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Chapter 4

Detective Marty sat back on the foam-core chair, smiling gentle encouragement while he scrambled to make sense of the girl's story.

"And then it was all pow! Room full up with bladeboys howling and humping shank," the girl said, waving a hand. "Look like a dance number, 'cept that Bunny's got this look he didn't know nothing never and ever amen. You know, que?"

Maverick, standing by the door, blinked twice. The squat man's face twitched with impatience. It was why Havelock was never going to make senior detective. And why he sucked at poker.

Marty was very good at poker.

"I totally," Marty said. His voice had taken on the twang of an inner level resident. He waved his hand in the same lazy arc the girl used. "Bunny, he didn't see. Forgotten arm."

"Forgotten fucking arm, yeah," the girl said as if Marty had spoken a line of gospel. Marty nodded, and the girl nodded back like they were two birds doing a mating dance.

The rent hole was three cream-and-black-fleck-painted rooms - bathroom, kitchen, living room. The struts of a pull-down sleeping loft in the living room had been broken and repaired so many times they didn't retract anymore. This near the center of ceres' spin, that wasn't from gravity so much as mass in motion. The air smelled beery with old protein yeast and mushrooms. Local food, so whoever had bounced the girl hard enough to break her bed hadn't paid enough for dinner. Or maybe they did, and the girl had chosen to spend it on heroin or malta or TYO.

Her business, either way.

"Follow que?" Marty asked.

"Bunny vacuate like losing air," the girl said with a chuckle. "Bang-head hops, louis tu?"

"Azriel," Marty said.

"Now, all new bladeboys. Overhead. I'm out."

"And Bunny?"

The girl's eyes made a slow track up Marty, shoes to knees to porkpie hat. Marty chuckled. He gave the chair a light push, sloping up to his feet in the low gravity.

"He shows, and I asked, que si?" Marty said.

"Como no?" the girl said. Why not?

The tunnel outside was white where it wasn't grimy. Ten meters wide, and gently sloping up in both directions. The white LED lights didn't pretend to mimic sunlight. About half a kilometer down, someone had rammed into the wall so hard the native rock showed through, and it still hadn't been repaired. Maybe it wouldn't be. This was the deep dig, way up near the center of spin. Tourists never came here.

Maverick led the way to their cart, bouncing too high with every step. He didn't come up to the low gravity levels very often, and it made him awkward. Marty had lived on ceres his whole life, and truth to tell, the Anderson effect up this high could make him a little unsteady sometimes too.

"So," Maverick said as he punched in their destination code, "did you have fun?"

"Don't know what you mean," Marty said.

The electrical motors hummed to life, and the cart lurched forward into the tunnel, squishy foam tires faintly squeaking.

"Having your outworld conversation in front of the Earth guy?" Maverick said. "I couldn't follow even half of that."

"That wasn't Trains keeping the Earth guy out," Marty said. "That was poor folks keeping the educated guy out. And it was kind of fun, now you mention it."

Maverick laughed. He could take being teased and keep on moving. It was what made him good at team sports: soccer, basketball, politics.

Marty wasn't much good at those.

Ceres, the port city of the Train and the outer planets, boasted two hundred fifty kilometers in diameter, tens of thousands of kilometers of tunnels in layer on layer on layer. Spinning it up to 0.3 g had taken the best minds at Century Manufacturing half a generation, and they were still pretty smug about it. Now Ceres had more than six million permanent residents, and as many as a thousand ships docking in any given day meant upping the population to as high as seven million.

Platinum, iron, and titanium from the Train. Water from Saturn, vegetables and beef from the big mirror-fed greenhouses on Asia and Europa, organics from Earth and Mars. Power cells from Io, Helium-3 from the refineries on Koto and Iapetus. A river of wealth and power unrivaled in human history came through Ceres. Where there was commerce on that level, there was also crime. Where there was crime, there were security forces to keep it in check. Men like Marty and Maverick, whose business it was to track the electric carts up the wide ramps, feel the false gravity of spin fall away beneath them, and ask low-rent glitz whores about what happened the night Bunny Manson stopped collecting protection money for the High Society.

The primary station house for Saturn Security, police force and military garrison for the Ceres Station, was on the third level from the asteroid's skin, two kilometers square and dug into the rock so high Marty could walk from his desk up five levels without ever leaving the offices. Maverick turned in the cart while Marty went to his cubicle, downloaded the recording of their interview with the girl, and reran it. He was halfway through when his partner lumbered up behind him.

"Learn anything?" Maverick asked.

"Not much," Marty said. "Bunny got jumped by a bunch of unaffiliated local thugs. Sometimes a low-level guy like Bunny will hire people to pretend to attack him so he can heroically fight them off. Ups his reputation. That's what she meant when she called it a dance number. The guys that went after him were that caliber, only instead of turning into a ninja badass, Bunny ran away and hasn't come back."

"And now?"

"And now nothing," Marty said. "That's what I don't get. Someone took out a High purse boy, and there's no payback. I mean, okay, Bunny's a bottom-feeder, but... "

"But once they start eating the little guys, there's less money coming up to the big guys," Maverick said. "So why hasn't the Hih meted out some gangster justice?"

"I don't like this," Marty said.

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