His monitor was divided between a large-scale map of the solar system highlighting the parts of it critical to him – the Razorback, the UN military escort burning out to meet them, the Rocinante, the Pella and its pack, Tycho Station, Mars, Earth, Luna – and a smaller inset that was the Razorback’s internal systems diagnostics. The little pinnace hadn’t been intended for full interplanetary travel, and with Earth and Mars where they were, they were going to be cutting it pretty close. The reactor had enough fuel pellets to burn for months, but once they ran out of ejection mass, the drive wouldn’t do them much good. So far, they were still inside the error bars. Which, for him, meant that even if they ran out, they’d be going slow enough that someone could come throw a tether on them. Rescued by professionals was still firmly in his win column.

The navigation system threw an alert to his monitor. He opened it.

“What’ve you got?” Bobbie asked.

“The Pella and her little friend there cut their drives again,” Alex said. “And… Hey! I think… Some of the ships are peeling off. I think they’re giving up!”

Bobbie whooped and Smith stopped his conversation in the back long enough to come see what was going on. By the time Alex had explained it all, the Pella had its drive on too, and was turning with the others. Not a full flip-and-burn, but a kind of fishtail slide that kept a good fraction of their momentum while still setting them on a course for the Belt and, give or take a few million kilometers, the Jovian system. The Chetzemoka peeled off in the opposite direction. Whatever mission the Pella was on, it was leaving the Razorback behind.

A tension Alex hadn’t been consciously aware of started to evaporate along with Bobbie’s occasional whoops and laughter. The UN escort force checked in. The solar flares weren’t even coming close to intersecting with their path. The Razorback’s heat sinks were coping with the radiant heat well enough. Alex let himself relax.

It lasted almost half an hour.

“This is Naomi Nagata of the Rocinante. If you get this message, please retransmit. Tell James Holden I am in distress. Comm is not responding. I have no nav control. Please retransmit…”

And then forty minutes after that: