“Oh right,” Amos said. “Well, like them anyway. But yeah, we’re kinda stuck where we are unless we can make another hole. We’re looking for something to cut through the bulkhead with. Would like to get that done before they decide to rush us.”
Alex’s voice cut in. He wouldn’t be able to hear them unless she turned up her broadcast power a lot more, but the Roci’s transmitters had more than power enough. “Hey, y’all. The Storm’s breaking off our little dance out here. It looks like she’s trying to get back to port. Might be a good time to launch anyone that wants to get launched. You’re getting short on time.”
Saba responded. “Still waiting for the prison stragglers. Any ship’s ready, I’ll get them gone, but keep that bastard off us as long as you can, yeah?”
“I’m on it,” Alex said.
Bobbie ground her teeth. She wanted to break off, head down to back up Amos and his squad. Bad tactics. She needed to stick to the plan. Amos was going to be all right. She had to believe that. The lift tube went up the length of the ship, all the way to the ops deck. No one was waiting up there that she could see. That didn’t mean no one was waiting.
“All right,” she said to her team. “This is going to be just the same. Two move forward while three cover, and then the forward pair cover while the three catch up. Only instead of going from door to door, we’re going up from deck to deck. If we start drawing fire, we’ll try to get the lift going up before us, but it’s probably locked down, and I don’t want to announce where we are.”
The Belters all gave their assent and took position. Bobbie and a tall man went first, climbing the handholds like they were free-climbing. She glanced over the top of the deck before she climbed up, but she would have been surprised to find an ambush there.
She leaned against the wall, gun pointed up. It looked like the hatch to ops was closed. Leaving the rest open gave the defenders a great line of fire, but they weren’t using it. Not yet. She gestured to the others, and didn’t take her eye off the enemy as they scrambled up beside her. The Storm was bigger than the Roci. There were eight more decks between her and ops. That last step was going to be tricky, but—
Gravity cut out, and she grabbed for a handhold by reflex as the ship spun around her, sweeping her legs perpendicular to the deck. As suddenly as it had cut out, it came back. A hard burn—four or five gs slamming her down. The impact knocked the breath out of her, and then gravity cut out again, a moment of spin on the float and another high-g microburn. She and her team were braced now. The float and burn happened three more times. It seemed ready to keep going forever.
“Amos?”
“Hey there, Babs.”
“Is this you? Did you break something?”
“Nope. Whatever they’re doing, this here is the product of conscious choice.”
“I think—” A hard burn made her grit her teeth. Then the float. “I think they’re trying to shake us around like bugs in a can.”
Hard burn, and the float. “That’s going make this inconvenient. They trying to slow us down?”
“Until they can get back to port.” Hard burn, and float. Her mind shifted. Delaying and heading back to the docks made the most sense if the Storm was undercrewed. It also explained why she wasn’t catching heavier fire from the command deck. If the Laconians could get back to reinforcements, she wouldn’t have a chance. And if she didn’t, no one else would either.
Two more cycles of float, turn, and slam her into the deck failed to dislodge her from her place. When Amos spoke again, she could hear the effort in his voice. “That could be a problem.”
“That’s what I was thinking.”
Another round of gunfire pressed its way through the radio. “Not sure I’m going to be able to stop that from happening.”
“All right,” Bobbie said. “New orders. Don’t die until I say so.”
“If I find a way to kill this bird?”
“Then act like I said so, but don’t stick your head out just to look for it.”
“You got a plan?” Amos asked.
“That’d be generous,” she said, “but I’ve got something I’m going to do.”
The ship kept doing its stuttering bounce like one of the first-generation exploration ships that exploded nuclear bombs as a propulsion system. Even for the crew that made it to crash couches, it was a miserable way to travel. She took a deep breath, felt the rhythm of it, and on the next float, pulled herself out to the lift shaft. Two good handholds, two good footholds, and suddenly she weighed five times her usual.
Her fingers and toes screamed in protest. Her back and shoulder flirted with cramping. The float came back, and the ship turned, but she was climbing up. Just one set of handholds before the weight came back. But she was closer.
If she fell, it was a long way to the bottom. But no one was going to be shooting down at her during this, and they didn’t think she could climb while this was going on. That was it as much as anything. With every round of release and spin and high-g burn, she made her way higher, not looking back to see whether her team was with her. She needed all of her focus for this.
Sweat beaded on her forehead, and the suit’s helmet fan kicked up to high so that her faceplate wouldn’t fog up. She was burning through oxygen fast enough that a three-hour supply would last her maybe one. She thought about taking a break at one of the decks along the way and stripping off her helmet entirely, but if the Laconians decided to vent the ship after that … well, that would be unfortunate. Better to play it safe. Or as safe as free-climbing with a full destroyer’s depth of decks below her in radically uncertain gravity could be.
Saba’s voice came again when Bobbie still had three more decks to go before she hit ops. “Sensor arrays are down. We’re launching everything. No more time to wait.”
“I’ll try to keep you covered, Malaclypse,” Alex said. “The Storm is live and a threat. I can try knocking her torpedoes down, but treat her like she’s got teeth.”
“Bien,” Saba said. “And I have a package on its way to you, Rocinante. Keep an open eye.”
Alex swore under his breath. She didn’t have time to guess why.
Another moment of float. Another collapse into terrible weight. The temptation to go faster, to try for two handholds up instead of just one, was a trap. It meant less time to get braced, and that was an invitation to fall. It hurt. It took forever. It was the right way. She couldn’t get greedy. The pain in her hands was getting worse, but her feet almost seemed to be getting used to it. That or they were going numb.
She was over halfway up. Three and a half more decks, and she’d be at the ops deck. At the closed plate that kept the lift locked in place. Two and a half. One more. The float came again. She moved up. Her eyes were fixed on the seam where the lift plate would slide open. Where, if this was like the other Martian ships she’d been in, it would make the most sense to take cover and fire down at the boarders. At her. She waited for the next acceleration, but it didn’t come. Only a gentle press as the ship maneuvered.
That was bad.
“The Storm is on approach to the dock,” Alex said, and his voice sounded like ashes. “Anybody has a good idea, I’m listening.”
Her arms and legs were trembling from the effort, and sweat stung her eyes. She risked looking down. Her team was following, but they were only about halfway up. This one was hers.
Voices came from the ops deck. Sharp, barked orders. A clattering, probably from a weapon’s locker. They knew there wouldn’t be much time, but they were also thinking she had a lot more territory to cover than she did. The lift plate slid aside, and she reached in and took the blue-sleeved arm by the elbow and hauled the man attached to it through and down. He bounced against a couple walls before he caught himself, and by then her team had their guns on him and Bobbie was through the opening and onto the ops deck.
Three people, in the most oddly designed crash couches she’d ever seen. Bobbie raised her pistol. Definitely undercrewed.
A fair-haired man saw her first, and yelped, “Commander Davenport!”
An older man moved forward. Older than the others, anyway. He still looked like a puppy. “Get us into the dock! Whatever happens!”
“I am Gunnery Sergeant Roberta Draper of the MMC,” Bobbie snapped. “I will kill every one of you if anyone touches the controls.”
Davenport lifted a defiant chin. “You have your orders.”