Leviathan Falls

Chapter Twenty-Two: Jillian

As soon as the Laconian stepped into the base, Jillian knew she’d fucked up. She tried to believe that it was just nerves, that the trade would go down as promised, but in her gut, she’d known.

She hunched down in the access channel, head low. Blood was wicking through the fabric of her shirt, making the cut along her ribs seem bigger than it was. In the distance, the Laconian’s amplified voice echoed, but Jillian only made out a few of the words. Duarte. First. Die. She plucked her hand terminal out of her pocket with her left hand, thumbing through the options with the same crisis-calm she’d always prided herself on. Her impulse was to go take care of the prisoners herself. Instead, she opened the comm.

“Jillian?” Kamal said. Even though the connection was voice-only, she could picture his worried expression.

“I made a mistake,” she said as she hit the atmospheric release. The hiss of air rushing into the corridor outside their rooms was loud enough to come through the comm. “The Laconian’s wearing an assault suit. She may be tracking me.”

“Are you okay?”

Jesus, but that was just like Kamal. Jillian had locked him in a cell, asserted her own authority over the civilian chain of command, invited the enemy into their base, and Kamal was worried if she was all right.

“I’m where I should be,” she said. “Stupidity’s supposed to hurt. Get your people to your ship and get out.”

“Where can we get armed up? Can you get us—”

“Get your people and go, Kamal. You don’t need guns to run like hell, and you need to run like hell. I’m giving you cover.”

She heard other voices behind him—Nagata, Holden, the black-eyed monster, the girl. She could hear in the breathiness of Kamal’s voice that they were on the move. “There still a couple Laconian ships heading for us once we get out?”

“There are. One’s here, one’s coming.”

There was a pause. He might have been thinking. He might have been running. “All right.”

“Ping me when you’re launched. I’ll make this as easy for you as I can.” She dropped the connection and a section of the wall behind her blew apart. She’d been found.

Jillian put her head down and pushed off, half running, half skimming in the microgravity of the base. A volley of bullets tore through the air around her. If the Laconian had meant her to be dead, she’d be dead already. All the enemy wanted now was to keep her scared and moving. It was working.

The heat in her face was shame and hatred. Shame for herself, hatred for the enemy. And fear too, but she wasn’t going to feel that now. That was for later, if later came.

Jillian got to a T intersection, grabbing handholds and swinging her body around the corner in the direction that would take the enemy away from the path Kamal would be on. Chase me, Jillian thought. Come on, you asshole. Come and get me.

Draper Station was small, but it was home. Jillian could close her eyes and navigate the whole place like it was her childhood ranch. Her handheld was lighting up with alerts and errors, some from the station crew, some from the automated systems. Alarm was spreading through the base like adrenaline through a bloodstream. There had been a time less than an hour before when Jillian would have followed up on every one of them. Part of her dreaded that she’d have to go through them all later. A part of her knew better, but that was for later too.

Still on the run, she pulled up her saved comm groups and hit Live-send to the crew of the Storm. “Draper Station is being attacked from within. Prepare Storm for emergency launch in… five minutes.”

She didn’t wait for any replies.

Behind her, the Laconian was shouting something about Teresa Duarte, but all Jillian could hear was the joy in the vast electronic voice. Her own mind was already dancing ahead. Up two levels, and there was a tunnel that looped back around to the hangars. If she could stay far enough ahead, the curve of the tunnel itself would give her some protection from enemy bullets. She reached the ladder up, hauled herself to the next level, and slammed the access door closed behind her. It was going to be about as useful as rice paper for stopping the enemy, but the point wasn’t stopping the enemy. Just slowing her down. Getting a few extra seconds for Kamal and for herself.

Something seemed to distract the Laconian, because she fell behind for a moment. Jillian was almost all the way to the tunnel’s far end before she heard the access door being blown aside and the impact of the mechanized armor pulling itself after her in a fast, even stutter. Jillian let herself down and then moved to the right. The passage to the Storm’s airlock was two levels down, but Jillian couldn’t wait for the lift. Still on the move, she hit the lift door override, and by the time she reached it, the shaft stood open. She dropped, but slowly. Gunfire came from behind her. Some fragment of Draper Station’s security force making their stand. Some people Jillian knew and had been responsible for, dying because she’d let herself believe she could trade the Duarte girl so she wouldn’t have to watch her planet burn. The mistakes you made at the high-stakes table were always the ones that cost the most, and Jillian had a lot of chips.

Two levels down, she kicked off the back wall and stumbled into the airlock corridor. The Storm’s outer lock was already open and waiting, and Jillian hurtled into her ship and thumbed the doors closed. Down the corridor, the mechanical armor slammed into view. The Storm’s outer doors began to slide closed, and the enemy let out a shout amplified by her suit until the sound was almost an assault.

An RPG launched toward her, and time seemed to slow. The dark body of the grenade with a brightness behind it like a ship and its drive plume. Jillian tried to step back, as if that could help. The doors hissed closed, and then rang like a gong. The skin of the Gathering Storm was probably the only thing on the station that the Laconian couldn’t blow a hole through. Another quarter second, and the grenade would have detonated in Jillian’s lap. But that was for later.

“Bridge, this is Captain Houston. Report.”

As the inner airlock doors cycled open, Caspar’s voice came over her hand terminal. “Drive’s prepped, but we’re missing some crew.”

“They’re too late. No way to get them in now. Is the Rocinante launched?”

“No, still in dock.”

Where the fuck are you, Kamal? she thought. Into her handheld she said, “Prep for launch.”

“Aye, Captain,” Caspar said, and she heard the fear in his tone.

When she reached the lift, she checked her security report. Eighteen high-priority alerts tracked the Laconian from where she’d first opened fire, and then through the base, time codes of broken doors and gunfire alerts marking the Laconian’s passage through space and time like a borehole chewed through wood. She tried to guess which way Kamal and his people would go. Another alert lit up, but it wasn’t automated. Station security asking her what the plan was. The tightness in her throat was that she didn’t know what to tell them. The base was compromised, and it was her fault. One prisoner for thousands of civilian lives had seemed like an obvious trade at the time, but it had brought her here. Dwelling on the postmortem of her error was for later.

“Kamal, report,” she said, and for a terrible half second thought he might not reply. Then the speaker ticked once, hissed, and his out-of-breath voice came gasping to her. “By the water tanks. Heading for the dock.”

“Get there and get out,” she said. “I’ll clear the path.”

Caspar was in his crash couch on the bridge when she reached it. Amanda Feil was strapping in at comms. Natasha Li had the gunner’s controls up, even though she was sitting at her usual station. All the other couches were empty. Jillian slung herself into her own. The one she’d taken when Draper left. For the very first time, the chair didn’t feel right. It suddenly felt much too large for her.

“Launch when ready,” she said. “Li, target the Sparrowhawk as soon as we’re clear of the dock.”

“Disable or destroy?”

“Kill the fuck out of them.”

The Storm shifted under her, tilting her crash couch and then pressing her into it as the ship left its home port for what Jillian understood in that moment would be the last time.

Behind her, Draper Station burned.

The funny thing was she didn’t even like Kamal. She never had. She’d always felt like his faux-folksy grandpa act had a hidden contempt for her and people like her. She still remembered when the Rocinante had come to Freehold as a threat and taken her father away. Maybe on some level she’d never forgiven him for that. Or maybe she was just reaching for bullshit psychological justifications because she was ashamed of how things had worked out. Flip a coin, win a prize.

The Storm thumped twice as two torpedoes were ejected from the launcher. On Li’s screen she could see the tiny dots that represented them speeding off toward a targeting diamond with the name Sparrowhawk floating next to it. The Derecho was the same class as the Storm, but with the advantage of recent repair and resupply and the knowledge and expertise of the people who’d built her. The Sparrowhawk was smaller, and it had taken some damage in New Egypt.

Jillian looked at the tactical map of Freehold system. The little solar disk on her display made the vastness seem comprehensible. That was an illusion, but a useful one. Here was the ring gate. Here were the ships that the underground had in-system—half a dozen rock hoppers and an ancient ice hauler, none of them ready for a full-scale battle. Here was the Storm.

There were the enemies, focusing in on Draper Station and on her, the indicators for her two homes—her base and her ship—still so close together they overlapped. She pressed her fingertips into her lips until it hurt a little. There was the planet and her family and everyone she’d grown up with that the fuckers had threatened to glass. Here were the planets of Freehold system that didn’t sustain life.

Here was the problem that, if she solved, she could live, and if she couldn’t, she would die.

“Status on the Sparrowhawk?” she said.

“Matching us. Shot down the first two torpedoes, now staying just out of effective range.”

“Could you give me an evasion plan for the Derecho, please?” she asked, and saw Caspar and Feil exchange a look. They knew when she got polite, things were bad.

Caspar spoke, his voice steady. “If we break directly away and make the highest sustainable burn, their long-range missiles will be good to go in eighteen hours, fifteen minutes. Solutions drop quickly from there.”

“What’s the status from Draper Station?”

“They’ve gone dark, Captain,” Feil said.

She felt Bobbie Draper beside her. Not a ghost or a spirit, but a memory. The older woman’s smirk that might have been to condemn Jillian’s naive fuckup or God’s sense of humor or both.

If the Rocinante didn’t get out—if Kamal and Nagata and the rest of them died where they were—there were options. Assuming Trejo’s bullshit emissary stayed alive, one of the ships would have to stop and pick her up. If it was the Sparrowhawk, that meant it had to break away and give the Storm a head start. If the Derecho went after Tanaka, that meant they intended to let the Sparrowhawk do the fighting. But that was one she thought she’d be able to win. She could escape.

Freehold, on the other hand, couldn’t. If she killed their sister ship, would the Derecho chase her or turn back to punish the underground by leveling the colony? Could the underground’s other ships run interference? If she could lure the destroyer into joint action against her and her scattered militia at the same time… Well, the ice hauler wouldn’t make it, but it might give her enough of an edge to win that fight. And then it would be the Storm and whatever damage it had sustained against the one remaining Laconian ship…

“It’s okay, Captain,” Caspar said, and Jillian looked up at him. Her lip had gone numb where she’d been pushing at it without realizing. The pilot’s face was meant to be consoling. “We understand. It’s okay.”

Jillian fought the urge to unstrap, walk over, and hit him. Or dress him down at least. Lash out somehow. If they lived through this, she would have a long and very unpleasant talk with him about morale and faith in her command, but that was for later. Now, things were happening.

“Rocinante has cleared Draper Station,” Feil said. “They made it.”

A third icon appeared on her display, stacked on top of Draper Station and the Storm like they all shared the same shirt.

“Get me a tightbeam,” Jillian said.

Seconds later, Kamal was on her screen. Familiar as he was, she found herself caught by the small details of his face: the way his skin darkened at the eyelid, the whiteness of the stubble on his chin and neck, the laugh lines at his mouth. If he was frightened, he didn’t show it.

“What’s your status?” Jillian asked.

“We’re all on the ship. The girl and her dog too. It was closer than I would have liked, but we made it.”

“Injuries?”

“We’re good.”

The map of the system still on her screen rearranged itself without any of the designator icons moving. The Rocinante was only one more piece on the board, but it changed the logic behind everything. She saw the flaws in her plans and the stakes she was playing for. The despair felt almost like relief.

“All right,” Jillian said with a sigh. “Set your course for the ring gate. I’ll buy as much time as I can. Tell Nagata I’m sorry.”

“She’s right here, if—”

“No,” Jillian said. “You can do it for me.”

She dropped the connection, took a moment for a long, slow breath, then checked status. The Derecho was upping its burn, leaping after them now that Teresa Duarte was in play. The Sparrowhawk was shifting away too, ready to take another shot at the Rocinante. Get even. That made her target selection easy enough.

“Keep us between the Sparrowhawk and the Rocinante. As many gs as you need,” she said, and her voice was calm and steady. Caspar’s copy that was too. As the Storm—as her ship—shifted under her and her limbs grew heavy with the acceleration, she went on. “How does this affect the Derecho’s arrival?”

“Effective missile range will be two hours for the Derecho assuming it keeps its present course. Overshoot will put us behind them and out of range fifteen minutes after that unless we brake significantly or they do.”

“Overshoot won’t be an option,” she said. “We’re looking at direct engagement.”

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.