There’s an art to knocking satellites out of the sky. A mathematical Jackson Pollock of equations and variables across spreadsheets and data layers. Any miscalculation leads to a hot pop and a spray of space debris—another volley of shrapnel to terrorize the planet’s orbital rind. And if you were exceptionally bad at math, you could kick off a chain reaction of destruction across space junk, satellites, and at worst, something crewed.

Thank the Celestials, I’m good at math.

I’ve taken up my usual perch over the Bone Flats. I kick a rock with my dust laden boot, sending it skittering across the barren wastes. This planet is a place of highs and lows. Low atmosphere. High gravity. Low life expectancy. High crime rate. A classic colony world, long forgotten, its citizens monetized to death by content subscriptions and virtual currencies under the safety of their domes.

Here, outside the shelter of a colony, there are a million ways to die. I try not to think about them as I survey the landscape. The white regolith stretches before me, pocked by craters and littered with the work of my peers. Glints of solar sails, reflective paneling, and metal glitters below the shining sea of stars and blinking satellites. It’s a graveyard of grounded space junk.

I walk back to my rover and hop in the front seat. It settles on its shocks under my weight with a creak. The buggy has been the only constant in my work. The only partner I need. Faithful. Reliable. Won’t stab you in the back and run away with the loot.

I pull out my data-deck from my sling bag. I review my math on its buzzing screen and squint against the fuzzy green glow of code. Flipping through slides of projected orbital descents, their curves turning red as they pierce the atmosphere, I find myself mumbling. At least the number crunching is taking my mind off the heat that invades my suit. Its deteriorating cooling systems struggle against the heavy infrared from the nearby star.

I’ve been tracking my target for months: a research satellite of some sort. It’d taken most of a year to find it among the ever-growing swarm of streaming, weather, advertising, and network satellites. But this one is special. The layers of camouflage, firewalls, and weaponry make it a curiosity. An expensive curiosity. Whoever put this thing up there doesn’t want anyone messing with it.

Would be a real shame if someone did.

On a colony world with near zero regulations on low planet orbit, anyone with a bit of cash and know-how can park a satellite above it. Finding something valuable took time. And something this protected would be worth thousands back behind the colony walls in the right market. This score is something a Sat-Clipper dreams about. For all I know, it could be collecting cross-dome information, a treasure trove of military intel. Maybe it’s a paranoid idiot’s crypto cache. Or it could just be some hardware hobbyist’s wet dream. Even if its data is worthless, the tech alone should fetch a decent price.

I check my countdown. I have enough time to run my rover’s diagnostics one last time. It’s scrap on wheels, but it should get me to the crash site and out before other scavengers arrive, or worse, the owner’s security. When something this valuable goes down, someone always notices.

“In and out,” I mumble. “Just in and out.” My words echo in my helmet’s bubble visor. My chest tightens as I watch the countdown near zero.

Go time.

With some keystrokes across my data-deck, I bring up my catalyst of destruction. A rickety network satellite for something called Porn Grub Plus. Engaging its rear thruster remotely, I prod it off course by a few hundred meters with a burst of air. It must look beautiful up there, I think. Flying at nearly 30,000km per hour through space, a white puff of jettison crystalizing to ice in its wake. My own personal porn-laden ASAT. I give a silent prayer to all of its subscribers who’ll have to find an alternative for their wank session. Sure, there were other satellites I could have used, but nothing was quite as funny. A nice little joke just for myself.

I look to the sky and my visor overlays it with tracking information. I spot my main target, blinking innocuously. Then I see my little missile. They draw closer. And closer. And...

My overlay flickers and warps. I lose control of the UI. I check my data-deck and give it a prod before it comes back.

Weird...

A white-hot starburst blinks in the sky. The Porn Grub Plus satellite becomes yet another explosion of trash to add to the growing scrap-veil in low planet orbit. It’s a miracle anyone can even get off planet these days.

I check my data-deck. My target wasn’t vaporized. Good. I click my tongue against my teeth. A few button presses, and I bring up its new trajectory.

Its orbit is deteriorating rapidly, and its estimated crash site is just east of here, as I’d predicted. Damn straight. It’s moments like this where I realize how badly I want someone to celebrate with. Someone to share a look of victory with or a high five. Maybe even cheers a couple drinks back at the colony when a job wraps.

Shaking the thought from my head, I punch the new coordinates into my rover. Its interface screen nearly flickers out under the strain. If this goes as planned, I can pay someone to celebrate with me later. That and an ice-hauler-load of drugs will fill the void. Who needs friends when you have sex-workers and off-market pharmaceuticals, anyway?

I pat the dashboard. “It’s just you and me, man.”

Pushing the rover’s battery to its limit, I swerve between grounded space debris, kicking up a plume of chalk-white dust behind me. My eyes go to the skyline where I see my target burning a line across the horizon. It’s coming in hot, but its emergency reentry protocols should be engaged by now. Judging by the hardware specs—I’d been able to untwine some from its many encrypted data layers—it should hold up during accelerated descent. This thing is prepared for everything.

The falling satellite’s glow swells. I hear it tearing through ozone in a rising scream of fire and light. It strikes the ground kilometres away, an explosion of dust plumes reaching out in all directions. There’s a second delay before the shockwave hits me. My rover shakes like an old man struggling to get out of a bath. I fear its bolts will rattle loose and its frame will engulf me, reducing me to a red smear across the Bone Flats. Another Sat-Clipper flatlined by a cataclysm of aged gear. Mocked in the colony bars for thinking their jury-rigged equipment would keep them alive in the unforgiving embrace of this god-forsaken rock. Mocked and then forgotten. Another heat death. Another cold death. Another radioactive death. Another oxygen death. The list is near-infinite out here.

I push these thoughts aside with a stomp on my rover’s accelerator. It doesn’t go any faster, but it still feels good to put the pedal to the metal—an automobile-placebo that I’m grateful for. I rip through the dusty shockwave, my visibility crippled. I clip something, a rock or chunk of scrap, and the rover veers. I put my weight against the wheel and it bucks against me. My teeth clench to near molar-splintering pressures as the rover careens out of the dust cloud, throwing itself into a hard-drift, sliding to a stop that gives me whiplash. Something pops in my back.

Panting, I check myself. Still intact. Thank the Celestials.

A crater with a tongue or twisting steam lays before me. Charred rock rings the outskirts of the hole. The glowing hull of the satellite peaks out.

I actually made it.

Then my heart plummets like a meteorite. Someone else is here. I’ve been hacked.

Dismounting a surface scooter that’s lifted on aftermarket shocks, a figure walks towards the crater. Their spacesuit is ragged and modified. A relic held together in some places by literal tape. Some might argue that it’s nicer than mine, but at least mine was tape free.

Exiting my rover, I reach into my side holster and draw my pistol. I feel the weight of old-school mechanics and gunpowder. I level it at them and ping local comms.

“Sat’s mine,” I broadcast. I tap the side of my helmet so they understand I’m transmitting. I motion between them and their scooter with the gun. “Get back on your scooter and go.”

The hacker turns towards me. I can’t catch what they look like through the reflection of stars washing across their visor. They say nothing.

“I’m not messing around,” I say. “You have no idea the sweat I’ve put into grounding this.” I step towards them. “Leave. Now.”

There’s a strange whirring coming from the crater, but I don't want to take my eyes off the stranger. They look towards it, and step back. Yeah, that’s right. This prize is mine. From the satellite, something heavy clunks into place like the sound of a pressure door bolting shut. The whirring intensifies. The satellite is spinning something up. My curiosity wins out, and I glance down into the crater.

My mouth goes dry.

A large gimbal-mounted turret, all hard angles, levels its barrel at me. I do the only thing I can think of. I run. I fumble my way towards a large outcropping of rock and dash behind it. I stew in my suit for a minute before working up enough courage to lean around the dusted rock. The stranger is gone, their scooter nowhere to be found. Tracks and some kicked up dust lead behind a nearby dead satellite—long since picked over for anything of value.

So they’re not gone, yet.

I watch as the turret struggles to acquire a target. Like a lost bird, it veers its gaze wildly between objects before settling on my rover. Please, for the love of the Celestials, not the rover! I bring up my data-deck and search up details surrounding military turrets. When in doubt, research. Wiki pages and military forum shitposts don’t help me though, and the turret fires. Even muffled in the planet’s thin atmosphere, the hail of gunfire is still loud as all hell. I feel its power rumble up from the ground. Rock and dust shudder. I watch, helpless, as bullets rip my rover to shreds. Metal and electrics fly in all directions in a fireworks show of sparks. Panic grips me as I watch my one ticket home, my reliable steed, reduced to fragments.

I swallow the dread, pushing it down, down, down, and it lands next to the rest of my repressed anxieties. A gut-dungeon of negative thoughts and emotions brewing into some future chest pain or other health issue. Whatever. Future problems, all of them. A heart attack was a daydream when you’re staring down the barrel of a gun.

I breathe.

It’s fine. Everything is fine. Worst case, I can hoof it back to the colony. It would be difficult, but my suit has enough oxygen and power to make it back if I set a good pace.

The turret continues its onslaught until nothing is left, and even then, it doesn’t stop raining bullets. I look at my deck, scrolling forums. Even under the death-gaze of a military-grade turret, there’s a strange comfort in doom-scrolling posts. One catches my eye.

Turrets are killer until they overheat. These engineers really need to figure out a cooling method or else we’re just stuck waiting for them to let off steam after a volley. It’s messed up, man. -XXxJarDead42069xXX

The thunder of gunfire dies down. The turret smokes. Is it overheating? There’s no way to tell if this XXxJarDead42069xXX guy was talking about this specific model. I check the post’s timestamp. It’s years old. Outdated. But what other choice did I have? It’s now or never.

I vault my cover, leaping toward the downed satellite. It buzzes as it aims its smoking barrel in my direction, following my movement. This is it. Time to turn into a bloody mist.

Time to be forgotten.

But that doesn’t happen. It lets out a metallic whine.

I slide down into the crater and slam into the satellite's hull, face-first. A spiderweb-crack snaps like shattering ice across the corner of my visor. Audio alerts assault me. I’m losing pressure. I reach into my suit’s cargo pocket and procure the Celestial’s gift to man: duct-tape. I struggle to find the edge of the roll, cursing, but eventually find it. I slap a strip across the crack and wait. The warnings stop. My pressure stabilizes.

Okay, now my suit has tape on it. Damn it.

Rover destroyed. Suit cracked. Great. Super cool. This is going swimmingly. At least I’m under the turret’s radar. A blessed blind spot.

I have to take this one step at a time. Death-turret is priority one. I need to get it offline.

I circle the satellite while keeping an eye out for the hacker—hopefully they’re still hiding behind cover. The quality of the sat is astounding. Aside from some dents, scratches, and scorch marks, it’s intact. I run my hands across its panel lines, trying to find an access point. It isn’t long until I find the yellow indicator labels. They stand out on its otherwise black shell. I pop the plunger release and appraise its revealed port. I rifle through my equipment until I find the right cord and link one end to my data-deck. I take a deep breath, and lower myself into a squat, then push the output into the satellite’s socket. As predicted, my data-deck’s bubbled screen explodes with warnings and cascading lines of code. The satellite’s countermeasures press into my unit. I take out a cartridge housing my custom malware and plug it into my data-deck with a satisfying clack. I feel the device heat up, its fans kicking into high gear. The malware slams against the satellite’s firewalls, and I wait for the digital battle to conclude. I check over my shoulder for the hacker, ready to drop everything and draw my gun in a moment. This would be much easier with someone to watch my back. My data-deck nears critical temperatures and I turn my attention back to the job at hand. Taking out my thermos of liquid nitrogen, I douse it, slowly. I peer through the cloud of mist and grind my teeth, impatient.

It’s not just my data-deck that’s heating up but me as well. Sweat drips down my face. I check my suit’s status, and I feel a vein throb on my head, ballooned with frustration. My suit’s cooling system was damaged during my fall into the crater. Currently star-side, my internal temperature will continue to rise. Given enough time, I’ll boil in my suit like a foil-wrapped potato. There’s no way I’d make the hike back to the colony.

One step at a time.

A pixelated manga-eyed raccoon gives me the thumbs up on my data-deck’s screen. My malware worked! I mean, of course it did. That was the plan all along. All part of my fantastic, fool-proof plan.

First things first. I deactivate the defense systems. I hear the turret clunk back into its housing on the top of the satellite. I need to get the black box before the hacker realizes the turret is off. I search for its black box protocols. Finding its emergency release, I grin. Even if I’ll likely die out here, I still feel pride. I’d gotten in. I secured the package. That’s more than most Sat-Clippers could accomplish.

A shielding panel slides aside as the black box ejects. The thing is a nondescript gray slab with a handle—a monolithic suitcase.

With some time and a rover, I’d be able to dismantle some of the satellite’s hardware, but I have neither of those things now. The box would have to be enough.

I sit and lean back against the satellite, taking a beat to think, holding the black box to my chest with my free hand resting on the butt of my pistol. The nearest colony is too far to make on foot—not with my suit in its current state. A broadcast-wide SOS might be an option, but it would likely lead to a swift mugging or arrest. There’s only one viable option: the hacker’s scooter. If they hadn’t left yet, I could take it—by force if necessary. If the stranger’s suit is undamaged, they’d be able to make the walk home, well, maybe. It wasn’t outright murder. Just a sentence to a very bad time. A survivable bad time, if they’re smart.

With my mind made up, I climb out of the crater. I feel the pull of orbital loot at my back. It’s a damn shame to leave so much of the satellite behind. No use dwelling on it now, though. I peer over the crater's edge and spot the dead satellite where the stranger had likely sought cover. For all they know, the turret is still active. Likely, they’re still there, hiding. Drawing my gun, I make my way around the large hunk of scrap. I edge around, slowly, pistol leading the way.

A hand snatches my wrist as I round it. The stranger twists my arm, contorting my grip in a way that shoots a bolt of pain up to my elbow. I release the gun. They pivot, sending me head over heels, flipping me in a whirl of dust. The black box slips from my hand. I come crashing down on my stomach. I hear a crack and a hiss. Warnings rise again. I scramble through the dust as I get my duct tape out. Panicking, I drop it and it rolls away. I crawl after it like a toddler. A dusted boot steps on the roll, stopping it. I look up.

A woman’s face stares down at me. A grin rests under a crooked nose, once or twice broken, probably. She holds my gun like a cowboy. Her voice crackles over comms. It’s difficult to hear over the hiss of my depressurizing suit. “Thanks for disabling the turret, kid.” With a little toe nudge, she sends the duct tape my way.

I stretch out a strip and press it to my visor's fissure. It holds. The warnings recede. The world is now framed by the white underside of tape.

The woman leans down and picks up the discarded black box, its sides now covered in white dust. She looks it over. “And for the box. Now, I think it’s time I mosey.”

I scramble to my feet. “Wait! If you leave, I’m dead,” I cry. “My suit is all jacked up and my cooling unit’s busted.”

“And?” Her eyebrow cocks.

“If I die, that’ll be on you.”

“On me?” She barks a laugh. “Oh honey, that would be on you and you alone. Every asshole that steps out onto the regolith knows the risks. You did, too.”

“But you can help...”

“That’s rich. You were going to steal my scooter. Maybe even kill me. Am I right?”

“I wasn’t.” I felt the weakness of the lie as it left my mouth. “Well, I wasn’t going to kill you.”

“And if you left me here, how do you know I wouldn’t have died?”

It’s a valid question. One that I’d pushed aside earlier. Likely, she could make it, but that wasn’t assured. This planet is eager for death. Always.

“That’s what I thought,” she says. “Now, I have to get going. Later, gator.”

As she turns towards her scooter, a very dumb idea strikes me, but it’s the only one I have. I dive at her. Arms wrapped around her, I drive her to the ground. We skid across the regolith. I make for the gun. I grab her wrist with both hands and wrench. It goes flying. We both watch as the pistol soars and lands far away. We pause, locked together as I notice—and likely she does, too—a cloud of dust on the horizon. A rover is inbound. I let go and run for the gun, snatching it up.

I don’t aim it at her.

“Ten percent,” I say between heaving breaths. “You drive. Me on the back.” I hold the gun up. “I can cover us.”

The woman pulls herself to her feet. “Fifty percent.”

“Twenty and I don’t shoot you now.”

“You won’t be able to drive and shoot.”

“I’ll take my chances.” I really hoped she didn’t call my bluff. I’m not sure if I’m a killer or not.

Her gaze falls to the horizon and the approaching rover. “Fine. Name’s Cassie.”

“Winn.”

“You better be a damn good shot, Winn.”

I’m not, but I keep that information to myself as we prepare her scooter. The once-white plastic shell is now a faded yellow. It’s plastered with an eclectic range of stickers. Giant shocks frame both wheels, and at least they look new. A smaller seat is behind the driver's.

“Sit on it backwards,” she says, strapping the black box to a front rack between the handlebars. “It’ll be easier to aim.”

I do as she says and feel exposed and unstable. I rock back and forth to get a feel for the balance. It’ll be a miracle if I don’t fall off. She takes her spot in the front. “We’ll have a head start, but this thing ain’t fast. Reckon they’ll catch up midway between here and the colony. Be ready.”

She starts the scooter and guns it. I watch the approaching rover as we zip across the flats, dipping and dodging around rocks and scrap. I hold the side of my seat with one hand and the pistol in my other. It’s too far away to tell who’s bearing down on us, but it was either private security alerted by the satellite or someone looking to take their score. One thing was for sure, they weren’t here to help.

“Just lean back into me,” she shouts. “It should help you stabilize!”

The mystery rover jostles towards us, steadily gaining ground.

“And don’t shoot until they’re close enough to hit. We can’t afford to waste our shots.”

“Got it,” I say. I can feel my suit’s internal layer clinging to my skin, sticky with sweat. My head was fuzzy. The heat is getting to me.

Guess I would find out if I’m a killer today.

“Get ready,” Cassie ordered. ”Any minute now!”

Condensation was building up inside my suit. It was getting worse with each second. I squint through my visor as the fog of moisture grows on its glass. There’s a shaky, blurred block ahead of me that must be the rover, but it’s getting harder to see by the second. I lean over so I’m looking at my knees and spit. I spit and spit until I have a small puddle on my visor and shake my head.

Cassie’s back twists against mine. “What the hell are you doing back there?”

I keep spitting and keep shaking. My wobbling saliva clears a small window in the condensation. I look up. The rover is right there. It’s a newer model, all black. I make out a driver and a passenger. Where the scooter has to dodge debris, the rover powers right over it. Its passenger seat shudders and then stretches outside the vehicle on an extending scaffolding system. The passenger, clad in a military atmosphere suit, raises a rifle.

Just as I’d feared: a private military unit. Whoever owned the satellite was rich enough to have a premium security plan.

A bright flash bursts from the rifle and a sharp crack rips out across the flats. A puff of dust leaps from the nearby regolith.

“Now!” Shouts Cassie. “Shoot back!”

I level my gun at the passenger and let off a few rounds. I feel the kick shoot through my bones. Through my narrow spit-window, I don’t see any of my shots hitting the rover or its passenger. They’re going way wide.

“I thought you said you were a good shot?” asks Cassie.

“I never said that!” I thrash against her back as we launch over some rough terrain, holding on for dear life.

“God damn it. Earn your cut. Hit them!”

“Just keep it steady!”

A shot ricochets off the side paneling of the scooter, tearing off a chunk of its shell. “Shit!” I shout. I aim for the rover and breathe. I close one eye and look through my visor’s fog. I spot the blurred silhouette of the passenger and squeeze the trigger. I see them kick back and go limp. They flop over the side and go under the rear tires of the rover. “I got him!”

Turns out killing was easy. I’ll dwell on the morality of that thought later.

Cassie lets out a joyous holler. “Now the driver!”

“That’s a military grade windshield. My pistol ain’t doing shit against that.”

“I have an idea. Hold on and get ready to aim, right side!”

“What do you-”

She hits the brakes, and I slam against her, the back of my helmet cracking against hers. My grip on the seat has evolved past the point of pain. As we slow, the rover races towards us, moving up on our right side. Cassie speeds up to match its pace. The driver looks over through the passenger side and I stare into their blurred shape. They spin the wheel. The rover careens our way, and Cassie pulls the scooter hard to the right to avoid it.

Fighting to hang on, I aim at the driver. I can barely make them out through my condensation-laden visor. I empty the clip into the passenger side, over the extended seat arm where the gunner once sat. The impacts across the driver’s chest are visible. They collapse over the wheel. With no one left to steer, the rover swings wide before flipping in a hurricane of dust and scrap.

“Holy hell,” I say. I’m panting, way too hot. I hear the telltale hiss of depressurization and I realize my horrible duct tape job is failing. “I’m depressurizing. Cassie, how far out are we?”

She doesn’t respond.

I’m sagging in my seat, exhausted. Through my fading vision, I don’t see anyone else following. “Cassie? I need maintenance.”

The scooter doesn’t slow down.

“Help.” I feel my energy leaving, as if it were being sucked out the fissures in my visor, released into the embrace of the planet. “Please...”

***

The drink is the coldest thing I’ve ever tasted. Cold and sharp across the tongue. I savor the taste of alcohol as I stir the ice with the included tiny umbrella. The bar is dead. Even the server is missing—gone to stock something or chat up a more interesting client than myself. The only light comes from the underlit bar. The neon purple spills out beneath and bleeds across the steel floor.

I take a moment to appreciate the layers and layers of regolith, steel, glass, and plaster between me and the surface—a shield of civilization between me and the onslaught of infrared topside. Dwelling on the surface, my skin tingles. It feels as if I’ve been locked in a tanning bed. Luckily, I haven’t blistered. It’s the little things that comfort you on this harsh planet, like not suffering a complete heat-death. Just surviving is enough here. Surviving takes money. The black box hadn’t been the retirement fund I’d wanted, but it fetched a tidy sum through a fixer. Maybe even enough for a used rover. Maybe a bigger gun.

Years of Sat-Clipping and I hadn’t fired my pistol once. Now, I have a body count. What did that say about me? It says I’m alive. It says I’m still here, enjoying a drink. That’s what matters.

Cassie all but crashes into the barstool beside me, obliterating my stream of thought. Her hard jawline is lit purple by the lights below. She scratches her buzzed head. “Where the hell is the bartender?” She reaches over and grabs my drink. “Mine,” she says, taking a sip.

“Seriously?” I ask.

“Hey, you owe me. You were half-dead when we got back.”

She has a point. Not only that, she could have just tossed me outside and kept the black box, but she’d stuck to her end of the deal. As much as it bugs me to admit, I owe this clown my life.

Cassie reaches over the bar and grabs an empty glass. She pours a bit of the cocktail into it and slides it my way. “There,” she says, “twenty-eighty split.” She raises her glass up. “To a payout.”

I raise mine. “To celebrations.”

We sit in silence, listening to the air filters whine while sipping our drinks..

She turns to me and grins. “So, any leads on the next job?”