I decided to stop stealing gold when syndicate rep Jemfly told me the price of water.

 

“$60,000 a liter,” he said as he slid an empty glass bottle over the stainless steel table. It came to rest against the gold bars I recently acquired from an armored BlueTriton security truck.

 

“Inflation is as terrible as the droughts, but even billionaires have a cap on how much they charge people for water,” I said. I sloshed the drops of glistening water that captured the low light of the blue bar.

 

“It’s based on the original price to launch cargo into space. You’d be surprised at how thirsty people get on the moon.”

 

“I’ve heard the stories,” I said. I popped the cork off the bottle and let the drops of water degrease the blood of my former associates from the gold. “People are getting rather desperate for the basics nowadays. Sprinkle in a ton of scams and greed, and you get a lethal combination.”

 

“I’m not trying to trick you, Honyock,” said Jemfly. “We can only launch one person. Do a year near Luna Station IV and scrape the corporate craters, then you can spend the rest of your days poolside at the Chateau Marmont soaking up all the radiation you want.”

 

Dying from radiation exposure, either on the moon or by the pool in Los Angeles, was heaven compared to the dry hell that I lived in. The pugnacious devil lounging across from me in the smoke-filled room was offering me a ticket to purgatory.

 

“Who am I stealing from?” I asked.

He reached out a fistful of chubby fingers laden with rings. “GreenTriton. Who else is up there?” said Jemfly as he gestured to the skylight above us.

 

I pushed the bars across the table to Jemfly as the waitress approached.

 

“Can I get you anything to drink?” she asked. I looked at her server's tray, loaded with two water bottles for another table. I took both bottles and popped the corks while dismissing her protests.

 

“Figured that’ll be the easiest lift I’ll make for a while,” I said. I chugged the water and felt blessed within.

 

* * *

 

“We want you to siphon their pipes,” said the message from Jemfly.

 

I wiped ice crystals from the screen in my sleeping coffin and knew the syndicate was crossing a line.

 

“What for? Five thousand kilograms of water isn’t enough?” I messaged back. The heat of my stress melted the remaining ice while I shimmied out of my sleeping bag.

 

“We have new buyers,” said Jemfly.

 

“Another investor?” I asked while floating from my sleeping coffin into my ‘room’ coffin. I dressed and shoved a bland protein bar into my mouth as I suited up.

 

“We need it faster,” said Jemfly.

 

I clicked my helm into place and smashed the Pressurize button. The cover slid away and opened into darkness, glimmering with frosted starlight. Several months ago, I'd stopped caring about the time of day. The Permanently Shadowed Regions of the Moon offered no orientation to which my endocrine system could adapt.

 

“Send me more equipment then,” I said as I began my hike up the side of the cold crater.

 

“Buy it yourself,” Jemfly repeated.

 

His empty apathy was as heavy as the slosh of my day's water ration in my bulky suit. I found it strange that I was carrying enough water for a down payment on a house in San Marino. I’d drink most of it before I returned to my coffin.

 

“I’ll move the drills to fresh ground. That’ll get another 150 kilograms of water by the end of the week.”

 

“No. The collectors want more.”

 

I stopped and allowed my moon boots to sink into the silt of the moon.

 

“You’re working with collectors? Since when?”

 

His response was delayed. Jemfly was often drunk.

 

“Someone’s got to fund the syndicate. Thirsty people who can’t afford to flush their toilets aren’t paying our bills,” said Jemfly.

 

I looked up at our water planet and wondered why so many people died of thirst.

 

I knew the answer, but it was still hilariously dark to me as I crested the crater and peered over another moonscape of twinkling white dust. Several small cycloidal drillers kicked up silent plumes while searching for water ten feet below. A few were not moving — my first assignment of the day.

 

“Jem, you're the one who invested in rockets instead of desalination facilities. Selling novelty bottles of moon water to venture capitalists isn’t sustainable.”

 

That shut him up for the rest of my descent into the valley of shadows.

 

“I’ll send you another ten drills, but only if you burst their pipes,” said Jem.

 

The request reminded me of the recent news on the Moon Feeds. I wasn’t the only water pirate roaming around in the dark. Then again, GreenTriton wasn’t the only corporation to mine water on the moon anymore.

 

I walked across the dark plane through puffs of dust to the cold dwarf drill in the dark. As part of its repair, I needed to clear its refiner. I pulled out a brick of ice — roughly a liter of water. Glints of blue danced across its harsh corners as the Earthlight rose over the horizon.

 

I calculated the cost as I licked my dry lips.

 

“Deal,” I finally said.

 

I tossed the incomplete water brick into the dark, and its flailing splendor vanished into the void. I felt no guilt from the waste. Instead, I kicked my frustration into the bot below me. Its modest red, glowing interior came to life, and it continued its innocent drilling into the depths below.

 

The article of agreement between Jemfly and me was the only logical way to survive. It is better to be on the right hand of billionaires than to be in their path.

 

I took a long swig from the water pouch in my spacesuit, then counted my luck among the stars above as I felt blessed within.