Part 1 (2/2)
”Some of the ejecta c.r.a.p's fouling the scaffold. I've got grit in the joints.”
Three minutes, forty seconds. Thirty-nine.
”I'm coming,” Filip said.
Andrew's voice cut in. ”We're taking fire in the armory, bosslet.”
Filip ignored the diminutive. ”How much?”
”Plenty some,” Andrew said. ”Chuchu's down, and I'm pretty pinned. Might need a hand.”
”Hang tight,” Filip said, his mind racing. His two guards stood by the evac scaffold, ready to shoot anybody that wasn't them. The three builders were struggling with a brace. Filip jumped over to them, catching himself on the black frame. On the line, Andrew grunted.
Once he saw the stuck connector, black grit fouling it, the problem was clear. In atmosphere, it would have just taken a hard breath to clean it. Not an option here. Aaman was digging frantically with a blade, flipping out tiny bit after tiny bit, trying to empty the thin, complex channels where the metal fit together.
Three minutes.
Aaman hauled the brace into place and tried to force the connection. It was close, very close, but when he tugged back, it came apart. Filip saw the man cursing, flecks of spit dotting the inside of his faceplate. If they'd only brought a can of air, Filip thought...
Which, of course, they had.
He plucked the knife from Aaman's hand and shoved the blade into his suit's wrist where the articulation made it thinnest. A bright pain told him he'd gone just a little too far. That was fine. His suit alarm blinked into place, and he ignored it. He leaned forward, pressing the tiny opening in his suit to the clogged connector, the escaping air scattering the dirt and ice. A single drop of blood spat out, freezing into a perfect crimson sphere and bouncing away from the material. He stepped back, and Aaman slid the connection together. When he tugged this time, it held. The injured suit sealed the hole as soon as he pulled the knife out.
Filip turned back. Miral and Josie had cut the canisters free of their pallets and strapped one to the scaffold. The flas.h.i.+ng emergency lights had dimmed, the relief vehicles pa.s.sing them by in the haze and confusion. Heading, likely, for the firefight at the armory. It was where Filip would have seen the greatest threat too, if he hadn't known better.
”Bosslet,” Andrew said, his voice thin and anxious. ”Cutting close here.”
”No preoccupes,” Filip said. ”Ge gut.”
One of the two guards put a hand on his shoulder. ”You want me to go fix that?” she asked. Should I go save them?
Filip lifted a fist and shook it gently back and forth. No. She stiffened when she understood what he was saying, and for a moment, he thought she'd disobey. Her choice. Mutiny now was its own punishment. Josie slid the last canister into place, tightened down the straps. Aaman and his people fit the last brace in position.
One minute, twenty seconds.
”Bosslet!” Andrew screamed.
”I'm sorry, Andrew,” Filip said. There was a moment of stunned silence and then a stream of obscenity and invective. Filip changed frequencies. The emergency services for the military s.h.i.+pyards were shouting less. A woman's voice speaking crisp, calm German was delivering commands with the almost-bored efficiency of someone well accustomed to crisis, and the voices answering her took their professionalism from hers. Filip pointed to the scaffold. Chuchu and Andrew were dead. Even if they weren't dead, they were dead. Filip pulled himself into his position on the scaffold, fitted the straps around his waist and under his crotch, across his chest, then laid his head back against the thick padding.
Fifty-seven seconds.
”Niban,” he said.
Nothing happened.
He turned his radio back to the encrypted channel. Andrew was weeping now. Wailing.
”Niban! Andale!” Filip shouted.
The evac scaffold bucked under him, and he suddenly had weight. Four chemical rockets under high burn lit the ground below him, scattering the empty pallets and knocking Miral's abandoned loading mech on its back. Acceleration pushed the blood down into Filip's legs, and his vision narrowed. The sounds of the radio grew thinner, more distant, and his consciousness flickered, stuttered. His suit clamped down on his thighs like being squeezed by a giant, forcing the blood back up out of them. His mind returned a bit.
Below, the crater was an oblong blister of dust on the face of the moon. Lights moved in it. The towers at the crater's edge had gone dark, but flickered now as the systems tried to reboot. The s.h.i.+pyards of Callisto reeled like a drunkard, or a person struck in the head.
The countdown timer slid to two seconds, then one.
At zero, the second strike came. Filip didn't see the rock hit. As with the tungsten slugs, it was going much too fast for mere human sight, but he saw the dust cloud jump like someone had surprised it, and then the vast shock wave, blooming out so powerfully that even in the barely-extant atmosphere it was visible.
”Brace,” Filip said, though there was no need. Everyone on the scaffold was already braced. In a thicker atmosphere, it would have been death for all of them. Here, it was little worse than a bad storm. Aaman grunted.
”Problem?” Filip asked.
”Pinche rock holed my foot,” Aaman said. ”Hurts.”
Josie answered. ”Gratia sa didn't get your c.o.c.k, coyo.”
”Not complaining,” Aaman said. ”No complaints.”
The scaffold rockets exhausted themselves; the acceleration gravity dropped away. Below them, death had come to the s.h.i.+pyards. There were no lights now. Not even fires burning. Filip turned his gaze to the bright smear of stars, the galactic disk s.h.i.+ning on them all. One of those lights wasn't a star, but the exhaust plume of the Pella, coming to collect its wayward crew. Except Chuchu. Except Andrew. Filip wondered why he didn't feel bad about the loss of two people under his command. His first command. His proof that he could handle a real mission, with real stakes, and come through clean.
He didn't mean to speak. Maybe he didn't. Maybe it was only a sigh that pa.s.sed his lips. Miral chuckled.
”No s.h.i.+t, Filipito,” the older man said. And then, a moment later, ”Feliz c.u.mpleanos, sabez?”
Filip Inaros lifted his hands in thanks. It was his fifteenth birthday.
Chapter One: Holden.
A year after the Callisto attacks, almost three years after he and his crew had headed out for Ilus, and about six days after they'd gotten back, James Holden floated next to his s.h.i.+p and watched a demolition mech cut her apart. Eight taut cables anch.o.r.ed the Rocinante to the walls of her berth. Only one of many in the Tycho Station repair dock, and the repair section was only one of many in the ma.s.sive construction sphere. Around them in the kilometer-wide volume of the sphere a thousand other projects were going on, but Holden only had eyes for his s.h.i.+p.
The mech finished cutting and pulled off a large section of the outer hull. Beneath lay the skeleton of the s.h.i.+p, st.u.r.dy ribs surrounded by a tangled confusion of cabling and conduit, and under that, the second skin of the inner hull.
”Yeah,” Fred Johnson said, floating next to him, ”you kind of f.u.c.ked her up.”
Fred's words, flattened and distorted by the comm system of their vacuum suits, were still a punch to the gut. That Fred, the nominal leader of the Outer Planets Alliance and one of the three most powerful people in the solar system, was taking a personal interest in his s.h.i.+p's condition should have been rea.s.suring. Instead, Holden felt like he had a father checking over his homework to make sure he hadn't screwed anything up too badly.
”Interior mount's bent,” a third voice said over the comm. A sour-faced man named Sakai, the new chief engineer at Tycho after the death of Samantha Rosenberg at what everyone was now calling the Slow Zone Incident. Sakai was monitoring the repairs from his office nearby through the mech's suite of cameras and x-ray scanners.
”How did you do that?” Fred pointed at the rail-gun housing along the s.h.i.+p's keel. The barrel of the gun ran nearly the entire length of the s.h.i.+p, and the support struts that attached it to the frame were visibly buckling in places.
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