The waiter came out of the kitchen, nodding. The wide-mouthed cup in his hand steamed. He put it in front of Alex almost shyly.
“Specialty of the house,” the boy said. “For you, Mr. Kamal.”
“Ah,” Alex said. “Thank you.”
The boy nodded again and retreated. Alex chuckled uncomfortably at the cup, and Fermín grinned. “Come on now. You’ve got to be used to this kind of thing, right? You’re Alex Kamal. First pilot through the Ring.”
“Naw, just the first one that lived.”
“Same thing.”
“And I surely didn’t want to be,” Alex said. “They were shooting at me.”
“And that makes it less romantic?”
Alex blew across the surface of the cup and sipped at it. Chai with honey and cardamom and something else he couldn’t quite place. “That trip was a lot of things,” he drawled. “Romantic wasn’t one of ’em. And usually since then I’ve had the captain around to soak up the attention.”
“Probably different elsewhere. But you’re a local boy. One of us who got out and made good.”
“Is that what happened?”
Fermín spread his hands, the gesture taking in the teahouse, the corridor outside, Hecate Base, and Mars. “I’ve been here the whole damned time. Made it as far as chief petty officer. Two divorces and a kid in upper university calls me twice a year to borrow money.”
“Bet you had fewer people shooting at you, though. It’s not as much fun as you make it sound.”
“Suppose not,” Fermín said. “Grass is always greener.”
For an hour, more or less, they sat drinking chai and eating almond cookies – though fewer of those than they had when they’d been younger. Fermín brought him up to speed on half a dozen of the others that they’d known in common back in the day. The chai was good and Fermín jovial. It was hard to say what it was exactly that left Alex melancholy. When the time came to leave, the boy wouldn’t take their money. He just said “On the house” when they tried.
The checkpoint into the base proper was manned by a security team that had Fermín glance into a facial recognition setup. Once he cleared, they checked Alex for weapons and contraband and issued him a visitor pass. The process was less than five minutes, and leisurely at that. Alex followed Fermín to a moving walkway and leaned against the rail with him as it drew them forward, deeper into Olympus Mons.
“So this guy,” Alex said.
“Commander Duarte? You’ll like him. Everyone likes him. Admiral Long’s aide. Has been for the last ten years.”
“Long hasn’t retired?”
“She’ll die at her desk,” Fermín said. He sounded just on the edge of resentful, but his smile covered whatever it was over.
“I appreciate you setting this up.”
“Not a problem. Duarte was excited to meet you.”
“Really?”
“Why the surprise? You’re pilot of the Rocinante. You’re famous.”
Winston Duarte’s office was plain and comfortable. The desk was simple pressed polycarbonate, a little larger maybe than the receptionist’s in the lobby. The screen on the wall was set to a calm semi-abstract piece that flowed in sepia and brown, evoking fallen leaves and mathematical proofs in roughly equal proportions. The only touch of luxury was a shelf of what appeared to be actual printed books on military strategy. The man himself fit in the space like he’d been designed for it. Half a head shorter than Alex with acne-pocked cheeks and warm brown eyes, Duarte radiated politeness and competence. After they shook hands, he took the seat beside Alex rather than cross back behind his desk.
“I have to say I’m a little surprised at the visit,” Duarte said. “Most of my dealings with the OPA are formal.”
“The Roci’s not OPA.”
Duarte’s eyebrows ticked up a millimeter. “Really?”
“We’re more of an independent contractor. We’ve taken jobs from the OPA, but Earth’s paid some of our bills. Private companies too, if the job’s a good fit.”
“I stand corrected. All the same, I’m honored. What can I do for you, Mr. Kamal?”