Babylon's Ashes

Amos chuckled, and Holden realized he’d said that on the full-crew channel.

“Fairly sure he’s making this shit up as he goes too,” Amos said. “Anyway, the worst-case scenario is we all get killed and he gets to feel smart for not having his people on board when we did it. Win-win for him.”

When Bobbie spoke, Holden could hear the smile in it, despite the words. “No one dies while standing watch without permission from the commanding officer.”

“You say so, Babs,” Amos replied.

“Keep braced,” Alex said. “I’m gonna have to get us on course here.”

Normally the shifting of the ship under maneuvering thrusters was almost subliminal to Holden. The subtle dance of vectors and thrust had been part of his life ever since he’d left Earth. It was only that he was so tired and worried and full of so very much coffee that it bothered him. With every adjustment, up and down changed a little and then went back to the float. When Alex fired the Epstein for a few seconds, the Roci sang, harmonics ringing through overtones up and down the hull like a church bell.

“Not too much, Alex,” Holden said. “We don’t want our braking burn to slag anybody. At least I don’t think we do.”

“Not a problem,” Alex said. “We’ll just tap back down to a good coasting speed until we’re right up alongside them. Final braking won’t catch anyone in the plume.”

“And keep the torpedoes and PDCs hot,” Holden said. “Just in case.”

“On it,” Bobbie said. “We’re getting painted by ranging lasers.”

“Whose?” Holden asked, dropping the exterior camera and going back to tactical. The scattering of fleet ships. The surface defenses of Ceres. The slowly approaching captured ship and its Free Navy escort.

“Oh,” Naomi said, tapping through a list of connection reports longer than her screen. “Pretty much everyone.”

“The escort ship?”

“They’re painting us too.”

On his screen, the incoming ships stuttered, the data around them updating as they killed their braking burns, appearing from behind clouds of superheated gas. The Roci’s sensor arrays checked contour and heat signatures, confirming almost instantly. The larger ship matched the Minsky—large, blocky, and awkward with communications satellites meant to bootstrap a network around an alien planet covering its sides like warts. The smaller was a Martian corvette, a generation newer than the Roci, a little lighter, streamlined for atmosphere and probably loaded with similar ordnance. Its transponder wasn’t answering.

“Hate seeing this,” Alex said. “Two good Martian-built ships squaring off? It ain’t right.”

“Well,” Holden said. “Who knows? Maybe we’re on the same side.”

“If it is a fight,” Bobbie said, “let’s win it. Permission to lock target?”

“Has it locked on us?” Holden asked.

“Not yet,” Naomi said.

“Hold off, then,” Holden said. “I don’t want to go first.”

An incoming comm request appeared on his screen from Fred Johnson, and for a confused half second, he wondered what Fred was doing on the gunship, then saw the tightbeam was coming from Ceres. When this was over, he was really going to need to sleep. He accepted the connection, and Fred appeared in a separate window on the side of his screen.

“Regretting this yet?” Fred asked.

“Only a little,” Holden said. “You?”

“I want to make something clear. If—if—you take possession of that colony ship, under no circumstances does it come within three thousand klicks of my dock. If there are people who need medical assistance on board, they stay on board and we’ll send help out to them. Nothing comes off that ship until it’s been examined, scanned, reloaded, disinfected, and sprinkled with holy water by whatever flavor of priest I can put my hands on. I’m not running Troy here.”

“Understood.”

“The only reason I’m letting you do this at all is the chance of recovering prisoners of the Free Navy alive.”

“That’s the only reason?” Holden said. “So you’ll hand all the supplies on the ship back over to the former owners instead of using them to keep Ceres alive?”

Fred’s smile was gentle and warm. “Don’t be an asshole.”

“Okay,” Bobbie said. “Now they’re painting us. Permission to return the favor?”

“Granted,” Holden said.

Bobbie said something under her breath that he couldn’t make out, but it sounded happy.

“Be careful, Holden,” Fred said again. “I don’t like anything about this.”

“Well, if it’s a trap, you can say I told you so to whatever scraps of us are left.”

“I’ve got thirty ships that’ll make sure you have a nuclear funeral pyre big enough they’d see it on Proxima Centauri in four years. You know. If anyone’s there.”

“That’s not comforting,” Holden said.

“We should open comms,” Naomi said.

“Fred? I’ve gotta go do this thing. I’ll let you know how it went when it’s done.”

Fred nodded. The connection dropped. Holden swallowed past the tightness in his throat. “How are we for range?”

“Inside effective torpedo range,” Bobbie said. “And we’ll be good for PDCs in eight minutes and ten seconds.”

“Rail gun all warmed up?”

“Oh hell yes.”

“All right,” Holden said. “Naomi, get me a channel.”