Leviathan Wakes

“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.

“Why does the family want her?” the man asked, lowering himself onto the sphere. It acted like a chair but required constant balance. A place to rest without actually resting.

“They think she’s in harm’s way. At least, that’s what they’re saying, and I don’t have reason to disbelieve them yet.”

“What kind of harm?”

“Don’t know,” Miller said. “I know she was on station. I know she shipped out for Tycho, and after that, I’ve got nothing.”

“Her family want her back on their station?”

The man knew who her family was. Miller filed the information away without missing a beat.

“I don’t think so,” Miller said. “The last message she got from them routed through Luna.”

“Down the well.” The way he said it made it sound like a disease.

“I’m looking for anyone who knows who she was shipping with. If she’s on a run, where she was going and when she was planning to get there. If she’s in range of a tightbeam.”

“I don’t know any of that,” the man said.

“You know anyone I should ask?”

There was a pause.

“Maybe. I’ll find what I can for you.”

“Anything else you can tell me about her?”

“She started at the studio five years ago. She was… angry when she first came. Undisciplined.”

“She got better,” Miller said. “Brown belt, right?”

The man’s eyebrows rose.

“I’m a cop,” Miller said. “I find things out.”

“She improved,” her teacher said. “She’d been attacked. Just after she came to the Belt. She was seeing that it didn’t happen twice.”

“Attacked,” Miller said, parsing the man’s tone of voice. “Raped?”

“I didn’t ask. She trained hard, even when she was off station. You can tell when people let it slide. They come back weaker. She never did.”

“Tough girl,” Miller said. “Good for her. Did she have friends? People she sparred with?”

“A few. No lovers that I know of, since that’s the next question.”

“That’s strange. Girl like that.”

“Like what, Detective?”

“Pretty girl,” Miller said. “Competent. Smart. Dedicated. Who wouldn’t want to be with someone like that?”

“Perhaps she hadn’t met the right person.”

Something in the way he said it hinted at amusement. Miller shrugged, uncomfortable in his skin.

“What kind of work did she do?” he asked.

“Light freighter. I don’t know of any particular cargo. I had the impression that she shipped wherever there was a need.”

“Not a regular route, then?”

“That was my impression.”

“Whose ships did she work? One particular freighter, or whatever came to hand? A particular company?”

“I’ll find what I can for you,” the man said.

“Courier for the OPA?”

“I’ll find out,” the man said, “what I can.”

* * *

The news that afternoon was all about Phoebe. The science station there — the one that Belters weren’t allowed even to dock at — had been hit. The official report stated that half the inhabitants of the base were dead, the other half missing. No one had claimed responsibility yet, but the common wisdom was that some Belter group — maybe the OPA, maybe someone else — had finally managed an act of “vandalism” with a body count. Miller sat in his hole, watching the broadcast feed and drinking.