The Dragon's Path

by Daniel Abraham

  “Last guy?” Havelock said. “So this happened before?”

  “Sure,” the manager said. “Everyone has to pay some, you know. Price of doing business.”

  Miller closed his terminal, frowning. “Philosophical. But if it’s the price of doing business, what’re we here for?”

  “Because I thought you… you people had this shit under control. Ever since we stopped paying the Loca, I’ve been able to turn a decent profit. Now it’s all starting up again.”

  “Hold on,” Miller said. “You’re telling me the Loca Greiga stopped charging protection?”

  “Sure. Not just here. Half of the guys I know in the Bough just stopped showing up. We figured the cops had actually done something for once. Now we’ve got these new bastards, and it’s the same damn thing all over again.”

  A crawling feeling made its way up Miller’s neck. He looked up at Havelock, who shook his head. He hadn’t heard of it either. The Golden Bough Society, Sohiro’s crew, the Loca Greiga. All the organized crime on Ceres suffering the same ecological collapse, and now someone new moving into the evacuated niche. Might be opportunism. Might be something else. He almost didn’t want to ask the next questions. Havelock was going to think he was paranoid.

  “How long has it been since the old guys called on you for protection?” Miller asked.

  “I don’t know. Long time.”

  “Before or after Mars killed that water hauler?”

  The manager folded his thick arms; his eyes narrowed.

  “Before,” he said. “Maybe a month or two. S’that got to do with anything?”

  “Just trying to get the time scale right,” Miller said. “The new guy. Mateo. He tell you who was backing his new insurance plan?”

  “That’s your job, figuring it. Right?”

  The manager’s expression had closed down so hard Miller imagined he could hear the click. Yes, Asher Kamamatsu knew who was shaking him down. He had balls enough to squeak about it but not to point the finger.

  Interesting.

  “Well, thanks for that,” Miller said, standing up. “We’ll let you know what we find.”

  “Glad you’re on the case,” the manager said, matching sarcasm for sarcasm.

  In the exterior tunnel, Miller stopped. The neighborhood was at the friction point between sleazy and respectable. White marks showed where graffiti had been painted over. Men on bicycles swerved and weaved, foam wheels humming on the polished stone. Miller walked slowly, his eyes on the ceiling high above them until he found the security camera. He pulled up his terminal, navigated to the logs that matched the camera code, and cross-referenced the time code from the store’s still frames. For a moment, he thumbed the controls, speeding people back and forth. And there was Mateo, coming out of the shop. A smug grin deformed the man’s face. Miller froze the image and enhanced it. Havelock, watching over his shoulder, whistled low.

  The split circle of the OPA was perfectly clear on the thug’s armband—the same kind of armband he’d found in Julie Mao’s hole.

  What kind of company have you been keeping, kid? Miller thought. You’re better than this. You have to know you’re better than this.

  “Hey, partner,” he said aloud. “Think you can write up the report on that interview? I’ve got something I’d like to do. Might not be too smart to have you there. No offense.”

  Havelock’s eyebrows crawled toward his hairline.

  “You’re going to question the OPA?”

  “Shake some trees, is all,” Miller said.

  Miller would have thought that just being a security contractor in a known OPA-convivial bar would be enough to get him noticed. In the event, half the faces he recognized in the dim light of John Rock Gentlemen’s Club were normal citizens. More than one of those were Star Helix, just like him, when they were on duty. The music was pure Belter, soft chimes accompanied by zither and guitar with lyrics in half a dozen languages. He was on his fourth beer, two hours past the end of his shift, and on the edge of giving up his plan as a losing scheme when a tall, thin man sat down at the bar next to him. Acne-pocked cheeks gave a sense of damage to a face that otherwise seemed on the verge of laughter. It wasn’t the first OPA armband he’d seen that night, but it was worn with an air of defiance and authority. Miller nodded.

  “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.”

&
nbsp; “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.”

  Tiny touches shifted them as the maneuvering rockets fired. Holden knew that Alex was guiding them in, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that the Donnager was swallowing them.

  Docking took nearly an hour. Once the Knight was inside the bay, a massive manipulator arm grabbed her and put it down in an empty section of the deck. Clamps grabbed the ship, the Knight’s hull reverberating with a metallic bang that reminded Holden of a brig cell’s maglocks.

  The Martians ran a docking tube from one wall and mated up to the Knight’s airlock. Holden gathered the crew at the inner door.

  “No guns, no knives, no anything that might look like a weapon,” he said. “They’ll probably be okay with hand terminals, but keep them turned off just in case. If they ask for it, hand it over without complaint. Our survival here may rest on them thinking we’re very compliant.”

  “Yeah,” Amos said. “Fuckers killed McDowell, but we have to act nice… ”

  Alex started to respond, but Holden cut him off.

  “Alex, you did twenty flying with the MCRN. Anything else we should know?”

  “Same stuff you said, Boss,” Alex replied. “Yes sir, no sir, and snap to when given an order. The enlisted guys will be okay, but the officers get the sense of humor trained out of ’em.”

  Holden looked at his tiny crew, hoping he hadn’t killed them all by bringing them here. He cycled open the lock, and they drifted down the short docking tube in the zero g. When they reached the airlock at the end—flat gray composites and immaculately clean—everyone pushed down to the floor. Their magnetic boots grabbed on. The airlock closed and hissed at them for several seconds before opening into a larger room with about a dozen people standing in it. Holden recognized Captain Theresa Yao. There were several others in naval officers’ dress, who were part of her staff; one man in an enlisted uniform with a look of thin
ly veiled impatience; and six marines in heavy combat armor, carrying assault rifles. The rifles were pointed at him, so Holden put up his hands.

  “We’re not armed,” he said, smiling and trying to look harmless.

  The rifles didn’t waver, but Captain Yao stepped forward.

  “Welcome aboard the Donnager,” she said. “Chief, check them.”

  The enlisted man clumped toward them and quickly and professionally patted them all down. He gave the thumbs-up to one of the marines. The rifles went down, and Holden worked hard not to sigh with relief.

  “What now, Captain?” Holden asked, keeping his voice light.

  Yao looked Holden over critically for several seconds before answering. Her hair was pulled tightly back, the few strands of gray making straight lines. In person, he could see the softening of age at her jaw and the corners of her eyes. Her stony expression had the same quiet arrogance that all the naval captains he’d known shared. He wondered what she saw, looking at him. He resisted the urge to straighten his greasy hair.

  “Chief Gunderson will take you down to your rooms and get you settled in,” she replied. “Someone will be along shortly to debrief you.”

  Chief Gunderson started to lead them from the room when Yao spoke again, her voice suddenly hard.

  “Mr. Holden, if you know anything about the six ships that are following you, speak now,” she said. “We gave them a two-hour deadline to change course about an hour ago. So far they haven’t. In one hour I’m going to order a torpedo launch. If they’re friends of yours, you could save them a great deal of pain.”

  Holden shook his head emphatically.

  “All I know is they came out of the Belt when you started out to meet us, Captain,” Holden said. “They haven’t talked to us. Our best guess is they’re concerned citizens of the Belt coming to watch what happens.”

  Yao nodded. If she found the thought of witnesses disconcerting, it didn’t show.

  “Take them below, Chief,” she said, then turned away.