Leviathan Wakes

No, Miller thought. No, I have seen those corridors. What’s happened to those people almost happened to me. I don’t want anything to do with that abomination.

“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.

“Chicá perdída 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. What it must be like, Miller thought, to be young and soulless.

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.