“I heard you’ve been asking about the OPA,” the man said. “Interested in joining up?”
Miller smiled and lifted his glass, an intentionally noncommittal gesture.
“You who I’d talk to if I did?” he asked, his tone light.
“Might be able to help.”
“Maybe you could tell me about a couple other things, then,” he said, taking out his terminal and putting it on the fake bamboo bar with an audible click. Mateo Judd’s picture glowed on the screen. The OPA man frowned, turning the screen to see it better.
“I’m a realist,” Miller said. “When Chucky Snails was running protection, I wasn’t above talking to his men. When the Hand took over and then the Golden Bough Society after them. My job isn’t to stop people from bending the rules, it’s to keep Ceres stable. You understand what I’m saying?”
“I can’t say I do,” the pock-marked man said. His accent made him sound more educated than Miller had expected. “Who is this man?”
“His name’s Mateo Judd. He’s been starting a protection business in sector eight. Says it’s backed by the OPA.”
“People say things, Detective. It is Detective, isn’t it? But you were discussing realism.”
“If the OPA’s making a move on the Ceres black economy, it’s going to be better all around if we can talk to each other. Communicate.”
The man chuckled and pushed the terminal back. The bartender paced by, a question in his eyes that wasn’t asking if they needed anything. It wasn’t meant for Miller.
“I had heard that there was a certain level of corruption in Star Helix,” the man said. “I admit I’m impressed by your straightforward manner. I’ll clarify. The OPA isn’t a criminal organization.”
“Really? My mistake. I figured from the way it killed a lot of people… ”
“You’re baiting me. We defend ourselves against people who are perpetrating economic terrorism against the Belt. Earthers. Martians. We are in the business of protecting Belters,” the man said. “Even you, Detective.”
“Economic terrorism?” Miller said. “That seems a little overheated.”
“You think so? The inner planets look on us as their labor force. They tax us. They direct what we do. They enforce their laws and ignore ours in the name of stability. In the last year, they’ve doubled the tariffs to Titania. Five thousand people on an ice ball orbiting Neptune, months from anywhere. The sun’s just a bright star to them. Do you think they’re in a position to get redress? They’ve blocked any Belter freighters from taking Europa contracts. They charge us twice as much to dock at Ganymede. The science station on Phoebe? We aren’t even allowed to orbit it. There isn’t a Belter in the place. Whatever they do there, we won’t find out until they sell the technology back to us, ten years from now.”
Miller sipped his beer and nodded toward his terminal.
“So this one isn’t yours?”
“No. He isn’t.”
Miller nodded and put the terminal back in his pocket. Oddly, he believed the man. He didn’t hold himself like a thug. The bravado wasn’t there. The sense of trying to impress the world. No, this man was certain and amused and, underneath it all, profoundly tired. Miller had known soldiers like that, but not criminals.
“One other thing,” Miller said. “I’m looking for someone.”
“Another investigation?”
“Not exactly, no. Juliette Andromeda Mao. Goes by Julie.”
“Should I know the name?”
“She’s OPA,” Miller said with a shrug.
“Do you know everyone in Star Helix?” the man said, and when Miller didn’t answer, he added, “We are considerably larger than your corporation.”
“Fair point,” Miller said. “But if you could keep an ear out, I’d appreciate it.”
“I don’t know that you’re in a position to expect favors.”
“No harm asking.”
The pock-faced man chuckled, put a hand on Miller’s shoulder.
“Don’t come back here, Detective,” he said, and walked away into the crowd.
Miller took another drink of his beer, frowning. An uncomfortable feeling of having made the wrong step fidgeted in the back of his mind. He’d been sure that the OPA was making a move on Ceres, capitalizing on the death of the water hauler and the Belt’s uptick in fear and hatred of the inner planets. But how did that fit with Julie Mao’s father and his suspiciously well-timed anxiety? Or the disappearance of Ceres Station’s supply of usual suspects in the first place? Thinking about it was like watching a video that was just out of focus. The sense of it was almost there, but only almost.
“Too many dots,” Miller said. “Not enough lines.”
“Excuse me?” the bartender said.
“Nothing,” Miller said, pushing the half-empty bottle across the bar. “Thanks.”
In his hole, Miller turned on some music. The lyrical chants that Candace had liked, back when they were young and, if not hopeful, at least more joyful in their fatalism. He set the lights to half power, hoping that if he relaxed, if for just a few minutes he let go of the gnawing sense that he had missed some critical detail, the missing piece might arrive on its own.
He’d half expected Candace to appear in his mind, sighing and looking crossly at him the way she had in life. Instead, he found himself talking with Julie Mao. In the half sleep of alcohol and exhaustion, he imagined her sitting at Havelock’s desk. She was the wrong age, younger than the real woman would be. She was the age of the smiling kid in her picture. The girl who had raced in the Razorback and won. He had the sense of asking her questions, and her answers had the power of revelation. Everything made sense. Not only the change in the Golden Bough Society and her own abduction case, but Havelock’s transfer, the dead ice hauler, Miller’s own life and work. He dreamed of Julie Mao laughing, and he woke up late, with a headache.
Havelock was waiting at his desk. His broad, short Earther face seemed strangely alien, but Miller tried to shake it off.
“You look like crap,” Havelock said. “Busy night?”
“Just getting old and drinking cheap beer,” Miller said.
One of the vice squad shouted something angry about her files being locked again, and a computer tech scuttled across the station house like a nervous cockroach. Havelock leaned closer, his expression grave.
“Seriously, Miller,” Havelock said. “We’re still partners, and… honest to God, I think you may be the only friend I’ve got on this rock. You can trust me. If there’s anything you want to tell me, I’m good.”
“That’s great,” Miller said. “But I don’t know what you’re talking about. Last night was a bust.”
“No OPA?”
“Sure, OPA. Anymore, you swing a dead cat in this station, you’ll hit three OPA guys. Just no good information.”
Havelock leaned back, lips pressed thin and bloodless. Miller’s shrug asked a question, and the Earther nodded toward the board. A new homicide topped the list. At three in the morning, while Miller had been having inchoate dream conversations, someone had opened Mateo Judd’s hole and fired a shotgun cartridge full of ballistic gel into his left eye.
“Well,” Miller said, “called that one wrong.”
“Which one?” Havelock said.
“OPA’s not moving in on the criminals,” Miller said. “They’re moving in on the cops.”
Chapter Eleven: Holden
The Donnager was ugly.
Holden had seen pictures and videos of the old oceangoing navies of Earth, and even in the age of steel, there had always been something beautiful about them. Long and sleek, they had the appearance of something leaning into the wind, a creature barely held on the leash. The Donnager had none of that. Like all long-flight spacecraft, it was built in the “office tower” configuration: each deck one floor of the building, ladders or elevators running down the axis. Constant thrust took the place of gravity.
But the Donnager actually looked like an office building on its side. Square and blocky, with small bulbous projections in seemingly random places. At nearly five hundred meters long, it was the size of a 130-story building. Alex had said it was 250,000 tons dry weight, and it looked heavier. Holden reflected, not for the first time, on how so much of the human sense of aesthetics had been formed in a time when sleek objects cut through the air. The Donnager would never move through anything thicker than interstellar gas, so curves and angles were a waste of space. The result was ugly.
It was also intimidating. As Holden watched from his seat next to Alex in the cockpit of the Knight, the massive battleship matched course with them, looming close and then seeming to stop above them. A docking bay opened, breaking up the Donnager’s flat black belly with a square of dim red light. The Knight beeped insistently, reminding him of the targeting lasers painting their hull. Holden looked for the point defense cannons aimed at him. He couldn’t find them.
When Alex spoke, Holden jumped.
“Roger that, Donnager,” the pilot said. “We’ve got steering lock. I’m killing thrust.”
The last shreds of weight vanished. Both ships were still moving at hundreds of kilometers a minute, but their matched courses felt like stillness.
“Got docking permission, Cap. Take her in?”
“It seems late to make a run for it, Mr. Kamal,” Holden said. He imagined Alex making a mistake that the Donnager interpreted as threatening, and the point defense cannons throwing a couple hundred thousand Teflon-coated chunks of steel through them.
“Go slowly, Alex,” he said.
“They say one of those can kill a planet,” Naomi said over the comm. She was at the ops station a deck below.
“Anyone can kill a planet from orbit,” Holden replied. “You don’t even need bombs. Just push anvils out the airlock. That thing out there could kill… Shit. Anything.”