This situation, though, fell somewhere between the two. It was an acceptance, and allegedly by the underground, but not by Nagata. It was a negotiation of terms, but not about the larger issues. Tanaka had already learned more than a little critical information: the exact location of the underground’s secret base and confirmation that the Gathering Storm—or at least its commander—was there. Teresa Duarte was probably there. The little rebel captain was certainly acting like she was. And it was probably true. The ship that had come through the gate was a good match for the Rocinante when it left New Egypt. It had gone to the moon that had the enemy base. And if the Rocinante was there, James Holden and Naomi Nagata were almost certainly there too.
If Nagata had been the one responding, it wouldn’t have smelled wrong at all.
It smelled wrong.
“I’m taking it,” she said. “I’ll go get the girl.”
If she’d expected Mugabo to object or push back against her taking the personal risk—The last time you had a Marine fire team with you, and you still came within centimeters of death, sir—he disappointed her. She didn’t feel disappointed, though. More amused.
“Tell Botton to start the Derecho toward us,” she said. “If we’re leaving after this, it looks like good faith. If we’re fighting, I want him close.”
“Of course, ma’am,” Mugabo said. “Not to change the subject, but you saw the briefing about San Esteban?”
“What about it?”
Mugabo’s little smile was melancholy. He would have made a good waiter. He had the vaguely embarrassed expression crafted for telling people the special was already sold out. She met his eyes.
“There are other people on that mission. We’re on mine. If the Messiah comes, He can find us at work. Understood?”
“Perfectly, sir.”
“If you need me, I’ll be in the armory.”
She hadn’t packed her fast scout suit, much to her regret. The Sparrowhawk did have a latest-generation assault suit, and lying on the deck awaiting her finishing touches, it looked nothing like the elegant and greyhound-lean Stalker. The assault armor had the simple, brutally efficient design of a wearable murder-robot. Underslung on both arms were Gatling guns, designed to fire a high-speed stream of small-caliber explosive rounds. On the left shoulder was an integrated rocket-propelled grenade launcher, for when a pair of machine guns just won’t get the job done. And the suit itself was a weapon. Wearing one, Tanaka could bench-press a ground vehicle. Ripping a human limb from limb while wearing a Laconian assault suit was trivial. It was made for door-to-door, corridor-by-corridor assault. It was the pinnacle of Laconian design engineering, and in her hands it could clear a base like Draper Station without assistance. As long as she didn’t step in front of any PDCs.
She worked, slowly and methodically going through the mental checklist thousands of hours operating these suits had etched in her brain. As she finished the suit’s final touches, her mind occupied itself with the upcoming fight. If it was a fight.
She was ready for it to be a fight.
Tanaka’s tongue probed through the gap where her teeth used to be and across the nasty scar inside her cheek. The wound no longer hurt, but she could feel the uncanny smoothness of poorly healed gashes where James Holden’s bullet had blown the side of her face apart. It itched, but not physically.
The physical wounds were bad. Her head still ached if she slept on it wrong. Even if she went through the trouble of a complete regrow, her cheeks would never quite match again. It was going to take months to grow back the missing bone, and more than that to regrow teeth from it. There were people—even people in the Laconian military—who had used less to claim permanent disability with increased retirement benefits. But that wasn’t the worst.
The embarrassment was worst.
She was the peak of the Laconian military. The lone atom of steel at the tip of the tip of the spear. Experienced, trained, and still in top condition despite her age. She’d gone on what should have been a milk run with a full fire team at her back, and James Holden had handed her her ass on a plate. She understood why. She’d been restrained to protect the girl, and he hadn’t. She’d been conservative with employing a warship around civilians, and he hadn’t. She could have waited until the girl had been dropped off, but even that had been a calculated risk that just bounced bad for her that time. Nothing she’d done would have raised an eyebrow from a review tribunal. But she’d lost, and he hadn’t.
She loaded a belt of mixed high explosive and armor-piercing rounds into the right arm’s gun. It made a satisfying metallic click when she locked and armed it. Don’t kill anyone, or kill everyone.
If anything went south during the transfer, she knew which one she was picking.
Tanaka had Mugabo park the Sparrowhawk far enough from the moon that they’d have time to evade incoming rail-gun rounds, then used her assault suit’s EVA jets to descend to the surface at the coordinates she’d been given. A shallow overhang in the rock and ice hid an airlock door from orbital view, but was plainly visible once she’d hit the surface. The outer door was open and waiting for her.
Draper Station wasn’t much more than an icy cave sprayed with insulating foam on a tiny moon where the gravity was a meek suggestion of down. It had about as much in common with a naval base as it did with a Belter pirate station. The idea that a great warrior and leader like Admiral Trejo felt the need to negotiate with these low-rent revolutionaries left Tanaka feeling insulted on his behalf.
“I’m going in,” she radioed up to Mugabo.
“Understood, sir,” he said. “We are standing by.”
Tanaka chuckled to herself and killed the channel. A few moments later she’d passed through the airlock and into a large equipment storage room. Lockers and vacuum suit racks filled all the wall space. The ceiling was covered with the same shitty spray-on insulation as the walls, but the floor was metal grate, so she kicked on her mag boots.
Five people waited for her in the room. They were all armed.
“I’m Jillian Houston,” the woman in the middle said. She wore a simple jumpsuit without rank markings. The four people flanking her held rifles like they were some kind of honor guard.
“Colonel Aliana Tanaka of the Laconian Marine Corps.” There were forms to be obeyed in a prisoner transfer, and until Tanaka had the girl in her hands, she’d obey them.
Jillian Houston seemed nonplussed when Tanaka didn’t continue. They shared an awkward silence. Jillian cleared her throat. Tanaka watched her HUD while the suit’s various heat-and-sound-imaging and radar sensors built a map of the interior of the station for her. The electromagnetic sensor that could pinpoint the location of human heartbeats also mapped the location of anyone within its range.
“Trejo said—”
“Fleet Admiral Anton Trejo,” Tanaka interjected, the assault suit’s external speakers making her voice echo off the walls.
Jillian’s expression hardened. She might be green, but she didn’t like being corrected. Even standing face-to-face with Tanaka’s battle suit, she wasn’t backing down at all. Only the elevation in her heart rate betrayed her nervousness. Scrappy.
Tanaka waited, watching the guards twitch. Jillian seemed determined to force Tanaka to speak first now. A power game. Fine. The suit reported that it had a mostly complete station map, and every human within seventy meters was pinpointed. Tanaka turned off the external speaker and said, “Free-fire authorization, Tanaka.”