Expanse: Nemesis Games Part 17

"Her video capture," he said. "She has a little wearable interview rig. It's intentionally un.o.btrusive so that the person she's talking to sort of forgets they're on camera."

"And?"

Holden spread his hands. "It's not here."

Fred moved forward, his lips thin, his eyes shifting over the mess of light from the broken screen. Holden had a sense of movement, as if the image was shifting slightly. Voices came from the far side of Fred's office door. A man's voice raised in anger; Drummer's calm, clipped reply.

"Are you sure we can't get into this hand terminal?" Holden said.

"Positive," Fred said, "but there may be another way. Come on. If we're going to solve this, we're going to need an imaging astronomer."

Once Fred explained the problem, it took three hours to set up a rig that would capture the glow coming from the scattered screen and an hour more to get the computer to understand its new task. The properties of light coming off extrasolar dust clouds were apparently very different from a busted terminal display. Once the expert systems were convinced that the problem fit inside their job description, the lab went to work matching polarizations and angles, mapping the fissures in the surface of the display, and building a computational lens that couldn't exist in the physical world.

Fred had emptied the lab and sealed it. Holden sat on a chair, listening to the tick-tick-tick of the scanners recording photons and watching the image on the display slowly cohere. Fred hummed to himself, a low, slow tune that seemed melancholy and threatening at the same time. The empty stations and desks highlighted how alone the two of them were in a station filled with people.

A computational run ended. The image updated. It was still rough. Rainbow-colored deformations crossed it and sections were simply missing; it looked like the beginning of a migraine.

But it was enough. Several empty meters, ending in a square metal door complicated by an industrial bolt mechanism. Walls, ceiling, and floor marked with scuffed yellow paint and stippled by guide holes where pallets and crates would stack.

"That's a storage container," Fred said. "She's in a shipping container."

"The way the image moves. Is that her? Is she moving?"

Fred shrugged.

"Because if she's moving, then she's probably alive, right?"

"Could be. If she's alive, it's because they want her alive. And off Tycho. Look at that."

Holden followed Fred's finger. "It's the edge of the doorway?"

"The door's sealed. You don't do that until it's ready to ship. There are probably a quarter million containers like that on the station, but I'd bet we don't have more than a few thousand sealed and ready to go out. Whoever wants her, they want her someplace we can't get her back from."

Holden felt something in his gut relax. She was out there, and she was okay. Not safe, not yet. But not dead. He hadn't realized how much the guilt and fear had settled down on his shoulders until the moment of hope lifted it.

"What?" Fred said.

"I didn't say anything."

"But you made that noise."

"Oh," Holden said. "Yeah, I was just noticing how having everyone I care about gone makes it really important that I not screw up the things I can control."

"Good insight. Well done."

"Are you making fun of me?"

"Little bit. But I'm also running a targeted security scan of the shipping containers on the float. And guess what?" Fred gestured to the display on the desk before him. The great emptiness of the Tycho work sphere was drawn in thin, clean schematic lines. From habit, Holden's gaze went to the Rocinante. Fred pointed beyond it to a floating cl.u.s.ter of metal containers. "One of them's warm."

Chapter Seventeen: Alex.

Alex had spent a fair amount of his training time at Hecate Base, and going back now was strange in a couple ways. There were the sorts of changes that he'd become accustomed to on Mars old bars gone, new restaurants in place, the c.r.a.ppy handball courts converted to an administrative center, things like that. But driving his cart through the wide corridors, the thing that struck him most was how young everyone was. Cadets strutted in front of the bar that had once been the Steel Cactus Mexican Grill and sold to-go cups of Thai food now, their chins up and their chests out looking like they were playing dress-up. The ads on the screens were all for weapons and churches, singles services designed for people on tours of duty, and life insurance tailored for the families they left behind. They were the sorts of things that promised control or comfort in an uncertain universe. Alex remembered ads like that from decades before. The styles had changed, but the needs and subterranean fears that fueled them were the same.

Alex had worn the uniform, told the jokes. Or at least the same kind. He'd wondered whether there would be violence when he got out with a mixture of hope and dread. He'd pretended to be tougher than he was in hope of becoming tougher. He remembered how serious it had all been. The time Preston had gotten drunk and started a fight with Gregory. Alex had been pulled into it, and they'd all ended up before the MPs, certain their careers were over. The time Andrea Howard got busted cheating and had been dishonorably discharged. It had felt like someone died.

Now, looking at these kids, of course there was brawling and stupid decisions. They were children. And so he'd been a child when he was there too, and his choices had been made by a guy who didn't know any better. He'd married Talissa when he was about that old. They'd made their blueprints for how he'd serve his tours and then come home. All their plans had been made by kids this young. Looked at that way, it made sense how nothing had worked out.

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 gla.s.sed 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 cafe 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, Fermin boiled up out of his chair and wrapped his arms around him.

"Alex!" Fermin shouted. "Good G.o.d, 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," Fermin 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 Fermin 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?"

Fermin spread his hands, the gesture taking in the teahouse, the corridor outside, Hecate Base, and Mars. "I've been here the whole d.a.m.ned 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," Fermin said. "Gra.s.s 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. Fermin 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 Fermin 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 Fermin glance into a facial recognition setup. Once he cleared, they checked Alex for weapons and contraband and issued him a visitor pa.s.s. The process was less than five minutes, and leisurely at that. Alex followed Fermin 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," Fermin 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 s.p.a.ce 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, you 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 pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.sed 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."