Hawthorne nods at your approach. "Guardian. Ever thought about getting an apartment down in the City? Something with a balcony, maybe a mailbox? I found this under my door this morning. Nearly slipped on your mail—and Louis nearly did worse to it."

With an apologetic grimace, you open the letter. It reads:

"To my dearest scallywag,

"I've got a job for you, and it comes with a sob story. I had an agent investigating an orbital station above Europa for salvage. She lost contact. It'd have to be something worse than Salvation vagrants knocking around up there to take her down. All we're getting on the Europa channels now are automated warnings. Old Human ones. I'm not sending anyone else on my payroll after a corpse. It's time for drastic measures—and you, Guardian, are the most drastic measure I can think of.

"The pay's good: whatever you can salvage. A Golden Age station is a treasure hoard for a canny explorer. I'll content myself with your leftovers.

"Give it a look. Just try not to crash this station, too, would you?

"With anticipation, your friend, the Spider."