To the Bones with it. The past was gone.

He sucked at the liquor, trying not to grimace. "I think this stuff's improving," he said at last.

Her eyebrows arched slightly. "I'm sorry we can't do better. No doubt your tastes are a little more refined."

He felt a sigh escape from his throat. "Damn it, Sheen, let's not fence. Yes, the Raft has got a liquor machine. Yes, what comes out of it is a damn sight finer than this recycled piss. And everyone knows it. But this stuff really is a little better than it was. All right? Now, can we get on with our business?"

She shrugged, indifferent, and sipped her drink. He studied the way the diffuse light caught in her hair, and his attraction to her once more pulled at him. Damn it, he had to grow out of this. It must be five thousand shifts since the time they'd slept together, their limbs tangling in her sleeping net as the Belt rolled silently around its star…

It had been a one-off, two tired people falling together. Now, damn it to hell, it only got in the way of business. In fact he suspected the miners used her as their negotiating front with him knowing the effect she had on him. This was a tough game. And it was getting tougher…

He tried to concentrate on what she was saying. "… So we're down on production. We can't fulfil the shipment. Gord says it will take another fifty shifts before that foundry is operational again. And that's the way it is." She fell silent and stared at him defiantly.

His eyes slid from her face and tracked reluctantly around the Belt. The ruined foundry was a scorched, crumpled wound in the chain of cabins. Briefly he allowed himself to imagine the scene in there during the accident — the walls bellying in, the ladles spilling molten iron—