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investigation would hinge on luck, and I’d used a lot of that up in the last few stanyers. I sighed and stuffed everything back into the zippered pouch and stowed it in the bottom of my trunk.
    The message icon on my tablet acknowledged the receipt of my note to Diurnia Salvage and Transport, but didn’t offer to ship me out any earlier, so I headed for the Oh-two Deck. I was ready for some lunch, a beer, and maybe I could find out something about my new employer.
    The main deck of any station is the dock. Decks above the docks have increasing numbers—One Deck, Two Deck, Three Deck, and so on. My hotel was on the Seven Deck. By convention decks below the main deck are prefixed with a zero. Where Deck One is the level above the dock, the Zero-one Deck—or Oh-one Deck—is one deck below. Above the dock are all the retail, administration, and residential areas. Below the dock are all the industrial sections. Ship chandlers, cargo brokers, and other ship services facilities are on the Oh-one Deck, but below that is the entertainment section. The Oh-two Deck is where ships’ crews got together to engage in activities that are not talked about in polite company. Bars, brothels, tattoo parlors, and a variety of entertainments are available for those who have the interest and the credits necessary. One thing I’d found on every Oh-two Deck was a quiet pub where the brew was generally local and good, the food was plentiful and tasty, and neither would leave gaping wounds in my credit balance.
    On Diurnia Orbital the place was called The Miller Moth and in addition to the obligatory sedate crystal display sign with the name, there was a stylized moth wing painted on the wall. Inside was the laminate and leather I’d been hoping for. Booths lined the walls and tables stood in shoals across the area between bar and wall. I knew that there would be a small dance floor on the side I couldn’t see from the door, and that most nights, the place would be full of people who were really just looking to sit, chat, and perhaps leave with somebody who might warm them against the cold of the Deep Dark. The big dance club would be almost diametrically across the station from this one, on the other side of the Oh-two Deck. The serious meat market action happened there, but it was probably too early in the station’s duty cycle to be busy at the moment.
    I glanced around the place as I crossed from door to bar. A few people sat here and there around the room. It was a twenty-four stan business, so somebody was always arriving or leaving on an odd schedule that didn’t match the station’s. A couple of engineering ratings were holding down one end of the bar muttering quietly to each other over beers and burgers. I slipped onto a stool about mid-bar and the barkeep—a broad-shouldered woman with hands that dwarfed a pint glass—smiled as I settled in.
    “Hiya, sailor. New in town?” she asked with a lopsided smile.
    I laughed. “Yeah, just made port this morning.”
    She held out one of those large hands and said, “Welcome to Diurnia Orbital. I’m Jen. What can I get cha?”
    “Thanks,” I said, shaking the offered hand. “I’m Ishmael. Can I have something light on the beer front and one of those burgers?” I asked, nodding my head in the direction of the engineers at the end of the bar.
    She bobbed her head in a small nod of acknowledgment. We dickered over the various conditions, condiments, and accompaniments. In what seemed like just moments, I had a cold beer and a hot burger commanding all my attention.
    The barkeep hovered, just out of direct line of sight, and generally kept out of the way. Neither the engineers nor I were terribly demanding. She puttered about—straightening glassware, polishing the gleaming bar. Nothing planet shattering, but all aimed at having the optimal setting for the customers. She moved with the practiced efficiency of a pro.
    “So what brings you to our fair orbital?” she asked after my