Leviathan Falls

Chapter Thirteen: Jim

Amos was limp, his dark eyes closed. His mouth hung open and his lips were white. The hole in his back was about as big as a thumb. The one coming out his chest was wider than two fists together. The black meat of his flesh made the pale bone of his spine look like a worm someone had pulled apart.

“We have to go,” Teresa said from very far away. She pulled at his sleeve. “Jim! We have to go.”

He turned to look at her—her impatient scowl, her hair pulled back over her ears. Muskrat, at her side, was dancing on anxious paws and whining. Or maybe that was him. He tried to say All right but realized he was about to vomit just in time to turn away.

We have to go, he thought. Come on. Pull it together.

He went to Amos, putting his arms under the big man’s knees and across his wide shoulders. On Earth, he’d never have been able to lift him. With the three-quarter g of Abbassia, he was heavy but manageable. Man, girl, dog, and corpse, they started running toward the Rocinante. Jim tried to yell Hurry, but the thing that had clenched up in his chest when he saw Amos blown apart wouldn’t let him. He didn’t look back. His peripheral vision started to narrow, like they were running down a tunnel that was slowly squeezing closed. He had to get to the ship. A wash of cold and wet stuck his clothes to his belly and his thighs. Amos’ black blood spilling down him.

Ahead of them, the airlock opened. Alex was in it, a rifle in one hand, waving them forward. The dog reached the lock first, misjudging the gravity and skittering against the hull. Teresa grabbed Muskrat around the middle and climbed the ladder with her. The weight of Amos’ body slowed Jim down, but Alex reached out to help with the last couple steps. Jim knelt, lowering the corpse to the deck. The eyelids had opened a slit during the run, and the eyes beneath focused on nothing. Jim closed them.

“Fuck,” Alex said. “What the fuck?”

“Take off now.”

“All right,” Alex said. “Let’s get stowed, and we’ll—”

Jim shook his head and opened a connection to Naomi. “We’re in. Get us up.”

“Are you in a couch?”

“No, so don’t bounce us around too much, but get us out of here.” She didn’t argue. The roar of the maneuvering thrusters rattled his teeth. He took Teresa by the shoulder, pulling her close to shout in her ear. “Get the dog to her couch and strap yourself in. I don’t know how bad this is going to get.”

She looked at him with an equanimity he couldn’t feel. She was hurt, frightened, traumatized. She was a kid. How could she stand to see what she’d seen? How could he?

“He isn’t secured,” she said.

“He won’t care. Go.”

The deck lurched under them, shifting slowly as the ship went from belly-down to the usual engine-down orientation. Muskrat whined, and Teresa took her by the collar, leading her away. Amos’ body shifted and rolled. There was horror in Alex’s eyes, and Jim felt a rush of anger. The distress in his old friend’s eyes was too much. If he tried to comfort Alex, it would be too much. He was shaking as it was, and he didn’t know if it was the vibration of the ship carving its way through the atmosphere, or his own body betraying him. Maybe both.

“We have to get to ops,” Jim shouted. Alex took a step toward the spent clay that had been Amos, then caught himself, and they made their rocking, unsteady way toward the central lift. The deck shook and plunged under them as they went from handhold to handhold. Thrust gravity and the pull of the planet made his knees and spine ache. His vision, dark. He found himself on the edge of confusion, unsure for a moment whether they were fleeing New Egypt or Laconia. When they reached the lift, he sat down to keep from passing out. His mind pieced itself together as they rose.

Alex squatted beside him. “You okay?”

“They were there waiting for us. They knew we were coming.”

“I’m sorry,” Alex said. “I should have been there.”

“She shot Amos in the back. Shot him in the back as we ran.”

Alex was quiet, because there wasn’t anything to say. Jim looked at his flight suit, smeared black from the gut to the knees. His hands were stained black too, but it still smelled like blood.

The lift pushed up, deck by deck. When they got to ops, Jim either had himself back together or he was fully dissociated. It was hard to know which.

The ride smoothed out as they reached the upper atmosphere. The winds were screaming past them, but with so little mass to the air that a ripping five-hundred-kilometer-per-hour current deflected them less than a breeze. The deck felt steadier under his feet. Naomi was in a couch, the flight controls on her screen. She glanced over as he lowered himself into the crash couch beside hers. He saw her register the blood and whose it was.

“Amos?” she asked.

He shook his head, not meaning that it wasn’t. Meaning not now. He knew she understood.

Alex went up to the flight deck, his rifle still bouncing against his shoulder. “I’m taking the stick,” he shouted down moments later.

“Copy that,” Naomi replied. “I’m fire control.” The screen before her shifted to status readouts on the ship’s guns—PDCs, torpedoes, the keel-mounted rail gun. Jim pulled up tactical. On this screen an augmented map of Abbassia below them filled one side, a schematic of the nearby space of New Egypt system the other. And a sliver of red marked something the Roci’s threat detection thought he should be alarmed about. A stone in his chest, he selected it and pulled up the ship identification.

“We’ve got company,” Alex shouted from above.

“I’ve got them,” Jim answered.

Naomi’s voice was sharp and matter-of-fact the way it always was in the teeth of crisis. “Is it a Storm?”

Jim looked at the analysis. Now that there was only one Magnetar-class ship left, stuck in Laconia guarding their homeworld, the Storm-class destroyers were the backbone of Laconian power. And even one would be more than a match for the Roci. But this was smaller, with a squat, broad design, and a drive cone that promised it was built for speed.

“No,” he said. “Smaller. Maybe an explorer. I don’t know.”

“Well, it’s coming our way,” Alex said. “And it looks pissed.”

“Can we keep the planet between us and them?”

“If I put us in a low, fast orbit, maybe for a little while. Long term? No.”

“Give me a little while, then.”

Naomi didn’t speak, but she cycled through the PDC status checks. If it was a shooting war, they’d be as ready as a lone ship could be. Jim’s first impulse was to turn their back to the sun and burn as hard as they could stand it toward the ring gate and out of the system.

It wouldn’t work. The Laconian ship was made to be faster. And if they wanted Teresa, their best move was to punch a hole in the Roci’s drive cone and force a shutdown, then board and take her at their leisure. Turning tail and running would just make the shot easier. The alternative was to make it hard.

He closed his eyes. There was only one next step that he could think of, and he hated it. His mind shifted and slipped, looking for a better idea.

“Uh, Jim?” Alex said. “Your while’s about up. What’s the play?”

Fuck, he thought. “Keep our nose pointed at them. Make it so they have to put a hole through every deck in the ship to hit the drive.”

Naomi and Alex were silent for a moment, then Alex said, “I’m on it.”

The distant sound of the thrusters was totally different from the earlier roar. The shift of the crash couch felt almost gentle.

Naomi nodded, and checked power status on the rail gun. “Funny. You were saying before that the human shield thing made you uncomfortable.”

“I’ve moved past uncomfortable to furious.”

She nodded her agreement, then the screen lit up as the tightbeam request was accepted. A man’s face appeared on the screen: broad, with round cheeks, dark skin, and a full and well-groomed mustache. He was wearing the blue uniform of Laconia with a captain’s rank. He nodded at the camera, as calm as if they were in line together at the commissary.

“Captain Holden. I am Captain Noel Mugabo of the Sparrowhawk. Please return to the planet surface. I mean you and your crew no harm.”

“You people just put a bullet through my mechanic,” Jim said, and Naomi stiffened.

“And you killed four Laconian Marines,” the captain said. “I am here to help us both deescalate. My orders are to keep you here. We need Teresa Duarte’s assistance, and for that, she must come with us. We will not hurt her, nor will we detain you.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Your doubt doesn’t change our situation.” Jim noticed the way the man said our situation. Building rapport. Making it harder to pull the trigger, but also not backing down a centimeter. He’d had conversations like this as a prisoner on Laconia. “Please return to the planet’s surface, and we will take care of all this without any more violence.”

His crash couch put up a low-grade medical alert. His blood pressure and heart rate were concerning. Not dangerous, but not not-dangerous. He turned off the alerts.

“No,” Jim said. “I think we both know that’s not going to happen.”

Alex called down from the flight deck. “They’re getting closer. Want me to break orbit?”

Jim muted his mic. “Not yet.”

“What alternative do you suggest?” Captain Mugabo asked. “I am open to discussing this.”

“I propose you land so we know you’re not a threat. Then we leave. With the girl.”

“May I have a moment to consult with my superior?”

Jim nodded, and Mugabo’s eyes shifted down as if he were sending a text-only message. Jim pulled up a tactical window. The two ships whipping around the planet in a low orbit, pointed dead-on at each other like gunmen in a cheap entertainment feed. He didn’t know what sorts of weapons the Sparrowhawk carried, but he knew for a fact they were all pointed at him right now.

Another window appeared. Fire control, with the rail gun charged and ready, the Laconian ship locked in with passive targeting so that it wouldn’t seem like an escalation. He glanced over to Naomi. She mouthed the words If you need it. He nodded.

“All right,” Mugabo said. “I accept your terms.”

“What?”

“We both value the life of the girl. If we have to continue this negotiation another time, so be it. You can go.”

Jim took two long breaths. “You’re not beginning a deorbit burn.”

“Did you expect me to?”

“I don’t think you’re telling me the truth,” Jim said. “I think if I fire the maneuvering thrusters, start to turn a little bit, you’ll send a round through my drive cone. I think the only reason you haven’t already done it is that you’d have to shoot through the whole ship to do it, and the risk to Teresa Duarte is too high.”

“I assure you that is not the case,” Mugabo said.

“Then you go first. If we’re free to leave, begin your descent. When I see you touch down, I’ll know you were telling the truth.”

“Yes,” Mugabo said. “Of course. I very much understand your position.”

“You’re playing for time.”

“I understand why you would feel that way, Captain Holden. Please believe me that we mean you and your crew no harm, and that my offer is sincere.”

The tactical screen bloomed at the same moment that Naomi’s calm voice reached him. “Fast movers. They’ve launched torpedoes.”

Radar tracked the pair of torpedoes as they arced out away from the Sparrowhawk. Mugabo had been buying time while his people locked in a firing solution that sent the torpedoes out and around the Roci to arc back in and hit her from behind. Take out the drive and leave the rest of the ship intact.

Jim tapped the fire control, and the Rocinante dropped away beneath him for a fraction of a second as a two-kilo tungsten slug spat out toward the enemy without the main drive on to compensate for the kick. Mugabo vanished, the tightbeam connection lost. The rolling, deep chatter of the PDCs vibrated through the ship. One of the torpedoes blinked off his board.

“I’m lining up another shot,” Alex said. The rail gun showed ready. The other missile blinked off the board. The Roci squealed a warning at them as two more torpedoes locked on.

“They’re getting ready to launch again,” Jim said.

“I’ve got the reactor set to dump core if the Roci thinks we’re out of luck,” Naomi said.

“Alex?”

The rail gun locked onto the Sparrowhawk a second time and fired without Jim’s having to clear it. “I think you got ’em,” Alex said.

Jim switched to the external telescopes. The Sparrowhawk was where it had been, curving around the planet toward them, its orbit unchanged. But now a cloud of gas and water vapor sprayed out of the ship along one side. The lock-on tone died as the Sparrowhawk’s torpedoes failed to fire.

“They may be playing dead,” Naomi said.

“Alex, keep the rail gun trained on them.”

“Copy that.”

A tiny suggestion of up and down came, shifting the couches on their gimbals as Alex adjusted the ship’s orbit to keep the Sparrowhawk lined up in their sights. No new lock-on warnings sounded. No active radar bounced off their hull. Jim pulled up the comms again, tried the tightbeam connection without knowing exactly what he’d say if Mugabo answered. He didn’t. The Laconian ship drifted on in its low, fast orbit. Either the Laconian ship would repair itself, or in another few weeks it would fall back down into the planet’s gravity well and burn up like a meteor. Or it was only playing dead, waiting for Jim to declare victory, turn the ship, and catch a rail-gun round through its drive.

“Alex,” he said. “Pull us back on maneuvering thrusters. If they don’t turn to match… Turn us, and let’s break orbit. Get out of here.”

“Copy that,” Alex said, and the Roci shifted under Jim. They moved gently. Slowly. Waiting for the alarms that would mean the Sparrowhawk had only been playing dead.

The alarms didn’t come.

“So what now?” Alex said.

“Now we plot the fastest way back through the ring gate and out of here.”

“Any thoughts on where to?” Alex asked. “Firdaws is on the flight plan, but—”

“Freehold,” Naomi said, her voice calm and authoritative. “We needed resupply before, and we’re burning through a lot of reaction mass on the maneuvering thrusters. And I wouldn’t mind being under the protection of one of our own while we figure out how this went pear-shaped.”

“Yeah,” Alex said, his voice grim. “This kindness-of-strangers thing isn’t going so well for us.”

Jim heard Naomi’s restraints clattering free, and he felt her coming close. She stroked his hair, and he took her hand, kissing her fingers gently.

“That went very bad,” she said.

“Yeah.”

She waited a moment before she said, “What happened to Amos?”

Jim shook his head. We lost him, he tried to say. I lost him.

“Yeah,” Amos said. “I got pretty fucked up all right.”

He stepped in from the lift, his shredded flight suit as wet and black as if he’d poured ink on it. The exit wound on his chest was pale flesh around a flat circle of onyx. When he smiled, it seemed tentative.

Naomi’s expression went empty.

“Hey, Cap. We got Tiny back safe, didn’t we?”

It took a moment to understand this was really happening, but then Jim said, “Yeah. We did.”

“And the dog?”

“Her too.”

Amos stepped into the ops deck and lowered himself into an empty crash couch, grunting like he was sore. “Good. Tiny really likes that dog. There’s a hell of a mess in the airlock. I’ll get it cleaned up, but I gotta get some food first. I’m really hungry.”

Alex, drawn by the sound of Amos’ voice, came down from the flight deck. His face was pale. “Amos?”

“Hey,” the big man said, lifting a hand in greeting. “I think I must have took kind of a hit down there. I’m missing some of what happened.”

Jim wanted to feel joy, and he did. But there was something more with it. A sense of wrongness that came from trauma after trauma followed by something that violated his inborn sense of how the universe worked. What was possible.

“You died,” he said. “You took a round to the back, and it blew most of your chest out. I saw your spine. It was in pieces.”

Amos went still in that unnerving way he sometimes did, and then frowned, nodded. “Yeah, okay. I think I knew that part.”

Jim laughed, and it was disbelief. And maybe relief. And something else he couldn’t put a name to. “Is there anything that kills you anymore?”

“Pretty sure I’m starving to death,” Amos said.

“Well,” Alex said. “God damn.”

Naomi still hadn’t spoken. Amos touched the black circle of his wound, exploring it. It didn’t look like skin anymore. Whatever it was, it was what Amos’ resurrected corpse made when it replaced his injured flesh. Jim wondered what the inside of the wound looked like. For the first time it occurred to him that the changes the drones on Laconia had made to his old friend hadn’t stopped when they escaped the planet. Amos hadn’t become something different. He was in an ongoing process of becoming. Something about the idea was chilling.

As if Amos had read Jim’s thoughts, he frowned. “I don’t know how this whole thing works. But we’d be better off not doing it too often.”