Artemis

Ultimately KSC won because they own the mini-bubble. They never sell property—they’re all about rent.

Anyway, the upshot is KSC must have detailed schematics of the Sanchez smelter somewhere. Like…super detailed with every potential failure case analyzed and covered. I need you to get ahold of those documents. I know you work in a totally different part of KSC, but you still have access most people don’t. Feel free to spread some money around in the process. I’ll pay you back.

Dear Jazz,

The plans are enclosed. They were surprisingly easy to get. No part of them was considered a company secret or industrial process. Sanchez kept the exact chemistry in the smelter to themselves, but everything else was right there in the architectural plans.

I have a drinking buddy in the metallurgy lab in Building 27. They’d been consulted as part of the safety overview. He pulled the plans up on his boss’s computer (which has no password protection). All I had to do was buy him a beer.

So the cost was two beers (had to have one myself, of course). Call it 50 slugs.

Dear Kelvin

Thanks, buddy. Make it 75 slugs and have another beer on me.

CLOSED FOR PRIVATE EVENT read the sign.

“You didn’t have to do that, Billy,” I said.

“Nonsense, luv,” he said. “You said you needed a meeting space, so this is it.”

I closed the door to Hartnell’s behind me and sat at my usual spot. “But you’re losing revenue.”

He laughed. “Believe me, luv, I’ve made far more from you than I’ll lose by being closed for an hour in the morning.”

“Well, thanks.” I tapped the counter. “As long as I’m here…”

He poured me a pint and slid it over.

“Heya,” said Dale from the doorway. “You wanted to see me?”

“Yeah,” I said. I took a swig of my beer. “But I don’t want to tell the same story over and over. So have a seat until everyone gets here.”

“Seriously?” he groused. “I’ve got better shit to do than—”

“Beer’s on me.”

“A pint of your finest, Billy!” He hopped onto his seat.

“Reconstituted garbage it is,” said Billy.

Lene Landvik hobbled in on her crutches. Yes, she was sixteen and Hartnell’s was a bar, but there’s no drinking age in Artemis. It’s another one of those vague rules that’s enforced with punching. If Billy sold teenagers the occasional beer it was no big deal. But if he strayed too far down the age bracket he’d get a visit from angry parents.

She sat at a nearby table and leaned her crutches against a chair.

“How are you doing, kiddo?” I asked.

“Better,” she said. “Not cheerful or anything. But better.”

“Step by step.” I raised my glass to her. “Keep at it.”

“Thanks,” she said. “I don’t know how to bring this up but—did Dad pay you? Or did he…not get a chance?”

Oh man, come on. I’d planned to approach Lene about it eventually, but not until she’d had time to mourn. “Well…no. He didn’t. But don’t worry about it.”

“How much did he owe you?”

“Lene, let’s talk about this later—”