It was a two-sun evening when Scratch made her way back along the promenade. Nine p.m, by standard time, but the lack of true night meant that most people just treated it like daytime anyway.

Scratch hated it. At least on the ship she could close a window, but trying to have a fun night out when the suns were shining felt pathetic, rather than cool. Going to a casino at nighttime was a fine, normal thing to do. Going during the day meant that you had a problem, and Scratch totally, definitely didn't have a problem. Definitely didn't spend three-quarters of the money she made chasing a big win that never came. Fortunately, once she was inside, she would be able to once again blissfully ignore the outside world.

For now, though, she was perfectly happy to enjoy the architecturally designed boardwalk, complete with manicured gardens, extravagant fountains, and rubbish bins that were far fancier than any kind of waste disposal system that Scratch had ever seen. Even then, it probably ended up in landfill on an asteroid, like ninety percent of rubbish in the galaxy. If you were really lucky, your discarded soft drink bottle would get turned into a cheap, useless trinket that would get thrown away again anyway.

Out of the corner of her eye, Scratch saw a small protest gathering at the docks. Friends of the Sea, as they called themselves, were an ecological activist group, though a lot of the billionaires on Lightport probably would have called them ecoterrorists.

Generally, anyone belonging to a group like that would have had a lot of trouble getting landing clearance on Lightport, but Scratch knew for a fact that Fania had done some work for them once or twice, and the group no doubt had their own shady tech connections. If you wanted to go somewhere in this galaxy you weren’t supposed to be, it usually wasn’t all that difficult. The rules made life a lot harder for the sorts of people that followed rules, but there was no door in the galaxy that money didn’t open in one way or another. She'd bribed a few people in her time.

As she got closer, she realised that it wasn't actually a protest. There were a number of people with clipboards, looking for donations, but apparently even that was disruptive enough that some concerned citizens were getting angry and threatening to call the police.

Scratch should have turned around. Sure, it wouldn't have been as nice of a walk going through the city proper, but the last time someone had tried to get her to donate to charity, she had ended up on a backpacking trip in the jungles of Karsis, in a bid to stop them from getting cut down for construction. She'd lasted about two days before getting medically evacuated, and had thus gotten credit for being socially aware without actually having to do anything.

Too late, Scratch realised that she had made eye contact with one of the men with clipboards, and he had taken the moment as an invitation to make his way in her direction. Shit. She panicked, and froze.

The man was tall, and well-muscled, and attractive, if you were interested in that sort of thing. He was also wearing a black t-shirt emblazoned with the logo of Friends of the Sea, just tight enough that his biceps were straining it a little. It seemed to be working on a certain demographic of people. Scratch was not in that demographic. She watched, though, as a group of middle-aged women that could very easily have been Mrs. Vandersnoot and her friends looked back, giggling. They had clearly spent almost ten minutes laying it on incredibly thick, and had definitely put their names and contact details on the clipboard, despite having absolutely no interest in the environment.

That, Scratch figured, was exactly the point. It was very clever. Not to mention a great cover, and a great distraction if you wanted to use it to have bystanders not notice something else going on. It was ultimately not her problem, but before she could turn to walk away, he was standing right in front of her. ‘Hi there!’ the man said, his wide mouth opening to reveal incredibly straight, white teeth. ‘Do you have a few moments to talk about the destruction of vital marine habitats in the galaxy?’

‘Uh, sure,’ Scratch said, because she genuinely couldn't think of anything else. She would, of course, be immune to his winning charm, and even if she wasn’t, she was already getting so much spam from Friends of the Sea that she wouldn’t notice a little more.

‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘Well, for starters, my name is Doctor Eric Pastradas, I’m a marine biologist that does research with the University of the Third Sun.’ Scratch raised an eyebrow. As far as she knew, the University of the Third Sun was a seriously legitimate educational institution, though admittedly, she did not know a great deal about any educational institutions. It seemed strange that an actual marine biologist would be out here looking for donations. She'd thought the benefits would be better ‘And, as you can see, I’m also a card-carrying member of the ecological activist group, Friends of the Sea. Have you heard of us before?’

‘I sure have.’ It was like if someone had asked her if she knew about the colour blue. Friends of the Sea were thorns in a lot of people's sides, for better or for worse. They never actually did anything that would result in injury or death, but for some reason a lot of its members were on terrorist watchlists anyway.

‘Oh, that’s wonderful,’ Eric said, in a voice that Scratch could tell was hiding no small amount of contempt. Not for Scratch specifically, but for all the people that very clearly had no interest in the environment. ‘Now, I don’t know how much you know about history, but I can tell you, pollution and destruction of the oceans has been going on ever since mankind first set sail. Now, we at Friends of the Sea, well, we know that we’re never going to stop people from exploring, and setting foot on new planets, and seeing all that the great wide universe has to offer; all we’re looking to do is make sure people are a little more considerate about doing it. Not dumping their thousands and thousands of tonnes of toxic waste into an ocean that’s barely had time to adjust to a new presence.’

Scratch had to admit, all sounded very reasonable. And that was how the Friends of the Sea got you. It all did sound very reasonable, and they got you to sign the clipboard thinking that it was all very reasonable, and little by little they radicalised you until they had you hanging off the side of a skyscraper, spray-painting “save the whales” in letters for the whole city to see. Definitely not worth the sunburn, even on her already reasonably tan skin.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

‘Sure,’ Scratch said, and winced, fully aware now that she had said “sure,” three times in the space of the last twenty seconds, and she really hoped that Eric hadn't noticed. ‘Hey, Eric. Doctor Pastrada.’

‘Oh, Eric’s fine,’ Eric said, in the voice of someone who legitimately meant it.

‘Eric, can I ask you a question?’ This was very much the opposite of not engaging, but Scratch was in far too deep now to retreat, so she figured she would just ride it out.

‘Of course.’ Eric gave a very charming smile that had no doubt been key in getting signatures on that clipboard, and donations in the Friends of the Sea accounts.

‘You’re on a planet right now where everyone's more money than god, do you really think you’re gonna convince any of the guys with their billion stilbit yachts to not use them, or are you just planning on slashing their tyres?’ Not that yachts had tyres. But Friends of the Sea sure did have a consistent M.O.; draw attention with prominent but harmless canvassing, and then sabotage while everyone was looking the other way. Scratch didn't dare turn around to check if there was anything happening back at port, because she had no interest in being a witness.

Eric gave a very small smile. Not even a charming smile. This smile was almost devious. He leaned in conspiratorially. ‘You really think I’m going to admit to a crime right now?’ Those words were enough for Scratch to immediately like Eric. Of course, she had admitted far worse crimes to far more notorious people, but you didn't need a Doctorate in Marine Xenobiology (?) to know that was a pretty stupid thing to do. He straightened up, his smile once more turning charming, like he'd only leaned in to tell her a funny joke that he'd heard.

Well, whatever it was that Eric did not want to admit to, Scratch wasn't going to ask probing questions. There was that plausible deniability thing all over again. But that didn't mean she didn't have questions about other stuff.

‘Is there really that much life here anyway?’ Scratch asked, and immediately regretted it, because from the exuberance with which he answered, this was the first time anyone had engaged with him at all. Scratch wasn't surprised. This was Serendipity after all. People didn't get rich here by protecting sea creatures.

‘Well, all life in the galaxy is precious, so jot that down,’ Eric started, then waited very patiently for her to get out her phone, open up a brand new memo, and type out the words "all life in the galaxy is precious,” and he didn't even make fun of her for the fact that she didn't have the cybernetic implant to do all of that with a single thought. ‘And secondly, life is hugely abundant here! Now, of course all the brochures talk about is how good the shallow waters are for snorkelling, but there are actually quite a few underwater volcanos on Serendipity. Very mysteriously, all attempts at trying to study any of this life is rejected by the Lightport Council. Now, I won't go into the science of it, because frankly most people don't find that interesting, but if you'd like to read more about it…’ He put a hand into the pocket of his (very tight) jeans, and pulled out a contact card. The picture on the front was Eric in nothing but boardshorts, standing on the beach giving a thumbs up. ‘I've embedded the site details on here - any information about the oceans of Serendipity, plus some more information on the mission here at FotS.’

To be polite, Scratch signed the clipboard (with a different fake name), and made a token donation, partly because she appreciated Eric's moxy. She was about to go and spend a thousand stilbits minimum on blackjack and pachinko. Compared to that, it was a wise and prudent investment. It wasn't until she was on her way, and she heard someone say ‘No thanks,’ and keep walking that she realised she'd kind of gotten played anyway, just a little bit.

It wasn't the first time, and it wouldn't be the last. Scratch put it out of her mind and continued on to the casino district, where she was sure to come out on top.

To come out on top of course meant gambling at the best casino in town, and the best casino in town was the Lightport Grand Casino. It was the only one, after all, that had a jackpot on the mega-roulette wheel that had never been won. It was a thousand stilbits a spin, and Scratch was pretty sure that the prize pool was coming up on two-hundred million. Chump change to most people in Lightport, but life-changing for Scratch. She'd be able to spend at least a week chipping away at that before losing it all.

The Lightport Grand Casino was also the only casino that had a restaurant featured on “Top Ten Gastronomic Experiences in the Deleghi Quarter” that Scratch was desperate to even look at. She knew better than to think that she'd be able to eat there; tables were booked at least a year in advance, and a year ago Kitty Sparklestone hadn't even existed yet.

So, she was dressed nicely, but not extravagantly. Dark grey lace button-up shirt over a plain navy blue tee, dark green pants with a ribbed cuff, and enough silver jewellery to kill even the most persistent of werewolves. The security guards at the entrance did not stop her, which was a nice surprise. Maybe it was the fact that they could tell she had a few thousand stilbits burning a hole in her pocket. Or maybe they could tell just how good she was at losing.

She did a very good job of it, too. First, she won jack shit on the slot machines to warm up, and then did just as badly on the roulette. The mega-roulette she hadn't expected to win and didn't, but she did okay on poker right up until the point she got blindsided by a flush. It was always the suits that got her.

The server very kindly comped her a free scotch on the rocks, and she went on to lose five more hands.

Depressing, really, but Scratch should have known better. She could neither bluff, nor tell when other people were bluffing. The worst of it was, she never really knew when to stop. Probably about the time she lost a huge pot on a two pair to someone that had a full house. It didn't really feel like she could get much better from there, and she was already out her stipend for the full three days.

It was getting late now, and you wouldn't have been able to tell even if the casino had windows. What they did have was a vested interest in keeping people here and oblivious for as long as possible.

There was enough time for one or two hands of blackjack before she called it a night. Twelve hands later she was almost ready to pull the trigger on that promise, and another five hands after that, she had almost figured out the pattern of the deck. After that, it was easy, theoretically. There should have been an ace coming up, only there wasn't, and what should have been a cool five card trick turned into bust at twenty-six. No matter. It meant that the ace was out there, and Scratch still had a shot at-

‘Excuse me, ma'am.’ It took Scratch a moment to realise that the security guard was talking to her. She didn't get “ma'am” often, or even really “miss.” She got “young lady” a bit, and even “young man” once or twice, which honestly didn't bother her as much as she thought it might.

‘Ma'am,’ the security guard said again, and this time he grabbed Scratch's wrist. That was when she knew she was in trouble. They didn't usually grab you unless you'd really fucked up, and even then, Scratch was willing to put money on the fact that he wouldn't do the same thing to a six-foot tall white guy. ‘Could you come with me please?’ He did not wait for her to comply, simply dragged her to her feet.

‘Wait,’ Scratch said. ‘Wait,’ and to his credit, the guard waited. Scratch reached her free hand into her pocket, and pulled out her last chip. Fifty stil, which would have to do. She attempted to flip it to the dealer with her thumb, but it ended up spiralling about a metre to her left. Then, Scratch turned to the security guard who was still clenching her wrist tightly. ‘Alright,’ she said. ‘Let's go.’