Mars, Lower City in the Mariner Valley Cliffs

  “Werner, you check with the sales guys? What’s up with the delivery? Container shipped or what?” Mr. Richter’s voice was low, a little hoarse—like he’d spent the night smoking and chugging strong tea to shake a cold. It carried a demanding edge, but the irritation wasn’t aimed at Christian. Kris was in good standing with the boss, and Richter wasn’t the type to bite the hand that brought in cash.

  Adam Richter was a mid-tier hustler—a predator, but not a top-tier shark. More like one of those that thrived in murky waters, feeding on scraps the big players didn’t bother with. He bought and sold whatever Mars needed: parts for outdated recyclers, expired rations, spares for mining drones, black-market meds. Most of his clients lurked in the colony’s old underground, where concrete soaked up centuries of dust and pipes leaked rusty water. Only rarely did he snag a deal from the Upper City. Up there, under gleaming thermoshields and mag-screens, lived a different breed—folks “above average.” They sipped real coffee, not synthetic sludge, breathed air untainted by triple-worn filters, and enjoyed open views of Mariner Valley or Isidis Planitia. But that world was off-limits to Richter.

  Still, he knew one thing: even the high-and-mighty sometimes needed guys like him—for stuff you couldn’t just order from a corporate catalog.

  “Yeah, Mr. Richter. Yesterday. They said it shipped three days ago, and the holdup’s not on their end.” Werner’s tone was steady, polite, but not groveling. He knew he was good at this. His knack for leaning on flaky suppliers earned him a bit of leash in this small, cutthroat game.

  Richter squinted, grinning like someone who already knew the punchline but wanted to test how close his guess landed.

  “And you bought it?”

  Kris didn’t flinch, just let the corners of his mouth twitch into a faint smirk.

  “Nah, didn’t buy it. Told ‘em our law firm’s gonna comb the contract for late penalties.”

  Richter shot him an approving glance, and Kris mirrored it.

  “Firm, huh?” Richter tilted his head, then spun toward the door and barked, “Hey, Lucy! You're firm now!”

  “Prestigious?”

  “Legal!”

  “Then yeah, prestigious…”

  Lucy—the secretary and part-time bookkeeper, a fifty-something woman with cracked nails and the dead-eyed stare of someone who’d counted other people’s money too long to care about her own—looked up from her screen.

  “Playing businessman again?”

  Richter just barked a laugh, short and choppy, like a smoker’s cough.

  “So, what’d they say?”

  “Said they’ll send it today with the Metallurgists’ convoy—faster that way.”

  Richter laughed harder, nearly slapping his thick palm on the desk.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “Metallurgists’ convoy? Seriously? Those iron-backed bastards? They can haul it on their damn spines for all I care, just get the goods here on time!”

  Kris watched silently, thinking yeah, the stuff would show, but in what shape was anyone’s guess. The Metallurgists hauled ore from who-knows-where, their rigs like coffins stacked with scrap and rock. If the container got buried deep, it’d arrive in pieces. Not his problem, though.

  “Alright, Werner, keep an eye on it. And if anything…” Richter trailed off, his face hardening for a split second.

  Kris knew the unspoken. “If anything” covered a lot—someone losing a paycheck, someone paying a price, some issues settling beyond words.

  On good days, when deals stacked up like a house of cards, Adam Richter toyed with the idea: why not cut Werner in? The kid was sharp—silver-tongued, could spin a tale so smooth even the slickest dealers didn’t clock they were being played. He didn’t just squeeze terms; he built realities people bought into. You didn’t waste talent like that on grunt work—you kept them close, groomed them, let them grow. But every time the thought lingered, something stopped Richter. A nagging worm in his brain. No question—Werner was a damn good worker. Five years in, always on call, rarely screwed up. Didn’t whine, didn’t ask for much, always on time, always effective as hell. But there was… something off. Like he wasn’t just working for Richter—he was watching him. A shark circling, waiting for blood in the water. Kris could be polite, crack a joke, play along, but if Richter stared too long, it felt like he wasn’t just a worker. Like there was no real “him” underneath—just echoes of others’ words, others’ faces. That’s why he didn’t let him climb higher, didn’t pull him closer, didn’t hand over real power. He’d known guys like that before. Seen them. The kind who’d be your best pal one day, then leave you at the bottom of a shaft with a slit throat—or melted in an acid vat. Richter wasn’t scared of Werner. He wasn’t scared because he kept him leashed.

  Adam Richter leaned back in his chair, head cocked, eyeing Christian like he was sizing up his worth—not in credits, but in essence.

  “Go hit Tony’s, drink on me.” He waved a hand, shrugging off the moment.

  Kris raised a brow, surprised.

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that,” Richter smirked. “You did good today, and I, y’know, appreciate good work.”

  Christian knew how this world ticked. Cash mattered, but it wasn’t everything. Quarterly bonuses, free drinks—nice, but not the point. He wasn’t out to be a bastard or weave big schemes, but he wasn’t a fool either. Every place had rules, and if you didn’t learn them, you got eaten. He didn’t hoard money—spent it as fast as it came. Didn’t hoard clout—just learned people. Who lied, who flinched, who’d cut a deal, who’d never break. He didn’t see himself as cruel or jaded, but he wasn’t naive. The boss could buy him drinks every night, but Kris knew—real gifts in this world came with strings. Richter liked him, sure, but not enough to push him up. And Kris wasn’t even sure he wanted to be like his boss—a guy who spun profit from thin air and trusted no one, not even himself.

  “Thanks, Mr. Richter,” he nodded, but didn’t rise yet.

  “Just get that file to Harabi first.” Richter jabbed a finger at the desk, signaling the chat was done.

  “Of course.”

  Christian stood, heading for the door, but caught Richter’s low chuckle as he left:

  “Drink on me, but don’t overdo it.”

  Kris replayed the talk in his head. The boss was in a good mood, but that meant squat—could flip in an hour. Guys like him didn’t cling to feelings, just gains. He opened his comlog, skimmed his task list. One job stood out—supply request for Garrett Harabi. Routine stuff. Someone needed organs, someone needed spares. He fired up the inventory system, checked batch numbers, and cross-referenced suppliers. Fifteen leg prosthetics, fifty cyber-kidneys, eye implants, chest inserts… Standard stock for a surgeon keeping the basics on hand. Kris swiped the screen, tagging it with a digital signature. Done. Another shipment, another day like the hundred before.

  Garrett Harabi ran a shop in the underground’s upper tiers. A craftsman surgeon—no one asked for his license, and he didn’t ask questions. His clients: miners, haulers, petty thugs, random wrecks who’d lost limbs in brawls or under collapsed tunnels. Harabi kept a stash of cheap, sturdy prosthetics, synthetic organs—not flashy, but functional—eye implants that worked. Standard Mars life—lose a leg, hit Harabi, walk out with a new one, even if it’s fake. Kris had seen plenty like them—people with no illusions. They didn’t buy into corps, dreams, or progress. They knew the only thing that mattered was lasting one more day.