killed so you can save ammo, I am going to put a reprimand in your permanent file."
"Well, you put it that way... " Alex said. Then: "One away."
The red dot of their torpedo streaked off toward bogey two. The incoming missiles got closer and closer, and then one disappeared from the display.
Alex said, "Shit," in a flat voice, and then the Rocinante slammed sideways hard enough that Holden broke his nose on the inside of his helmet. Yellow emergency lights began rotating on all the bulkheads, though with the ship evacuated of air, Holden mercifully couldn't hear the Klaxons that were trying to sound throughout it. His tactical display flickered, went out, and then came back after a second. When it came back up, all three torpedoes, as well as bogey two, were gone. Bogey one continued to bear down on them from astern.
"Damage!" Holden yelled, hoping the comm was still up.
"Major damage to the outer hull," Naomi replied. "Four maneuvering thrusters gone. One PDC nonresponsive. We've also lost O2 storage, and the crew airlock looks like it's slag."
"Why are we alive?" Holden asked while he flipped through the damage report and then over to Amos' suit camera.
"The fish didn't hit us," Alex said. "The PDC got it, but it was close. Warhead detonated and sprayed us down pretty good."
It didn't look like Amos was moving. Holden yelled, "Amos! Report!"
"Yeah, yeah, still here, Captain. Just hanging on in case we get knocked around like that again. I think I busted a rib on one of the hull braces, but I'm strapped down. Good fucking thing I didn't waste time with that pipe, though."
Holden didn't take time to answer. He flipped back to his tactical display and watched the rapidly approaching bogey one. It had already fired its torpedoes, but at close range it could still cut them apart with its cannon.
"Alex, can you get us turned around and get a firing solution on that fighter?" he said.
"Working on it. Don't have much maneuverability," Alex replied, and the Roci began rotating with a series of lurches.
Holden switched to a telescope and zoomed in on the approaching fighter. Up close, the muzzle of its cannon looked as big around as a corridor on Ceres, and it appeared to be aimed directly at him.
"Alex," he said.
"Working on it, Chief, but the Roci's hurtin'."
The enemy ship's cannon flared open, preparing to fire.
"Alex, kill it. Kill it kill it kill it."
"One away," the pilot said, and the Rocinante shuddered.
Holden's console threw him out of the scope view and back to the tactical view automatically. The Roci's torpedo flew toward the fighter at almost the same instant that the fighter opened up with its cannon. The display showed the incoming rounds as small red dots moving too fast to follow.
"Incom - " he shouted, and the Rocinante came apart around him.
Holden came to.
The inside of the ship was filled with flying debris and bits of superheated metal shavings that looked like slow-motion showers of sparks. With no air, they bounced off walls and then floated, slowly cooling, like lazy fireflies. He had a vague memory of one corner of a wall-mounted monitor detaching and bouncing off three bulkheads in the world's most elaborate billiards shot, then hitting him right below the sternum. He looked down, and the little chunk of monitor was floating a few centimeters in front of him, but there was no hole in his suit. His guts hurt.
The ops console chair next to Naomi had a hole in it; green gel slowly leaked into small balls that floated away in the zero g. Holden looked at the hole in the chair, and the matching hole in the bulkhead across the room, and realized that the round must have passed within centimeters of Naomi's leg. A shudder swept through him, leaving him nauseated in its wake.
"What the fuck was that?" Amos asked quietly. "And how about we don't do it anymore?"
"Alex?" Holden said.
"Still here, Cap," the pilot replied, his voice eerily calm.
"My panel's dead," Holden said. "Did we kill that son of a bitch?"
"Yeah, Cap, he's dead. About half a dozen of his rounds actually hit the Roci. Looks like they went through us from bow to stern. That anti-spalling webbing on the bulkheads really keeps the shrapnel down, doesn't it?"
Alex's voice had started shaking. He meant We should all be dead.
"Open a channel to Fred, Naomi," Holden said.
She didn't move.
"Naomi?"
"Right. Fred," she said, then tapped on her screen.
Holden's helmet was filled with static