She looked around the deck. There was no shock on their faces. They’d all known when they got on the ship that there wasn’t much chance of getting back off.
“Permission to lay down some PDC fire along their trajectory?”
“Save your powder, Li,” Jillian said. “We won’t end this with anything left in the magazines, but there’s no point starting until it’s starting time.”
“Rocinante has changed course for the ring,” Caspar said.
Jillian steeled herself and pushed up to standing. The extra half g left her a little light-headed for a second, but she adjusted. “I’ll be in my ready room,” she said. “If any of you have personal messages you want to send, this is the time.”
They saluted her as she made her way off the bridge. Her ready room wasn’t much, but it was hers. She was sorry she wouldn’t get to spend more time there. She pulled up the live tactical display— Draper Station, the Storm, and the Rocinante growing slowly farther apart as they laid on the acceleration. The enemy ship and her own converging. She remembered something her father had said when she was growing up about owning your mistakes, even the ones you couldn’t fix. You did it because it was the adult thing to do.
She sent a message to the other forces in the system giving them permission to leave their present orbits and proceed according to their judgment, like a man leaving the gate open for his dogs before he went to war. She got a last shot of bourbon, but the idea of it was better than the taste.
Her ship hummed and strained, and the vast distances of Freehold narrowed. Her station chimed and Feil’s voice came on.
“Tightbeam request from the Sparrowhawk,” Feil said. “I can accept or refuse.”
“Pass it over,” Jillian said.
The man who appeared on her screen had a thin face and an almost comical mustache. He looked apologetic.
“This is Captain Mugabo of the Sparrowhawk.”
“Houston of the Gathering Storm,” Jillian said.
“You have no credible path to victory here, Captain. I am authorized to offer you and your crew honorable surrender. You will be prisoners, but you will be well treated. Send your remote operation codes and let us take control of the ship. We will see you and yours to safety.”
Jillian cocked her head. Even with all she knew and had been through, some part of her still leapt at the hope. Just the way it had when Trejo had offered his trade. Owning your mistakes meant not making them twice.
“Thank you for that offer,” she said. “But your colleague Tanaka? She has already made it clear what Laconian honor is worth.”
“I can’t speak to her actions, Captain, but I can assure you of mine. Even if you manage to destroy my ship, the Derecho will catch up with you. It is more than your match. I mean no insult. We are both aware of the situation. People like us have no room for illusions.”
Jillian’s smile felt like a knife. If she had to die, she was glad she was taking this smarmy fuck down with her. “We have a few minutes still. You can send a message. I would let your superiors know that when Colonel Tanaka opened fire without provocation on Draper Station, she didn’t just kill us. She killed you too. I hope it was worth it.”
“Captain—”
She cut the connection, poured the last sips of unwanted bourbon onto the floor where no one and nothing would ever have to clean it, and stood to go back to the bridge.
She was all out of later.
Chapter Twenty-Three: Jim
The Roci burned hard, the crash couch pressing up from under him at an acceleration that made his eyes ache. The sting of the juice in his veins was cold and hot at the same time, and it left him smelling something astringent that wasn’t actually there. His breath labored with the unaccustomed weight like a hand pressing against his breastbone, defying every inhalation. And it went on for hours.
It might go on for days.
There were breaks every now and then to let people get food or hit the head. When he’d been a young man in the navy, he’d been able to wolf down a meal, grab a bulb of coffee, and get in a hand of poker in the galley in the break between hard burns. He didn’t try anymore. His stomach wasn’t as forgiving as it had once been.
Jim drifted in and out of sleep as they fled, but he only fell halfway. Part of him was always waiting to hear the collision alarms from his screen and the deep chatter of the PDCs trying to knock out enemy missiles before he and most of the people he loved were killed by them. The physical stress and the fear were as familiar as an old, often-sung song. A hymn to the price of violence.