‘That was true for old folks,’ Sunny said. ‘That’s why we did composting while we were still drifting around the open. It’s different now.’

‘We . . . we still have to manage metal and fuel. They’re less rare than before contact, yes, but the . . . the need to be frugal hasn’t changed. You can’t fly bodies anywhere without metal and fuel.’

‘But does the math work out that way? Is it actually less of a drain on resources anymore to keep the Centres working than it would be to kit out a busted old skiff sometimes?’

Eyas stared at him. That wasn’t math she’d ever done, ever considered doing. She had a dozen polished responses to the question of why the tradition she oversaw existed. But Sunny wasn’t asking why, he was asking why now, and that . . . that she didn’t know how to answer. She emptied her glass down her throat and tried to think.

Sunny cringed apologetically. ‘So, what I was trying to do was push you into some kind of epiphany and help you untangle this thing . . . but it looks like I maybe messed you up further.’

She sputtered. ‘How was this supposed to help?’

‘You were supposed to say that the math doesn’t matter. Because you love it, and because it’s our way, and that’s reason enough. And then, see, you’d feel like your job was enough, and you wouldn’t feel conflicted anymore.’

‘You asked me a practical question!’ She hit him with a pillow. ‘Not an emotional question! Those two never have the same answers!’

‘Well, fuck, sorry!’ he laughed, fending off her attack, holding his pipe well out of harm’s way. ‘You called me perceptive, and I got cocky.’

Eyas shook her head with a smile. ‘That’s the last time I pay you a compliment.’

‘Probably for the best.’ Sunny gave a low whistle. ‘Stars, I am sooooo glad I picked an easy job. I am not used to getting this existential.’

She chuckled. ‘I wouldn’t call your job easy.’

He gestured to his reclining, naked frame. ‘I am in the middle of a shift, right now.’ He took a long drag of his pipe. ‘I am on the clock.’ He sipped the last of his drink and swallowed with an indulgent exhale. ‘Oh, what a difficult profession.’ He set the pipe and glass aside and rolled over onto her, far more goofball than alluring, and planted his face smack between her breasts. ‘Look at me, serving the greater good,’ he said, nuzzling appreciatively. He sat back as Eyas laughed. ‘I guess I kinda am, huh?’ he said, his voice more serious. He gestured at her. ‘You’re the literal greater good here.’

Eyas raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you get this sappy with all your clients?’

Sunny grinned broadly. ‘I wouldn’t have gotten very far in this job if I didn’t.’ His eyes softened – not worryingly so, but enough to make her stop teasing. ‘I meant it, though.’

Eyas held his eyes for a moment. She squeezed his hand, and poured them both another drink.

Sawyer

‘Boss, we got a problem.’

Everybody in the airlock paused their suiting up. ‘Do tell,’ Muriel said, continuing to wake the four empty autocarts that would be joining them.

Nyx cleared her throat over the vox. ‘We’ve got company. The Neptune.’

Muriel paused. ‘How long?’

‘Three hours, maybe four.’

Sawyer stood awkwardly, helmet in hands, not sure what that meant or why the mood in the airlock had changed. ‘Ah, shit,’ Oates said. He frowned at everyone present. ‘Who got drunk and told someone where we were going today, hmm?’ His eyes lingered on Sawyer.

Sawyer swallowed. He was pretty sure he hadn’t said anything to anybody other than that he had a salvage job. He hadn’t known he wasn’t supposed to talk about it, but who would he even have talked to?

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Muriel said. She fastened her suit latches in sequence, one, two, three. Methodical. Matter-of-fact. ‘Is what it is.’ She looked around at her crew. ‘This just became a rush job. Grab and carry first. Tear-downs if you can.’

Sawyer cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t— what’s going on?’

Muriel clicked her helmet into place, and the vox below the seam switched on. ‘We’ve got competition. Another salvage crew. Think of it like a race.’

A competition. Sawyer hadn’t planned on that. ‘Do you guys – do the salvage crews not keep a schedule?’

Dory laughed and shook her head, walking toward the hatch.

‘Salvage is a more . . . independent line of work,’ Oates said. ‘First come, first serve.’

The airlock remained tense, so Sawyer decided to save the rest of his questions for later. Still, his list was growing. If retrieving salvage was competitive, there must be some kind of special compensation given by the Fleet to salvage crews, but that didn’t mesh with . . . well, with how everything else worked. Maybe it was dangerous, or messy? You could say the same about asteroid mining, though, or zero-g mech work, or sanitation. Sanitation. Maybe he should have stuck with that, started there. He didn’t understand enough about anything else yet. Maybe . . . maybe the race Muriel mentioned was purely a matter of pride. A race to see who could bring the best stuff back home. Yeah, that made sense. He put on his helmet and got ready to follow.