channels.
"What brings you," Sematimba said, leaning against a thin steel railing and gesturing at the tunnel, "to the navel of the Belt, the glory and power that is Eros?"
"Following up on a lead," Miller said.
"There's nothing good here," Sematimba said. "Ever since Protogen pulled out, things have been going from bad to worse."
Miller sucked up a noodle.
"Who's the new contract?" he asked.
"CPM," Sematimba said.
"Never heard of them."
"Carne Por la Machina," Sematimba said, and pulled a face: exaggerated bluff masculinity. He thumped his breast and growled, then let the imitation go and shook his head. "New corporation out of Luna. Mostly Belters on the ground. Make themselves out to be all hard core, but they're mostly amateurs. All bluster, no balls. Protogen was inner planets, and that was a problem, but they were serious as hell. They broke heads, but they kept the peace. These new assholes? Most corrupt bunch of thugs I've ever worked for. I don't think the board of governors is going to renew when the contract's up. I didn't say that, but it's true."
"I've got an old partner signed up with Protogen," Miller said.
"They're not bad," Sematimba said. "Almost wish I'd picked them in the divorce, you know?"
"Why didn't you?" Miller asked.
"You know how it is. I'm from here."
"Yeah," Miller said.
"So. You didn't know who was running the playhouse? You aren't here looking for work."
"Nope," Miller said. "I'm on sabbatical. Doing some travel for myself these days."
"You've got money for that?"
"Not really. But I don't mind going on the cheap. For a while, you know. You heard anything about a Juliette Mao? Goes by Julie?"
Sematimba shook his head.
"Mao-Kwikowski Mercantile," Miller said. "Came up the well and went native. OPA. It was an abduction case."
"Was?"
Miller leaned back. His imagined Julie raised her eyebrows.
"It's changed a little since I got it," Miller said. "May be connected to something. Kind of big."
"How big are we talking about?" Sematimba said. All trace of jocularity had vanished from his expression. He was all cop now. Anyone but Miller would have found the man's empty, almost angry face intimidating.
"The war," Miller said. Sematimba folded his arms.
"Bad joke," he said.
"Not joking."
"I consider us friends, old man," Sematimba said. "But I don't want any trouble around here. Things are unsettled as it stands."
"I'll try to stay low-profile."
Sematimba nodded. Down the tunnel, an alarm blared. Only security, not the earsplitting ditone of an environmental alert. Sematimba looked down the tunnel as if squinting would let him see through the press of people, bicycles, and food carts.
"I'd better go look," he said with an air of resignation. "Probably some of my fellow officers of the peace breaking windows for the fun of it."
"Great to be part of a team like that," Miller said.
"How would you know?" Sematimba said with a smile. "If you need something... "
"Likewise," Miller said, and watched the cop wade into the sea of chaos and humanity. He was a large man, but something about the passing crowd's universal deafness to the alarm's blare made him seem smaller. A stone in the ocean, the phrase went. One star among millions.
Miller checked the time, then pulled up the public docking records. The Rocinante showed as on schedule. The docking berth was listed. Miller sucked down the last of his noodles, tossed the foam cone with the thin smear of black sauce into a public recycler, found the nearest men's room, and when he was done there, trotted toward the casino level.
The architecture of Eros had changed since its birth. Where once it had been like Ceres - webworked tunnels leading along the path of widest connection - Eros had learned from the flow of money: All paths led to the casino level. If you wanted to go anywhere, you passed through the wide whale belly of lights and displays. Poker, blackjack, roulette, tall fish tanks filled with prize trout to be caught and gutted, mechanical slots, electronic slots, cricket races, craps, rigged tests of skill. Flashing lights, dancing neon clowns, and video screen advertisements blasted the eyes. Loud artificial laughter and merry whistles and bells assured you that you were having the time of your life. All while the smell of thousands of people packed into too small a space competed with the scent of heavily spiced vat-grown meat being hawked from carts rolling down the corridor. Greed and casino design had turned Eros into an architectural cattle run.
Which was exactly what Miller needed.
The tube station that arrived from the port had six wide doors,