Leviathan Falls

Chapter Seventeen: Naomi

The captain of the Laconian destroyer Rising Derecho had a pleasant face. Thin, high cheeks and a little pencil mustache that reminded Naomi of old entertainment feeds about the fight for Martian independence. His eyes were dark brown, his skin only a little lighter. He had the trick of making threats while being pained at the necessity of doing it. This hurts me as much as it does you. A lot of Laconians seemed to have that style. Naomi had to believe that said something about Winston Duarte and how he’d led.

“We have reached the hundred-hour mark. I will restate this again: We know that the Gathering Storm is in this system. It must be surrendered to us within the next hundred hours, or we will be forced to act against the civilian population. I beg that the leaders of the underground in this system consider how little they have to gain by their refusal to act, and how much they have to lose.”

“They wouldn’t really do it, would they?” Alex said. They were on the ops deck together, her and Alex and Jim. Amos and Teresa were in engineering, controlling the automated probes doing pointless make-work tasks on the surface of a small, volcanically active moon that circled one of Freehold’s three gas giants.

“They would,” Jim said. “More than they would. They will.”

“It’s civilians,” Alex said.

“Yeah, but it’s our civilians. So fuck ’em.”

Botton looked soulfully into a camera in a warship orbiting a world whose population had grown to almost a hundred thousand over the years. “We are opening the channel to citizens of the city of Freehold in hopes that they will be able to reach your conscience.”

The feed shifted to a young man, maybe sixteen years old, standing outside on the planetary surface with a small house in the frame behind him. When he spoke, his voice quavered. “My name is Charles Parker—”

Naomi killed the feed.

Freehold was one of the most important systems in the underground’s network. It wasn’t particularly well populated or wealthy. Draper Station, hidden on another moon of the same gas giant, was very small as military bases went. But it was the hiding place of the Gathering Storm, and that made it central to the underground’s strength. Saba had known that would be true, back when Naomi had only been one of his chief lieutenants and not herself the center of the resistance to Laconia’s empire. There were plans in place for how to keep Draper Station hidden when a Laconian presence was in-system. It was why the Roci had been ready at a moment’s notice to pass itself off as the Sidpai operating out of Auberon. There was even a contract back in Auberon system to support the story, and a workplan backdated to seem it had been filed three months earlier that detailed the Sidpai’s mission to survey four sites in Freehold for possible mineral extraction. The second of the four was Draper Station, and they would make their approach to it when it was conveniently obscured from the Derecho’s direct line of sight.

The protocol now was to be what they pretended. Land where they said they’d be landing. Send out probes. Pull in data. Watch for signs that they’d been identified, and be ready to run like hell for the gate again if they were. Another transit to another system and hopefully no watchful Laconian eyes.

More traffic. More violence. No solutions. There were moments when it was easy to lose sight of all the progress the underground had made in hauling back the worst of Laconia’s bad ideas and power. She only hoped that somewhere in the bowels of Laconia, Admiral Trejo felt at least as frustrated as she did.

When she went to make a request, Amos’ comms were already open. “How’s it going out there?”

She could almost hear the big man shrug. “If we were really getting paid for this, we wouldn’t be covering the union in glory. But for a couple part-timers who don’t usually run this kind of job? Pretty good.”

“How long would it take to get all the equipment back into the barn?”

“Couple hours.”

Jim looked over at her. “We’re scheduled to be here for two more days.”

“We did really, really good work, and got all the data we needed early,” Naomi said. “Corporate back on Auberon will probably give us bonuses. Haul it all back in, Amos. We need to leave.”

“You got it,” he said. She heard his voice over the comms as he turned to Teresa. Playtime’s over. Time to pick up the toys. He sounded almost like the man she’d known before he’d changed. Before they’d all changed, one way and another.

“I’ll get you some course options,” Alex said as he unstrapped and headed for the flight deck.

“Thank you,” Naomi said. She pulled up the comms and prepared the fake captain of the Sidpai to generate a report to the Laconians. She could almost imagine being a survey crew trying to keep its head down and finish its contract in the shadow of war crimes about to be committed. It was always like this. People trying to get their work done even while atrocities were blooming around them. Avoid eye contact and hope that the fire doesn’t spread to you and yours.

Jim sighed. “We’re going to have to do something about this. Not sure what it is, but… something.”

He seemed confused by her smile. “It’s why I’m moving the transfer up. We’ll figure it out.”

The acknowledgment from the Derecho came two hours later, and a human being hadn’t touched it. One ship system talking to another, as smooth and lacking in intention as meshing gears in a clockwork. The Derecho was looking for the Storm. The Roci wasn’t the Storm. And even if they were under suspicion, the Laconian strategy didn’t change. They had a gun to Charles Parker’s head and a hundred thousand heads like his, and a timer ticking down toward zero. If the Sidpai was a little sketchy, none of that changed.

The transit to Draper Station was a little brilliancy that showed how good Alex had become as a pilot. It followed a flowing path that exploited the gravity of the gas giant’s moons in their relative orbits, did nothing that looked out of place or implausible, and still landed the Roci with the body of the target moon obscuring the Derecho, and the gas giant keeping any ship coming in from the gate from seeing exactly where they landed.

With the strict comms blackout that protocol required, Naomi wasn’t certain what they’d find when they got there. When the first, almost inaudible navigation pings came, it felt like relief. Alex guided them into the hidden base gracefully. For the years he’d been Bobbie’s pilot, this had been his home, and his intimacy with it showed in the ease of their passage. The Storm was in the secret dock along with two little in-system rock hoppers. The Roci edged into an open berth, the docking clamps locking on with a deep, gentle clank that rang through the ship. To the Derecho, it would look like the little survey ship had landed in a lava tube.

Jillian Houston was waiting for them when the airlock doors opened. She was smaller than Naomi thought of her being, pale hair pulled back but long. She wore a uniform-style jacket without insignia or signs of rank. The woman had served in no military besides the one they’d made up together.

The Derecho was a little under sixty-three hours from starting its bombardment of the planet, and it showed in her eyes.

“You’ve come at a difficult time, ma’am,” Jillian said.

“I’m sorry there are so many of those,” Naomi said.

“My father always says anything worth having is worth fighting for.”

Naomi wasn’t sure whether the bite in the words was really there or if she was just hearing what she expected. Bobbie had always given Jillian good if sometimes cautious evaluations, had promoted her up to be her second-in-command, and left the Storm to her care when she died, but Naomi wasn’t Bobbie. The first time the Roci had come to Freehold, it had taken Jillian’s father away as a prisoner. The alliance between Freehold and the underground had been one of the first steps in pushing back against Laconia, but Naomi couldn’t help feeling that there was still a splinter from that first interaction.

“How is your father?” Naomi asked.

“He’s planetside, ma’am.” It was a prosaic way of saying He’s about to die.

The others came out behind Naomi, Jim first, then Alex, Amos, and Teresa. Jillian’s gaze lingered on Amos long enough that it almost became uncomfortable before she shifted to Alex.

“Good to see you again, Captain,” Alex drawled.

“Welcome back, Mr. Kamal,” she said, and Alex grinned.

“You keeping the ship in trim?”

“You won’t find any dust on her,” Jillian said, then shifted her attention back to Naomi. “I didn’t know what you needed for the resupply, but your time here’s short. I got everything ready that I could. We have some quarters set aside for you to rest. It might be a little loud on your ship.”

“I can walk your techs through what we’re short on,” Amos said. “It’s going to be better if we load up and get out quick. Especially since we’re such a crack surveying team now.”

If his appearance unnerved Jillian, she didn’t show it. “Come with me. I’ll get you started.”

The gravity on the moon was hardly more than a suggestion. The rock of the corridors was coated with sealants and braced. None of the stone here had been compressed by a gravity well strong enough to make it hard. Naomi had the sense that she could have dug her way through it with her bare hands like it was packing foam. It was only the human structures that made it feel solid.

The dockworkers and supply techs were a mixed bunch. Naomi recognized old-school OPA by their tattoos and the quick, well-practiced actions that came from a life spent close to vacuum, but there were also younger men and women. People Jillian’s age who had come to the underground from the bottom of gravity wells and made their way here. There were more since the siege of Laconia. The empire’s loss had given a lot of people hope. She wasn’t certain she was one of them.

The Rocinante could plausibly stay on their false survey mission for three or four days. That was long enough to top up all their tanks and swap out their air scrubbers and recycling matrix, and do some of the smaller hull repairs. It was long enough that they would be on hand to watch the civilian population of Freehold die.

When the resupply and repairs were all agreed on and the process was underway, fifty-nine hours were left. Naomi went to the quarters Jillian had mentioned: narrow rooms with cots and blankets around a small private galley and head. The Roci was more spacious. Jim was curled up, napping. Naomi wanted nothing more than to curl up beside him. Instead, she sent a comm request to Jillian. The reply was directions to her on-base office.

She thought about waking Jim and bringing him along with her. He had a way of smoothing some conversations just by being in the room. But this was her burden to carry. He’d be there later if she needed him.

The office was small, with screens on two walls and the surface of the desk. The parts of the walls not taken up with images of the Derecho and Freehold, the security map of the station, the status of the Storm and the Rocinante, and the environmental status were painted a grayish orange. It would have looked good with some blue beside it. Jillian, seated, waved her in, and Naomi pulled the door closed behind her.

“I didn’t know Freehold was under attack,” she said.

Jillian didn’t look her in the eye. “The fucker blew out our repeater at the ring and dropped one of their own as soon as they came through. There wasn’t a way to raise the red flag. I apologize.”

“It wasn’t criticism. I’m afraid we’ve made the situation worse.”

“I don’t know that’s possible. But we do need to talk about our options now that you’re here.”

Jillian’s right hand closed into a fist, then opened, and closed again. It wasn’t the only sign of distress, but it was the most obvious one. Naomi breathed into the version of herself that was cold, analytic, and ruthless. She’d never wanted to be a war leader. The universe had insisted.

“You have plans?”

“A plan,” Jillian said. “The Storm is ready to evacuate. It’s already loaded with all the supplies she’ll carry and the parts of the station we could take down and stow. We break cover and get the enemy to follow us. Get out through the ring, transit to a different system, and start building a fresh base.”

“So abandon Draper entirely?”

“It’s not useful for anything but the Storm,” Jillian said. “And it’s less useful for that than it could be.”

Naomi frowned, motioning Jillian on.

“Freehold’s strategic importance was that no one knew we were here. That’s spent now. I don’t know if their traffic analysis is better than ours or someone leaked something. Shit, it could just have been a good guess. But they’re here. Keeping the base at this point is just holding on out of spite.”

“And the Derecho might chase you,” Naomi said. “Leave the civilians alone and come for you. That’s the idea, isn’t it?”

“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…”