“Strap that pipe down, Amos,” Holden said.

“All respect, Captain,” Amos said, “but safety standards can kiss my ass. I’m getting this done fast and getting outta here.”

Holden hesitated. If Alex had to make a course correction, the floating pipe could turn into a projectile massive enough to kill Amos or break the Roci. It’s Amos,he told himself. He knows what he’s doing.

Holden flipped to Naomi’s screen as she poured everything the comm system had at the small interceptor, trying to blind it with light and radio static. Then he went back to his tactical display. The Rociand bogey two flew toward each other at suicidal speeds. As soon as they passed the point where incoming torpedo fire couldn’t be avoided, bogey two launched both his missiles. Alex flagged the two fast movers for the PDCs and kept up his intercept course but didn’t launch missiles.

“Alex, why aren’t we shooting?” Holden said.

“Gonna shoot his torpedoes down, then get in close and let the PDCs chew him up,” the pilot replied.

“Why?”

“We’ve only got so many torpedoes and no resupply. No call to waste ’em on these munchkins.”

The incoming torpedoes arced forward on Holden’s display, and he felt the Roci’s PDCs firing to shoot them down.

“Alex,” he said. “We didn’t pay for this ship. Feel free to use it up. If I get killed so you can save ammo, I am going to put a reprimand in your permanent file.”

“Well, you put it that wayc ” Alex said. Then: “One away.”

The red dot of their torpedo streaked off toward bogey two. The incoming missiles got closer and closer, and then one disappeared from the display.

Alex said, “Shit,” in a flat voice, and then the Rocinanteslammed sideways hard enough that Holden broke his nose on the inside of his helmet. Yellow emergency lights began rotating on all the bulkheads, though with the ship evacuated of air, Holden mercifully couldn’t hear the Klaxons that were trying to sound throughout it. His tactical display flickered, went out, and then came back after a second. When it came back up, all three torpedoes, as well as bogey two, were gone. Bogey one continued to bear down on them from astern.

“Damage!” Holden yelled, hoping the comm was still up.

“Major damage to the outer hull,” Naomi replied. “Four maneuvering thrusters gone. One PDC nonresponsive. We’ve also lost O ₂storage, and the crew airlock looks like it’s slag.”

“Why are we alive?” Holden asked while he flipped through the damage report and then over to Amos’ suit camera.

“The fish didn’t hit us,” Alex said. “The PDC got it, but it was close. Warhead detonated and sprayed us down pretty good.”

It didn’t look like Amos was moving. Holden yelled, “Amos! Report!”

“Yeah, yeah, still here, Captain. Just hanging on in case we get knocked around like that again. I think I busted a rib on one of the hull braces, but I’m strapped down. Good fucking thing I didn’t waste time with that pipe, though.”

Holden didn’t take time to answer. He flipped back to his tactical display and watched the rapidly approaching bogey one. It had already fired its torpedoes, but at close range it could still cut them apart with its cannon.

“Alex, can you get us turned around and get a firing solution on that fighter?” he said.

“Working on it. Don’t have much maneuverability,” Alex replied, and the Rocibegan rotating with a series of lurches.

Holden switched to a telescope and zoomed in on the approaching fighter. Up close, the muzzle of its cannon looked as big around as a corridor on Ceres, and it appeared to be aimed directly at him.

“Alex,” he said.

“Working on it, Chief, but the Roci’s hurtin’.”

The enemy ship’s cannon flared open, preparing to fire.

“Alex, kill it. Kill it kill it kill it.”

“One away,” the pilot said, and the Rocinanteshuddered.

Holden’s console threw him out of the scope view and back to the tactical view automatically. The Roci’s torpedo flew toward the fighter at almost the same instant that the fighter opened up with its cannon. The display showed the incoming rounds as small red dots moving too fast to follow.

“Incom—” he shouted, and the Rocinantecame apart around him.

  Holden came to.

The inside of the ship was filled with flying debris and bits of superheated metal shavings that looked like slow-motion showers of sparks. With no air, they bounced off walls and then floated, slowly cooling, like lazy fireflies. He had a vague memory of one corner of a wall-mounted monitor detaching and bouncing off three bulkheads in the world’s most elaborate billiards shot, then hitting him right below the sternum. He looked down, and the little chunk of monitor was floating a few centimeters in front of him, but there was no hole in his suit. His guts hurt.

The ops console chair next to Naomi had a hole in it; green gel slowly leaked into small balls that floated away in the zero g. Holden looked at the hole in the chair, and the matching hole in the bulkhead across the room, and realized that the round must have passed within centimeters of Naomi’s leg. A shudder swept through him, leaving him nauseated in its wake.

“What the fuck was that?” Amos asked quietly. “And how about we don’t do it anymore?”

“Alex?” Holden said.

“Still here, Cap,” the pilot replied, his voice eerily calm.

“My panel’s dead,” Holden said. “Did we kill that son of a bitch?”

“Yeah, Cap, he’s dead. About half a dozen of his rounds actually hit the Roci.Looks like they went through us from bow to stern. That anti-spalling webbing on the bulkheads really keeps the shrapnel down, doesn’t it?”

Alex’s voice had started shaking. He meant We should all be dead.

“Open a channel to Fred, Naomi,” Holden said.

She didn’t move.

“Naomi?”

“Right. Fred,” she said, then tapped on her screen.

Holden’s helmet was filled with static for a second, then with Fred’s voice.

“ Guy Molinarihere. Glad you guys are still alive.”

“Roger that. Begin your run. Let us know when we can limp over to one of the station’s docks.”

“Roger,” Fred replied. “We’ll find you a nice place to land. Fred out.”

Holden pulled the quick release on his chair’s restraints and floated toward the ceiling, his body limp.

Okay, Miller. Your turn.

Chapter Forty: Miller

  Oi, Pampaw,” the kid in the crash couch to Miller’s right said. “Popped seal, you and bang, hey?”

The kid’s combat armor was gray-green, articulated pressure seals at the joints and stripes across the front plates where a knife or flechette round had scraped the finish. Behind the face mask, the kid could have been fifteen. His hand gestures spoke of a childhood spent in vacuum suits, and his speech was pure Belt creole.

“Yeah,” Miller said, raising his arm. “Saw some action recently. I’ll be fine.”

“Fine’s fine as fine,” the kid said. “But you hold to the foca, and neto can pass the air out to you, hey?”

No one on Mars or Earth would have the first clue what you’re saying,Miller thought. Shit, half the people on Ceres would be embarrassed by an accent that thick. No wonder they don’t mind killing you.

“Sounds good to me,” Miller said. “You go first, and I’ll try to keep anyone from shooting you in the back.”

The kid grinned. Miller had seen thousands like him. Boys in the throes of adolescence, working through the normal teenage drive to take risks and impress girls, but at the same time they lived in the Belt, where one bad call meant dead. He’d seen thousands. He’d arrested hundreds. He’d watched a few dozen picked up in hazmat bags.