Ice cream was not a “make on a whim” sort of food. If you were going to make it properly, i.e. “not synthesised” then it was going to take at least an hour, more if you had to make a fucking lobster stock as well.

Scratch wasn’t even sure if they technically were lobsters. They were some kind of alien crustacean with twice as many appendages as lobsters and about twice as terrifying. Scratch had heard rumours that there were giant ones, in some parts of the world, alien lobsters the size of a small spaceship. She wasn't sure on the science of how the hell they got so big when the oceans were so shallow, but it was low-key a goal of hers to cook one of them one day, so all annoyances aside, this was a pretty good start.

First, she roasted the shells and made the stock, then mixed it with brandy and set the whole thing aflame. Mix with cream, and then churn. When you put it like that it sounded simple, but the stock alone took a frustrating amount of time, and that was with Scratch taking as many shortcuts as possible.

In the meantime, she got started on lunch. No matter how rich you were, you couldn’t just have ice-cream for lunch. Since dessert would be decadent, Scratch opted for a light spring salad for the main course. Grilled peaches, topped with goats cheese and toasted walnuts. Just like everything else, exorbitantly expensive, and pretty fucking delicious. The morning's humiliating events were near enough in memory that Scratch didn't dare serve lunch herself, but instead tracked down Aziz, who was lurking near the engine room for some unfathomable reason. He was either entirely ignorant as to what was going on, or was smart enough not to mention it, and Scratch was willing to put her money on the latter. Maybe she was going to get lucky, and it would never come up again. She could go back to living a life of ignorant bliss.

It wasn’t until after the ice-cream was served (garnished with gold leaf and macadamia nuts), and Damaris returned, that the consequences of that morning's terrible faux pas came flooding in.

‘Mr. Vandersnoot would like to speak to you,’ Damaris said, in a voice that suggested she would really rather be doing anything else, and Scratch dropped the plate she was holding. It was just a regular dinner plate, there were a hundred or so more like it in the cupboard, but still. Not a great look. ‘Don’t look at me, I didn’t say anything to him. I don't need that kind of drama in my life.’ She went to the servery, and took one of the crew lunch plates, entirely unbothered by Scratch's impending doom.

Scratch knew that the expression on her face was one of utmost terror. Not for her job; if he’d wanted to fire her, he probably would have made Aziz or Damaris do it. But there were a lot of different ways to ruin someone’s life, and those sparkling seas were looking pretty inviting…At least this time she would be fully clothed. It was going to take a very long time to get over the sheer agony of what had happened that morning.

But, no use putting it off. If she was going to get fired, or murdered, or shipped off to a penal colony on the mines of Havaltar, better to know sooner rather than later. She’d have to dress for the occasion.

Mr. Vandersnoot was in the lounge. It was remarkably understated for such a decadent ship. There was a marble bar, and some expensive stools, and a sofa that would have cost about as much as someone's university tuition, but that was about it. Scratch had heard that the rugs alone in the Determinator's lounge were insured for a million or so stilbits. This was practically working class.

Mr. Vandersnoot was sitting at the bar. He had taken off his blazer and tie and was sipping at something that looked like whiskey. He brightened when he saw Scratch. 'I was worried I might have scared you off,' he said. 'Come here, join me for a drink.'

Scratch’s heart skipped a beat. She was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for one of Vandersnoot’s goons to sneak up behind her with a baseball bat, and knock her out. She'd wake up cuffed to a drainpipe on a ship bound for hell.

Of course, that was ridiculous. Spaceships didn't have drainpipes. They'd probably just find a shallow grave somewhere.

Scratch sat. She took the glass that Vandersnoot handed her: it was even more expensive than the mid-shelf he'd made her try the other day. For all that, it wasn’t exactly morish. She got that you were supposed to sip and savour, but it was a little hard if all you could taste was burning.

‘I just wanted to apologise for this morning,’ Mr. Vandersnoot continued. Scratch watched him intently, not out of any deep interest as to what he was saying, but because if she didn't, she was going to miss a lot of words. ‘I shouldn’t have come in without asking, and…well, as your employer it doesn’t behoove me to put you in such an awkward position.’

Yes, the position of being half-naked and face down on the floor. Such a respectable position to be in in front of someone that you had to continue to work for for the next six months.

'But I just want to say…well, I don't think any of the ones she'd usually pick would make ice-cream for me, so…' He raised his glass in salute. Scratch did not immediately understand what was happening. She wasn't about to be murdered, that much was clear. In fact, if she wasn't mistaken, Mr. Vandersnoot had brought her here to give his approval. Oh no, that was so much worse than being murdered.

‘I'm glad you liked the ice-cream,’ Scratch told him, hoping that this small change of topic would be enough for Mr. Vandersnoot to forget why he was here entirely. It was surprisingly effective.

‘It was really something, Kitty. I sure hope you managed to get some yourself.’

‘Um,’ Scratch said. ‘I'm actually lactose intolerant.’ That was actually true. It was usually easy enough to get the pills for it, but Scratch had committed the rookie error of thinking that it would be possible to get anything in Lightport without taking out a bank loan.

Mr. Vandersnoot waved a hand. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘They've got injections for that. I got one for my hazelnut allergy. Three shots a week for six weeks, and boom! No longer allergic to hazelnuts. Of course, right after I was done, I remembered it was actually macadamia nuts I was allergic to.’ Scratch glanced over at the trash compactor, where there was a large bucket of macadamia shells that she had forgotten to toss. She did not have the energy to remind Mr. Vandersnoot that he was actually allergic to peanuts.

‘I-I'm scared of needles,’ was the very weak excuse that Scratch gave him. In reality, if she couldn't justify a hundred stilbit bottle of Lactaid, then she sure as shit couldn't justify ten thousand stilbits worth of injections. Thankfully, Mr. Vandersnoot didn't push it.

Once her drink was finished, Scratch made a hasty retreat. They had about three hours until docking, and she wanted to spend all of those hours as far away from everyone else as possible.

For all that Scratch was glad that she wasn't going to get murdered, she wasn't sure that she was a fan of this overly saccharine alternative. If Mr. Vandersnoot was seriously assessing Scratch's suitability as a long term partner for Charlotte, then he was paying attention to her, which was the exact opposite of flying under the radar. What she needed was some time away from here, which was exactly what she was about to get.

Today was the day that they made port (landed?), and the runabout reunited with the mothership. More importantly, from today, Scratch had three whole merciful days to herself, and she was very much hoping that by the time she returned, Mr. Vandersnoot would have forgotten all about what he had seen. He was a forgetful guy, so it wasn't entirely out of the question. More than once, he had been so busy with work and schmoozing that he'd forgotten to eat lunch. Probably why he was always so hungry in the middle of the night.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

The moment the gangplank was down, Scratch was out of there. She didn't even stop to marvel at the ship that would be home for the next couple of months; they were in the middle of loading supplies, and Scratch knew she would be roped into helping if she hung around for too long, so she scarpered.

Lightport was the only settlement on Serendipity that was large enough to be called a city, and it was growing larger every day. There were other points of interest across the rest of the planet; scientific research outposts, and beach resorts, and supply depots, but nothing so large as Lightport.

The city was built on a sandbar, on account of the lack of other suitable places. There were islands, of course, but by the time that Lightport was being established, most of them had been snatched up either by conservation parks, or rich people that wanted a nice view for their multi-million stilbit mansion.

Building on sand was problematic, though, which meant that most of the city was instead built on a number of very fancy floating platforms connected to the sandbar, a similar design to the Spiralling Cities of Arkanda, in the skies of gas giants in the Arkanda system. Light enough to float, heavy enough to manage the weight of some decently tall skyscrapers. There was nothing here much taller than twenty or thirty stories, but it was still seriously impressive, given that they were built on water.

That was what the brochure said, anyway.

Scratch had never been here before. Well, not counting the two days she'd spent at the hotel on first arrival, but most of that had been spent enjoying the hotel's amenities, some more than others. She'd missed JD's arrival by about twelve hours, and if things were the same as they had been twelve years ago, JD had been working flat out that entire time.

JD was a private investigator, and made a respectable amount of money tracking down cheating spouses, something made all the more difficult across star systems. Scratch had, on more than one occasion, done some subpar acting work to help gather evidence, but she was usually a lot better at the logistical side of crime than the one that involved having to talk to people, but it wasn't exactly a high bar.

For dinner, Scratch had picked the nicest bar in the docks district. Actually, technically in a high-rise on the edge of the docks district, and serviced a good portion of the financial district as well. It even had a fish tank, only it was stocked with non-native fish. She’d heard rumours that when the bar had originally started up, they had used native fish, but had to change after seven people died when a Lesser Darkworm burst through the glass and went on a killing spree. Scratch tried not to think about that every time the ocean got a little too quiet.

The food was apparently great, though, so even though there were blood stains that they hadn’t quite managed to get out of the floor, Scratch picked it over a number of other more financially practical options. She’d spent the last two weeks straight cooking for other people, now she just wanted to sit and drink her beer and not worry about whether the souffle was going to collapse or not. It always did.

Mr. Vandersnoot had been kind enough to provide a meal and accommodation allowance, and, being an out-of-touch billionaire, he had very kindly overestimated just how much things cost in the real world. The result of which was that Scratch could have had a steak dinner and full bottle of aged Starlight whiskey every night for the next week, and still had enough to have a reasonable attempt at playing blackjack. Hell, if she did well enough at the blackjack, she might even have enough liquidity for a hotel room upgrade.

In the end, she did go for the steak dinner, but it was synth steak, and it wasn’t the one that had been dry-aged, and came with chips and salad and choice of sauce. The bar had a nice selection of beers from across the galaxy; brewers had really taken the limitations of low-gravity brewing and gone buck-wild with it. Scratch was far less versed on drinks than food, and picked the one with the most interesting label.

About thirty seconds after Scratch had placed her order, JD arrived. She was taller than Scratch by a considerable amount, and her hair was fully grey at the temples. She looked liked she had just gotten off a sixteen hour shift staking out the industrial district. It probably wasn't too far from the truth, except Lightport didn't really have much of an industrial district. She was wearing a beaten-down brown leather jacket, and a pair of pants made out of a deflective material that was supposed to be stab-proof. Both expensive, for sure, on first purchase, but JD had been wearing them for years, and they had seen a great deal more shootouts, explosions and general confrontations than they had been designed for. JD didn’t even bother taking them to a splicer to fix at the molecular level, just patched the holes herself with a needle and thread.

This was, of course, the antithesis of Scratch, and in spite of all of this, Scratch liked JD tremendously. Mostly because after days on end spent with some of the most two-faced assholes in the galaxy, JD didn’t even bother to lie to her. It didn't hurt that they'd all but grown up together. JD very kindly did not judge Scratch for her poor decision-making. At least not verbally. Her intentions were written on her face at all times. Right now, for example, she was pensive. Not an uncommon emotion. Somewhere inside of there, her brain was picking away at whatever mystery it had decided to focus on for the moment.

Scratch followed JD's gaze to the opposite glass wall, where a large tropical fish was repeatedly bumping into the glass.

‘We can’t be underwater,’ JD said, finally. ‘We definitely didn’t go down far enough.’ This was a standard JD greeting. Very little in the way of actual greeting, and almost always non sequitur. It was like coming home.

‘Oh yeah,’ Scratch said, ‘I think I saw that they import all the fish from Andimon?’ and JD nodded, apparently filing that piece of information away for later. Whether or not it would actually be useful for her remained to be seen.

‘Seafood must be good here.’ By “here,” Scratch was pretty sure she meant Lightport in general. ‘Too expensive for my tastes, though.’

Scratch raised an eyebrow at that. ‘Your esteemed client isn’t paying enough for a goddamn piece of fish?’ She had almost said “rich asshole” instead of "your esteemed client,” before remembering where she was. JD, on the other hand, knew her well enough to read between the lines.

‘Rich asshole paid for the basic package,’ JD said, and didn’t sound particularly gloomy about it. She wasn’t a complainer. Not like Scratch was. She worked hard, and didn’t worry about her lot in life, and, in general, was a much more down to earth sort of person. There was also the fact that in the entire time they’d known each other, some fifteen or so years, Scratch could count on one hand the number of times she’d seen JD eat a meal that hadn’t come out of a synthesiser. ‘Didn't see the need to pay through the nose for expenses when he's paying me fifty stil an hour. Mostly I've been eating at the food courts.’

The food courts weren't terrible. In fact, as far as being a city's cheapest food option went, they were pretty good. But, there was no real way of getting around the fact that it was a place for servants and other non-millionaires to eat. When Scratch had offered to buy dinner in an actual restaurant, JD had been uncharacteristically enthusiastic. Or, maybe Scratch was projecting. The last time they had hung out in person was almost a year ago.

There was the usual “things not important enough for video chat” catch-up. JD told Scratch about a guy fraudulently claiming veteran's benefits that she'd helped track down, and Scratch very cleverly skipped a thing or two in her recap. But that didn't mean she couldn't get something out of the conversation.

‘Do you know anything about Herut Benedictus?’ Scratch asked, and JD stared at her, which was fair enough. It was like asking someone if they knew who General Berlin Hume was, an individual that gave at least three speeches a day regarding the "justified” destruction of populated asteroids. Everyone had heard of Herut Benedictus.

JD steepled her fingers. ‘I know of him,’ she said. ‘But we've never met. He's usually who people hire when they want the media spotlight on something. I've heard he brings a reporter along with him wherever he goes, just to cut out the middleman.’ Even Scratch could detect the distaste in JD's voice.

‘He any good?’ Not that it mattered or anything. Not that her entire future didn't rest on this one guy being bad at his job.

JD was careful with her next words. ‘I've heard he doesn't take cases unless he's already sure of the outcome.’ Great. Wonderful. Exactly what Scratch needed to hear. ‘Any reason why you're so interested?’

‘Uh,’ Scratch said. She had maybe sort of not actually told JD about Galastar. Not because she didn't trust JD – she trusted JD more than anyone else in the galaxy, and JD had certainly feigned ignorance for far more heinous crimes than art theft – but because there was a difference between trusting someone and forcing them to be witness to your own lunacy. ‘Long story. Probably safer you don't know.’

JD bit back a smile. She had definitely heard those words from Scratch before, and almost certainly had enough puzzle pieces to put things together herself. ‘Well, as long as you're staying out of trouble.’ Scratch was absolutely not staying out of trouble.

‘So why are you here? Cheating spouse, or government conspiracy?’ The food came, and it was a struggle for Scratch not to shovel the entire steak down in one go. You had to savour a good meal. Especially when someone else had made it.

‘Probably safer you don't know,’ JD said. She was smiling this time, and Scratch definitely deserved it.

It was a good night. Certainly one of the better nights Scratch had had in a long time, and there wasn't even any century-old whiskey. Like all good nights, this one ended far too early, because apparently JD's anonymous client needed her starting at five in the morning. With any luck, it wouldn't be a whole year before they saw each other again.

‘When will you be back on land?’ JD asked, as she shrugged her jacket back on.

‘Couple of months, I think,’ Scratch told her. In all honesty, the timeline kept changing. For all she knew, there would be a surprise trip to the north pole. That seemed like a Mr. Vandersnoot thing to do. ‘You still be here?’

‘If I am, then I'm not very good at my job. So I guess I'll see you when I see you.’ With that, JD was gone, and Scratch was left alone with her drink and her thoughts. That was a pretty depressing place to be though, so Scratch knocked back her drink, and got on her way.

The night was young, and she had a tidy sum of money burning a hole in her pocket. It was time to see what the casinos of Lightport were made of.