Mars Time: 22:00, February 17, 2295

  Lobby, Ground floor, Prairie Commons, Eagle District, Xing Hong

  The white titanium door hissed open, and Sigrun stepped through into Prairie Commons' lobby. Her beige trench coat settled around her shoulders as the decontamination field swept over her.

  At the front desk sat Thomas Mendoza, his wheat-toned skin and close-cropped blonde hair illuminated by the blue glow of a holographic display. His silver cybernetic arms rested on the desk as he spoke to a projection of an Imperial woman, her dark hair swept into an updo secured by a golden hairpin.

  "Prairie Commons has rules protecting resident privacy, Prefect Altai." Thomas sounded like someone who'd had this conversation before. "We don't barge into people's homes because another district suspects something."

  Sigrun's body tensed. Her steps slowed as she lingered near the entrance, half-hidden by a support column.

  "I find that ridiculous, Officer Mendoza." The Imperial woman's alto voice was sharp, professional. A nameplate bubble appeared beside the hologram: Dilinur Altai, Prefect, Dragon District. "In Dragon District, all apartment securities cooperate with my Constables, without question."

  "Good for them folks." Thomas spread his silver arms in mock helplessness. "But hey, in Eagle District, Alliance mega-corps call the shots. Why not send Sergeant Haylen here? Have her people write up an arrest warrant?"

  "Haylen is above such...carnal matters." Dilinur pressed a hand to her forehead. "Can you at least provide a Record of Inquiry?"

  "That sounds more reasonable. I'll have it ready later this week."

  "Very well. I'll be back." Dilinur's posture softened. Sigrun was relieved that this was the best the Prefect would get tonight.

  "Right. Nice evening, Prefect." Thomas waved politely as the hologram flickered out.

  Sigrun approached the desk, footsteps echoing in the now-quiet lobby. "Everything alright, Tom?"

  Thomas looked up, his expression neutral. "Sigrun. Dilinur from Dragon District called again. Wants me to search your room for evidence of—" He paused, choosing words carefully. "—your secondary income."

  She saw no reason to delay the inevitable. Better to strike first. "I've got some discount coupons for my services if you can embellish that Record of Inquiry a little. Make it obvious it's not me."

  Thomas raised a brow, half-amused. "Discount coupons, huh?"

  "Yeah." The words came automatically, her body following the script it had learned over eleven years. She bit her lower lip, one hand moving to rest against her chest—the gesture had disarmed countless men before, surely it'd work again. "Thirty percent off the standard positions, and..." Her voice dropped to a well-practiced purr. "Ten percent if you want to finish in my mouth."

  "Sigrun." Thomas stood, crossing his arms. The silver of his combat armor reflected the lobby's dim lighting. "We've talked about this. I'm married."

  Her sapphire eyes widened as memory crashed back: Thomas at his desk six months ago, showing her photos on his Nucleus Watch. His wife Emily. Their two kids. The family dinner he'd invited her to, which she'd politely declined. How had she forgotten?

  Her hand dropped from her chest like she'd been caught committing a crime. "Shit. Tom, I'm sorry. I completely…"

  "Forgot. Yeah." His expression softened, though concern remained in his eyes. "You're seeing a lot of people these days, Sigrun. Memory slips happen."

  But they both knew it wasn't just about "seeing a lot of people." Her hand trembled slightly before she forced it still. How many other conversations was she forgetting? How many faces blurred together now? Clients, allies, threats—all merging into an indistinct mass in her failing memory.

  "Look." Thomas's voice gentled, raising a hand. "What you do after dark to make ends meet isn't my business. But there's only so much I can do before people start thinking Eagle’s a haven for unsponsored Lilies. Know what I mean?"

  "I'll be more careful." The words came automatically. How many times had she said that?

  Thomas sighed, rubbing the back of his neck with one silver hand. "I'll write up the Record of Inquiry to keep you clear. But sis, you really need to cut back."

  "Thanks, Tom." Her voice came out quieter than she intended.

  She turned toward the elevators before he could see the shame in her eyes. The fluorescent lights suddenly felt too bright. Her reflection in the elevator's polished doors showed a woman in a beige trench coat, blonde hair in a clean half-up ponytail, expression controlled.

  Yet somehow, she could hardly recognize herself.

  Mars Time: 22:22, February 17, 2295

  Room 47, 4th floor, Prairie Commons, Eagle District, Xing Hong

  Sigrun worked fast. She kicked off her military boots—heavy things with reinforced soles designed for Mars's lower gravity—and shrugged out of her beige trench coat, hanging it on the rack beside her bed. The deep navy turtleneck came next, then her tactical pants, socks and belt.

  Her Nucleus Watch chimed as items were logged:

  [- Unequipped: Ballistic Trench Coat, Nordling fit, Inner Sol variant]

  [- Unequipped: Járn, Thermal Axe, one-handed, Nordling variant]

  [- Unequipped: Skuld, Breacher Shotgun, custom Alliance frame]

  [- Unequipped: Víking Treads, combat boots, Nordling female fit, Mars Walker variant]

  [- Unequipped: Ballistic Turtleneck, Valoran fit, Psi Lynx certified weave]

  [- Unequipped: Tactical Rigger Belt, Nordling female fit, Psi Lynx variant]

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  [- Unequipped: Combat Fatigues, Nordling female fit, Psi Lynx certified weave]

  She pressed a panel near the closet door. A hidden compartment slid open with a soft hydraulic hiss, revealing the quick-wash unit tucked into the utility wall—one of Prairie Commons's conveniences, capable of cleaning, rinsing, and drying ballistic weave in under thirty minutes.

  "Come on, come on...almost done with today…" She muttered as she stuffed the clothing into the chamber and sealed it. The machine hummed to life, warm air cycling through the compartment.

  Her hand went to the back of her head, fingers finding the smooth metal of her Programmable Hair Clip. A quick tap through the preset menu, and—

  [+ Engaged: Hamr, Programmable Hair Clip, Nordling variant. Configuration: 'Valkyrie' → 'Freyja']

  The clip hummed against her scalp as quantum fibers wove through her hair. The tactical half-up ponytail she'd worn all day loosened and shortened, her hair cascading in sleek waves that framed her face and stopped at her strong but curvaceous shoulders. A faint lily scent released from the pheromone modifier—a signature smell that all her favorite clients knew.

  She pulled Járn and Skuld from her coat pocket to hang them on the weapon rack above her desk. Over the years, letting her various clients see her weapons on display had prevented unwanted incidents. One had even stated how he was turned on by 'the space viking whose combat skills match her bedroom prowess.'

  Moving to the dresser beside her bed, she pulled open the second drawer and retrieved tonight's outfit: the one she’d worn in the Extranet ad. The black leather chest harness with chain detail went on first, the straps crossing between her ample breasts before buckling at her back. The wrist guards followed.

  [+ Equipped: Valkyrie's Chains, leather chest harness, Earth Courtesan variant]

  [+ Equipped: Fenrir Cuffs, leather wrist guards, Earth Courtesan variant]

  [+ Equipped: Moondust Pendant, Europa artifact, pre-invasion relic]

  The necklace was last: a smooth blue stone set in silver, salvaged from her college dorm on Europa before everything went to hell. She never wore it during bounty work, but some clients paid extra for the 'exotic touch'. Most assumed it was just costume jewelry. None of them knew it was one of the few things she'd carried off Europa besides Baldr and trauma.

  Sigrun moved to the corner where her dumbbells waited—two ten-kilogram weights with the numbers etched into their grips. She lifted them smoothly, beginning her pre-client ritual. Bicep curls first, controlled and steady. Twelve reps. The familiar burn spread through her arms. Warming up and sweating a little made her body odor stronger. Her clients loved that. A small opportunity to incite tips or 5-star reviews on the Extranet.

  She glanced at the full-length mirror mounted on the closet door, checking her form. Arms tight, core engaged, breathing steady. The leather harness emphasized her physique—the muscle definition in her shoulders and arms, the strong line of her collarbones, the powerful curve of her thighs. Eleven years of survival had carved her into something between warrior and men's perfect fantasy.

  Lateral raises next. Eight reps. Her skin glistened with a light sheen of sweat. The warmth spread through her body, bringing color to her cheeks, quickening her pulse. It wasn't about looking good for clients—she already knew what they saw when they looked at her. This was about being ready. About staying in her body when it would be so much easier to float away and let someone else do the job.

  She set the dumbbells down, rolling her shoulders. Her reflection stared back—golden hair catching the low light, sapphire eyes cold despite the flush, lips set in a line that had almost forgotten how to smile for free.

  "Just another job," she reminded herself. "Just another transaction."

  The doorbell chimed.

  Sigrun's eyes immediately tracked to the weapon rack mounted above her desk, where her Quantum Laptop sat dormant. Járn and Skuld hung within easy reach—three steps, maybe four if she had to dodge. The rack was intentionally positioned for fast access from both the bed and the door. She'd learned that lesson the hard way in her second year on Mars when a few clients had gotten rough.

  She touched her silver blue Nucleus Watch, pulling up the door's external camera feed. The holographic display showed a large Valoran man in an expensive charcoal suit, his silver hair immaculately styled, a leather attaché case in one hand.

  Sigrun moved to the door, her bare feet silent on the floor. "Identify yourself," she called through the panel.

  "It's Dante, darling." That familiar baritone, cultured and confident. "Your favorite client."

  Dante Pompeo. A Chamber Delegate in the Terra Alliance, one of the three major powers in the Inner Sol.

  One among her many powerful clients. A man worthy of her time.

  She opened the door.

  Dante filled the doorway with height and sheer mass. The man stood maybe two meters, but he had to weigh at least 150 kilograms, all of it packed into a frame that strained against his tailored suit. His face was broad and florid, the kind that saw a life of boardrooms and rich meals. Slowly, he stepped into her apartment.

  "Well, well." His eyes traveled over her outfit with undisguised appreciation. "The Bedchamber Valkyrie. I was in meetings all day thinking about this, you know."

  "Then you got your money's worth before you even walked in." Sigrun closed the door behind him, the lock engaging automatically. "Shoes off. You know the rules."

  Dante chuckled, setting down his case to remove his polished oxfords. "Always so direct. That's what I like about you, Sigrun. No games. No apologies. Unlike those low-end Lilies in the Slums."

  "Games waste time. Apologies are pathetic." She gestured toward the bed. "Make yourself comfortable. We've got an hour."

  The apartment suddenly filled with the aggressive hum of the quick-wash unit cycling into its drying phase. Dante glanced up at the machine mounted above the bed's headboard, expression souring slightly.

  "Does that have to be on right now? It's rather distracting."

  "It's finishing a cycle." Sigrun's tone was firm. "You want me in clean gear for our next appointment, or smell like dead Radi-Mons?"

  "Point taken." Dante settled onto the bed. His bulk made the standard frame look almost comically small, his legs extending well past where they should. He adjusted himself, looking accustomed to furniture not quite built for his size. This must have been his thirtieth visit or so.

  Sigrun remained standing, arms crossed beneath her chest. "Payment first, Delegate."

  "Of course." Dante reached for his Nucleus Watch, fingers dancing over the holographic interface. "The usual three thousand?"

  "Plus two hundred for no protection." Her voice remained matter-of-fact. "Unless you changed your mind about that?"

  "Of course not. The whole point is the authentic experience." His eyes gleamed. "Though...would it be possible for you to remove that watch? I'd pay extra for complete privacy."

  Sigrun's expression didn't change, but something cold settled in her chest. Clients who wanted no digital trail were usually planning something. "That'll be another eighteen hundred. Non-negotiable."

  Dante hesitated, clearly weighing the cost against whatever fantasy he'd been entertaining. Finally, he shook his head. "No, the standard arrangement is fine."

  "Thirty-two hundred, then." She held out her wrist, her own Watch's blue dial glowing softly.

  His watch chimed as he authorized the transfer. Hers answered a moment later, the holographic visible only to herself now:

  [+$3,200 AD - Transaction completed. Client: D. Pompeo]

  [Current balance: $850,500 AD]

  Dante removed his watch, setting it carefully on her bedside table beside the half-empty bottle of purified Indra-Sprite Nikki had given her. The gesture looked ceremonial: Sigrun had always thought that was his way of 'going off the clock', no longer the corporate magnate, just a man in need of companionship.

  Taking off her black laced underwear to put it onto her desk, Sigrun approached the bed. Just another way to survive on Mars while her memories slowly dissolved like ice under the sun.

  She straddled Dante’s lap, her thighs bracketing his considerable frame as the bed creaked under their combined weight. Her fingers moved to unbutton his suit jacket and sliding it off his broad shoulders. The fabric rustled, heavy with the scent of expensive cologne and faint cigar smoke. She worked on his shirt next, popping each button free, revealing the barrel chest beneath, dusted with silver hair.

  Dante’s hands roamed, large palms cupping her ample curves through the leather harness. His thumbs brushed over her snowy skin, kneading so intensely it made her jaw tighten for a split second before her expression smoothed again. “Goddamn, Sigrun,” he muttered, voice thick. “Your melons keep getting bigger than I remember.”

  “You should see me more often, then.” Her tone was playful as she tugged his shirt free from his trousers. She leaned in closer, her blonde waves brushing his cheek, letting him revel in her lily scent while her hands kept moving, peeling away the last of his attire. Just another night on Mars trading body for survival.