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  Takata winced. “Shit. They’re getting greedy. Not enough miners coming through anymore to just skim a little. If he wants to keep Feeney happy, he’s got to really put the screws in. Or he’s just a bastard, I don’t know.”

  He bounded off to take care of the paying customers, and the Miner didn’t blame him. She sipped her beer and scowled. It was good beer, and somehow that made it worse. The customers laughed and chattered, and one of them offered a toast, “To science!”

  Left alone with her free beer – “Cheers,” she murmured to her unwitting patrons before she took a gulp, cold and bitter and lovely – the Miner buckled down to her finances to see just how badly she was hurt.

  She did the math three different ways. The fuel bill was non-negotiable and non-returnable, damn that little rat. But she hadn’t finished provisioning thanks to the emergency rations, and she could alter that. The water wasn’t just to drink, it was radiation shielding and she’d already sold off the used gray water, so that couldn’t be cut. Much. There was room to reduce caloric intake for a couple months and shorten her stay at the patch, maybe supplement nutrition by growing lettuce or something and keeping mealworms. There was plenty of potting soil and leaf litter in the plant room. She’d eaten worse, probably.

  Even cutting to the bone, though, the math just didn’t work. She’d dipped into savings to pay for the fuel, and that didn’t leave enough to both pay the patch fees and also get back out to it to do any mining. She’d have to go straight out and straight back, and she’d lose on fuel even if Station 34 didn’t screw her at all, and what were the chances of that? She had to make up her mind on the provisions in a couple hours, and being late on the patch fees was a non-starter: she’d lose her claim in an automated flash, probably to Anaconda, those dirty, scheming sons of…

  The Miner bit down on that thought and sat staring into her empty beer glass. Her chest was tight, she felt acid in her throat, that familiar tingling in her augmented joints, and caught herself getting swept up in the maelstrom of fury and sick dread. She closed her eyes and breathed and put her mind back to the plant room. She pictured each orchid and each bonsai, walked her mind through the chores that needed to be done, and her plans to finally trim the ficus into shape. She needed to be calm and deliberate. Losing her head wouldn’t help, just make her feel better, and if she was in this to feel better then why did she go into mining asteroids in the first place? She might be miserable, but she was free.

  She sent a message to the provisioner canceling the entire order. No food, no water. Then she stared at the word “Sent!” for a long time. She’d burned out on anger; now she was just tired. She could make the payment. That was all right: she’d keep her patch. It would still be there for her.

  She just couldn’t go there.

  YOU CAN’T QUIT THE GAME

  The celebrating customers left before too long, or at least before the Miner got grumpy enough to go sulk in her ship. They wandered out one by one over the course of an hour. The last one, the kid with the fez, stopped outside the restaurant to chat drunkenly with a tall, good-looking bald dude with some kind of iridescent gene mod at his temples. He looked familiar, but she couldn’t place him. He smiled too much to be a local, but hadn’t been at the party. They wandered off, leaving the bar empty except for Takata, herself, and the old guy Herrera asleep in his booth in the corner. Takata hummed to himself as he tidied, and when he finished wiping down the tables she joined him at the bar.

  “Get a lot of business like that?”

  He shook his head, his pleased expression turning rueful. “Never a lot, but used to be more. They’re the first smiling faces in here in months. Some kind of research team, I think. They said they stopped in for fuel and water on their way out to the outer belt with all sorts of fancy new equipment. Something about watching a comet hit something big? Scientists, I don’t know about them. I have to admire their enthusiasm, though. Even this miserable pig sty rat hole can’t drag them down.” He tapped his finger on the bar top. “I just hope they’re careful.”

  “How so?”

  “They talked a lot about their expensive gear and their new ship. I liked to hear it, but around this place that’s not so smart.”

  He poured her a glass of water without asking and put it in front of her. She acknowledged it with a nod.

  “There a lot of piracy around here?”

  “Not… exactly? I don’t know. Angelica’s crew does a lot of salvage, and who knows how much of it is really ‘salvage’. You know, if you’re looking to make some money, you could do worse than to offer those people a hand. They’re academics. Ivory tower types. You know, stupid. They could use someone who’s been around.”

  She grudgingly considered it. She also remembered the way they’d looked at her: uneasiness about the scarred stranger, pity at the poor disheveled drunk. She hated the idea of being in close contact with people long enough for a trip to the outer belt and back, especially people that young. She’d never been that young.

  “What would I do, tell them they ought to pay me to come along? The best advice I could give them is, don’t take strangers on your ship.”

  “Take your own ship and caravan. Any pirates, they’ll maybe think twice about attacking two ships.”

  “Pirates barely think once,” she said. She didn’t mention that she couldn’t leave dock without food or water. And the second best advice she could give was, don’t pay a stranger up-front.

  “Look, I’m no babysitter,” she said, cutting off his reply. “The kind of money I need, there’s nothing I could do for them that would justify it. What were you saying before, about that pig fucker buyer needing to keep Feeney happy?”

  Takata’s face darkened. He got back to wiping the bar, finding a spot that required him to face away from her. “Forget it. You want to change the subject, fine, but take pity on me and pick something else.”

  “The dockmaster mentioned Feeney too. Said he could always use someone who wasn’t planning to stay too long.”

  Takata snorted and seemed to concentrate on that stubborn spot that the Miner couldn’t see. She was about to ask again when he said, “It’s not Feeney, or it’s not just Feeney. I’ll tell you if you promise to have nothing to do with him.”

  “I just want to know. I’m stuck here awhile and I don’t know the lay of the land.”

  “Don’t get sucked in. They do that, they suck people in. They chew them up and spit them out. Go babysit instead, it’s healthier.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  He twisted the rag in his hands, staring down as he wrung it this way and that. “Old man Feeney – John Feeney – he runs the Hotel Astra on the upper level up there.” He pointed off to his right. “It’s a front. He’s a crooked old gangster. Smuggling, drugs, gambling, porno VRs, he’s got his fingers in everything. That buyer, Gordonson? Feeney owns him. Dockmaster, too. The two of them screw over the miners and traders, and Feeney gives them cover and launders the cash, gets a big piece in return. He’s a mean old bastard.”

  The Miner grimaced, remembering the muscle in the buyer’s office. “Sucks. Hardly unusual, though. Half of these far-out stations have organized crime running things, and the rest are just disorganized. Never been screwed like that before. Never seen a place this dead before.”

  Takata shook his head sadly. “It didn’t used to be this bad, not when it was just him. He’s a bastard and he skimmed and strong-armed, but he knew what side his bread was buttered, and that was keeping things running. Keep everything profitable so there’s plenty to skim and nobody minds much.”

  “Someone new horn in?”

  He made a face. “Not exactly. He screwed up. Long story, but about six or seven months ago one of his lieutenants, a real piece of work named Angelica del Rio, she and her brother got a bunch of his goons together and tried to rub him out and take over. Everything went to shit. He was tougher than she thought, and had more friends than she thought. Feeney and his granddaughter fought her off
, but couldn’t put her down either.”

  The Miner considered that. Aborted coups usually left both sides weak, made everything worse.

  “Angelica pushed out Mr Shine and took over the gambling operation, which was a big hit to the old man. Anyway, it was open war there for a while. Bunch of people killed. Drove away all the sane people and most of the business. After that this place has been a magnet for every lowlife pissant crook in a billion clicks who’s looking for a fight and some cash.”

  “Who’s this Mr Shine?”

  “Big guy, liked to walk around in a tux. Can you picture that, a tuxedo in this dump? He ran off belowdecks, tries to keep the fighting away from the water and air so we don’t all die. Bunch of people went down there with him, call themselves ‘Morlocks’ because they keep stuff running, more or less. He’s corrupt as hell, don’t get me wrong, but he’s got sense enough to keep his head down. He’s got some kind of, I don’t know, some kind of black market going.” He looked bashful for a moment, glancing in Herrera’s direction, and the Miner guessed he had more direct knowledge of that than he let on.

  The Miner scowled. “Why doesn’t the station master do something about these assholes?”

  “I dunno. Hey Herrera, why don’t you do something about these assholes?”

  “Go shit yourself.”

  “See, that’s why.”

  The Miner did a doubletake. Herrera was awake in the corner, stock still and staring at a point on the table just past his glass. He had a nice suit on, she suddenly noticed, or at least it had been a nice suit months ago before being rumpled and spilled on and slept in. Shave that crazy beard and cut that unruly ball of hair and he’d look a lot younger, maybe mid-fifties.

  “Ah, it’s not his fault,” Takata said softly, a pained look in his eyes. “Anaconda runs this place, and their lousy Company Rep. Herrera got shipped out here by the government to keep an eye on their property, but he can’t actually do anything. The government doesn’t give a damn as long as the station’s in one piece. He fired the dockmaster, but the Company Rep has to approve a replacement, which she won’t, so the acting dockmaster keeps right on ripping people off. Every couple weeks Herrera fires him again, on principle like, and the evil bastard just laughs.”

  “Corrupt thieving son of a hemorrhaging leech!” Herrera contributed. “Whoremongering shitwhistle! Just… Fuck that guy.”

  “Herrera!” Takata scowled at the Miner. “See? You get him all worked up and he starts saying the ‘fuck’ word.”

  She offered an apologetic shrug.

  “Oh, and it gets better! When the fighting got real bad – I’m talking people getting killed right in the galleria here, the old security chief getting her head blown off – Herrera tried to get Anaconda’s contract yanked, bring the government in to clean house. So the Company Rep brought in private security: this shithead Tom McMasters came in with a bunch of ex-soldiers. He knocked heads for a while and threatened to space anyone who showed a gun, that was good. Then he decided all that was for chumps, and he made deals with both sides. They pay him off and keep their fights quiet so there’s no excuse to kick Anaconda out, and he doesn’t pick sides. That’s his headquarters right on the galleria. Lazy jerks barely even patrol anymore. I don’t serve any of those sons of bitches either.”

  “Who do you serve?”

  “Shut up.”

  The Miner craned her head to see a black-armored figure sleeping in a chair out front. Maybe the same guy, maybe different shift. There was a stun baton dangling from his hip; apparently they were serious about the “no firearms” thing. Or maybe he was a feckless idiot who’d shoot his toes off.

  “It’s the goddamn Augean stables,” Herrera growled. “A festering abscess full of villains and coprophiles.”

  Takata gave him a dirty look, but didn’t seem to find fault with that assessment.

  “So you got Feeney up there,” the Miner mused aloud. “And Angelica over there. And McMasters in the middle pretending to keep the peace. All nice and balanced.”

  Takata snorted. “We’re all royally boned, sure, but we’re balanced.”

  The Miner looked at the down-and-out station master. She’d never seen a more despondent expression in her life. “You want me to do something about it?”

  Herrera turned his blood-shot eyes to her and stared hard.

  “Don’t toy with him,” Takata muttered. “He doesn’t deserve that shit.”

  Herrera heaved himself shakily out of his booth. He pointed at her as he advanced, stumbling, glaring from under the stringy mass of wild salt-and-pepper hair. “I’ll pay you,” he rasped. “I’ll pay you a hundred thousand America Bank credits if you kill every last one of those filthy motherfuckers.”

  “Herrera! Don’t listen, you, he doesn’t have a hundred thousand credits. He doesn’t even pay his tab.”

  The Miner scratched her nose, staring out into the neon-flickering galleria. She saw the lights had a pattern if she watched them long enough. Left, right, center. Back and forth went the red glow, like a dancing flame. “Guess I better go introduce myself.”

  SCREWBALL SPIES RAJ

  Screwball sat out on the decking in front of the hotel, drinking incredibly shitty vodka out of a cardboard bottle and feeling increasingly morbid. He’d had these awesome plans when he bought passage to this shithole. This old guy was hiring an army, they told him. You could make some serious money, they told him. So he’d spent all his money on a gun and passage, and look where he’d landed. His gun got taken by that prick at the dock – who worked for Feeney, so what the hell was that about? – and the first guy he met turned out to be a fucking curse.

  He tried to kick Ditz in the chair next to him, but his legs were too far away. He tried again, but missed by a mile.

  “Wha?” Ditz wasn’t asleep, just stoned. Guy spent more time stoned than anyone Screwball had ever met. “Whassup?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Oh. Cool, cool.” Ditz yawned and stretched. “Hey, is that Raj? What’s he up to?”

  Screwball sat bolt upright in his chair and looked down at the galleria. Yeah, there was Raj talking to some dipshit in a fez, all smiling and laughing. He couldn’t hear their conversation, but it looked like Raj was trying to schmooze the guy, acting like the dude was hilarious or something. “Talking up some tourist.” He realized something and his eyes went wide. He grabbed Ditz’s arm. “Ditz! Ditz, look at that. It’s just him and that kid. He doesn’t have any backup.”

  “So?”

  “So let’s go take him. I owe that motherfucker.”

  “Woah. Hang on.”

  Screwball got himself out of the chair and crept to the railing, then backed away. “Yeah,” he hissed. “Come on. Son of a bitch has it coming.”

  “Wait, man. That’s Angelica’s brother, man. She’ll shit a brick.”

  “So? Aren’t we at war with those assholes?”

  “Yeah, but it’s not, like, war-war.”

  “We’re not gonna kill him,” Screwball said, already creeping toward the stairs. “Just rough him up a bit. Save him from owing me a beer, right?”

  Ditz gave him an expression like a dog trying to do calculus.

  “You owe me, Ditz. Come on.”

  They crept inexpertly down the steps across the galleria from Raj and the kid in the fez, then weaved through the tables to hide by the scrappy-looking potted trees, close enough to hear.

  “…really appreciate your help,” Fez was saying. He looked like a teenager wearing fancy expensive clothes. “I’m really glad we ran into you when we got here, and your Welcoming Committee.”

  Screwball swore again, under his breath. If Feeney found out Angelica had landed a rich moron after running him and Ditz off port duty, he’d be livid.

  “No problem, kid,” Raj was saying. He had an easy grin, and almost looked trustworthy. “I’m always up for a bit of adventure, and this comet thing sounds cool. You ready?”

  Raj and the kid turned toward the west spu
r, which went toward the port. Keeping low, and trying to keep Ditz low, Screwball slunk along the line of potted trees in the middle of the big room and on. His quarry seemed to have no idea they were being followed – overconfident, Screwball thought. Just because they kept the fighting out of the galleria itself didn’t make it safe for jerks to just hang out in.

  They went into the west spur, through the big steel doors that Screwball had never seen closed, past the shuttered storefronts where the loan shark and the pawn shop used to be and straight through the intersection toward the port instead of clockwise for the casino. Screwball grinned and relished getting his revenge at the site of his earlier humiliation. Ditz stayed quiet, even seemed to sober up a little, and obsessively checked behind them as they walked, but nobody followed. He hung back a bit as they got closer to the port, in case there was a hostile welcoming committee, but the metal corridors were empty.

  Screwball hesitated when Raj and the kid actually went into the port, talking all the while without a care in the world, but he screwed up his courage and went to follow.

  Ditz clapped a hand on his shoulder, and he about jumped out of his skin. “Woah, man. Hold up. That’s neutral territory, we’re not supposed to go in there.”

  “Why not? Preston works for the old man, doesn’t he?”

  “Yeah… but he doesn’t, like, work-work for Feeney. A lot of the station staff are on the take. Kind of a quid… thing. They do stuff for him, he does stuff for them. Lot of money laundering. He’s got a stick up his ass about the port, though. We go in there and fight, there’ll be trouble.”

  Screwball ground his teeth and stared at the big double-wide port hatch, and the red “open” button next to it. He pictured himself getting his ass chewed by Feeney or his granddaughter for fucking up their relationship with Preston. “All right, are there other exits?”

  Ditz scratched his head. “Yeah, there’s a back entrance for maintenance.”

  “Would Raj use it?”