by Andy Weir
Last month’s profits were 21,628ğ. Your half is 10,814ğ. How do you want it?
How are your sisters? Did you get everything squared away with Halima’s asshole ex-husband?
Dear Jazz,
Okay, I’ll get all those items in the next supply probe. It launches in nine days. Great idea on the foam insulation. I’ll poke around and find the best noise-reduction-to-mass ratio and send you a case. We’ll see how it sells.
Please convert my share to euros and wire it to my German account.
Yes, Halima’s husband has been dealt with. He’s no longer trying to get custody of Edward. He never wanted it, anyway. He just wanted me to buy him off. So I did. Thank God for our operation, Jazz. I have no idea what my family would do without it.
Kuki just headed off to college in Australia. She’s training to become a civil engineer. We’re all very proud of her. Faith is getting good grades in high school, though she’s a little more interested in boys than we’d like. And Margot is turning out to be quite an athlete. She’s now a first-string forward for her football team.
How are things in your life? How’s Tyler?
Dear Kelvin,
Tyler is great. He’s the sweetest, kindest man I’ve ever been with. I’m not the mushy sort, and I never thought I’d say something like this: Seriously, he might be worth marrying. We’ve been together a year and I still love him. That’s unheard-of for me.
He’s the opposite of what Sean was in every way. Tyler is considerate, loyal, devoted to me, and a total sweetheart. Plus, he’s not a pedophile, which is a major bonus over Sean. God, I can’t believe I ever dated that asshole.
In other news, Dale’s been teaching me how to do EVAs. He’s a great teacher. It’s a lot of work and it’s a dangerous skill set to learn. And the EVA Guild is more clannish than a religious cult. But now that they know I’m training to become one of them, they’re starting to warm up to me.
Man, once I get my EVA cert, I’ll be rolling in cash. The money I can make from tours is massive!
And it won’t just be me raking it in. You’ll benefit too. I’ll ditch the porter gig and get a job as a probe wrangler. Then I won’t have to bribe Nakoshi anymore. Kelvin, my friend, the future’s bright.
Dear Jazz,
That’s great to hear.
There’s been a wrinkle over here at KSC. They just announced that they’ll be upping their launch schedule. As part of that push, they’re expanding the payload loader department. There’ll be another loader team working at the same time as mine. I can’t be in both places at once, so we’ll miss out on half the launches.
But I have an idea: How would you feel about adding another person to our group? I’d make sure it’s someone we can trust. I know a lot of loaders who could use the extra cash. We wouldn’t need to make them an equal partner but maybe cut them in for 10 percent?
Dear Kelvin,
To be honest, I’m not thrilled with the idea. I trust you with my life. But I don’t know these other loaders for shit. We’d have to talk about any candidates very thoroughly. The more people involved, the higher the chance that it all comes tumbling down.
Still, you make a good point about missing half the launches. That hits me right in my greed bone.
Dear Jazz,
How about after you join the EVA Guild? We won’t have Nakoshi’s share to deal with anymore. It’ll be a net-neutral effect and we’ll be able to expand. The increased launch schedule means more product for us. We’ll come out ahead.
Dear Kelvin,
I like your thinking. Okay, start looking around for someone. But for fuck’s sake be subtle.
Dear Jazz,
Subtle? I never thought of that. I guess I should take that flyer off the company billboard.
Dear Kelvin,
Smartass.
I jogged away from the Landvik estate. Without breaking stride, I whipped out my Gizmo and texted Rudy: “Trouble at Landvik estate. Blood on scene. Get there now.”
He texted back: “On my way. Stay put until I get there.”
“Nope,” I replied. The Gizmo rang as Rudy tried to call me. I ignored it and broke into a full run.
“Dammit,” I hissed. “It’s never easy.”
I only touched the ground every seven or eight meters. I kicked off the walls when rounding corners so I wouldn’t have to slow down.
Alan’s Pantry was an upscale place, considering it sold junk food and kitschy souvenirs. It was less of a convenience store and more of a hotel gift shop—with appropriately jacked-up prices. I didn’t have time to be picky.
“Can I help you, madam?” asked the clerk. He wore a three-piece suit. Who the hell wears formal clothes at a convenience store? I shook it off. No time to be judgmental.
I grabbed the largest bag I could find—a cloth sack with a picture of the moon on it. Really fucking original. I shoveled junk-food packets into it from every shelf, paying no attention to what I took. I had a vague impression of a bunch of chocolate bars and twenty flavors of dried Gunk. I’d take inventory later.
“Madam?” said the clerk.
I pulled a jug of water from the cooler, shot over to the counter, and upended the bag. “All this,” I said. “Fast.”
The clerk nodded. I had to hand it to him—he went as fast as he could. Didn’t ask questions, didn’t give me shit. Customer’s in a hurry? Okay, then he’s in a hurry too. I give Alan’s Pantry five stars.
Once the items were spread out on the counter so none of them were touching each other, he pressed a button on the register. The computer identified everything and came up with a total.
“One thousand four hundred fifty-one slugs, please.”
“Jesus,” I said. But no time to argue. Money would be useless to me soon. I waved my Gizmo across the payment pad and okayed the transaction.
I shoveled everything into the bag and ran out. I hustled down the corridor and dialed my Gizmo. A confirmation dialog popped up before it connected:
YOU ARE CALLING EARTH. THE COST IS 31ğ PER MINUTE. CONTINUE?
I confirmed it and listened for the ringing.
“Hello?” said the accented voice on the other end.
“Kelvin, it’s Jazz,” I said. I rounded a corner and bounced toward the Bean Connector tunnel.
After a four-second delay, Kelvin’s response came. “Jazz? You’re calling directly? What’s wrong?”
“I’m in deep shit, Kelvin. I’ll explain later, but I have to make an alias right fucking now. I need your help.” I stormed through the connector, cursing the god-awful communication latency.
“Okay. What can I do?”
“I don’t know who might be after me, so I can’t assume my banking info is private. I need you to set up a KSC account under an alias for me. I’ll pay you back later, of course.”
Four infuriating seconds later: “Okay, understood. How about a thousand US dollars? That’ll be around six thousand slugs. And what name do you want it under?”
“Six thousand slugs is great, thanks. Put it under…I don’t know…something Indian this time? How about Harpreet Singh?”
I shot through Bean Bubble. Bean was mostly a sleepy bedroom community. The corridors were long and straight. Perfect for a gal who’s running like hell. I picked up a huge head of steam.
“Okay, I’ll make it happen,” said Kelvin. “It’ll take about fifteen minutes. When you have a chance, drop me a line and explain what’s going on. At least let me know you’re safe.”
“Thanks a million, Kelvin. Will do. Jazz out.”
I hung up and turned off the Gizmo. I had no idea what was going on, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to walk around with a tracking beacon on my ass.
I ran to the main concourse of Bean Ground. The nearest hotel was called the Moonrise Inn. Pretty stupid name, if you think about it. Artemis is the only city in existence that can’t see a moonrise. But whatever. Any inn would do.
Just as I had done with Nuha Nejem, I picked up a hotel Gizmo for Har
preet Singh. An Arab looks the same as an Indian to clueless hotel clerks.
Okay. Alias taken care of. I’d be Harpreet Singh for the foreseeable future. Tempting though it was to check into the hotel right then, I wasn’t willing to hide in plain sight. I had to go where literally no one would see me.
I knew just where to go.
DOUBLE HOMICIDE IN ARTEMIS
Business magnate Trond Landvik and his bodyguard Irina Vetrov were found dead today at Landvik’s estate in Shepard Bubble. Artemis has only had five other murders in its history and this is the lunar city’s first double homicide.
Constable Rudy DuBois, acting on a tip, found the bodies at 10:14 a.m. The door had been forced open and both victims had been stabbed to death. Evidence indicates that Vetrov died attempting to protect her employer and may have inflicted significant damage on the attacker.
Landvik’s daughter, Lene, was at school during the time of the murders.
The bodies have been transported to the clinic of Dr. Melanie Roussel for pathological examination.
Lene Landvik is set to inherit her father’s sizeable fortune when she turns eighteen. Until then, the estate will be managed by the Oslo-based law firm of Jørgensen, Isaksen & Berg. The heiress was unavailable for comment.
The article went on, but I didn’t want to read any more. I put the Gizmo on the cold metal floor. I huddled in a corner, hugged my knees, and buried my face.
I tried to hold back the tears. I really did. My panicked flight had kept me amped with a sense of purpose. But once I was safe, the adrenaline wore off.
Trond was a good guy. Maybe a little underhanded and he wore that stupid bathrobe everywhere, but he was a good guy. And a good dad. God, who was going to take care of Lene? Mutilated in a car crash as a kid and then orphaned at age sixteen. Jesus, what a shitty draw. Sure, she had money but…fuck…
It didn’t take a degree in criminology to figure out it was revenge for the sabotage. Whoever did it would want me dead too. Maybe they didn’t know I was the one who did the sabotage, but I wasn’t going to bet my life on it.
So now I was hiding from a murderer. And, side note, I’d never get that million slugs, even if I trashed the last harvester. It’s not like Trond and I had a written contract. I’d done it all for nothing.
I shivered in the freezing confines of the access nook. I’d been there before, long ago when I was homeless. Ten years of struggling to stay afloat and now I was right back where I started.
I sobbed into my knees. Quietly. That’s another skill I learned back in the day: how to cry without making too much noise. Wouldn’t want anyone in the hall to hear me.
The nook was a tiny triangular space with a removable panel so maintenance workers could get at the inner hull. There wasn’t even room to lie down. My coffin was a palace compared to this. Tears stung my face as they turned ice cold. Bean Down 27 was a great place to hide, but it was frigid. Heat rises, even in lunar gravity. So the lower you go, the colder it gets. And no one puts heaters in maintenance nooks.
I wiped my face and picked up my Gizmo again. Well, Harpreet’s Gizmo, but you know what I mean. My own Gizmo sat in the corner of my nook with the battery removed. Administrator Ngugi would only release a Gizmo’s location info if there was a good reason, but “wanted for questioning in a double homicide” was a pretty good reason.
I had to make a decision right then. A decision that would affect the rest of my life: Would I go to Rudy?
Surely he cared more about murder than my smuggling operation. And I’d be a lot safer if I just came clean. He might be an asshole, but he was a good cop. He’d do everything he could to protect me.
But he’d been looking for a reason to deport me since I was seventeen. He already knew Trond was screwing with Sanchez Aluminum, so it’s not like I’d provide useful information. And I assumed the “amnesty for ratting out Trond” offer was off the table—Trond was dead. So if I went to Rudy, I would:
a) Give him all the evidence he needed to get me deported, and
b) Not help him solve the murders at all.
No, fuck that. Keeping my head down and my mouth shut was the only way to come out of this alive and still living on the moon.
I was on my own.
I looked over my supplies. Probably a few days’ worth of food and water. I could use the public restrooms down the hall when no one was looking. I wasn’t going to just stay in the nook, but for the moment I didn’t want to be seen. At all. By anyone.
I sniffled back the last of my tears and cleared my throat. Then I called Dad’s number through a local proxy service. No one would know that Harpreet Singh called Ammar Bashara.
“Hello?” he answered.
“Dad, it’s Jazz.”
“Oh, hi. Weird, my Gizmo didn’t recognize your number. How’d the project go? Are you done with the equipment?”
“Dad, I need you to listen to me. Really listen.”
“Okay…” he said. “This doesn’t sound good.”
“It’s not.” I wiped my face again. “You have to get out of the house and away from the shop. Stay with a friend. Just for a few days.”
“What? Why?”
“Dad, I messed up. I messed up bad.”
“Come over. We’ll work it out.”
“No, you have to get out of there. Did you read about the murders? Trond and Irina?”
“Yes, I saw that. Very unfort—”
“The killers are after me now. They might go after you for leverage because you’re the only person I care about. So get the hell out of there.”
He was silent for a while. “All right. Meet me at the shop and we’ll go stay with Imam Faheem. He and his family will take care of us.”
“I can’t just hide—I need to find out what’s going on. You go to the imam’s. I’ll contact you when it’s safe.”
“Jazz”—his voice quavered—“leave this to Rudy. It’s his job.”
“I can’t trust him. Not now. Maybe later.”
“You come home right now, Jasmine!” His voice had risen a full octave. “For the love of Allah, don’t tangle with murderers!”
“I’m sorry, Dad. I’m so sorry. Just get out of there. I’ll call you when this is over.”
“Jasmi—” he started, but I hung up.
Another benefit to the proxy service: Dad couldn’t call me back.
I cowered in the nook the rest of the evening. I darted out to go to the bathroom twice, but that was it. I spent the rest of the time just fearing for my life and compulsively reading the news.
—
I woke up the next morning with cramped legs and a sore back. That’s the thing about crying yourself to sleep. When you wake up, the problems are still there.
I pushed the access panel aside and rolled out onto the corridor floor. I stretched out my complaining muscles. Bean Down 27 didn’t get many people coming through, especially this early in the morning. I sat on the floor and ate a hearty breakfast of unflavored Gunk and water. I should have stayed hidden in the nook but I just couldn’t take the cramped quarters any longer.
Sure, I could just hide out and hope Rudy caught the killer, but it wouldn’t help. Even if he succeeded, the people behind it would send another one.
I took another bite of Gunk.
It was all about Sanchez Aluminum.
Duh.
But why? Why were people killing each other over a bygone industry that didn’t even make much money?
Money. It’s always about money. So where was the money? Trond Landvik hadn’t become a billionaire by randomly guessing at shit. If he wanted to make aluminum, he had a tangible, solid reason. And whatever it was, it got him killed.
That was the key. Before I worked on who I had to figure out why. And I knew where to start: Jin Chu.
He was the guy at Trond’s house the day I delivered the cigars. He was from Hong Kong, he had a box labeled “ZAFO,” and he tried to hide it from me. That’s all I had.
I poked around onlin
e, but I couldn’t find anything about him. Whoever he was, he kept a low profile. Or he’d come to Artemis under an alias.
That cigar delivery felt like forever ago but it had only been four days. Meatships come once a week and there had been no departures in that time. Jin Chu was still in town. He might be dead, but he was still in town.
I finished my “breakfast” and put the packaging back in my nook. Then I sealed the nook, straightened my rumpled jumpsuit, and headed out.
—
I hit a secondhand shop in Conrad and bought a hell of an outfit: a bright-red miniskirt so short you could almost call it a belt, a sequined top that exposed my midriff, and the tallest heels I could find. I topped it off with a large red patent-leather handbag.
Then off to a hair salon for a quick updo and voilà! I was now a floozy. The girls at the salon rolled their eyes at me as I checked myself out in the mirror.
The transformation was disturbingly easy. Sure, I have a nice body, but I wish it had been a little more effort to become so trashy.
—
Travel’s a bitch. Even when it’s a once-in-a-lifetime vacation.
You leak money like a sieve. You’re jet-lagged. You’re exhausted all the time. You’re homesick even though you’re on vacation. But all of those hassles pale in comparison to the food.
I see it all the time here. Tourists love to sample our local cuisine. Problem is: Our cuisine sucks. It’s made of algae and artificial flavors. Within a few days the Americans want pizza, the French want wine, and the Japanese want rice. Food makes you comfortable. It’s how you recenter.
Jin Chu was from Hong Kong. He’d eventually want proper Cantonese food.
The types of people who have one-on-one meetings with Trond are business magnates or, at the very least, highly important people. Those people travel a lot. They learn to stay where the food’s good.