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  “That’s it? Isn’t there a secret code word or something?”

  Mr. Dashi leaned back in his chair, folded his hands, and smiled.

  “Mr. Stewart, this isn’t a video. He’s offered to give us some corporate information. Just go and get it. Bring it back and drop it in the lock box chute.”

  “The lock box?”

  “Yes. We’ll have somebody look at it the next day. If it’s worthwhile, he’ll be contacted. If not, we’ll just forget it.”

  “What if he wants to be paid first?”

  “If he doesn’t want to give it to you, then just leave the bar and go back to your quarters.”

  Jake blinked for a moment.

  “I can do that, sir. But it seems so…banal?”

  Mr. Dashi laughed. “It’s what I need done, Mr. Stewart. Is it too banal for you? Should I find somebody else?”

  “Oh, no, sir. I’ll do it. I just thought this job would be more exciting.”

  “I’m sorry we’re not living up to your expectations, Mr. Stewart.”

  “Oh, no, sir. I’m sorry. I can do this.”

  “Good. Jose will send you the info,” Mr. Dashi said.

  “Thank you, sir,” Jake said.

  ***

  Jose was the most efficient and organized man Jake had ever met. Which explained why he was Mr. Dashi’s assistant.

  “Information is in your email. Here’s a corporate credit chip, for drinks and other needs. Buy a few drinks on it for you and for Mr. Colivar. Congratulations, you are officially on expenses now,” Jose said.

  “Wowser,” Jake stood still for a moment. He had a corporate credit chip. This was good. “How much can I spend?”

  “You can spend what you need. The rules are fairly loose, and Dashi doesn’t audit very closely. What does ‘wowser’ mean?”

  “I saw it in an old empire vid. Belters curse too much. So, I can spend what I like? Buy a drink in the bar?”

  “If you want. Buy two drinks if you want.”

  “Can I buy other people drinks?”

  “Jake, I’m not going to go through everything for you. You’re working for Dashi now, use your discretion. Read a manual. There must be an expense handbook, right?”

  “There is. I’ve read it.”

  “Of course, you have. You’re good with rulebooks.”

  “Yes. Jose, how did you know to have all this information and the credit chip setup for me. Mr. Dashi and I just negotiated this job for me five minutes ago.”

  “Negotiated? How so?” Jose asked. Jake explained the discussion and the negotiation about the school, and the licenses, and pilot training.

  “Jake, let me summarize this ‘negotiation’ that you just did. You promised Mr. Dashi to do a years' worth of studying in six months, on your own time, while he’s free to have you do other work during the day. And in return he’s going to let you go to a one-day simulation test that anybody can sign up for, with nothing firm promised even if you pass it?”

  “Anybody can sign up?”

  “Yep.”

  “So he hasn’t really given me anything, has he?”

  “Nope.”

  “You’ve had all this info for me for days, haven’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “He manipulated me into asking for it, didn’t he?”

  “Yep.”

  “Wowser. Dashi is good at this.

  “Very good. But one more thing.” “Yes?”

  “Dashi smiles a lot, but he doesn’t like failure. If you want to keep working here, you need to produce results. Don’t screw up, or it’s back to rim-237 or whatever dead-end station faster than you can say ‘employment terminated.’”

  ***

  Jake had already left by the time Dashi finished reading his notes and punched his intercom.

  “Jose, come in please. I have some tasks.”

  Jose didn’t bother to knock, but came right in.

  “Sir?”

  “Find out everything you can about system production of platinum group metals, particularly ruthenium. And find out how much of that comes from Galactic Growing and where.”

  “Of course, sir. Public sources only?”

  “No, you can use other means. And don’t worry about the usual budget. Get me the info quickly as you can,” said Dashi.

  ***

  Jake stepped through the door into the After Burner. As a spaceman’s bar went, this one was swankier than he was used to. He was several levels down from the cargo docking ports, on the same ring level as the shuttle docking ports. On a station, that made this a better neighborhood. It had chairs not stools, and there were actual cushions on them.

  The bartender had an all-black custom skinsuit on with the bar’s logo tastefully displayed in burning yellow on his breast pocket. Two men sitting near the bar wore full-fledged business suits with ties. At first, Jake thought they didn’t have skinsuits on at all, which was the height of idiocy on a station, but a closer view showed a very discrete brown fashion suit that blended seamlessly with their skin. Jake had heard of such a thing, but they were ruinously expensive—it cost a lot to match the wearers skin tone exactly. Two girls talking at the bar wore colorful headbands, wristbands, and turbans with inset green gems. Probably peridots, thought Jake. They were formed in the core of asteroids. Growing up he had known several Belters who specialized in prospecting for them.

  Jake realized he stood out in his Belter semi-hard suit with attached equipment belt. He wasn’t really dressed as a corporate operative. Okay, he wasn’t actually a full-fledged operative yet. He hadn’t been fully trained. He hadn’t done much in the way of spy-type things. And by “not much” he meant none. He’d really only gone to classes on TGI’s internal accounting system.

  Today was his first job. Go to this bar. Buy some drinks. Watch for a contact in the bar. Approach him. Get the data. Report back. Save his receipts. He marched up to the bar.

  “What will it be for you kid, a Belter Beer?” asked the bartender.

  “How did you know I’m a Belter?” Jake asked.

  “Well, you’re carrying a Belter helmet, you have Belter work boots on, a Belter equipment belt, and you also have a Belter accent.”

  “Oh,” Jake said. This spy thing might be more complicated than he thought.

  “The boots look solid.”

  “They were my dad’s.”

  “You wear your dad’s boots? Doesn’t he need them?”

  “He’s dead. I inherited them.”

  “Oh. So, kid, a beer?”

  “Um. No.” Jake tapped his fingers on the bar and looked at the displayed bottles. He was going to be a spy, dammit. What did spies order in the vids? “I want something, more…sophisticated. What do you have.”

  The bartender looked at him skeptically. “A rich Belter? That would be a first.”

  Jake pulled out his corporate credit chip.

  “TGI has me on expenses,” Jake said.

  The bartender took the card, shrugged, and checked it with his scanner. His eyebrows rose when he saw the company provided limit. He straightened up and turned back with a smile.

  “Mr. Stewart. Welcome to the After Burner. I’m Lorenzo, and I’ll be your bartender for tonight. Anything you want, please let me know. The more discerning members of our clientele drink this.” He reached under the bar and produced a metal tray covered with a purple satin napkin. With a flourish, he whipped the napkin off.

  “Schnapps. From the surface. A special kind,” Lorenzo said.

  “A special kind?” Jake asked.

  “Yes, made from retsina spirit. Try it.” The bartender cracked the seal and poured a shot. Jake took a swig of it and nearly gagged. He looked up and saw the bartender knot his forehead and give him a slightly disapproving look. Jake hurriedly drank the rest of the vile liquid and began to cough.

  “Smooth,” Jake said when he had his breath back.

  “Indeed,” said the bartender, pouring him another shot. “Free trades, sir.”

&
nbsp; “Free trades.”

  Jake shot the second shot and began to cough again.

  ***

  Two men sat in silence in the darkened corner of the After Burner and watched the show Jake was putting on. The corner was dark enough that only their outline could be seen. They were average height, average weight, dark complexioned, and totally forgettable. They wore stained work coveralls, like a janitor would. It was difficult for them to talk to each other because they sat side-by-side at a table, rather than across from each other. But they were very well placed to observe the entire bar, and only a very astute observer would have noticed that they both had their backs to the wall and that by sitting side-by-side both could have their weapon hands inside small, revolver sized bags on their laps.

  “That’s the new TGI operative?” the first one asked.

  “Seems like. He matches the description.”

  “That kid? Did the description include poorly dressed?”

  “We don’t normally see much Belter gear here, that’s true. He looks like a comedy act—‘rich Belter comes to town.’”

  “Did he just buy a bottle of that crappy pine tree wine?”

  “Yup. Lorenzo distils it and is pushing it as some sort of special schnapps, a surface thing.”

  “He can’t be an operative. He’s too young and too stupid.”

  “Well, we were told that somebody would be here to meet Colivar, and he’s clearly TGI.”

  “He just announced that publicly. How stupid can he be?”

  “Pretty stupid, I guess. He’s buying Mary a beer for her birthday.”

  “It was her birthday last week.”

  “When someone else is buying, it’s her birthday every day.”

  “What’s Colivar doing?”

  “He’s over there. He’s not moving.”

  The second man didn’t move his head but tracked the first’s man’s eyes to the far corner, where a short, red-haired man with a red beard watched the drama at the bar unfold.

  “He’s not happy. This must be the pickup. Think he’ll approach?”

  “We can only hope.”

  “Let’s make sure this goes sideways for him, then.” The first man stretched in his chair. The movement drew a look from the bartender. The first man nodded, ever so slightly. The bartender nodded in return. He turned away from Jake and reached under the bar, then palmed a small green pill and poured another shot for Jake, crushed the pill between his fingers, and poured the powder into the glass. He waited a second for it to dissolve, then turned around and presented it to Jake.

  ***

  Jake had been joined by not just one, but two girls at the bar. “It’s your birthday as well?” he said to the second girl, his speech slurring. He tried to concentrate a bit harder. He was having trouble seeing properly. One was blonde, and one was brunette, but everything else was kind of blurry. This retsina was strong stuff.

  “What are the odds?” the bartender asked, delivering a round of beers for the girls and taking the opportunity to pour another round of shots. “Another bottle, sir?” he asked Jake, who blearily nodded assent.

  “Actually,” slurred Jake, “It’s not that unreasonable. People think that the odds are higher than they actually are, but if you take 364 days in a year, there is a 1/364th chance that two people have the same birthday. But if you start combining them, the chances of it happening in a group of people, you see, you have to start adding the odds together, 2/364, + 3/364…” Jake kept talking. Math was one of his favorite subjects. The girls were attentive. Girls who loved math, wasn’t that great! He felt smart. He felt attractive. He felt bulletproof.

  The girls kept drinking and smiled at Jake as he talked. Jake racked his brain—wasn’t he there to do something else. He couldn’t quite remember. Focus, right, he had to meet a guy. In the corner. Red hair, red beard. He turned to look and staggered a bit. He wasn’t very coordinated. He banged into a group of four at the bar, jogging their shoulders and spilling their drinks. The lead drinker, an older fellow with gray hair and heavily muscled arms, cursed and turned toward Jake.

  “What are you doing, kid?”

  “I don’t like your attitude,” said Jake.

  “Son, you better apologize or it's more than my attitude that you won’t like.”

  Jake looked at him blearily for a moment and then cocked his fist and swung. He was a spy, and spies in the vids did things like that.

  It was a surprise. The older guy had expected a little more posturing, or for Jake to back down in the face of four-to-one odds. But Jake was too far gone and gave it his best shot. He connected easily with the man’s chin, snapping his head backwards. The man staggered but didn’t fall.

  Jake stared at the old man. Why didn’t he fall?

  “They always fall in the vids,” Jake said. He balled his fists and held them out in front of his face. He’d seen that in vids too.

  The old man shook off his surprise and looked at Jake for a second. Then he moved, fast. He weaved left, stepped inside Jake’s thrown fist and hit him in the stomach ten times in two seconds, making sure to catch his liver. Jake felt a horrible pain in the lower right quadrant of his stomach, gasped and bent forward, clutching his midsection. The old man kneed him in the chin and threw him to the ground, jumped on his chest and began to hit him in the face. His friends gathered around and began kicking Jake in the ribs and legs.

  They had clearly seen different vids than Jake had.

  “Hey,” yelled Lorenzo. The four men stopped pummeling Jake and looked back. Lorenzo had a shock stick in one hand and a hard phone in the other. “No murders in the bar. Militia are on the way. They’ll be here in a few minutes. You can finish him off and be busted or get.”

  “And what’s to stop us giving you some of this before they get here?” asked one of the men, holding up a fist.

  “This,” said Lorenzo. He pointed the shock stick in his hand and thumbed the button on the top. A bright blue light arced from the stick to the nearest man’s chest. He shook violently under the electric onslaught, then fell face first, smashing his head heavily on the edge of the bar as he fell forward.

  The men went.

  The red-haired man in the corner shook his head, finished his drink, and walked rapidly out the door. The two shooters in the corner looked at each other, shrugged, and followed the red headed man out.

  The militia patrol arrived, conferred with the bartender, and checked the unconscious man on the floor next to the bar. A call brought a medical team running. They gave Jake a brief once over and left him, but the other man they put on a backboard and raced him out the door. The patrol further conferred with the bartender and then carried Jake’s unconscious form out the front door. The bar patrons had all stood up to see what was going on. They retreated back to their tables once the patrol left, conversations buzzing between them.

  At a table on the other side of the bar sat a short, balding, chubby man. He was dressed in a scruffy business suit and was drinking the second cheapest beer on the menu. If you had looked at him more than once, you would have seen a not particularly successful businessman enjoying a beer while he reviewed a densely written contact. But you wouldn’t look at him more than once.

  Like everybody in the bar, he had stood up to watch the fight. Under the cover of the noise and confusion, he had carefully slid his hand comm down the table until one end pointed to the shooters. The built-in camera locked on and took a dozen pictures of the two men. He waited until they had left to examine the results. He was especially pleased with the clarity of one shot under a bright light. Between the pictures and his own notes, he was sure he’d be able to identify them again. He returned to his seat as the commotion subsided and waited an extra half hour before carefully packing up his papers. He paid for his drinks with cash, including exactly a ten percent tip, and walked quietly out the door.

  The two girls had retreated to the far side of the bar, whispering with each other. They flagged the bartender down.

&nb
sp; “Where did they take him?” they asked.

  “Jail.”

  “Do you still have his credit chip?”

  “Yes.”

  “He said we could drink on his tab as long as we wanted.”

  The bartender reached up to the top shelf and pulled down an expensive looking bottle, cracked the seal and poured three shots.

  “That’s what I heard too, ladies.”

  Chapter 3

  Mr. Dashi sat in his well-appointed office and leaned back in his desk chair. It was a heavy wooden chair that scraped as it rolled over the floor, and Dashi had been forced to run it on bare metal—it destroyed any carpets he put underneath it. The numbers that Jose had collected him for platinum group production from Galactic Growers were surprising. Very surprising. He touched his desk comm.

  “Jose, please come in here.”

  Five seconds later the outer door opened and Jose came in and sat down in one of the carved wooden chairs in front of the desk.

  “Sir?” Jose said.

  “You predict Galactic Growers will have a 30% drop in platinum production, and up to 70% of other platinum group metals when they close this nickel mine?”

  “Yes, sir. They don’t actually have any platinum mines per se, it’s all a byproduct of their nickel mining. That mine doesn’t make any money because of the low price of nickel. Even the higher price for the platinum group metals won’t compensate for the losses on the nickel. They believe that the new mine—Rim-171—will fill the gap. But it won’t be ready for at least a year. In the meantime, they are trading for the minerals they need to keep their plants running.”

  “Trading with whom?”

  “Free traders, independent stations, there’s a list in one of the appendixes. They send ships out to do regular trade with their allied corporation stations, and they buy the metals they need as they go by.”

  “I see. How certain are you of this information?”

  “Very certain, sir. I have at least three distinct sources for everything presented in my report.”