“It’s the hope. We’ve got . . . We’ve got recording stations in all the major towns. If it does come down to a bloodbath, it won’t be a quiet one. We’ll hang what they do here around their necks in every system with a radio. They know that too. It might help dissuade them.”
“What about direct confrontation? The Derecho’s a strong ship, but it’s the same class as the Storm. We have another gunship now. And if you have any other vessels or planetary defenses to throw in the mix—”
“We can look at it,” Jillian said. “It’s not apples to apples, though. Their ship is fresh and well supplied. And the Storm . . . It’s not in fighting condition. Not the way it should be.”
“Why not?”
“We don’t have the Laconian supplies or the repair equipment or the expertise. And we’ve been running the hell out of her for years. She’s a good ship, but she’s showing some age.”
Naomi heard what Jillian was moving toward. Hinting at, maybe without even being aware she was doing it. The younger woman was talking herself into a story where losing the ship, losing the base, wouldn’t be that bad. She was looking for the way that the massacre could be avoided, even if it meant surrender.
It struck Naomi that desperation could be like a fractal: constantly changing but also the same at every level. The citizens of Freehold, afraid that their last days were upon them. Jillian grasping for any way to save her people. Naomi’s own grinding, frustrated fight to keep ships from going dutchman and build something to rival the authoritarian, vicious empire. Elvi Okoye, risking her life for any way to stop the things from beyond the ring gates and their waves of hostility and weirdness. No matter how far out your point of view, the fear and desperation were the same at every level.
The alert took them both by surprise. Jillian shifted the image from the Derecho to the distant ring gate and the comet-bright drive plume of a ship that had just made the transit.
“Were you expecting someone?” Jillian asked as she redirected the base’s passive sensors toward this new target. Naomi didn’t answer. Slowly, the image resolved until the silhouette was almost clear. The ship was Laconian and familiar. And while she would have to query the Rocinante for the drive signature, she was already certain that it would match the Sparrowhawk.
“It’s from New Egypt,” she said. “It’s hunting us.”
Jillian’s soft exhalation was as good as a curse. If they’d been short on good options before, now they were out. If they tried to run, it meant going past an incoming enemy, and even if they could slip past it, the Sparrowhawk would be able to reach the ring gates with them and report back where they’d gone. If they tried to fight, they’d be outmatched.
I’m so sorry was at the back of Naomi’s mouth when Jillian made a soft, surprised grunt. “What is it?” she asked instead.
“The new ship? It’s transmitting.”
“To the Derecho?”
“Not tightbeam,” Jillian said. “It’s broadcast. Just radio spectrum transmission.”
Naomi frowned. Point-to-point tightbeam was more secure than any broadcast, no matter how effective the encryption. The Sparrowhawk’s laser might not be strong enough to reach the Derecho or it might have lost alignment in the damage the Roci had done it. Or . . .
“Are there other ships in the system?” Naomi asked. “Is it signaling more than just the Derecho?”
Jillian pulled the base’s comm controls to her own desk, her fingers dancing over the screen. A scowl drew lines across her forehead and down the sides of her mouth. “Yes, it is. And it’s cleartext. They’re not even hiding it.”
“Is there an address flag? Who are they talking to?”
“You,” Jillian said. “They’re talking to you.” She shifted the comms playback to the larger wall screen.
The de facto leader of the Laconian Empire looked out at them both with startling green eyes and a smile Naomi could only call rueful. When he spoke, he sounded like a reed instrument, played softly.
“This message is for Naomi Nagata. My name is Anton Trejo. I think you know who I am and the situation we’re both in. It’s past time that you and I talk. I would like to propose an alliance . . .”
Chapter Eighteen: Jim
The panic was deep and irrational. It felt so much like the station itself was vibrating that Jim had to physically test that it was really just him. He realized the message had been playing and he didn’t know what it had said. He slid it back to the start, breathing deeply, and tried to keep his mind from bouncing off it again.