Across the corridor from Alex, Prime Minister Smith was huddled behind the lip of a doorway. Most civilians tried to press against the wall and ended up launching themselves into the middle of the firing lines. Smith hadn’t done that. So score one for training.

Another burst of fire sang past, tearing long black strips from the walls and deck and filling the air with the smell of cordite.

“Oyé,” one of the attackers called. “Hand up Smith y we let you go, sa sa?”

The first marine fired three rounds in fast succession, and the attackers’ laughter followed it. Alex couldn’t be sure, but he thought the people firing at him were wearing Martian military uniforms and light armor.

“Hey!” Alex called. “We’re not going to be any good to you dead, right?”

There was a lull, like a moment of surprise. “Hoy, bist tu Kamal?”

“Um,” Alex said. “My name’s Kamal.”

“Knuckles’ pilot, yeah?”

“Who’s Knuckles?”

“Pinché traitor’s who,” the voice said. “You get to hell, tell her Salo sent you.”

“Grenade incoming,” the slushy-voiced marine said, his voice weirdly calm. “Employing countermeasures.”

Alex turned his face to the wall and pressed his hands to his ears. The shock of the explosion was like being slapped all across his side. He fought to breathe. Flecks of something like snow swirled through the air, and the stink of plastic and spent explosive was thick enough to choke. The stutter of gunfire seemed to come from far away.

“Grenade mitigated,” the marine shouted. “But we could use some backup here.”

The prime minister had a bright line of red across the backs of his hands, blood soaking into the white of his cuffs and floating in tiny dots through the air of the hallway. Alex felt the wall shudder under his hand as something on the ship detonated too far away to hear. Someone at the head of the corridor was laughing and whooping something in Belter chatter too fast to follow. Alex ducked his head out and back again, trying to get a glimpse of the corridor ahead. A crackle of gunfire drove him back into his shallow cover.

The laughter ahead of them turned to screams, the sharp, flat reports of gunfire into something deeper and more threatening. The marines opened fire, and the corridor rose to pandemonium. A body cartwheeled by, limp and dead, its uniform sopping up blood from a dozen wounds. Alex couldn’t tell which side the fighter had belonged to.

The gunfire stopped. Alex waited a long moment, ducked his head out and back again. Then leaned out for a longer look. The intersection where the enemy had been was misty with smoke and blood and the anti-grenade countermeasure. Two bodies floated in the middle space, one dead in light combat armor, the other in full marine recon gear. The power-armored figure lifted its hand in the sign for all clear.