“That’s interesting,” Avasarala said. “Not the part where he’s reconnecting with his ex-wife, though. No one ever tries that without seeming like an asshole.”
“Right?”
“Well,” Avasarala said, then looked up at someone offscreen. She smiled and accepted a steaming cup from a disembodied hand, then took a long sip and sighed with pleasure. “Thank you for meeting with me, Mr. Burton.”
“Oh, it was my pleasure.”
“Please keep in mind that my name is pretty closely connected with the Rocinante, Captain Holden, and his crew at this point.”
“So?” Amos said with another shrug.
“So,” Avasarala said, then put her steaming cup down and leaned forward again. “If you’re about to do something I’ll need to cover up later, I’d appreciate a call first.”
“You got it, Chrissie.”
“Honestly. Fucking stop that,” she said with a smile.
The screen went black, and the woman who’d stopped him at the port came in. Amos pointed to the screen with his chin.
“I think she likes me.”
The street level view of New York wasn’t all that different from the Baltimore streets he’d grown up on. Lots of tall buildings, lots of automated street traffic, lots of people stratified into two distinct groups: those who had someplace to be, and those who didn’t. The employed scuttled from public transit to office buildings and back again at shift change. They bought things from street vendors, the simple fact of having currency a mark of status. Those on basic drifted and bartered, living on the excess created by the productive, and adding to it where they could with under-the-table industry too small for the government to notice.
Drifting among them like ghosts, invisible to anyone not from their world, was a third group. The ones who lived in the cracks. Thieves looking for an easy score. Pushers and con artists and prostitutes of every age group, every point on the spectrum of gender and sexual orientation. The kind of people Amos had once been. A corner pusher saw him looking and frowned back, seeing Amos for what he was without recognizing him. It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t be in town long enough for it to get to anyone who’d come demanding to know where he fit in their ecosystem.
After walking for a couple hours, getting used to the
feel of the gravity and concrete beneath his feet, Amos stopped at a hotel he picked at random and checked in. One thing about him had changed, and that was money. Shipping with the Rocinante, for all its dangers and drama, had turned out to be a profitable gig. With the shares he’d cashed out, Amos didn’t have to worry about how much the hotel would cost; he just asked for a room and told his terminal to pay for anything the hotel charged him.
In his room, he took a long shower. Lydia’s face stared back at him from the bathroom mirror as he brushed his teeth and shaved off the short stubble growing on his head. Getting clean had the feeling of ritual. Like preparations made by a holy man before performing some sacred rite.
When he was done, he sat down nude in the middle of the room’s large bed and looked up Lydia’s obituary.
LYDIA MAALOUF ALLEN, PASSED AWAY WEDNESDAY, APRIL 14TH AT…
Allen. Amos didn’t know that name. As an alias it wasn’t a very good one, since Lydia Maalouf was the name he’d always known her by. Not an alias then. A married name? That was interesting.
SHE IS SURVIVED BY HER HUSBAND OF ELEVEN YEARS, CHARLES JACOB ALLEN…
Over a decade after he’d left, Lydia had married a man named Charles. Amos probed at that idea, like poking a finger into a wound to see if it was infected. To see if it hurt. The only reaction he found was curiosity.
SHE PASSED QUIETLY IN HER PHILADELPHIA HOME, WITH CHARLES AT HER SIDE…
Charles was the last one to see her alive, so he was the first one Amos needed to find. After reading the rest of the obituary several times, he logged on to the public mass transit site and booked a ticket for that night on the high-speed rail to Philadelphia. Then he lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. He was oddly excited by the idea of meeting Lydia’s husband. As if her family was his, and Charles was a person he should always have known, but was only now getting to meet. Sleep eluded him, but the soft bed relaxed the muscles tightening in his back, and the last of the nausea from the shuttle ride faded. The path ahead was clear.
If Lydia had, indeed, died quietly in her own bed with a loving husband at her side, then he would meet this man. See the home she’d lived in. Put flowers on her grave and say his last goodbye. If not, he’d kill some people. Neither possibility excited him more than the other. Either one was fine.
He slept.
Chapter Eight: Holden
Holden ran the video back and watched it again. The ship, an ugly box of metal with additional storage containers strapped to its flanks, made him think of the supply-laden covered wagons in old westerns. It wasn’t far from the truth. The Rabia Balkhi, registered to Captain Eric Khan out of Pallas, was still just goods and people heading into the frontier to stake a claim. Fewer horses, maybe, but more fusion reactors.
Again, the ship passed through the gate, the image wiggled and jumped, the Balkhi was gone.
“So?” Monica asked, her voice rich with anticipation. “What do you think?”
He scratched his arm, deciding what the answer was.