It was a real book—onionskin pages bound in what might have been actual leather. Miller had seen pictures of… — James S. A. Corey

If Fred couldn’t build himself a peace treaty, the OPA would never win against the discipline and unity of an inner planet navy. But they would also never lose. War without end.

Well, what was history if not that?

And how would having the stars change anything?

And now they were making music from the screams of the dying. Of the dead. The were dancing to it in the low-rent clubs. What it must be like, Miller thought, to be young and soulless.

But no. That wasn’t fair. Diogo was a good kid. He was just naive. The universe would take care of that, given a little time.

That man could take a visitation from God with thirty underdressed angels announcing that sex was okay after all and make it seem vaguely depressing.