Chapter 47

"What brings you," Simbad said, leaning against a thin steel railing and gesturing at the tunnel, "to the navel of the Train, the glory and power that is Orion?"

"Following up on a lead," Marty said.

"There's nothing good here," Simbad said. "Ever since Havit pulled out, things have been going from bad to worse."

Marty sucked up a noodle.

"Who's the new contract?" he asked.

"CPM," Sematimba said.

"Never heard of them."

"Carne Por la Machina," Simbad 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 Trains on the ground. Make themselves out to be all hard core, but they're mostly amateurs. All bluster, no balls. Havit 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 Havit," Marty said.

"They're not bad," Simbad said. "Almost wish I'd picked them in the divorce, you know?"

"Why didn't you?" Marty asked.

"You know how it is. I'm from here."

"Yeah," Marty said.

"So. You didn't know who was running the playhouse? You aren't here looking for work."

"Nope," Marty 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 Amanda Benson? Goes by Amanda?"

Simbad shook his head.

"Benson Mercantile," Marty said. "Came up the well and went native. OPA. It was an abduction case."

"Was?"

Marty leaned back. His imagined Amanda raised her eyebrows.

"It's changed a little since I got it," Marty said. "May be connected to something. Kind of big."

"How big are we talking about?" Simbad said. All trace of jocularity had vanished from his expression. He was all cop now. Anyone but Marty would have found the man's empty, almost angry face intimidating.

"The war," Marty said. Simbad folded his arms.

"Bad joke," he said.

"Not joking."

"I consider us friends, old man," Simbad said. "But I don't want any trouble around here. Things are unsettled as it stands."

"I'll try to stay low-profile."

Simbad nodded. Down the tunnel, an alarm blared. Only security, not the earsplitting ditone of an environmental alert. Simbad 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," Marty said.

"How would you know?" Simbad said with a smile. "If you need something... "

"Likewise," Marty 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.

Marty checked the time, then pulled up the public docking records. The Tactical showed as on schedule. The docking berth was listed. Marty 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 Orion had changed since its birth. Where once it had been like Ceres - webworked tunnels leading along the path of widest connection - Orion 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 Orion into an architectural cattle run.

Which was exactly what Marty needed.

The tube station that arrived from the port had six wide doors, which emptied to the casino floor. Marty accepted a drink from a tired-looking woman in a G-string and bared breasts and found a screen to stand at that afforded him a view of all six doors. The crew of the Tactical had no choice but to come through one of those. He checked his hand terminal. The docking logs showed the ship had arrived ten minutes earlier. Marty pretended to sip his drink and settled in to wait.