Expanse 05 - Nemesis Games

  The other thing that surprised him was that everyone seemed to know who he was.

  He parked his cart outside a teahouse called Poush that had survived the years since he’d served. The blue-and-gold awning put a gentle shadow over the glassed doorway. Faux-aged paint on the window curved in art nouveau framing with phrases in French. Alex figured the intention was to evoke the idea of some Parisian café of centuries before for people who’d never so much as stepped on the same planet as France. It was strange that the quaint feeling translated so well.

  Inside, a dozen small tables with real linen cloth crowded together. The air was thick with the scent of the local qahwa – almonds and cinnamon and sugar. Captain Holden had a thing for coffee, and Alex felt a moment’s regret that he was off on Tycho Station where he couldn’t smell this. Before he could finish the thought, Fermín boiled up out of his chair and wrapped his arms around him.

  “Alex!” Fermín shouted. “Good God, man. You got fat.”

  “No,” Alex said, returning the hug and then breaking it. “That was you.”

  “Ah,” his old friend said, nodding. “Yes, that was me. I forgot. Sit down.”

  The waiter, a young man of maybe eighteen, looked out from behind the kitchen door and his eyes widened. The smile pretended to be the customary politeness, but when he ducked back Alex could hear him talking to someone. He sounded excited. Alex tried not to feel awkward about that.

  “Thanks for this,” Alex said. “I don’t like to be the guy who doesn’t keep in touch until he needs a favor.”

  “And yet,” Fermín said. The years had turned his stubble gray and thickened his jowls. Alex felt like if he squinted, he could still see the sharp-faced man he’d served with hidden somewhere in him. It was easier to see him in his gestures when he waved Alex’s concern away. “It’s nothing. Happy to do a favor for a friend.”

  The waiter came out of the kitchen, nodding. The wide-mouthed cup in his hand steamed. He put it in front of Alex almost shyly.

  “Specialty of the house,” the boy said. “For you, Mr. Kamal.”

  “Ah,” Alex said. “Thank you.”

  The boy nodded again and retreated. Alex chuckled uncomfortably at the cup, and Fermín grinned. “Come on now. You’ve got to be used to this kind of thing, right? You’re Alex Kamal. First pilot through the Ring.”

  “Naw, just the first one that lived.”

  “Same thing.”

  “And I surely didn’t want to be,” Alex said. “They were shooting at me.”

  “And that makes it less romantic?”

  Alex blew across the surface of the cup and sipped at it. Chai with honey and cardamom and something else he couldn’t quite place. “That trip was a lot of things,” he drawled. “Romantic wasn’t one of ’em. And usually since then I’ve had the captain around to soak up the attention.”

  “Probably different elsewhere. But you’re a local boy. One of us who got out and made good.”

  “Is that what happened?”

  Fermín spread his hands, the gesture taking in the teahouse, the corridor outside, Hecate Base, and Mars. “I’ve been here the whole damned time. Made it as far as chief petty officer. Two divorces and a kid in upper university calls me twice a year to borrow money.”

  “Bet you had fewer people shooting at you, though. It’s not as much fun as you make it sound.”

  “Suppose not,” Fermín said. “Grass is always greener.”

  For an hour, more or less, they sat drinking chai and eating almond cookies – though fewer of those than they had when they’d been younger. Fermín brought him up to speed on half a dozen of the others that they’d known in common back in the day. The chai was good and Fermín jovial. It was hard to say what it was exactly that left Alex melancholy. When the time came to leave, the boy wouldn’t take their money. He just said “On the house” when they tried.

  The checkpoint into the base proper was manned by a security team that had Fermín glance into a facial recognition setup. Once he cleared, they checked Alex for weapons and contraband and issued him a visitor pass. The process was less than five minutes, and leisurely at that. Alex followed Fermín to a moving walkway and leaned against the rail with him as it drew them forward, deeper into Olympus Mons.

  “So this guy,” Alex said.

  “Commander Duarte? You’ll like him. Everyone likes him. Admiral Long’s aide. Has been for the last ten years.”

  “Long hasn’t retired?”

  “She’ll die at her desk,” Fermín said. He sounded just on the edge of resentful, but his smile covered whatever it was over.

  “I appreciate you setting this up.”

  “Not a problem. Duarte was excited to meet you.”

  “Really?”

  “Why the surprise? You’re pilot of the Rocinante. You’re famous.”

  Winston Duarte’s office was plain and comfortable. The desk was simple pressed polycarbonate, a little larger maybe than the receptionist’s in the lobby. The screen on the wall was set to a calm semi-abstract piece that flowed in sepia and brown, evoking fallen leaves and mathematical proofs in roughly equal proportions. The only touch of luxury was a shelf of what appeared to be actual printed books on military strategy. The man himself fit in the space like he’d been designed for it. Half a head shorter than Alex with acne-pocked cheeks and warm brown eyes, Duarte radiated politeness and competence. After they shook hands, he took the seat beside Alex rather than cross back behind his desk.

  “I have to say I’m a little surprised at the visit,” Duarte said. “Most of my dealings with the OPA are formal.”

  “The Roci’s not OPA.”

  Duarte’s eyebrows ticked up a millimeter. “Really?”

  “We’re more of an independent contractor. We’ve taken jobs from the OPA, but Earth’s paid some of our bills. Private companies too, if the job’s a good fit.”

  “I stand corrected. All the same, I’m honored. What can I do for you, Mr. Kamal?”

  “Call me Alex for one thing. I’m not here officially. I mean, I’m on leave from the ship. Came back to the old stompin’ grounds for a visit, came across an old friend who needed a hand with something, and one thing led to another.”

  “Which led you to me,” Duarte said. His smile was sudden and warm. “I’ll count myself lucky for that. What’s on your friend’s mind?”

  “Missing ships.”

  Duarte went still, his smile still perfectly in place. For a moment, it was like the man had become a statue. When he moved again, he sat back, leaning into the chair with a barely exaggerated casualness that plucked at Alex’s ears. “I’m not aware of any ships that have gone missing. Is there something I should know about?”

  Alex folded his hands on his knee. “My friend. She’s a marine. Well, ex now. She’s been doing a little digging into the black market.”

  “A journalist, then?”

  “A patriotic Martian,” Alex said. “She’s not looking to stir up anything, and neither am I. But she’s found some things that got her back up.”

  “Things like what?”

  Alex lifted a finger. “I’ll get there in a minute. Thing is, she’s not Navy. Doesn’t have friends and contacts on our side. So she asked if I’d ask, and when I did —”

  “Chief Petty Officer Beltran sent you to me,” Duarte said. “I see.”

  “Did he make a mistake?”

  Duarte was quiet for a long moment, his eyes soft and fixed on nothing. Alex shifted in his seat. These sorts of conversations weren’t part of his usual duties, and he couldn’t tell if it was going well or poorly. Duarte sighed. “No. He didn’t.”

  “You’re… you’re seeing things too. Aren’t you?”

  Duarte stood and moved to the door, not touching it, but looking. His head bent a degree. “This isn’t the sort of thing we talk about. I don’t break the chain of command.”

  “I respect that,” Alex said. “I’m not asking you to be disloyal to anyone. Only I have some information, yo
u maybe have some too. I’ll tell you what I’m comfortable sharing, you do the same. Maybe we can do each other some good.”

  “I have an investigation in progress.”

  “Anything I give you, I don’t mind your passing on,” Alex said. “And maybe it’d be best if it was like that for you too.”

  Duarte considered, his lips pressing together. “All right. What have you got?”

  “Blips in the inventories. Things that got lost or destroyed that showed up again later. Weapons. Medical supplies.”

  “Ships?”

  “Yeah,” Alex said. “Ships.”

  “Give me a name.”

  “Apalala.”

  Duarte seemed to deflate. He went to his desk and sank into the chair behind it, but when he spoke, his voice had a relaxed tone that made Alex feel like he’d passed a test. Like the false and cordial ease that had begun the meeting had fallen away like a mask.

  “That’s one I’ve been looking at too,” Duarte said.

  “What are you seeing?”

  “I don’t know. Not exactly. We’re stretched thin. You know that?”

  “People heading out for the new planets.”

  “Inventories are running slow. I think more of them are being dry-labbed than anyone wants to admit. I’ve been trying to convince the admiral that it’s a problem, but either she doesn’t understand or…”

  “Or?”

  Duarte didn’t finish his thought. “There has been a pattern of attacks too. They may be political or it may just be theft and piracy. You heard about the attack on Callisto?”

  “Heard about it.”

  “Have you come across anything about it particularly?”

  “No.”

  Duarte clenched his jaw in disappointment. “There was something about that one that bothers me, but I can’t put my finger on it. The timing was precise. The attack was well coordinated. And for what? To loot a shipyard?”

  “What did they take?”

  Duarte’s gaze clicked onto Alex. His smile was sorrowful. “I don’t know. Nobody knows. I think nobody will ever know, because I can’t even figure out what was there. That’s how bad it is.”

  Alex scowled. “You’re telling me that the Martian Navy doesn’t know where its own ships are?”

  “I’m telling you that the tracking of supplies, ships, and material has all but collapsed. We don’t know what’s missing because we don’t know. And I’m telling you that the leadership is so focused on trying not to lose face in front of Earth and the OPA that they’re downplaying it.”

  “Covering it up.”

  “Downplaying it,” Duarte said. “Prime Minister Smith is making a big show right now of taking a convoy to Luna to meet with the UN secretary-general and swearing that everything’s fine, and he’s doing that because it isn’t true. If I were a criminal and a black marketer, all this would look like a permanent Christmas.”

  Alex said something obscene. Duarte opened his desk and took out a pad of paper and a silver pen. He wrote for a moment, then tore off the sheet and handed it across the desk. In precise, legible handwriting he’d written KAARLO HENDERSON-CHARLES and an address in base housing. The act of physically writing something down, not trusting the information to electronic transfer, felt like either sensible precaution or paranoia. Alex wasn’t sure which.

  “While you’re here, I’d recommend talking to Kaarlo. He’s a senior programmer that’s been working on a project that was supposed to coordinate the databases. He was the one who came to me first to say he was seeing problems. If you have specific questions, he may be able to give you answers. Or he may be able to point you to where they are.”

  “Will he help me?”

  “He may,” Duarte said. “I did.”

  “Could you… give him cover?”

  “No,” Duarte said, with his sad smile. “I’m not ordering anyone to do anything with you. No offense. You’re not Navy anymore. Whatever we do, you and I, we do as part of my investigation. And I report all of it, down to the letter, to the admiral.”

  “Covering your ass.”

  “Hell yes,” Duarte said. “You should do the same.”

  “Yes, sir,” Alex said.

  Fermín wasn’t in the waiting area when he left, so Alex went out and caught one of the moving walkways heading east, toward base housing. His head felt a little light, like he’d been running the oxygen too lean for too long.

  The Navy had always been the thing in his life that didn’t change. The permanent factor. His relationship to it might shift. He did his tours, he mustered out, but those changes were all about him. His life, his fragility and mortality and impermanence. The idea that the Navy itself could be fragile, that the government of Mars might stumble or collapse, was like saying the sun might go out. If that wasn’t solid, then nothing was.

  So maybe nothing was.

  Kaarlo Henderson-Charles’ hole was in a stretch of a hundred just like it, spare and spartan. There was nothing on the gray-green door to identify it beyond numbers. No flowers in the planter, only dry soil. Alex rang the bell. When he knocked, the door opened under his knuckles. He heard someone grumbling angrily under their breath. No. Not a person. The recyclers on high, scrubbing the air. He caught a whiff of cordite and something like rotten meat.

  The body was on the kitchen table in its uniform jumper. The blood had pooled under the chair and spattered along the wall and ceiling. A pistol still hung in the limp right hand. Alex coughed out a laugh of mixed disbelief and despair, then he pulled out his hand terminal and called the MPs.

  “Then what happened?” Bobbie asked.

  “What do you think? The MPs came.”

  The hotel lobby was decorated in crimson and gold. A wall fountain burbled and chuckled beside the couches, giving the two of them something like privacy. Alex sipped at his gin and tonic. The alcohol bit a little. Bobbie pressed her knuckles against her lips and scowled. She was looking solid for any other person who’d been tortured and shot, but still a little fragile for Bobbie. The bandages that covered bullet wounds on her left side made an awkward bump under her blouse, but nothing more.

  “They questioned you?” she said, barely even making it a question.

  “For about eight hours. Duarte was able to give me a solid alibi, though, so I’m not in prison.”

  “Small favors. And your friend? Fermín?”

  “Apparently his terminal’s not on the network. I don’t know if he killed the guy or if whoever killed the guy killed him or… anything. I don’t know anything.” He drank again, more deeply this time. “I may not be good at this whole investigation thing.”

  “I’m not much better,” Bobbie said. “Mostly I’ve just been shaking the trees and seeing what falls out. So far the only thing I’m really sure about is that something’s going on.”

  “And that people are willing to kill each other over it,” Alex said.

  “And now that the MPs are involved, they’re going to lock down the investigation like it was fissionable. I’m not going to be able to do a damned thing.”

  “Amateur detective hour does seem to be pretty much over,” Alex agreed. “I mean, I can still ask around.”

  “You did more than enough,” Bobbie said. “I shouldn’t have gotten you into this in the first place. I just don’t like disappointing the old lady.”

  “I can respect that. But I do kind of wish I knew what was going on.”

  “Me too.”

  Alex finished his drink, the ice clicking against his teeth. He had a pleasant warmth in his belly. He looked at Bobbie, saw her looking back at him.

  “You know,” he said slowly, “just because everything’s shut down here, it doesn’t mean everything’s shut down everywhere.”

  Bobbie blinked. Her shrug was noncommittal, but there was a gleam in her eyes. “You’re thinking about that backwater asteroid Holden was asking about?”

  “You’ve got a ship. There’s nothing we can do here,” Alex said. “Seems like someth
ing we could do.”

  “Anyone shot at us, at least we’d see it coming,” Bobbie said, her nonchalance radiating a kind of excitement. Or perhaps it was the alcohol and the prospect of being in a pilot’s chair again making Alex see what he wanted to see.

  “We could go,” he said. “Take a look. Probably it’s nothing.”

  Chapter Eighteen: Holden

  The construction sphere of Tycho Station glittered around Holden, brighter than stars. Ships hung in their berths in all states of undress, the Rocinante just one among many. Other ships hung in the center, awaiting clearance to leave. The sparks of welding rigs and the white plumes of maneuvering thrusters blinked into and out of existence like fireflies. The only sound he heard was his own breath, the only smell the too-clean scent of bottled air. The dirty green-gray EVA suit had TYCHO SECURITY stenciled on the arm in orange, and the rifle in his hand had come from Fred’s weapons locker.

  Station security was on high alert, Drummer and her teams all set to watch each other on the assumption – and Holden was too painfully aware that it wasn’t anything more – that if there was a dissident faction within them, they’d be outnumbered by the ones loyal to Fred. When they’d started out from the airlock, Holden had turned on the security system. It highlighted slightly over a thousand possible sniper’s nests. He’d turned it off again.

  Fred floated ahead of him strapped into a bright yellow salvage mech. The rescue-and-recovery kit looked like a massive backpack slung across the mech’s shoulders. A burst of white gas came from the mech’s left side, and Fred drifted elegantly to the right. For a moment, Holden’s brain interpreted the dozens of shipping containers clustered in the empty space outside the massive warehouse bays as being below them, as if he and Fed were divers in a vast airless sea; then they flipped and he was rising up toward them feetfirst. He turned the HUD back on, resetting its display priorities, and one container took on a green overlay. The target. Monica Stuart’s prison, or else her tomb.