“You’ll have to think of something,” the captain said.
“All right,” Alex said. “Set a bunch of missiles to match the frequency of the Razorback’s comm laser. Launch as many as you can with us when we go, and Bobbie can use our laser to target incoming fire. We’ll outrun their ships and shoot down their missiles. Unless there’s someone between here and Luna or we run out of missiles, we should be fine.”
As long as we don’t get shot the second we launch, he didn’t add.
The captain blinked and shot a glance at the prime minister. There was a question in the politician’s eyes. Captain Choudhary shrugged. “He thought of something.”
“You mean —”
“No,” the captain said, “that might… that might work.”
“Captain!” A voice came from behind them. “We have confirmed enemy contact at decks seven and thirteen. Permission to use heavy weapons?”
“Permission granted,” the captain said, then turned to Alex. “I think that’s your cue to head out, Mister Kamal.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Alex said. “I’ll make this work if I can.”
The prime minister unstrapped and floated up out of his couch until one of the two remaining marines grabbed him and pulled him back into orientation. The prime minister and the captain shook hands as another voice interrupted.
“Captain, we’re getting a message from the attacking force. From the Pella.”
“Their command ship,” the prime minister said to Alex.
“More demands of surrender?” the captain asked.
“No, sir. It’s broadcast, not tightbeam. It’s… well, holy shit.”
“Give it to me, Mister Chou,” the captain said. “From the start.”
An audio feed clicked on. Thick static crackled, vanished, then crackled again. Someone grunted, and it sounded like pain. When the voice finally came, it was focused and serious. And it hit Alex like a kick to the belly.
“If you receive this, please retransmit. This is Naomi Nagata of the Rocinante…”
Chapter Thirty-two: Naomi
She knew it was coming before it came. Before she even knew what it would be. The feeling of the ship changed without any of the details shifting, at least not at first. The crew still watched the newsfeeds and cheered. She was still under constant guard and treated like a mascot: James Holden’s tame girlfriend brought back to the cage where she belonged. Marco was polite to her, and Filip was caught between approaching and avoiding her. But there was a difference. A tension had come into the ship, and she didn’t know yet if they were all anticipating news of another atrocity or something more personal and concrete. All she was sure of at first was that it made it harder for her to sleep or eat. The dread in her gut was too heavy.
No one told her anything, and there was no single moment when she drew her conclusions. Instead, she looked back, and details filtered through from her days in captivity. A few remained, trapped by a nearly occult sense of importance. Wings showing off in his Martian uniform, a broad-shouldered girl hardly older than Filip exercising with the steady focus of someone preparing for something she knew she wasn’t prepared for, Karal steering her own inventory busywork toward the armory and its store of powered armor, the seriousness with which Cyn tried the weight of each of the guns in his hands. Like the sediments of dust that built up in a badly maintained duct, the small things came together over time into a shape that was almost the same as knowledge. They were going into battle. And more than that, they were ambushing a Martian force.
When she found Miral and Aaman sitting knee-to-knee in the corridor outside the medical bay, she knew the moment was almost on her, and the hope she’d been hiding even from herself bloomed up in her throat, as wild as anger.
“This is the Pella,” Miral said, concentrating on each syllable. “Confermé course match.”
“Confirming,” Aaman said gently.
Miral balled his hands into fists and tapped the deck with them. “Fuck. What did I say?”
“Confermé. You want confirming.”
“Again,” Miral said, then cleared his throat. “This is the Pella. Confirming course match.”
Aaman grinned. “Course match confirmed, Pella.”
Miral looked up, noticed Naomi and Cyn appr
oaching, and grimaced. Naomi shook her head. “You sound great,” she said. “Very Martian.”
Miral hesitated, caught, she guessed, in the uncertainty of what she knew and was supposed to know. When he smiled, it was almost sheepish. Naomi smiled back and kept walking, pretending that she was one of them. That she belonged. Cyn, beside her, made no comment but watched her from the corners of his eyes.