“Sabez nichts, Pampaw,” Diogo said. The kid was wearing a meshwork shirt and pants cut in a fashion as youthful as it was ugly, and in his previous life, Miller would probably have written him off as too young to know anything useful. Now Miller waited. If anything could wring a prospect out of Diogo, it would be the promise of Miller getting a hole of his own. The silence dragged. Miller forced himself not to speak for fear of begging.
“Well… ” Diogo said warily. “Well. There’s one hombre might could. Just arm and eye.”
“Security guard work’s fine with me,” Miller said. “Anything that pays the bills.”
“Il conversa a do. Hear what’s said.”
“I appreciate anything you can do,” Miller replied, then gestured at the bed. “You mind if I…?”
“Mi cama es su cama,” Diogo said. Miller lay down.
Diogo stepped into the small shower, and the sound of water against flesh drowned out the air cycler. Even on board ship, Miller hadn’t lived in physical circumstances this intimate with anyone since his marriage. Still, he wouldn’t have gone as far as to call Diogo a friend.
Opportunity was thinner on Tycho than he’d hoped, and he didn’t have much by way of references. The few people who knew him weren’t likely to speak on his behalf. But surely there’d be something. All he needed was a way to remake himself, to start over and be someone different from who he’d been.
Assuming, of course, that Earth or Mars-whichever one came out on top of the war-didn’t then wipe the OPA and all the stations loyal to it out of the sky. And that the protomolecule didn’t escape Eros and slaughter a planet. Or a station. Or him. He had a moment’s chill, recalling that there was still a sample of the thing on board the
He told himself that wasn’t his problem anymore. Still, he hoped they’d be all right. He wanted them to be well, even if he wasn’t.
“Oi, Pampaw,” Diogo said as the door to the public hall slid open. “You hear that Eros started talking?”
Miller lifted himself to one elbow.
“Si,” Diogo said. “Whatever that shit is, it started broadcasting. There’s even words and shit. I’ve got a feed. You want a listen?”
“Sure,” he said.
Diogo scooped up his own hand terminal and keyed in something. Miller’s terminal chimed that it had received the new feed route.
“Chica perdida in ops been mixing a bunch of it to bhangra,” Diogo said, making a shifting dance move with his hips. “Hard-core, eh?”
Diogo and the other OPA irregulars had breached a high-value research station, faced down one of the most powerful and evil corporations in a history of power and evil. And now they were making music from the screams of the dying. Of the dead. They were dancing to it in the low-rent clubs.
But no. That wasn’t fair. Diogo was a good kid. He was just naive. The universe would take care of that, given a little time.
“Hard-core,” Miller said. Diogo grinned.
The feed sat in queue, waiting. Miller turned out the lights, letting the little bed bear him up against the press of spin. He didn’t want to hear. He didn’t want to know. He had to.
At first, the sound was nothing-electric squeals and a wildly fluting static. Then, maybe somewhere deep in the back of it, music. A chorus of violas churning away together in a long, distant crescendo. And then, as clear as if someone were speaking into a microphone, a voice.
“Rabbits and hamsters. Ecologically unstabilizing and round and blue as moonbeams. August.”
It almost certainly wasn’t a real person. The computer systems on Eros could generate any number of perfectly convincing dialects and voices. Men’s, women’s, children’s. And how many millions of hours of data could there be on the computers and storage dumps all through the station?
Another electronic flutter, like finches looped back against themselves. A new voice-feminine and soft this time-with a throbbing pulse behind it.
“Patient complains of rapid heartbeat and night sweats. Symptom onset reported as three months previous, but with a history… ”
The voice faded, and the throbbing rose. Like an old man with Swiss cheese holes in his brain, the complex system that had been Eros was dying, changing, losing its mind. And because Protogen had wired it all for sound, Miller could listen to the station fail.
“I didn’t tell him, I didn’t tell him, I didn’t tell him. The sunrise. I’ve never seen the sunrise.”
Miller closed his eyes and slid down toward sleep, serenaded by Eros. As consciousness faded, he imagined a body in the bed beside him, warm and alive and breathing slowly in time with the rise and fall of the static.
The manager was a thin man, weedy, with hair combed high above his brow like a wave that never crashed. The office hunched close around them, humming at odd moments when the infrastructure-water, air, energy-of Tycho impinged on it. A business built between ducts, improvisational and cheap. The lowest of the low.
“I’m sorry,” the manager said. Miller felt his gut tighten and sink. Of all the humiliations the universe had in store for him, this one he hadn’t foreseen. It made him angry.
“You think I can’t handle it?” he asked, keeping his voice soft.
“It’s not that,” the weedy man said. “It’s… Look, between us, we’re looking for a thumb, you know? Someone’s idiot kid brother could guard this warehouse. You’ve got all this experience. What do we need with riot control protocols? Or investigative procedure? I mean, come on. This gig doesn’t even come with a gun.”
“I don’t care,” Miller said. “I need something.”
The weedy man sighed and gave the exaggerated shrug of a Belter.
“You need something else,” he said.
Miller tried not to laugh, afraid it would sound like despair. He stared at the cheap plastic wall behind the manager until the guy started to get uncomfortable. It was a trap. He was too experienced to start over. He knew too much, so there was no going back and doing fresh beginnings.
“All right,” he said at last, and the manager across the desk from him let out a breath, then had the good grace to look embarrassed.
“Can I just ask,” the weedy man said. “Why did you leave your old job?”
“Ceres changed hands,” Miller said, putting on his hat. “I wasn’t on the new team. That was all.”
“Ceres?”
The manager looked confused, which in turn confused Miller. He glanced down at his own hand terminal. There was his work history, just the way he’d presented it. The manager couldn’t have missed it.
“That’s where I was,” Miller said.
“For the police thing. But I meant the last job. I mean, I’ve been around, I understand not putting OPA work on your resume, but you have to figure we all know that you were part of the thing… you know, with the station. And all.”
“You think I was working for the OPA,” Miller said.
The weedy man blinked.
“You were,” he said.
Which, after all, was true.
Nothing had changed in Fred Johnson’s office, and everything had. The furnishings, the smell of the air, the sense of its existing somewhere between a boardroom and a command and control center. The generation ship
