Jax took one more reluctant gulp of the coffee (for the sake of the caffeine) and slammed the cup down on the counter. He turned and shoved his way past the crowd in the coffee shop and out into the street. He didn’t bother to look back to see if Runstom was anywhere behind him. He headed for the bar – a narrow structure stuffed in between office buildings – and pushed through the swinging doors and into the darkness inside.

Stanford Runstom fumed for a good hour or so, walking the streets of Grovenham. The gravity-lag was starting to get to him a little, despite his adamant attempts to ignore it. They kept the gravity on ModPol outposts relatively high so everyone would be in their best shape no matter where they went, but in the last couple weeks he’d spent time on Barnard-4, a prisoner barge, a cruise ship, a large moon, and had done a whole lot of space flight in between. As much as he hated to admit it, Jackson was right about one thing: it was time for a drink.

He went into the next bar he passed as he was walking down some-number-or-letter street. The place smelled sweet and spicy, of candles burning. The lighting was low, and there were plenty of unoccupied tables. There were maybe twenty people in the large room where a few hundred could comfortably congregate.

Runstom took a seat at the bar and asked for the darkest beer they had on tap. The tend-o-bot complied, bringing him a glass and registering a tab for his seat with a series of clicks and whirs. About two and a half minutes later, he ordered another.

“Hey, Greensleeves,” said a woman’s voice. “Got troubles?”

The hairs on the back of Runstom’s neck stood on end. He was looking into his glass, and found himself clenching it tightly. McManus had used that slur once, and Runstom had cold-cocked him so hard the other officer spent three days in the infirmary. Of course, Runstom earned a month on asteroid watch as well as several demerits for “starting” the fight.

He turned slowly toward the woman. “What?” he said through gritted teeth.

When he got a look at her, he blinked. Runstom’s skin was a deep olive, but this woman’s skin was greener, almost a forest green. Dark-brown hair fell around her face in waves, and she half-smiled at him, one corner of her mouth curling up fiendishly. Her light-brown, almond-shaped eyes glittered in the low light.

“I asked if you’ve got troubles,” she said. “But I suppose that’s a bit of a rhetorical question, because I can see that you do.” She turned to the tend-o-bot. “Gimme what he’s having.”

They sat in silence as the bartender brought the woman her drink. “I’m Jenna,” she said, offering her hand.

He took it lightly. “I’m, uh, Stanford.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Stanford. We don’t see a lot of space-borns in Grovenham.”

Stanford nodded. “No, I suppose not. I’ve been to a few domes in my day, and I don’t see many—” He was cautious with the word. “Space-borns. In domes. In general.” It was probably more politically correct to refer to green-skinned people as space-born, but the distinction felt just as segregating to him.

“Ah, so you get around a bit, do you?” she said, with a playful smile. She tasted the beer and her eyes widened. “Mmm. Dark and sweet. Not usually my style, but I could get used to this.” She took another sip, keeping her eyes fixed on his while she tipped the glass to her mouth. “Tell me, Stanford. What is it that you do?”

“Uh,” he started, unsure of what to say. He felt a sudden shame about telling someone his profession. He wasn’t sure where it came from. Was he ashamed of Modern Policing and Peacekeeping in general? Or just ashamed of his own failures?

“Wait,” she said, putting up a small hand. “Don’t tell me. I like the mystery. It’s more fun.” Her index finger traced around the top of her glass. “I’m an engineer. Don’t tell anyone though, it’s dreadfully boring. I’ve been in Grovenham for a couple years now.” Her voice seemed to pitch up and down lightly, as if it were bouncing along her words. “My parents were both cops though, that’s how I got the green skin. I was born in a ModPol outpost and grew up living there for my first couple of years.” She looked at him, as if trying to read his reaction.

“Oh,” Runstom said. “My mother was a cop. She was a ModPol lieutenant. My father,” he started, but then paused. “I mean, she wasn’t always a lieu. Lieutenant,” he said, trying to cover the cop-lingo slip. “She had me when she was an un— … um, an investigator. I spent my first couple of years between or on ModPol outposts.” His childhood story came to an abrupt and unsatisfying end. “So that’s, um. That’s why I’ve got the green. Skin. Too.”

“Well, I suppose there really are only a few kinds of greensleeves in this galaxy,” she said, taking a sip of her beer. “Navy-brats and ModPol-brats. Unless of course, you want to count space gangs.”

“I’d prefer not to,” Runstom said in a low voice.

“Yeah,” she said and smiled. “Me neither, I suppose.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, until Runstom finished his beer and she ordered him another.

“So what brings you to Grovenham, Stanford?” Jenna asked. “Business? Or pleasure?”

Runstom stared at his glass. He watched his reflection come and go as brown clusters of foam floated just on top of the beer, as if his head was a moon in a cloudy, brown sky over a world that smelled wet and malty, with hints of coffee and chocolate. “Business. I guess.”

“Hmm, that’s no fun,” she demurred. “How long are you in town? Or should I be asking, on-world?”

Runstom thought for a moment. “Until my client gets what he wants,” he said finally.

“Oh,” she started to say, but he interrupted her.

“You see, I’ve taken on a – client – who has a – case.” He picked his words carefully, like picking the best footing while climbing a rocky slope. “And sometimes, you take a case that takes much longer than you thought it was going to. But you have to keep remembering why you took it.”

“Because it pays well, I hope,” she said with a short laugh.

He huffed a half-laugh. “Yeah. I suppose that it does pay well, if you broaden the definition of pay beyond monetary reward.”

“Ooh,” she said, her lips curling into a tight circle. “Perhaps Stanford’s client is a lady.”

“No, he’s not,” Runstom said reflexively, then wished he hadn’t. He wished he hadn’t said anything at all for the last few minutes, in fact.

“I see,” she said. She slid off the barstool and he turned to face her. She looked him up and down, her head cocked to one side. “I have to use the little girl’s room. Order me another beer, would you please?”

“Sure,” he said, although it wasn’t necessary. The tend-o-bot heard her request and filled her order without Runstom’s help. He watched her walk away. She wore some kind of white jumpsuit with lots of small pockets all over it. Something an engineer would wear.

He sat there quietly for a minute, wondering if he should pay his tab and extricate himself from any further conversation with this space-born stranger. The beers were stacking up and the alcohol, along with the gravity-lag, conspired to dull his wits. He almost jumped when he heard her voice again.

“Justice,” she said. He turned to face her. “That’s it.” She pointed at him, poking him lightly in the chest. “If it’s not money, and it’s not a girl. Then it’s justice, you’re after. That’s you, Green Man. It’s in your blood, your dad was a cop.”

“My mom was a cop,” he corrected her in a dark voice.

“Oh yeah,” she said. “Mom was a cop.”

He turned away from her. “You got justice in your blood too? From your cop parents?”

She didn’t respond. He turned again to look at her after a few seconds of silence. She had her head tipped back, draining her beer. With her eyes closed, she set the glass down lightly and smiled. “Mmm. I don’t usually drink the dark stuff. But I can see why you like it.”