Cibola Burn

“I’m here,” he said, and it felt like hearing a recording of himself. The pain started ramping up. His HUD was flashing red medical warnings, and his left leg was frozen stiff and unbending. The stars spun around him, New Terra coming up from below him and then spinning up past his head. For a moment, he couldn’t find the Rocinante or the Barbapiccola. Maybe they were gone. He caught a passing glimpse of the Israel, though, far off to his right, and so small he could almost have mistaken it for a tightly packed constellation of dim stars. His HUD spooled up a fresh warning, and he felt a needle fire into his right leg. A cold shudder passed through him but his mind seemed to clear a little.

“Havelock?” Alex said.

“I’m here,” Havelock said. “I’m not dead. I think I’ve been knocked off the ship, though. I seem to be floating.”

“Can you stabilize?”

“I don’t think so. The suit may be malfunctioning. Also I seem to have taken a lot of shrapnel in my left leg and hip. I may be bleeding.”

“Do you have containment? Havelock? Are you losing air?”

It was a good question, but his gorge was rising. The spinning was making him sick. If he puked in the helmet, things would go from bad to worse very, very quickly. He closed his eyes and focused on his breath until he thought he could stand to look again. When he did, he kept his gaze on the unshifting images of the HUD readout.

“I have containment. I can breathe.”

He heard Naomi sigh. It sounded like relief. He was flattered. The red dots of the militiamen spun past in the corner of his eye. He couldn’t tell if they were still getting closer or if they’d stopped. Something bright happened in the atmosphere. The rail gun firing again. The planet rose up from below him and disappeared over his head.

“Hang on, coyo,” Basia said. “I’m coming out.”

“Belay that,” Havelock said. “The guys from the Israel have more of their improvised missiles. They have guns. Stay inside.”

“Too late,” Basia said. “Already cycled out the lock. I just need too… Shit, that’s bright.”

Havelock twisted to the left, finding the Rocinante at last. The explosion hadn’t thrown him as far as he’d thought, but he was on the drift now. Every breath took him farther from the metal-and-ceramic bubble of air. He wondered if he stayed out here whether his body would outlast the ships. His air supply wouldn’t. The improvised missile had left a bright scar on the Roci’s outer hull, but didn’t look like it had made any holes. Tough little ship.

“Huh,” Basia said. “Well, they’re shooting at me.”

“Get back in the ship,” Havelock said.

“I will. In a minute. Now where did you… Ah! There you are.”

The grapnel struck his left arm, the gel splashing out and hardening in almost the same moment. At the first tug, his right leg shrieked in pain. But the vectors were such that his uncontrolled spinning slowed. The red dots of the militia were much closer now. Basia was in real danger of being shot. And there were still eight more improvised missiles.

The Rocinante jumped. The rail gun path through the high atmosphere glowed. Had it really only been five minutes? He had to have missed a couple of rounds. Or maybe getting blown out into space just changed how he experienced time. Or maybe he’d seen them and then forgotten.

“Don’t pull me too fast,” Havelock said. “You’re going to have to put just as much energy into stopping me once I’m there. I could knock you off.” Or smash against the hull, he didn’t say.

“I’ve been in low g more than I haven’t,” Basia said, a real amusement in his voice. “Don’t worry yourself.”

The slow-spinning Rocinante came closer, Havelock’s own spin making it seem like the universe and the ship and his own body were all in slightly different realities. Basia was a darker blot against gray ceramic and metal. Havelock’s HUD cheerfully informed him that his blood pressure had been stabilized. He hadn’t realized that it was unstable. The suit’s attitude jets were still off-line, but Basia jumped up to meet him before he touched the deck, wrapping arms around his shoulders in a bear hug while Basia’s suit slowed them.

“You need to get inside,” Havelock said as his left mag boot locked against the hull.

“I was about to say the same to you,” Basia said. “How much shrapnel did you take?”

Havelock looked at his leg for the first time. The suit was dotted with emergency sealant, the result of a dozen holes at least. “All of it, apparently.”

“I’ve got fast movers,” Alex said.

Havelock turned, rifle up, ready to shoot the missiles down before they reached him or die trying. It took a few seconds to find them. The green dots weren’t heading for him. They were tracking down toward the planet. Toward the Barb.

“Okay,” he said. “Hold on.”