by Ginger Booth
“Not really up his alley,” Copeland replied. “I already used up 10 hours of his time getting this rigged. And it failed. So he wants to bring in someone else. Need a budget for that.”
Sass nodded. “Makes sense. Agreed, Abel?” She growled a little on that last.
Abel scowled, but relented. “Two hundred credits.”
Copeland scowled at him and blanked the desk. “Let’s review the engineering triangle.” He sketched the diagram Abel hated most. “You can pick two sides, not three. We need it fast, or we miss our launch window. We need it good, or we die.”
“So it won’t be cheap,” Sass finished. “Let’s pre-approve a thousand, Abel. Cope, don’t offer that much up front. But you can go that high without asking us again.”
“Five thousand,” Cope countered. “Our lives are on the line. Abel, c’mon, Jules makes more than a grand a day from her fruit stand.”
“Five thousand!” Abel screeched in outrage.
“By the time it’s finished, yeah!” Copeland yelled back. “I need to hire skilled workers to get this done in time!”
“That’s fine!” Sass insisted, hands out to shut them both up. “Calm down! He’s right, Abel. Our lives depend on it. Custom engineering costs money. Cope, aside from fixing the frame, do you have the rest of your to-buy list worked out?”
He pulled up another spreadsheet on the desk. “This is the one if we’ve got eight containers. There’s that one if we can only manage four. But I may need to re-jigger things after I have a plan for the frame. Might need to buy spares for that.”
“Can we combine these into a single prioritized list?” Sass inquired, frowning at the documents. “What extra to buy if we have more space?”
“Not really,” Copeland allowed. “Because I’d need a different strategy for some things. And I don’t have a final answer yet from Abel on how much cubic I get for engineering. Versus food and trade goods. So this is prioritized for that question.”
“You look unhappy,” Sass observed.
Copeland took a heavy breath. “I don’t like going to Denali without enough fuel to get there, descend, climb back out of that gravity well, and return home. Plus a safety margin of at least 25%. I don’t like storing fuel inside the ship except in the hopper. Too dangerous. I can’t fix things if I don’t have the printer stock. Cap, I gotta tell you. We need 8 containers, or this trip just isn’t safe.”
“And out of those 8, how much of the cubic is yours?”
“He wants 60%,” Abel growled. “I told him to make it 40. Sass, we need to make a profit! That means trade goods.”
Copeland countered, “We can eat recycled. Got fresh vegetables and fruit to go with it. And ‘my’ 60% includes the water reserves. We make air out of that. I like breathing. Drinking, too. Abel, quit making it sound like I’m being selfish. ‘My’ 60% is propulsion, repairs, and life support! Which of that do you want to give up?”
The three considered each other dolefully. No one liked the idea of eating recycled sewage. But Sass had done it before.
“Protein stock can go inside the ship,” she declared. “And trade goods. Let’s plan on eating recycled every other day, or two meals a day. Jules can decide which. And only pack protein for 10 months, out and back. Eat local for the months at Denali. Does that help any?”
Abel made a face, but re-jiggered his numbers. “Yeah, alright. With half our food recycled, I can spare you 60% of the cans.”
“And we can’t go without all 8?” Sass prompted.
“Not safe,” Copeland confirmed.
“Not at a profit,” Abel asserted. “Yeah, alright, Cope, you’ve got up to 5 grand to make it work. More if you need it. But try not to.”
Much as it pained him to admit it. Poor Abel was the business manager of this partnership. Sass was in it for idealism. Clay had money to burn. He could afford to lose every credit he’d invested. At this point, everyone else on the ship was either paying rent or on the payroll. While Abel tried to single-handedly keep the company afloat as a business. At least his wife Jules shared his profit motive.
Sass shot Abel an understanding grimace. “Cope, that’s all I had for you. Unless you had ideas for trade goods?”
She meant that as a quip. But Copeland popped up another window on the desk and searched something. “Yeah, I thought so. Ice wands. We invented those here on Mahina.”
“Really?” Abel sat forward, diverted. “Why was that a priority?” Mahina didn’t invent much for a profit motive. Most of their educated talent worked in the city science labs.
Copeland scrolled down the report skimming for a moment. “Cracking rocks? Yeah, originally the refrigerants were developed for mining. But the inventor started playing with it. Refrigerators, ice wands, air cooling and heating. Might be worth a shot. You don’t need to buy the consumer goods. Just the refrigerant and some extra plastic stock.” He shrugged apologetically. “I don’t know what kind of price they’d fetch.”
“Do we make ovens out of this stuff too?” Abel asked. “You said heat.” He made a note of the refrigerants-and-plastic product concept.
“No,” Copeland replied. “Only cooling. The heat application – never mind. It’s used in the mines, not homes.” He considered another moment, then shook his head. “I’ll let you know if I think of anything else.”
“Thank you, Copeland,” Sass encouraged. “Extremely helpful. Let us know if there’s anything we can do to expedite the container frame.”
Dismissed, the engineer fled back to his preferred kind of problem. Sass rather envied him. She didn’t have a clue how to make a profit on Denali. But Abel deserved her time and attention, whether her ideas were useful or not.
“With limited space and the high cost of transport,” she mused, “the only viable trade goods are very small, or have huge profit margins. Far more valuable there than here. Luxury goods.”
“Too bad the rich guy isn’t here,” Abel suggested pointedly. “Clay knows more about luxury goods than we do.”
“Seeds?” Sass suggested. “Eli’s seed foundry is really pretty clever.”
Abel brought his cargo ideas sheet up and tapped a line near the top. “Already got parts and a couple years of reagents for two seed foundries on here. Help me make sure he doesn’t give them away for free,” he growled.
Sass chuckled. “Will do. Have we asked Denali yet about these proposed products? Offered the list and asked what would be most valuable?”
“I tried to ask your pirate, Lavelle, but he’s at Hell’s Bells. I’d try harder, but he’ll clear the rings in a few days to head here.”
Communications were dreadful between colonies around the gas giant Pono. Any electromagnetic wavelength bounced off the ice and rock cluttering the same rings that the communities dwelt within. Talking to distant Denali was slightly less obstructed, but not much. The problems there were time lag and culture. They had no idea who they were dealing with.
Abel continued, “Then I’ll talk to Denali. You’ll be available for those conversations?”
“Absolutely. Sorry about the vacation days. But I’m at your complete disposal until launch. Just tell me when and where.”
“Great!” Abel replied. “Tomorrow 18:00 hours, in the kitchen. With Clay. And Clay attends every owners’ meeting from now on.” He grinned.
That was the part she was supposed to have accomplished during vacation.
Words failed. “I’ll try.”
“Kinda need you to do, not try, Sass.”
“Right.”
Abel folded his hands on the table and attempted to look vulnerable and empathetic. Not a good look on him. “You want to talk about it? Relationship advice?”
Sass scowled. The lad was 25. He’d been married half a year to a 15-year-old, who more or less cheerfully obeyed him. “It’s complicated.”
“It’s not that complicated. Sex. Talk. Compromise. Be a good sport.”
“You forgot love,” she critiqued, eyes alight with amusement.
3
“Hey, Clay, thanks for seeing me,” Sass greeted him wistfully. She hung in the doorway to his grassy living room, open to the city’s glorious botanical gardens and petting zoo. Clay liked to let the animals wander in freely.
Sass attempted to feel as entitled and welcome as the baby goats and bunnies. She gulped. She needed this man to come with them to Denali.
Or at least she wanted him to. Probably.
He glanced up from the combo display desk and dining table he was studying. “Of course.” Belatedly it occurred to him to rise and welcome her. They met in the middle of the indoor lawn with a stilted kiss. “You look nice.”
For once, Sass wore suit and heels while Clay relaxed in jeans and a polo shirt. She wished he’d dress down more often. His medium-tall build was perfectly buffed, his warm complexion and regular features gorgeous. He’d stuck to his resolve to go natural, using no cosmetics to hide his unnatural 20-year-old appearance on a 105-year-old man. Even for the city, he looked youthful.
Sass didn’t consider skirt suits ‘nice.’ And she’d applied crow’s feet and aging makeup to blend in and look sober today. “Court clothes,” she explained. “I have an appointment in a half hour with my lawyer and Fairweather. We’ve petitioned to end my parole on the grounds that the city doesn’t want me here.”
Clay’s eyebrows rose briefly. “I thought you’d already straightened that out. Let me know if you need a letter of reference. Hunter would be happy to sign one too, if I drafted it for him.” His son Hunter Burke wielded major influence these days in the settlers’ chaotic government, as spokesman to the city.
“Thanks, I might take you up on that. But I hope this is just a formality today.” She plucked at her narrow skirt. “Hence the formality.”
“Well, you clean up very well. If I could suggest – no.”
“What.”
“A little lipstick would not go amiss.”
She winced. “I meant to do that.”
He chuckled and shook his head. This wasn’t the first time Sass ‘forgot’ to put on makeup on the way to court. “Think of it as stage makeup, Sass,” he encouraged for the umpteenth time. “Never go to court as yourself. You’re there to play a role.”
She pursed her lips at him. “I didn’t bring it with me.”
“Yet you – Never mind.”
He didn’t need to finish the sentence. Sass sheepishly supplied his thought for herself. She had put on makeup, to carefully age herself to appear the city-standard age 25, instead of her own normal appearance of about 20 to match Clay. Not that there was anything normal about being 100 in the horny body of a 20-year-old. She’d remembered to age herself, but forgot the lipstick.
“Not really what I came here to discuss,” she growled.
“Of course.”
“You blew off our business meeting yesterday, Clay. Again.”
“I don’t have much to add –”
“How would you know, if you never show up?” she demanded. “Clay, we’re trying to figure out what trade goods to carry to Denali. And how. The container test didn’t go too well.”
He folded his arms. “I’ve been a police agent all my life. I know nothing about –”
“Not true,” she cut him off again. She waved a hand around his exquisite ex-apartment. Their friend Atlas Pratt lived here now, but he was being a good sport. Atlas slept in the guest room while Clay borrowed his bedroom back, complete with its waterfall grotto bathing nook, and municipal pets. His place was a touch quirky, but one of the most expensive, exclusive homes in Mahina Actual. “You know luxuries.”
Clay frowned. “Well, yes. Oh. I suppose they would make good trade goods.”
“You suppose?” she pressed. “Clay, you’ve investigated every top-shelf crime ever committed on this moon. Even back on Earth, you specialized in the diamond thieves and robber barons. Hell, you probably handled white collar crime even on the Vitality.” That was the massive colony ship that brought them here.
“How does white collar crime –”
She poked him in the chest. “You know how greedy rich people think.”
“Stop interrupting me.”
“Right. Sorry.” She ruefully recalled the afternoon on horseback on their ‘vacation,’ wandering out across the regolith, the raw moon dust beyond the artificially green and watered settlements. That was the moral of his story for horseback riding. Listen without interrupting. Quit speaking as though he was the enemy.
He lowered his brows but tried to let it go. “As it happens, the best crime of the year was yours. You made me an accomplice. Synthesizer and reagents to build scrubber nanites. That’s Mahina native technology. We even taught that one to the Gannies.”
The high-tech Ganymedes, from the Jovian moon colony in the Earth system, built the Vitality and piloted them here. “Good one,” Sass allowed, “but Michael Yang and Belker already beat us to market on Denali for nanites. Nanites for the masses are what we’re trying to bring back. But keep thinking!”
Clay’s eyes narrowed. “Is that what we seek on Denali? Are you sure? Or are we on a personal mission? To investigate our nanites, why the two of us are still alive.”
Sass dropped her head to concede that doubt. Hell, yes, she wanted to track Belker, the renegade Ganny who made her immortal. But as Clay accused, that was personal. What right did she have to drag her young crew across the solar system on her quest? The 18 months was nothing to her, and not onerous for her urb crew. But it was a huge bite out of the settlers’ short lives. She hoped the Thrive had lengthened those lives with what they’d already accomplished. But they could die on this trip. Or God forbid, get stranded on Denali. While their parents passed away, and Copeland’s young son grew up without his dad.
Yes, her conscience niggled her. However. “Clay, they volunteered. They know the risks. They decided their motives are good enough. Respect them for that. The topic is luxury trade goods.”
Clay spread his hands, conceding defeat. “Spices, gems. Drugs. Not booze, I think. Though you could bring bourbon flavor and sell counterfeit.”
She pulled out her pocket tablet to make a note of that one. “We’ll try honest commerce first, of course.”
“Of course,” Clay agreed dryly. “So what is this dinner tomorrow?”
“Abel won’t say. But it’s a team builder. Attendance is required. This is your captain speaking.” Sass’s eyes narrowed as he looked away. “Clay? Look, we covered this at the hot tubs, remember?”
That evening of vacation featured an hours-long treatment of how yes, Clay took orders from her now, after 70 years of her taking orders from him. Turnabout was fair play. The erotic and sensual opportunities of the baths were wasted on this topic.
“If I’m going,” he whispered.
“You’re going!” she yelled at him. She held up three fingers. “Three nights, and four interminable days, we hashed this out. You’re going to Denali with me.”
“Now you remind me of Kendra.”
Sass froze, eyes wide.
Nope, that little wrinkle they hadn’t covered. Not in pillow talk, not in the zoo, not rock-climbing, cliff-jumping, hang-gliding, over wine with dinner, or anywhere else. Kendra Oliver was Sass’s personal nemesis. Kendra made sure Sass was jailed for 20 years, despite Sass coming forward to rat out the rebellion to save lives. The vicious despot Kendra Oliver ran this rinky-dink moon like her personal fiefdom. For 40 years, Clay and Sass strove separately to bring that bitch down. Sass tended toward full frontal assault. Clay was the settler’s mole in the city power structure.
He slept with the monster.
“How dare you!” she hissed.
In fairness, Clay looked like he regretted the words the instant he spoke them. Sass was in no mood to be fair.
“How could you?” she hissed. “Compare me to her? Your black widow spider? Your boss who sexually harassed you? Your lady of the w
hips?”
Clay hedged, “Hey, I didn’t go along with it when she wanted BDSM.”
“How rego noble of you, Clay. Screwed her as a sting operation for decades, but drew the line at BDSM. Effing pure as the fallen snow. You disgust me.”
He allowed, “Maybe we should have taken another night.”
“We’ve been sleeping around for 80 years,” she spat at him. “Our nanites drive us to screw like bunnies. Covering ex-lovers will take time. Pace yourself. Bastard.”
Her catalog of ex-lovers wouldn’t take nearly as much time as his, damn his looks. He could have any woman he wanted with the snap of his fingers. Even their star boarder, Kassidy Yang, heart-throb to a Mahina generation, threw herself at Clay. As for Sass, ‘girl next door wholesome’ was about the limit for her straw-like hair and muscular build.
Besides, she’d never kept a long-term relationship. Never married, unlike Clay. She had trust issues.
“Stop,” Clay begged. “Sass, this isn’t the problem.”
“It is now,” Sass assured him.
He placed hands on her hips and drew them to meet his own. “No, it’s not. I want you. You want me. Kendra is in prison, where she belongs. She’s the only boss I had for decades. She’s the only female boss I ever had, and she used me as a sex toy. And I used her back. And now you give me orders. I’m getting past it. Truly.”
Sass doubted that, but hips to hips felt really good. Her nanites were buying this argument whole-heartedly. They urged that stripping her business skirt and having wild sex in the pocket waterfall was exactly the right next move here.
“I have a court date,” she reminded herself out loud. Her body meanwhile was straining for a grind. She’d slept alone in the Thrive the past two nights after 24/7 togetherness with Clay’s gorgeous body for days.
“You could apologize for being delayed 10 minutes,” he posed. “Or come back.”
Her body straining mightily against her resolve, she pushed him away. “No sex until after the party tomorrow. And you stay on the Thrive overnight to get it. Clay, you’re making a fool of me in front of my crew.”
