The Solano had taken the most damage in the raids and scuffles since she’d broken ranks with Marco. Enough that it was chosen to be the sacrifice ship, emptied of her crew and all useful material. It was the hinge point of her battle plan. Three of her ships to distract and disarm Pallas, to the point that, even if they shot it full of holes, they couldn’t scatter the Solano into a debris field thin enough to keep the docks from crippling damage.
“Still far enough back it’s not being targeted,” Oksana said.
“Four more down,” Laura said. “That last one’s being a booger … Got it!”
“Captain,” Oksana said. “We’re going to need to return to braking burn if we don’t want to get very close and personal with the station.”
“Do it,” Michio said. “I’m taking comms.”
“Understood,” Evans said. “I’ve got another wave of torpedoes coming in. And we are nearing effective PDC range.”
Michio set for broadcast. So close to the station, there’d be no light delay. Everyone listening would hear her almost as she spoke. After so long at high-lag distances, it felt odd. She considered herself in the camera as Oksana spun the ship and punched the deceleration. She started the broadcast.
“This is Captain Michio Pa of the Connaught to all citizens of Pallas Station. Be advised, we are here to remove the false governance of the Free Navy and return control of the station to its citizens. Evacuate the docks immediately. I repeat, evacuate the dock levels immediately for your own safety. We call on the Free Navy administration for immediate and unconditional surrender. If we do not have that confirmed in the next fifteen minutes, it will be too late to save the docks and shipyard. For your own safety, evacuate now.”
The comms display threw up an error alert. Her signal was being jammed. She boosted it as much as the Connaught’s transmitter allowed and set it to loop. She hadn’t had much hope of a peaceful ending, but she’d tried.
The ship lurched again and burned hard, pressing her back into her couch. Laura shouted something obscene, but the ship didn’t detonate. They’d dodged whatever it was.
“Panshin took a hit,” Evans reported. “PDC. They look all right. The Solano’s still not top of the Pallas threat index.” He paused, rechecked his monitor. “It’s working.”
“Thank you,” Michio said. “Let’s start taking out their PDCs.”
“Already on it,” Laura said. “Just as long as I can keep these torpedoes from flying up our …” She trailed off, lost in concentration. Michio didn’t interrupt.
This wasn’t what she wanted. Wasn’t what she’d ever wanted. She’d begun
this whole fallen, fucked-up process because the dream of a Belt for Belters—a life that didn’t depend on being used and exploited by the larger powers in the system—had meant something. And now here she was, fighting alongside Earth and Mars. Against Belters.
Three years, Sanjrani gave them. Three and a half. And then starvation. And she was about to break the docks at a major port so that James Holden could open the way to the colony worlds again and leave them all behind. This was what she’d agreed to do. It was her part in stopping Marco and trying to save the Belt, even if it was the Belt three years from now.
Every step along the way had made sense, except that they ended up here. Everyone she’d allied with her whole life had started by seeming to be good, competent, and loyal. They’d all disappointed. And now, she was going to do the same. She’d changed sides so many times, she didn’t know who she was anymore.
If she changed the plan now, if she backed away …
Fought the oppressor before. Still fighting the oppressor now. Followed your heart then. Still following your heart now. The situation changes; that doesn’t mean you do.
Fuck.
“Evans,” she said. “What’s the status of the Solano?”
“On course, Captain.”
“Do we have control of it?”
Evans looked over at her. His eyes were wide and uncertain. Panicky. “I have telemetry, yeah.”
“Slow it down,” she said, pulling up tightbeam connections to the Panshin and the Serrio Mal. “Give us more time to kill the defenses.”
Captain Foyle accepted the connection first, then a moment later, Rodriguez. In the separate windows of her display, they looked like negative images of each other. His pale skin, her dark, but with the same thinness and close-cropped hair. The images shook under different strains as the Panshin and the Serrio Mal suffered their own separate evasions.
“We have a change of plan,” Michio said. “The Solano isn’t ramming the station. We’re going to park it, ass-end at the ports, inside safety range, warm up the Epstein, and melt anything that comes out to slag. Blockade.”
Foyle’s eyes could have been cast iron for all that her expression changed. She’d be hell at the poker table.
“Con que?” Rodriguez said, his lips narrowing. “Is late à diffe the plan.”
“Late’s better than too late,” Michio said. “The Belters of Pallas aren’t the enemy. I’m not going to make them the enemy. I need slow passes from both of you. Every PDC gets dusted. Every gun and torpedo emplacement, we break. Then sensor arrays. I need this station blind and declawed.”