“Ready when you are,” he said.
“Let’s go.”
The burn was punishing, and it lasted hours. The distance from the sun to Laconia was slightly less than an astronomical unit. If they’d kept the burn going the whole distance, they’d have snapped by Laconia too quickly to see it. The flip came at the halfway point, and the braking burn was just as bad. Worse, because now the planetary defenses had seen them. Torpedoes darted out toward them, and died in the web of four ships’ coordinated PDCs.
The planet itself was beautiful. Blue and white as Earth, with a greenish cast at its edge that was almost pearlescent. Naomi could make out the clouds. A cyclone forming in its southern hemisphere. The jagged, black-green line of its coast where the forests stood. Naomi fought to keep them in focus. The force of the burn was deforming her eyes.
THE WHIRLWIND HAS TURNED. STARTED ITS BRAKING BURN. IS FIRING LONG RANGE.
The message was from the sensor ops. One of the new people. She checked it herself all the same and agreed. If this didn’t work now, it wouldn’t work later. This was her only shot. Fingers aching, she sent a message to Ian, suffering in the next couch over. SEND THE EVACUATION ORDER. EVERYONE GOES FOR THE GATE NOW.
She heard him grunt and took it as assent.
Alex shouted, his voice strangled by effort and the g forces pressing at them. “Rail-gun fire. Brace. For. Evade.”
The Roci bucked, lurched. At this distance, the rail-gun fire could still be dodged. The closer they came, the harder that would become. She pulled up the targeting arrays, and the beautiful blue-green sphere sprouted five red lines, as bent as tree limbs. The platforms. The targets.
TARGET ALL FIRE ON THE PLATFORMS, she typed. FIRE AT WILL.
It was too soon, but only by a little bit. And there was a chance for a lucky shot. Every second they spent in the firing arc of Laconia was another chance to die. Worse, another chance to fail.
INCOMING TORPEDOES FROM THE WHIRLWIND. ETA 140 MINUTES. Naomi deleted the message. By then, everything would be over.
“Cut the brake,” she shouted. “Do it now.”
The Roci fell onto the float and snapped around 180 degrees, ready to accelerate again. Ready to flee as soon as the enemy was finished. There would only be one run past the planet. If they missed, they lost.
The ship jerked, and Alex took them out of the path of another rail-gun round. The chatter of the PDCs ran through the flesh of the Roci like the ship was talking to itself and it was angry. Naomi’s jaw ached with the tension and fear and the joy. The small, jagged red lines grew a fraction larger.
“Captain?” Ian said. “I have something.”
“Not as helpful as you think,” Naomi snapped. “What do you have?”
“I’m not sure,” Ian said, and passed the comms controls to her monitor. It was an incoming message from the surface of Laconia, coded with an out-of-date underground encryption schema. An evac request.
Amos’ evac request.
“Alex?” she said, and the ship jumped again, slamming her left and then right again, her crash couch whipping like the seat in a carnival ride. “Alex?”
“I see it,” he shouted. He was out of breath. “What do we do?”
Chapter Forty-Five: Teresa
The Mammatus died, burning through Laconia’s gate and being dismembered by the enemy ships, two nights before her birthday. The celebration was held in one of the minor ballrooms, with the same tasteful and understated decorations she always had. Silk banners with bright designs, glass candles that she’d loved when she was eight and been saddled with ever since, flowers raised in hydroponic farms in the city proper.
Soft music played over hidden speakers, all of it by composers and performers living on Laconia. Half of the guests were politicians and cultural figures—adults who’d come mostly to say they’d been there and to see who was in favor. The other half were her peer class and their families. They were dressed in stiff formal blues, just like she was. None of them seemed happy to be there. That was fair. To them, it was like having to go to school an extra session. They were nice to her. They had to be.
The sense of strained pleasure almost made her happy. All the adults had smiles like masks. They made a show of congratulating her, as if not dying for fifteen years in a row was an achievement to be proud of. But even while they pretended to be impressed by how mature and composed she looked, their eyes were darting around the room, trying to find her father. She had to play her role, but at least so did they. No one talked about the invasion. Not even Carrie Fisk, wearing a champagne-colored gown and a fixed grin, looking like she wanted to bolt for the door. Camina Drummer wasn’t there, and Teresa wondered what had happened to her. Either she’d lost control of the Transport Union and wasn’t anyone anymore, or she’d been part of planning the invasion, in which case she was lucky if she wasn’t in the pens.
Teresa didn’t care. She had her own problems.
It was still thirty interminable minutes before the dinner was served when Ilich escorted her to
the dais at the back of the room. The crowd got quiet without being prompted. Like they’d been trained. She’d been trained too. She knew what to do.
“I want to thank all of you for coming tonight,” she lied with a smile. “I am honored to be in your company now, and for all the years that I’ve lived here among you. My mother, as you all know, died when I was very young. And my father carries his own burdens. He can’t be with us here tonight because his duties to all of us don’t allow him time even for simple, honest pleasures like this.”
Plus which, he’s out of his fucking mind. Lost to all of you and to me as well, but I’m the only one who knows it, you poor fuckers. She grinned widely at the pattered soft applause, taking an angry pleasure in the raw perversity of the situation.