“Granted,” Holden said.
Bobbie said something under her breath that he couldn’t make out, but it sounded happy.
“Be careful, Holden,” Fred said again. “I don’t like anything about this.”
“Well, if it’s a trap, you can say I told you so to whatever scraps of us are left.”
“I’ve got thirty ships that’ll make sure you have a nuclear funeral pyre big enough they’d see it on Proxima Centauri in four years. You know. If anyone’s there.”
“That’s not comforting,” Holden said.
“We should open comms,” Naomi said.
“Fred? I’ve gotta go do this thing. I’ll let you know how it went when it’s done.”
Fred nodded. The connection dropped. Holden swallowed past the tightness in his throat. “How are we for range?”
“Inside effective torpedo range,” Bobbie said. “And we’ll be good for PDCs in eight minutes and ten seconds.”
“Rail gun all warmed up?”
“Oh hell yes.”
“All right,” Holden said. “Naomi, get me a channel.”
A moment later, a new frame appeared on his screen. Dark but with the yellow border of an open connection. They were so close, there was effectively no light delay. That alone made him nervous.
“Attention, unidentified warship. This is James Holden of the independent freighter Rocinante. We’re here to transfer possession of the Minsky. Hope that’s what brought you here too. I’d appreciate it if you’d identify.”
The screen stayed dark. Anxiety crept up his back. The seconds stretched without a reply. Something was wrong. Without moving, he rehearsed what he’d say to Alex. Get us out of here. Something’s about to blow up. What he’d say to Bobbie. Protect the Roci first. Disable the gunship if you can. Kill it if you have to.
The frame flickered. For a fraction of a second, an unfamiliar blond woman with sharp features appeared, and then immediately the image shifted to a woman with dark hair tied back. A small, cynical smile on her lips. Holden realized he’d been holding his breath and exhaled.
“Rocinante,” she said, “this is Michio Pa of the Connaught. Weird to see you again, Captain Holden.”
Chapter Twenty-Three: Pa
The Munroe died second. Marco’s forces caught it near a cloud of machining equipment and medical supplies that had been buried in the void. As best Michio could reconstruct it, a plea for help had come from a mining ship called the Corvid. They had five families on the ship, and an outbreak of complex meningitis that had the children in medical comas. The Munroe, charging to the rescue, was intercepted by two Free Navy corvettes, and fled from them into two others. Marco had recorded the captain—a middle-aged man named Levi Watts who Michio had hardly known before he was placed under her command—begging for the life of his crew before his ship was overwhelmed.
It hadn’t been dignified, and it ended in fire. Copies of it went on a dozen anonymous feeds with an attached listing of all the other vessels that had chosen to follow her.
The Corvid’s transponder vanished. The discussions of whether it had also been destroyed or invented as bait for the ambush came to nothing. The message was the same either way: No one could betray the Free Navy, and the Free Navy was Marco Inaros. Evans and Nadia had taken the responsibility of remaking the communication protocols for Michio’s remaining fleet. She could see the concern in their eyes and hear it in the timbre of their voices. She loved them for caring, but there was a distance in that love for now. A coldness. She couldn’t say how long her rage and grief would stay cold, but for now ruthless analysis was the only way she could mourn.
Maybe that was what worried them.
The Minsky had been flying dark outside the ecliptic in an orbit that, given several months, would have taken it near enough to the ring gate that it could have made a break for it, dodged into the slow zone before any of the Free Navy ships could intercept it. So when Foyle and the Serrio Mal captured it, she’d also saved the lives of everyone aboard. It would have been a matter of minutes between the ship passing through the gate and rail gun defenses ripping it to pieces. Not that the colonists knew that. Not that Michio had told them.
Even when Foyle learned that the prize ship was being routed to Ceres and into the arms of the enemy, she’d been willing to escort it. Michio had been tempted to let her, but it was the wrong move. Reaching out to Fred Johnson had been her decision. If it was going to go pear-shaped, she should be the one to deal with it.
The transfer had been furtive and quick—high-g, short-burst burns that brought the Minsky and the Connaught together on an intercept with Ceres that kept away from the bulk of Marco’s forces.
When, a lifetime ago, Marco had chosen her to head the conscription arm of the Free Navy, he’d given her the smaller, lighter ships. Armed, certainly, but not built for heavy fighting. She was meant to outrun the vast, bulky ice haulers, converted now to colony ships: massive and easy to overwhelm. Marco and Rosenfeld, the war leaders against the inner planets, had more need of the capital ships. They were the sledgehammer, and she was the scalpel.
And now she was going to find out whether her plan to cut a path where the great Marco Inaros couldn’t reach her had worked, or if her rebellion was going to be short-lived and tragic.
The universe has plans for you, Josep said in her imagination. You couldn’t have come this far through so many dangers if there weren’t a reason for you to be here.
The same beautiful bullshit that everyone told themselves. That they were special. That they mattered. That some vast intelligence behind the curtains of reality cared what happened to them. And in all the history of the species, they’d all died anyway.
“Attention, unidentified warship. This is James Holden of the independent corvette Rocinante. We’re here to transfer possession of the Minsky. Hope that’s what brought you here too. I’d appreciate it if you’d identify.”
“Well, fuck,” Michio said.
“Captain?” Oksana said.
James Holden. Probably the most ambiguous man in the system. The Earther who worked for Fred Johnson’s OPA. The leader of the coup against Ashford back in the slow zone. The man Marco Inaros hated more than anyone else. Chosen envoy of the Martian Republic and the United Nations to Ilus, and everybody’s favorite pawn. If she’d had a dream that his voice would be the one greeting her, Josep would have called it a sign. Of what, she couldn’t guess.
Her display showed Ceres Station, the enemy ships arrayed around it like a cloud of insects waiting to attack. And all through the system, she was certain sensor arrays and optical telescopes were focused on her, on the Minsky, and on the ship coasting toward her.
Somewhere, Marco was seeing her with the chance to open fire on James Holden. If God had wanted to give her a way to walk back her rebellion, He couldn’t have made a better one. She had her ranging laser on him. Even if she died, even if they all died, the other ships in her command would have a chance to sneak back into the Free Navy’s fold. No more Witch of Endors. No more Munroes.
There are no coincidences, Josep said in her mind. Except of course there were.
“Captain, what are your orders?” Oksana asked.
“Open the connection.”
Oksana opened the comms, grunted at some small error, and passed the feed to Michio’s station. Holden was looking anxiously into the camera. The years had been kind to him. His face had a more comfortable look, and a touch of sorrow and humor that he wore well. She wondered if the others of his crew were still on the Rocinante with him or if he’d left Naomi Nagata someplace safely out of Marco’s reach.