engineer I deserve to know what’s coming.”
Drummer lets out a long, slow breath. “I know the man Dawes is sending.”
“Ashford. How do you know him?”
Drummer shakes her head, folding her arms. “Doesn’t matter,” she says, but her teeth clench around the words.
She still remembers the moment Ashford stepped onto Dawes’ ship all those many years ago. His hair was already grey and he bowed his head when Dawes introduced Drummer to him; a mocking nod to chivalry. Moments later she watched him shoot an unarmed civilian in the face.
Trust Dawes to send a fucking pirate to do his bidding.
Naomi’s voice slices through her thoughts. “Bullshit. If the crew’s in danger, I need to know.”
Drummer can’t argue with that point, much as she might want to. She paces up and down, images creeping at the edges of her mind. Memories have been looming large of late. “Ashford’s one of Dawes’ old cronies. I vetted every person on this ship so I wouldn’t have to deal with all this faction shit, and now Dawes sends his people to screw me over. I knew this would happen when Fred got cosy with him again.”
Naomi steps into her way, calling a halt to the pacing as she places a hand on Drummer’s elbow. “I’ve got your back. Fred Johnson’s a good man. He wouldn’t…”
Drummer cuts her off. “Fred is ambitious. And when people have ambition, it usually gets others killed.”
The tightness in her jaw isn’t helping her headache, so she searches the room for something to focus her mind. Her eye clings to the black diamonds peeping out beneath the zipper of Naomi’s crimson jumpsuit. “You got new ink.”
Naomi is tracking her every movement. “One of the mechanics on Deck Seven does tattoos on the side. I was off duty, of course.”
“Huh. Maybe I should visit. Haven’t got a new tat in years.”
It’s a blatant attempt to change the subject, but for once, Naomi doesn’t call her out on it.
“I picked up some things a while back. I could give you one, if you want.”
Drummer’s interest is genuinely piqued. Naomi Nagata really is a woman of many talents. “You got a laser?”
Naomi reaches out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind Drummer’s ear. “I’ll be right back with one. Just tell me where you want it.”
A low flame kindles in Drummer’s belly as she leans in to Naomi’s hand. “On my back.”
Naomi’s voice is husky. “Lie down.”
Drummer watches Naomi walk out the door, her breath quickening for a different set of reasons now.
She unzips her jumpsuit and feels her skin tense at the cold, gentle breeze coming from the air filters. On impulse, she removes the pins from the bun at her nape and shakes her hair out of its braid as well. It tumbles down over her shoulders, space-black and heavy in thrust-gravity. She has never felt tempted to cut her hair, practical as it would be for ship living. Call it her nod to vanity, or perhaps nostalgia.
Like the cabin itself, the bed against the far wall is wider than anything Drummer is used to, but for once, she doesn’t mind. She stretches out on her stomach in her bra and leggings, relishing the soft, smooth pillow under her cheek. The pain in her head cools to a dull ache.
It doesn’t take long before Naomi returns. The senior officers’ cabins are all on the same deck, because Mormons with colonial aspirations obviously don’t anticipate assassination attempts.
Naomi stands beside the bed and rests a knee on the mattress. She really does have a tattoo laser in her hand. “What do you want?”
Drummer swallows. “A spoke curve. Like my other ones. On the right shoulder blade.”
The mattress dips as Naomi climbs onto the bed, and Drummer is about to shift over to give room when Naomi lifts a leg and straddles her back.
The room suddenly feels very warm.
“Hold still,” Naomi says gently. Her fingers trail down Drummer’s spine, catching on the elastic of her bra. “You want a tattoo on the shoulder, then this is in my way.”
Drummer recognises a challenge when she hears it. Not to be outdone, she reaches behind and flicks open the hooks, her back now completely bare.
Naomi says nothing, just maps the path of the design over Drummer’s shoulder with her fingers. She shifts her weight, and once more Drummer hears the tell-tale sound of a laser being charged.
She can’t see what Naomi is doing from this angle, so she tries to concentrate on keeping her body relaxed. She’s heard that tattooists used to use needles before laser tattoos were perfected, and while lasers are quicker and less painful, they still hurt. She feels the first stinging sensation on her shoulder and pictures the curve taking shape under Naomi’s hands.
The laser burns across her shoulder blade and a hiss of pain escapes Drummer’s teeth, her back arching slightly off the mattress.
“Easy,” Naomi murmurs, combing Drummer’s hair back off her shoulder, “I’m nearly done.”
Drummer focuses on the soft pressure of Naomi’s free hand against her back. She takes shallow breaths to keep from jolting the laser. Finally, the burn is gone.
“All done,” Naomi announces, and presses a kiss to the valley of her spine.
Oh. Drummer’s breath catches at the touch of Naomi’s lips. She opens her mouth to speak, only to be cut off when Naomi kisses her neck.
“I’m your captain,” Drummer points out. She isn’t sure if she is saying it for Naomi’s benefit or her own.
Naomi’s hands slide over her back. “Not in here, you don’t have to be. We both need this, Camina.”
The sound of her first name on Naomi’s lips sends a shudder through her body and down between her thighs. She props herself up on her elbows and looks at Naomi over her shoulder. “You work for me.”
Naomi’s reaction is unreadable as she moves to sit next to Drummer. “I work with you. And right now, we’re not working at all.” She cups Drummer’s cheek, and now, there’s no mistaking the heat. “I want this. I want you.”
Drummer prides herself on never fucking anyone under her command. She has her principles, her code, her commitment to the Belt. But she’s tired, and she’s angry, and she wants Naomi so badly. Because Fred sold her out to Dawes. Because Earth or Mars might wipe out the Belt on a whim, because the protomolecule may decide to eat this whole fucking solar system, because she is done.
She can have this. Just once, let her have this.
She sits up, takes Naomi’s face between her hands, and meets Naomi’s mouth with her own.
It’s been such a long time coming, Drummer groans at the relief of it. Naomi’s fingers dig into her hips and the kiss is slow and deep and devastatingly hot.
When they break apart, Naomi’s eyes are glazed, her skin flushed. A smile plays on her lips. “Well,” she pants, leaning her forehead against Drummer’s, “I’d say that was worth the wait.”
A laugh bubbles up in Drummer’s chest, tiny, barely noticeable, but a laugh all the same. She’d almost forgotten what that felt like. “That’s not all that’s worth waiting for,” she says, and steals another kiss, just because she can.
It hasn’t been difficult to focus on her work since the Behemoth left the Tycho docks. Between overseeing the various retrofitting teams and managing the flight plans she can go days where she barely sees Naomi, and when they do meet, their discussions are strictly engineering related. But now, with Naomi’s body against hers and Naomi’s teeth sinking into her lip, it’s like being offered water after months of rationing. She could never get enough.
Her leggings are too restrictive, so she tears herself away from Naomi to slide them off. She’s pushing the fabric down her legs when Naomi’s arms wrap around her from behind.
“Allow me,” she whispers, her lips tickling Drummer’s ear. Her body presses along the length of Drummer’s back.
Slowly, gently, Naomi brings one hand across to cup Drummer’s breast. The other travels down the length of her torso, lingers over the curve of her hip, then slips its way across her abdomen and teases the elastic edge of her panties.
Drummer lowers her arms to grip the mattress as Naomi kisses her bare shoulder. “Such a tease, Nagata.”
Naomi hums against her skin. “I’m enjoying this. Thought about you for so long.”
Drummer’s brain short-circuits. “You have?”
“Hmm.” Naomi’s fingers slide beneath the elastic of Drummer’s underwear. “Since you took me dancing.”
It shouldn’t be surprising. The electricity has crackled between them since they met, but Drummer always assumed it was a momentary flirtation on Naomi’s side, since Naomi wasn’t exactly available then.
Drummer definitely doesn’t want to think about that factor right now. Not while Naomi’s fingers are stroking her and--
Her eyes flutter closed and her head tips back onto Naomi’s shoulder. “Fuck.”
She reaches to guide Naomi’s wrist, but Naomi nudges Drummer’s hand away. “Patience, Camina.”
“Pashang fong,” Drummer curses at her, but Naomi only laughs.
Soon, Drummer isn’t able to say anything at all.
She grips the back of Naomi’s neck when she comes, rocking against the clever fingers stoking the fire within her, Naomi’s arm steadying her as she shakes.
Her awareness slowly returns as the aftershocks subside, and she turns to press a kiss to Naomi’s neck.
Naomi is smirking. “Wow. I feel like I should be congratulating you. That was some show.”
“Think you could do better?” Drummer slides her hands underneath Naomi’s tank top.
“Depends.” With one swift motion, Naomi pulls her top up and over her head, and before Drummer can fully register the new reveal of skin, Naomi’s bra is gone too. “Try me.”
The smartass comeback dies on her lips as Drummer takes in the picture before her. Naomi kneeling on the bed, naked down to her waist, her warm skin almost golden under the lights.
Naomi raises an eyebrow. “Like what you see?”
The challenge spurs Drummer into action. “Shut up.” Grabbing hold of Naomi’s arms, she flips Naomi down onto the mattress and straddles her hips, kissing hungrily down her throat and chest.
Naomi’s laughter turns to moans as Drummer trails her mouth over one breast, then the other. She kneads the right breast with her hand while she swirls her tongue over the left, sucking on the nipple.
Drummer knows what she wants, and right now, she wants to make Naomi Nagata lose her mind.
She kisses her way down Naomi’s stomach, tastes the smooth softness of her skin. Naomi is beautiful and good and right now, all hers. She could lose herself forever.
She works the zipper of Naomi’s jumpsuit down the rest of the way and Naomi raises her hips to help. The suit and panties land across the room. Drummer nuzzles Naomi’s inner thigh, holds her gaze, and leans in to taste.
Naomi’s fingers fly into Drummer’s hair. “Bloody hell, Camina.”
Drummer chuckles, which elicits more loud swearing in between the moans. Who would’ve thought Naomi would be such a screamer.
Undeterred, Drummer focuses all her mind on the task, using her tongue and fingers to work Naomi through every groan and shudder and cry. Finally, Naomi arches off the bed, her grip on Drummer’s hair verging right on the sweet edge of pain, and Drummer drives her through it all, until Naomi is a gasping, quivering wreck.
Drummer rests her cheek against Naomi’s thigh while she drinks in the sight. Eventually Naomi’s body stills, and she grins blearily in Drummer’s direction. “Hey.”
Drummer crawls up the bed to lie down next to Naomi. “You were right. You can put on a show.”
“Hmm.” Naomi brushes her lips against Drummer’s, soft, almost invisible. “It’s ‘cause of you.”
Her tone is light, but the words still stir something in Drummer’s chest, something she hasn’t felt in years. Her mind is too full, her throat too tight with things she cannot even begin to name, so she presses her body against Naomi’s and kisses her until her mouth feels bruised.
Naomi strokes her hip when they break apart, but her expression has lost the levity of moments before. There is a weight to their movements, a heaviness of things unsaid.
“Camina…” Naomi’s smile is tinged with sadness. “I should go.”
Stay. The word trembles on the edge of Drummer’s tongue. But she has paperwork to file and Klaes fucking Ashford is still on his way to board her ship, and no stolen hour with Naomi will change that.
She turns away. “Don’t let anyone see you leave.”
The Behemoth, Part II
Naomi does leave; first the cabin, then the later, the Behemoth. Naomi leaves, because she says this isn’t her place anymore. Naomi leaves, because Drummer fired on her family. Naomi leaves, and it shouldn’t hurt this much.
Drummer understands, even if the truth tastes bitter in her mouth.
Hours later, a machine crushes her spine.
She lives, somehow. For what it’s worth.
She orders the doctor out of the private med bay and concentrates on building the mechanical supports, because injured and paralysed doesn’t mean helpless. Drummer has never been helpless in her life and she is not going to start now. To build is to work, and work gives her purpose. A focus apart from the pain.
A shadow falls across her legs. Naomi. Naomi is standing in front of her.
Naomi came back. Naomi survived.
Drummer tightens the screws on the mech legs as though this would keep her heart from breaking through her chest.
Naomi’s eyes are suspiciously, horribly bright. “I’m so sorry, I…”
“Don’t,” Drummer snaps. If there is one thing she would hate to get from Naomi, it’s pity. Especially now.
Naomi’s brow is still furrowed, but she picks up a screwdriver and starts going through the components laid out on the table. She always was a sharp one.
“I sort of need a favour,” Naomi says after a while.
“A favour?”
Naomi’s face is too neutral for it not to be an act. “Holden is here.”
Of course, she wants to see Holden. Because that was what this was all about, really. Drummer’s stomach would churn, if only she could feel anything below her waist.
She doesn’t bother to disguise the bitterness in her voice. “And I thought you came to check on me.”
Naomi doesn’t rise to the bait. Just stands there, warm and patient, the way Drummer could never be. “Of course I did.”
Drummer clenches her jaw, but her anger still melts away at the words. Try as she might, she can never stay pissed at Naomi for long.
“I’m glad you’re back,” she says.
She aches.
++++
When she waits in the elevator shaft with the grenades, it’s almost a relief.
It would make sense for Drummer to die in a blaze of glory. It’s not like OPA members have particularly high life expectancies. At thirty-five, she’s made it further than most. Blowing herself up at least has more flair than being squashed to death by Mormon farming equipment. It feels like the right moment. It feels like enough.
She hears Diogo approach, and it is Naomi she sees. Naomi, who will know Drummer is sorry for everything.
Instead, Naomi drops the elevator and saves her life.
++++
Drummer manages to drag herself back to the med bay after the ships are released from the slow zone. The doctor fusses and disapproves, but she in the end she agrees to inject Drummer with another dose of painkillers.
She’s lying on the gurney and waiting for the drugs to kick in when Naomi comes to see her again.
“The Roci leaving?” Drummer grunts, in lieu of a greeting.
“Once I’ve finished repairs.” Naomi reaches out as though to touch Drummer’s shoulder, but then she seems to change her mind.
The silence is heavy and awkward between them, and Drummer can’t bring herself to look Naomi in the eyes. Perhaps she can blame it on the drugs.
“We can take you to a hospital station,” Naomi suggests after a while.
Drummer shakes her head. “We’ve got doctors here. Can’t just leave my crew.”
It’s a barb meant to hurt, and judging by the sudden way Naomi pulls back, it worked. Too late to take it back now. Some part of her is glad to land the blow, the rest of her wants to go back to the day Naomi lay in her bed, their bodies warm and sweaty with sex, so Drummer could get it right this time.
Instead, she tips her head back on the pillow and hates the salt stinging her eyes.
In the past two days, Drummer has lost Naomi, only to see her reunite with her former inya lover. She gave up her command because she thought her time had come. Then she nearly gave up her life again, because dying for Naomi seemed easier than facing the reality of the world ahead.
God, she’s tired.
“Thank you for saving me,” she says, and is surprised by how much she still means it. “I owe you.”
Naomi does put her hand on Drummer’s shoulder this time. “You don’t owe me anything. Except to stop trying to be a hero by sacrificing yourself.” She smiles softly, as though thinking of some private joke. “You know, you and Jim have more in common than you think.”
Drummer chokes. “You can’t be serious.” But her chest loosens, and for the second time, Naomi is making her laugh. Maybe it’s the drugs or hysteria or just a release from the tension of the last few days, but the room starts to feel a little bit less dark.
She loves Naomi. She’s self-aware enough to admit that, if only in her mind. And this moment is one of the reasons why.
Naomi squeezes her shoulder. “I have to go.”
It hurts, of course, but less than before. “I know.”
Slowly, Naomi leans down and kisses Drummer’s cheek. It takes all of Drummer’s strength not to reach out and hold Naomi there.
“You were never a wrong reason,” Naomi murmurs.
Drummer touches her hand, then lets the distance grow. “Just not the right one.”
++++
The drugs have kicked in by the time she strides to the other med bay on her mech supports, wine bottle and glasses in hand. She’s been putting off facing Ashford for long enough. She could have gone to see him a good hour ago, but the urge to let him stew in uncertainty was too strong.
On her way to the med bay she receives a message from Fred, praising her service to the Belt and declaring that she is scheduled for specialist spinal surgery on Tycho. Some deal he made with a Martian captain. She should probably be grateful.
Ashford is still hooked up to various monitors when she holds the wine bottle out in a silent offer.
“I can’t drink anything now,” he growls.
“Really. How could I not have thought of that?” Smiling sweetly, she unscrews the cap and takes a swig straight from the bottle. Technically she isn’t supposed to be drinking alcohol either, but it’s worth it for the dirty glare on Ashford’s face.
Drummer flicks her head in the direction of the medic monitoring the equipment. “Give us the room.”
“So,” Ashford begins, once they’re alone, “you’ve made quite a name for yourself.”
Drummer pours herself a glass of wine for the hell of it. “That must piss you off, ke?”
Ashford lifts his hand to shrug, the shades of his old pirate charm tactics returning. “Believe me, Camina, I never bore you any ill will.”
She hates the way he says her name. “No. You just didn’t care if you had to get rid of me to serve your plans.”
He groans as he tries to shift into a more comfortable position. “That may be.” He doesn’t show a hint of shame at the truth. “I still see the bigger picture. I’m the old man who nearly got us all killed. But you…” He points in her direction. “You’re a hero now. You should think what you want to do with that.”
Drummer wishes she could link her arms behind her back in her customary pose, but the mechanical rig is in the way. She settles for folding her arms in front of her instead. “Still giving me advice, I see.”
“It’s an instinct, I think,” he concedes. “My daughter would have been about your age, had she lived.”
Drummer gives him her best death glare. “Don’t even fucking try to start that shit.”
He spreads his hands. “Even so. Good luck, Camina.”
His condescending tone is as grating as static through a broken comm unit. “No one calls me that anymore,” she snaps.
Ashford gives her a knowing look that makes her want to hit him. “Almost no one.”
She won’t give him the satisfaction of getting under her skin. “Sleep well,” she says, managing to keep the sneer to a minimum. “I’ve got work to do.”
She leaves the med bay without another word and heads straight for the command deck. The painkillers are starting to wear off, but she can still get around well enough. The doors of the command deck slide open, revealing a busy chaos of noise. The deck is swarming with technicians making repairs; fixing panels and power grids, shouting instructions and warnings. Her people. Her crew.
It’s the first time she’s been on the command deck since she left to reprogram the farm drones and everything went to hell. Heads turn and voices fall as she clanks toward the captain’s station on her mechanical legs. She keeps her eyes fixed on the panel ahead of her, trying to keep her back straight.
A man in an OPA uniform stands at attention, actually saluting as he calls out. “Captain on deck!”
Really?
Drummer resists the urge to roll her eyes. Of course Ashford would teach his lapdogs that Earther navy bullshit.
The man watches her nervously as she passes. Gritting her teeth, she gives him a curt nod. Let them recognise who’s in charge here.
“I want status updates from all teams every half hour,” she barks. “Let’s get this ship running.”
There are a few shouts of “yes, bossmang,” and a flurry of activity. The assistant head of security discreetly rigs up a chair by the captain’s station, and a communications tech, Margi, shyly offers to bring Drummer a cup of coffee. Drummer accepts both with a gruff word of thanks.
The shitty reality is that Tycho is too far away, and without her the command options are Ashford, Dawes or inyalowda corporations who think they have a right to Belter space. The Belt will never truly unite under an Earther like Fred. In her heart, she has always known this.
She can’t be sure if she wants this role, isn’t even sure if she believes in it. But this is the situation that has fallen on her shoulders, and, like any good Belter, she will make do with what she has.
Her hand terminal lights up with a final message from Naomi. The Roci is leaving. We’ll need to dock on Tycho for resupply later. Keep me posted on your recovery. I know you’ll come through it.
Take care, Camina.
Maybe Naomi was right, and they do all have their place in this changing world. Naomi’s is on the Roci, doing good where she can, far away from the politics and the con men and the idealists. Drummer settles in to her chair and pulls up the latest notifications. Updates from the repair teams, memos from the interplanetary negotiations, at least six messages from Fred. She takes a sip of her coffee and starts responding to the most pressing task ahead.
This is her place now.