Kelly led Holden at a brisk pace through the ship. His rifle was no longer at the ready but hanging from his shoulder loosely. Either he’d decided Holden wasn’t going to cause trouble, or that he could take him down easily if he did.
“Can I ask who Lieutenant Lopez is?”
“He’s the guy who asked to see you,” Kelly said.
Kelly stopped at a plain gray door, rapped once, then took Holden inside a small compartment with a table and two uncomfortable-looking chairs. A dark-haired man was setting up a recorder. He waved one hand vaguely in the direction of a chair. Holden sat. The chair was even less comfortable than it looked.
“You can go, Mr. Kelly,” the man Holden assumed was Lopez said. Kelly left and closed the door.
When Lopez had finished, he sat down across the table from Holden and reached out one hand. Holden shook it.
“I’m Lieutenant Lopez. Kelly probably told you that. I work for naval intelligence, which he almost certainly didn’t tell you. My job isn’t secret, but they train jarheads to be tight-lipped.”
Lopez reached into his pocket, took out a small packet of white lozenges, and popped one into his mouth. He didn’t offer one to Holden. Lopez’s pupils contracted to tiny points as he sucked the lozenge. Focus drugs. He’d be watching every tic of Holden’s face during questioning. Tough to lie to.
“First Lieutenant James R. Holden, of Montana,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
“Yes, sir,” Holden said anyway.
“Seven years in the UNN, last posting on the destroyer Zhang Fei.”
“That’s me.”
“Your file says you were busted out for assaulting a superior officer,” Lopez said. “That’s pretty cliché, Holden. You punched the old man? Seriously?”
“No. I missed. Broke my hand on a bulkhead.”
“How’d that happen?”
“He was quicker than I expected,” Holden replied.
“Why’d you try?”
“I was projecting my self-loathing onto him. It’s just a stroke of luck that I actually wound up hurting the right person,” Holden said.
“Sounds like you’ve thought about it some since then,” Lopez said, his pinprick pupils never moving from Holden’s face. “Therapy?”
“Lots of time to think on the Canterbury,” Holden replied.
Lopez ignored the obvious opening and said, “What did you come up with, during all that thinking?”
“The Coalition has been stepping on the necks of the people out here for over a hundred years now. I didn’t like being the boot.”
“An OPA sympathizer, then?” Lopez said, his expression not changing at all.
“No. I didn’t switch sides. I stopped playing. I didn’t renounce my citizenship. I like Montana. I’m out here because I like flying, and only a Belter rust trap like the Canterbury will hire me.”
Lopez smiled for the first time. “You’re an exceedingly honest man, Mr. Holden.”
“Yes.”
“Why did you claim that a Martian military vessel destroyed your ship?”
“I didn’t. I explained all that in the broadcast. It had technology only available to inner planet fleets, and I found a piece of MCRN hardware in the device that tricked us into stopping.”
“We’ll want to see that.”
“You’re welcome to it.”
“Your file says you were the only child of a family co-op,” Lopez said, acting as though they’d never stopped talking about Holden’s past.
“Yes, five fathers, three mothers.”
“So many parents for only one child,” Lopez said, slowly unwrapping another lozenge. The Martians had lots of space for traditional families.
“The tax break for eight adults only having one child allowed them to own twenty-two acres of decent farmland. There are over thirty billion people on Earth. Twenty-two acres is a national park,” Holden said. “Also, the DNA mix is legit. They aren’t parents in name only.”
“How did they decide who carried you?”
“Mother Elise had the widest hips.”
Lopez popped the second lozenge into his mouth and sucked on it a few moments. Before he could speak again, the deck shook. The video recorder jiggled on its arm.
“Torpedo launches?” Holden said. “Guess those Belt ships didn’t change course.”
“Any thoughts about that, Mr. Holden?”
“Just that you seem pretty willing to kill Belt ships.”
“You’ve put us in a position where we can’t afford to seem weak. After your accusations, there are a lot of people who don’t think much of us.”
Holden shrugged. If the man was watching for guilt or remorse from Holden, he was out of luck. The Belt ships had known what they were going toward. They hadn’t turned away. But still, something bothered him.
“They might hate your living guts,” Holden said. “But it’s hard to find enough suicidal people to crew six ships. Maybe they think they can outrun torpedoes.”
Lopez didn’t move, his whole body preternaturally still with the focus drugs pouring through him.
“We—” Lopez began, and the general quarters Klaxon sounded. It was deafening in the small metal compartment.
“Holy shit, did they shoot back?” Holden asked.
Lopez shook himself, like a man waking up from a daydream. He got up and hit the comm button by the door. A marine came through seconds later.
“Take Mr. Holden back to his quarters,” Lopez said, then left the room at a run.
The marine gestured at the corridor with the barrel of his rifle. His expression was hard.
It’s all fun and games till someone shoots back, Holden thought.
Naomi patted the empty couch next to her and smiled.
“Did they put slivers under your fingernails?” she asked.
“No, actually, he was surprisingly human for a naval intelligence wonk,” Holden replied. “Of course, he was just getting warmed up. Have you guys heard anything about the other ships?”
Alex said, “Nope. But that alarm means they’re takin’ them seriously all of a sudden.”
“It’s insane,” Shed said quietly. “Flying around in these metal bubbles, and then trying to poke holes in each other. You ever seen what long-term decompression and cold exposure does? Breaks all the capillaries in your eyes and skin. Tissue damage to the lungs can cause massive pneumonia followed by emphysema-like scarring. I mean, if you don’t just die.”
“Well, that’s awful fucking cheerful, Doc. Thanks for that,” Amos said.
The ship suddenly vibrated in a syncopated but ultra-high-speed rhythm. Alex looked at Holden, his eyes wide.
“That’s the point defense network openin’ up. That means incoming torpedoes,” he said. “Better strap in tight, kids. The ship might start doin’ some violent maneuvering.”
Everyone but Holden was already belted into the couches. He fastened his restraints too.
“This sucks. All the real action is happenin’ thousands of klicks from here, and we got no instruments to look at,” Alex said. “We won’t know if somethin’ slipped through the flack screen till it rips the hull open.”
“Boy, everybody is just a fucking pile of fun right now,” Amos said loudly.
Shed’s eyes were wide, his face too pale. Holden shook his head.
“Not going to happen,” he said. “This thing is unkillable. Whoever those ships are, they can put on a good show, but that’s it.”
“All respect, Captain,” Naomi said. “But whoever those ships are, they should be dead already, and they aren’t.”
The distant noises of faraway combat kept up. The occasional rumble of a torpedo firing. The near-constant vibration of the high-speed point defense guns. Holden didn’t realize he’d fallen asleep until he was jerked awake by an earsplitting roar. Amos and Alex were yelling. Shed was screaming.
“What happened?” Holden yelled over the noise.
“We’re hit, Cap!” Alex said. “That was a torpedo hit!”
The gravity suddenly dropped away. The Donnager had stopped its engines. Or they’d been destroyed.
Amos was still yelling, “Shit shit shit,” over everything. But at least Shed had stopped screaming. He was staring wide eyed out of his couch, his face white. Holden unbuckled his straps and pushed off toward the comm panel.
“Jim!” Naomi called out. “What are you doing?”
“We need to find out what’s going on,” Holden said over his shoulder.
When he reached the bulkhead by the hatch, he punched the comm panel call button. There was no reply. He hit it again, then started pounding on the hatch. No one came.
“Where are our damn marines?” he said.
The lights dimmed, came back up. Then again, and again, in a slow cadence.
“Gauss turrets firing. Shit. It’s CQB,” Alex said in awe.
In the history of the Coalition, no capital ship had ever gotten into a close-quarters battle. But here they were, firing the ship’s big cannons, which meant that the range was sufficiently short that a nonguided weapon was viable. Hundreds or even dozens of kilometers, not thousands. Somehow the Belt ships had survived Donnager’s torpedo barrage.
“Anyone else think this is desperate fucking queer?” Amos asked, a touch of panic in his voice.
The Donnager began to ring like a gong struck over and over again by a massive hammer. Return fire.
The gauss round that killed Shed didn’t even make a noise. Like a magic trick, two perfectly round holes appeared on either side of the room in a line that intersected Shed’s couch. One moment, the medic was there; the next, his head was gone from the Adam’s apple up. Arterial blood pumped out in a red cloud, pulled into two thin lines, and whirled to the holes in the walls of the room as the air rushed out.
Chapter Twelve: Miller
For thirty years, Miller had worked security. Violence and death were familiar companions to him. Men, women. Animals. Kids. Once he���d held a woman’s hand while she bled to death. He’d killed two people, could still see them die if he closed his eyes and thought about it. If anyone had asked him, he’d have said there wasn’t much left that would shake him.
But he’d never watched a war start before.
The Distinguished Hyacinth Lounge was in the shift-change rush. Men and women in security uniforms—mostly from Star Helix, but a few smaller companies too—were either drinking their after-work liquor and winding down or making trips to the breakfast buffet for coffee, textured fungi in sugar sauce, sausage with meat maybe one part in a thousand. Miller chewed the sausage and watched the display monitor on the wall. A Star Helix external relations head looked sincerely out, his demeanor radiating calm and certainty as he explained how everything was going to hell.
“Preliminary scans suggest that the explosion was the result of a failed attempt to connect a nuclear device to the docking station. Officials from the Martian government have referred to the incident only as an ‘alleged terrorist action’ and refused comment pending further investigation.”
“Another one,” Havelock said from behind him. “You know, eventually, one of those assholes is going to get it right.”
Miller turned in his seat, then nodded to the chair beside him. Havelock sat.
“That’ll be an interesting day,” Miller said. “I was about to call you.”
“Yeah, sorry,” his partner said. “I was up kind of late.”
“Any word on the transfer?”
“No,” Havelock said. “Figure my paperwork’s hung on a desk someplace in Olympus. What about you? Any word on your special-project girl?”
“Not yet,” Miller said. “Look, the reason I wanted to meet up before we went in… I need to take a couple days, try to run down some leads on Julie. With all this other shit going on, Shaddid doesn’t want me doing much more than phoning this one in.”
“But you’re ignoring that,” Havelock said. It wasn’t a question.
“I’ve got a feeling about this one.”
“So how can I help?”
“I need you to cover for me.”
“How am I going to do that?” Havelock asked. “It’s not like I can tell them you’re sick. They’ve got access to your medical records same as everyone else’s.”
“Tell ’em I’ve been getting drunk a lot,” Miller said. “That Candace came by. She’s my ex-wife.”
Havelock chewed his sausage, brow furrowed. The Earther shook his head slowly—not a refusal, but the prelude to a question. Miller waited.
“You’re telling me you’d rather have the boss think you’re missing work because you’re on a dysfunctional, heartbroken bender than that you’re doing the work she assigned you? I don’t get it.”
Miller licked his lips and leaned forward, elbows on the smooth off-white table. Someone had scratched a design into the plastic. A split circle. And this was a cop bar.
“I don’t know what I’m looking at,” Miller said. “There’s a bunch of things that belong together somehow, and I’m not sure yet what it is. Until I know more, I need to stay low. A guy has a fling with his ex, hits the bottle for a few days? That’s not going to light up anyone’s panels.”
Havelock shook his head again, this time in mild disbelief. If he’d been a Belter, he’d have made the gesture with his hands, so you could see it when he had an environment suit on. Another of the hundred small ways someone who hadn’t grown up on the Belt betrayed himself. The wall monitor cut to the image of a blond woman in a severe uniform. The external relations head was talking about the Martian navy’s tactical response and whether the OPA was behind the increased vandalism. That was what he called fumbling an overloaded fusion reactor while setting up a ship-killing booby trap: vandalism.
“That shit just doesn’t follow,” Havelock said, and for a moment Miller didn’t know if he meant the Belter guerrilla actions, the Martian response, or the favor he’d asked. “Seriously. Where’s Earth? All this shit’s going on, and we don’t hear a damn thing from them.”
“Why would we?” Miller asked. “It’s Mars and the Belt going at it.”
“When was the last time Earth let anything major happen without them in the middle of it?” Havelock said, then sighed. “Okay. You’re too drunk to come in. Your love life’s a mess. I’m trying to cover for you.”
“Just for a couple days.”
“Make sure you get back before someone decides it’s the perfect chance for a random shooting to take out the Earther cop.”
“I’ll do that,” Miller said, rising from the table. “You watch your back.”
“Don’t need to tell me twice,” Havelock said.
The Ceres Center for Jiu Jitsu was down near the port, where the spin gravity was strongest. The hole was a converted storage space from before the big spin. A cylinder flattened where flooring had been set in about a third of the way from the bottom. Racks bearing various lengths of staffs, bamboo swords, and dull plastic practice knives hung from the vaulted ceiling. The polished stone echoed with the grunting of men working a line of resistance machines and the soft thud of a woman at the back punishing a heavy bag. Three students stood on the central mat, speaking in low voices.
Pictures filled the front wall on either side of the door. Soldiers in uniform. Security agents for half a dozen Belter corporations. Not many inner planet types, but a few. Plaques commemorating placements in competitions. A page of small type outlining the history of the studio.
One of the students shouted and collapsed, carrying one of the others to the mat with her. The one still standing applauded and helped them back up. Miller searched through the wall of pictures, hoping to find Julie.
“Can I help you?”
The man was half a head shorter than Miller and easily twice as broad. It should have made him look like an Earther, but everything else about him said Belt. He wore pale sweats that made his skin seem even darker. His smile was curious and as serene as a well-fed predator. Miller nodded.
“Detectiv
e Miller,” he said. “I’m with station security. There’s one of your students I wanted to get some background on.”
“This is an official investigation?” the man asked.
“Yeah,” Miller said. “I’m afraid it is.”
“Then you’ll have a warrant.”
Miller smiled. The man smiled back.
“We don’t give out any information on our students without a warrant,” he said. “Studio policy.”
“I respect that,” Miller said. “No, I really do. It’s just that… parts of this particular investigation are maybe a little more official than others. The girl’s not in trouble. She didn’t do anything. But she has family on Luna who want her found.”
“A kidnap job,” the man said, folding his arms. The serene face had gone cool without any apparent movement.
“Only the official part,” Miller said. “I can get a warrant, and we can do the whole thing through channels. But then I have to tell my boss. The more she knows, the less room I have to move.”
The man didn’t react. His stillness was unnerving. Miller struggled not to fidget. The woman working the heavy bag at the far end of the studio went through a flurry of strikes, shouting out with each one.
“Who?” the man asked.
“Julie Mao,” Miller said. He could have said he was looking for the Buddha’s mother for all the reaction he got. “I think she’s in trouble.”
“Why do you care if she is?”
“I don’t know the answer to that one,” Miller said. “I just do. If you don’t want to help me, then you don’t.”
“And you’ll go get your warrant. Do this through channels.”
Miller took off his hat, rubbed a long, thin hand across his head, and put the hat back in place.
“Probably not,” he said.
“Let me see your ID,” the man said. Miller pulled up his terminal and let the man confirm who he was. The man handed it back and pointed to a small door behind the heavy bags. Miller did as he was told.
The office was cramped. A small laminate desk with a soft sphere behind it in lieu of a chair. Two stools that looked like they’d come out of a bar. A filing cabinet with a small fabricator that stank of ozone and oil that was probably where the plaques and certificates were made.
Leviathan Wakes: Book One of The Expanse Page 12
