Artemis

I peered at the harvester for several minutes. Trond wandered aimlessly around the bay and fiddled with tools. He was an entrepreneurial genius, but he had the patience of a ten-year-old.

“Okay,” I finally said. “I have a plan.”

“Yeah?” Trond dropped a socket driver and scurried over. “Do tell.”

I shook my head. “Don’t worry about the details.”

“I like details.”

“A lady’s got to have her secrets.” I stood up. “But I’ll completely destroy their harvesters.”

“That sounds great!”

“All right,” I said. “I’m going home. I need a shower.”

“Yeah,” said Trond. “You really do.”

—

Once I got back to my coffin, I threw off my clothes faster than a drunk prom date. On with a bathrobe and off to the showers. I even paid the extra 200g for a soak in a tub. Felt good.

I spent the day doing deliveries as usual. I didn’t want some perceptive asshole to notice a break in my routine immediately before a huge crime got committed. Just a normal day. No need to look at me whistling innocently. I worked until about four p.m.

I went home, lay down (it’s not like I could stand up), and did some research. I envy one thing about Earthers—they get much faster internet. We have a local network in Artemis that’s handy for slug transactions and email, but when it comes to web searches, all those servers are back on Earth. And that means an absolute minimum of four seconds’ wait for every request. The speed of light just isn’t as fast as I’d like.

I drank so much tea I had to jog to the communal bathroom every twenty minutes. After hours of work, I came to a conclusion: I really wanted my own bathroom.

But by the end of it I had a plan. And like all good plans, it required a crazy Ukrainian guy.

—

I pulled Trigger up to the ESA Research Center and parked in the narrow hallway.

Space agencies around the world were the first to rent property in Artemis. In the old days, Armstrong Ground was the best real estate in town. Since then, four more bubbles sprang up, and the space agencies remained. Their once cutting-edge design was now two decades out of date.

I hopped off Trigger and went into the labs. The first room, a tiny reception area, was a throwback to the days when real estate was much more limited. Four hallways led off at odd angles. Some of the doors couldn’t be opened if others were open. The ergonomic abortion was the result of seventeen governments designing a laboratory by committee. I went through the center door, down the hallway almost to the end, and into the microelectronics lab.

Martin Svoboda hunched over a microscope and reached absently for his coffee. His hand passed three beakers of deadly acid before he grabbed the mug and took a sip. I swear that idiot’s going to kill himself someday.

He’d been assigned to Artemis by ESA four years ago to study microelectronic manufacturing methods. Apparently, the moon has some unique advantages in that area. The ESA lab is a highly coveted posting, so he must’ve been good at his job.

“Svoboda,” I said.

Nothing. He hadn’t noticed me come in and didn’t hear me speak. He’s like that.

I smacked him on the back of the head and he jerked away from the microscope. He smiled like a child seeing a beloved aunt. “Oh! Hi, Jazz! What’s up?”

I sat on a lab stool opposite him. “I need some mad science from you.”

“Cool!” He spun his stool to face me. “What can I do?”

“I need electronics.” I pulled schematics out of my pocket and handed them over. “This. Or something like it.”

“Paper?” He held the schematics like they were a urine sample. “You wrote them on paper?”

“I don’t know how to use drafting apps,” I said. “Just—what do you think?”

He unfolded the paper and frowned at my scribblings. Svoboda was the best electrical engineer in town. Something like this shouldn’t be a challenge for him.