Havelock’s newsfeeds from back home were filled with hyperbolic pieces about the tragedy at New Terra. The sensor data of the explosion had found its way to a few of the reputable feeds, but there were also three or four other forged versions out there too. The faked data wasn’t particularly more impressive than the truth. He spooled through a dozen commentators. Some of them seemed angry that the expedition had been allowed to go out, some were somber and sad. None of them seemed to think there was much chance of anyone surviving. His message queue had over a thousand new entries. People in the media. People from the home office. A few – just a few – from people he’d known. An old lover from when he was at Pinkwater. A cousin he hadn’t seen in a decade and a half who was living on Ceres Station now. A couple of classmates from school.
There was nothing like dying publicly on a few billion screens to help reconnect with folks. He wasn’t going to answer any of them. Not even the ones from his employers. Not even the ones from his friends. All of it felt like he was trapped underwater and drowning, looking up at the water’s surface and knowing he’d never make it there.
He undid his straps.
“Goodnight, Havelock,” Naomi said.
“I’ll be back,” he said, launching himself across the office.
It had been a long time since he’d done a patrol, even just an informal one. He pulled himself along the narrow corridors of the Israel, moved through the common spaces – commissary, gym, open lab, bar. In the months – years now – that he’d lived on the Israel, it had become invisible the way that anyplace did. Looking at it now was like seeing it for the first time. It was an old ship. The carefully symmetrical shape of the corridors, the keyed mechanism on the doorways. All of it was the kind of thing he’d seen in pictures of his grandparents. Seeing the people was much the same. There was a distance between security and the rest of the crew. If there wasn’t, then something had gone badly wrong. Havelock didn’t think of himself as being part of the Israel’s complement, but every face he passed he recognized. Hosni McArron, the food science head. Anita Chang, systems tech. John Deloso, mechanic. Even if he didn’t know how he knew them, they were all part of the context of his life now.
And they were all going to die because he couldn’t stop it from happening.
Forward observation was a dark room. The screens were built to give the illusion of looking out a window at the vastness of space, but no one ever actually used it that way. When he came in, it was empty. The screens were filled with sensor data spooling past too quickly to read, a musical composition by a dark-skinned Belter he didn’t recognize, and a false-color temperature map of New Terra. The security camera had a bit of cloth tacked over it and the air recyclers hadn’t quite managed to clear out the smell of marijuana. Probably someone had been using it as a meeting place for sex. Havelock pulled the cloth free of the camera. Well, and why shouldn’t they? It wasn’t as if anything they did now was going to matter in three weeks. He shifted the screens to show the planet below them. New Terra, wrapped in clouds. No lights, no cities, no sign of the small, struggling human presence. The planet that had killed them all.
And still, it was beautiful.
His hand terminal buzzed. The red border of the incoming connection meant it was a security alert. Adrenaline hit his bloodstream and set his heart racing even before he turned it on. Marwick and Murtry were already in the middle of a conversation when he dropped in.
“— many of them, and I don’t care to find out now,” Marwick said. Shouted, almost. Murtry’s expression seemed angry and dismissive, but Havelock realized it was only that he wasn’t looking into the camera. He couldn’t see it.
“What’s going on?” Havelock asked.
“The Rocinante’s targeting us,” Marwick said.
Havelock was already pushing himself off, moving fast through the corridor. “Are they making demands?”
“Backed up by threats,” Marwick said, throwing up his arms.
“That’s hyperbole,” Murtry said. “They’re painting the Israel with their targeting lasers. And some mad bastard’s cutting through the midship maintenance airlock.”
“We’re being boarded?” Havelock said. He couldn’t keep the incredulity from his voice. “By who? What’s the point?”
“Motivation’s not our concern right now,” Murtry said. “Our priority is making sure the security of the ship is maintained.”
Havelock grabbed a handhold at the intersection of two corridors and spun himself down, feet first, toward the junction that would get him back to his desk. “All respect, sir, you know they’ve got to be after the prisoner. Why don’t we just give her to them? It’s not like it’s going to matter.”
Murtry tilted his head. His smile was thin and cruel. “You’re suggesting that we release the saboteur?”
“We’re all dead anyway,” Havelock said. And then there it was, spoken aloud. The one thing that all of them were thinking. All of them but Murtry.
“You were immortal before we shipped out?” he asked, his voice dry and cold as a rattlesnake. “Because whether you’re planning to die next week or seven decades from now, there’s still a way we do this.”
“Yes, sir,” Havelock said as he reached the last turning and hauled himself down toward his office. “Sorry, sir.”
The connection chimed as someone else joined. The chief engineer was grim-faced and angry in a way that Havelock immediately distrusted.
“Reporting for duty,” Koenen said.
“Wait. What’s he doing here?” Havelock said.
“I’ve included your militia in this,” Murtry said as Havelock slid into his office. “If we’re repelling boarders, we’re going to need them.”
“My men are ready,” the chief engineer said, not missing a beat. “Just let us know where the sons of bitches are coming through, and we’ll be there to meet them.”
Oh God, Havelock thought. He’s talking like he’s in a movie. This is a terrible idea.
“Mister Havelock,” Murtry said, “I’m going to ask you to open the live ammunition supply to the militia forces.”
“With respect, sir,” Havelock said. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. This isn’t like a paintball exercise. We’re looking at a real fight. The risk of friendly fire alone —”