Part 34 (2/2)
”Do you know why she would be on the Pella?”
”I don't know why she wouldn't be on the Rocinante. And no offense, but I'm wondering why I ever got off my s.h.i.+p too. Longer I'm away, the worse an idea leaving it turns out to have been.”
”I was thinking the same about my house,” Smith said.
One of the Marines taller, and with a slushy accent that Alex couldn't place nodded. ”You should take cover, sir. We're going to have to pa.s.s through some territory we might not control.”
He meant that the enemy had already cut off the path between them and the hangar. Alex pressed himself against the wall that the prime minister hadn't claimed and braced. The lift slowed, what had been down became up, then even that gentle gravity went away again. The marines stepped back, raised their weapons, and the doors opened. An eternal half second later, they moved out into the corridor, Alex and the prime minister following.
The corridors of the s.h.i.+p were empty, the crew strapped in their couches for the battle or else on the move elsewhere, keeping these halls safe while the four of them moved down them. The marines took turns moving forward from doorway to intersection to doorway. The distance behind them grew greater with every little jump, and Alex was deeply aware of the doors they'd pa.s.sed that could open without any guards between him and whoever came out. The marines didn't seem worried, so he tried to take comfort in that.
The halls had the same anti-spalling covering that the bridge and the mess had had, but marked with location codes and colored strips that would help navigate the s.h.i.+p. One line was deep red with HANGAR BAY written in yellow Hindi, English, Bengali, Farsi, and Chinese. Where the red line went, they followed.
They went quickly and quietly and Alex was almost thinking they'd make it to the bay without trouble when the enemy found them.
The ambush was professional. The slushy-voiced marine had just launched forward when the firing started. Alex couldn't see where it was coming from at first, but he braced automatically and risked looking forward. At the intersection ahead of them, he caught the flare of muzzle flashes and the small circle of helmets. The attackers were standing on a bulkhead looking up the corridor, like they were shooting into a well. Even if he'd had a gun, there was a very small area to target.
”We're taking fire,” the other marine said, and it took Alex a quarter second to understand he wasn't talking to them. ”Tollivsen's shot.”
”Still in the fight,” the slushy accent shouted.
Across the corridor from Alex, Prime Minister Smith was huddled behind the lip of a doorway. Most civilians tried to press against the wall and ended up launching themselves into the middle of the firing lines. Smith hadn't done that. So score one for training.
Another burst of fire sang past, tearing long black strips from the walls and deck and filling the air with the smell of cordite.
”Oye,” one of the attackers called. ”Hand up Smith y we let you go, sa sa?”
The first marine fired three rounds in fast succession, and the attackers' laughter followed it. Alex couldn't be sure, but he thought the people firing at him were wearing Martian military uniforms and light armor.
”Hey!” Alex called. ”We're not going to be any good to you dead, right?”
There was a lull, like a moment of surprise. ”Hoy, bist tu Kamal?”
”Um,” Alex said. ”My name's Kamal.”
”Knuckles' pilot, yeah?”
”Who's Knuckles?”
”Pinche traitor's who,” the voice said. ”You get to h.e.l.l, tell her Salo sent you.”
”Grenade incoming,” the slushy-voiced marine said, his voice weirdly calm. ”Employing countermeasures.”
Alex turned his face to the wall and pressed his hands to his ears. The shock of the explosion was like being slapped all across his side. He fought to breathe. Flecks of something like snow swirled through the air, and the stink of plastic and spent explosive was thick enough to choke. The stutter of gunfire seemed to come from far away.
”Grenade mitigated,” the marine shouted. ”But we could use some backup here.”
The prime minister had a bright line of red across the backs of his hands, blood soaking into the white of his cuffs and floating in tiny dots through the air of the hallway. Alex felt the wall shudder under his hand as something on the s.h.i.+p detonated too far away to hear. Someone at the head of the corridor was laughing and whooping something in Belter chatter too fast to follow. Alex ducked his head out and back again, trying to get a glimpse of the corridor ahead. A crackle of gunfire drove him back into his shallow cover.
The laughter ahead of them turned to screams, the sharp, flat reports of gunfire into something deeper and more threatening. The marines opened fire, and the corridor rose to pandemonium. A body cartwheeled by, limp and dead, its uniform sopping up blood from a dozen wounds. Alex couldn't tell which side the fighter had belonged to.
The gunfire stopped. Alex waited a long moment, ducked his head out and back again. Then leaned out for a longer look. The intersection where the enemy had been was misty with smoke and blood and the anti-grenade countermeasure. Two bodies floated in the middle s.p.a.ce, one dead in light combat armor, the other in full marine recon gear. The power-armored figure lifted its hand in the sign for all clear.
”We cleaned that up for you,” Bobbie called, her voice seeming to come from miles away and with all the treble stripped out. ”You can come on up. Might want to hold your breath through here, though. There's some particulates.”
Alex pulled himself forward, the prime minister following close behind. They pa.s.sed Bobbie and four new marines that swelled their escort to six. He hadn't seen Bobbie in armor since the fight on Io. With the other marines around her, the ma.s.sive armor adding to her normal bulk, she seemed at home. And more than that, she seemed wistful, knowing that it was an illusion.
”Looks good on you, Draper,” Alex called as he pa.s.sed. Half-deafened by the firefight, he only felt the words in his throat. Bobbie's smile told him that she'd heard them.
In the hangar, the Razorback hung in clamps built to accommodate s.h.i.+ps much larger than she was. It was like seeing an industrial lathe with a toothpick in it. The flight crew hung on to handholds around it, gesturing Alex and Bobbie and the prime minister on. By the time Alex got to the s.h.i.+p, the ma.s.sive hangar doors were already starting their opening cycle. The flight chief was pus.h.i.+ng a vacuum suit at him and shouting so he could hear her.
”We're coordinating with fire control. The PDCs'll try to get you a clear run, but be careful. You run into our own rounds, and that'd just be sad.”
”Understood,” Alex said.
She gestured toward the hangar doors with her chin. ”We're not taking the time to evacuate the bay completely, but we'll get you down to maybe half an atmosphere. Little bit of a pop, but you shouldn't spring a leak.”
”And if I do?”
She held out the environment suit again. ”You'll have some bottled air to suck on while you figure something out.”
”Well, not a great plan, but it's a plan.”
”Imperfect circ.u.mstances,” the flight chief agreed.
Alex shrugged the suit on as the prime minister, already wearing his, slipped into the pinnace and toward the back bunk. The Razorback was a yacht. A hot rod, made for zipping around outside an atmosphere, the philosophical descendant of s.h.i.+ps that didn't lose sight of the sh.o.r.e. And more than that, she was old. The girl who'd first flown her had been dead or something stranger for years, and the s.h.i.+p had been old before she went. Now they were going to fly it through an active battle zone.
He checked the last of the seals on his suit, and started for the Razorback. Bobbie was in the entry, looking in. When she spoke, it was through the suit radio.
”We've got a little problem, Alex.”
He squeezed in beside her. Even before she'd been in combat armor, Bobbie had made the interior of the s.h.i.+p seem a little undersized. Looking from her to the second couch now, she made it look ridiculous. There was no way she was going to fit.
”I'll have them stop the launch sequence,” Alex said. ”We can get you in a normal EVA suit.”
”There are boarders on the s.h.i.+p. Looking for us. For him,” Bobbie said. ”There isn't time.” She turned to look at him. On the other side of the helmet, her expression was rueful. ”I'm only seeing one option here.”
”No,” Alex said. ”You're not staying. I don't give a s.h.i.+t. I'm not leaving you behind.”
Bobbie s.h.i.+fted, her eyes wide. ”What? No, I meant take out the couch and use the suit motors to brace me. Did you think I was -”
”That. Do that. Now,” Alex said.
Bobbie leaned forward, the magnetic boots locking onto the deck of the Razorback, and one hand clamped against the frame. With the other, she gripped the base of the crash couch and lifted. The bolts sheared off like she was tearing paper, and she tossed the couch out into the hangar. The gimbals s.h.i.+fted and turned under the spin. Bobbie scuttled in, pressing hands and feet against the walls and deck and pus.h.i.+ng until the suit was wedged in as solidly as if it had been part of the superstructure.
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