The Storm was like living inside an alien creature that was pretending to be an overpowered racing ship and then someone had strapped a shit-ton of firepower onto it. Where flying the Roci felt like a collaboration, the ship an extension of his will, flying the Storm felt like a negotiation with a dangerous animal. Every time he sat in the pilot’s chair he worried about getting bitten.
Bobbie had gone over the ship with her techs from stem to stern and reassured him that there was nothing in the specs that made the Storm dangerous to her crew, or at least not more than all spaceships were dangerous to their crews. Alex remained unconvinced. There was something about using the controls that felt like the ship wasn’t reacting to his inputs; it felt like the ship was interpreting them and agreeing with them, but also making its own damn decisions. The only person he’d ever confided this to was his copilot, Caspar Asoau.
“I mean, yeah, the controls feel a little loose I guess, but not sure that means the ship is fighting back,” Caspar had said, giving Alex a suspicious side-eyed glance. Alex hadn’t brought it up again. But Alex had been flying spaceships for a lot of years now, and he knew what he knew. There was more to the Storm than just metal and carbon and whatever that crystal-looking shit was. Even if no one else could see it.
Still, it was a damn beautiful ship.
Alex stood at a small observation window and watched as it was carefully moved from the open hangar bay of their old transport ship to the new one. The two massive transports flanked the Storm as it moved, and the enormous bulk of the transfer station’s central hub overshadowed them both. It was all very deliberately done to block line of sight to all the known government telescope and radar stations. For all the Laconian Empire would ever know, two heavy freighters had briefly docked at the same transfer point, dropped off or picked up some cargo, and then gone their separate ways. That a stolen Laconian warship had been moved from one to the other wouldn’t appear on any official records or in any video feeds. And the Storm and her crew would be free to live and fight another day. Assuming they hadn’t overlooked anything.
The gleaming crystal-and-metal flanks of the ship seemed to glow with their own inner light even in the box canyon shadow that two freighters and the transfer station created. Bright white puffs of superheated gas flashed and disappeared as the maneuvering thrusters fired. Caspar would be at the controls, gently nudging the Laconian destroyer out of the open cargo bay of their old ship and into the new with practiced ease. They’d played this game a lot, and both pilots had become expert at moving the ship in very confined spaces.
As a former military man, Alex was always surprised that they could actually manage to keep the conspiracy a secret. They were sneaking a stolen imperial warship through the gate network hidden in the bowels of Transport Union ships. At least dozens and maybe hundreds of people were directly involved. Somehow, they kept getting away with it.
The Occam’s razor argument to nearly all conspiracy theories was that people were really shitty at keeping secrets, and large groups of people were exponentially worse. But with the help of their former OPA friends in the Transport Union, they’d been sneaking and peeking for months without getting caught. It was a testament to how bred to insurgency the Belters had become over the last century or two. Hiding a rebellion from vastly superior military forces was in their DNA. During his twenty years as a member of the Martian Navy and then later fighting the Free Navy, he’d had a part in hunting their more radical factions. Alex had often found the Belter capacity for subterfuge and guerrilla fighting infuriating. Now it was literally keeping him alive.
Alex wasn’t sure if that was ironic or not. Funny, maybe.
The Storm finished buttoning down in their new freighter. It was a cow of a cargo hauler shaped like a fat bullet and named the Pendulum’s Arc. Its doors slid shut and locked, and Alex felt a tiny tremor in the deck as they did. A pair of doors bigger than a destroyer had some mass to them.
Alex pulled out his terminal and opened a channel to Bobbie. “The baby’s tucked in. We can be oscar mike on your word.”
“Copy that,” Bobbie said, and killed the channel.
She was off doing final prep with her team. Saba’s chain of whisperers hadn’t told them what their mission in Sol was, but Bobbie kept her troops so drilled on the fundamentals that the specific mission just became a checklist of shit to get done. Alex had been skeptical when Bobbie took a mixed bag of old-guard OPA, stuffed them into Laconian Marine power armor, and said she was going to turn them into a legit covert ops strike team. But damned if she hadn’t done exactly that. They’d run three different operations with a hundred percent success rate and a zero percent casualty rate. It turned out that as formidable as Gunny Draper was, she was even scarier when you let her train her own backup.
There had to have been a moment when this had become the new normal. Playing their cargo ship version of three-card monte with the Storm while Saba and Naomi and the rest of the underground picked mission targets for them. He couldn’t say when it had passed. Only now he was back to being the bus driver he’d been in the MCRN a few lifetimes ago. Every day carried the risk of discovery and capture or death. Every operation sent Bobbie and her team into the meat grinder of the Laconian dominion. For all their successes, they were walking on the edge of a razor blade. If he’d been twenty and unaware of his own mortality, he’d probably have loved it.
He turned away from the observation window and picked up his gear bag. As he walked, his terminal squawked at him. “Locked and powered down,” Caspar said.
“I was watching. Elegantly done. The gunny will be drilling the troops, and I’m headed that way. Ship’s yours for the duration.”
“Copy that.”
The corridors of the transfer station were spare and functional. Smooth taupe ceramic walls and a floor just padded enough to keep the occupants from getting shin splints in the habitat ring’s one-third g rotation. Alex trudged along one for half a kilometer, then rapped at a door marked STORAGE 348-001.
A grizzled Belter opened it a crack and looked up and down the hallway around Alex. He had gray hair in a military-style buzz cut and flat gray eyes of almost exactly the same color. Alex could see the heavy black pistol he held behind his thigh as he checked to see if the corridor was clear. His name was Takeshi Oba, and he was one of Bobbie’s killers.
“All clear,” Alex said with a smile, and Oba let him in with a grunt.
It was an empty room of about five by ten meters with the same plain ceramic walls as the corridor outside. Bobbie’s team was standing in loose ranks facing her as she addressed them. She gave Alex a tiny nod as he entered, but didn’t stop her speech.
“Make no mistake,” she was saying, “the Sol system is the most dangerous theater we’ve operated in. Its threat level is second only to Laconia for our style of covert op. Nearly every rock or chunk of ice bigger than a troop transport has a station, telescope, or radar emplacement on it. There are eyes everywhere.”
A mutter passed through the group, but Alex couldn’t tell if it was grumbling or agreement.
“And,” Bobbie continued, “the Earth-Mars Coalition fleet is entirely under Laconian control. Which means the Laconians’ relatively small number of ships—the one fact that has allowed us to operate up to this point—is not going to help us here. To make matters worse, the Laconians have left the dreadnought Heart of the Tempest in orbit around Earth. It’s there primarily as a threat to keep the inner planets in line, but if it detects us, we are in a world of hurt. The Storm cannot survive an engagement with a Magnetar-class battleship. End of story.”