Supergiant (Gigaparsec Book 2) by Scott Rhine Page A

ever. What can I get you, deary?”
    Max nodded to the slate over the
main counter. “Number two, over easy, with jam.”
    He doesn’t miss much . Roz,
who had been expecting a menu, fumbled. “Um … do you recommend the apple
pancakes with the side of hash browns or the potato pancakes with applesauce?”
    “Most women order the salad,” said
the waitress.
    So now I’m an overweight null? “Yeah.
Most women don’t haul crates for a living. Give me the apple-pancakes meal and
the potato-stuffed sausage meal. Add a large chocolate milk to go with my slice
of peaches-and-cream pie.”
    Max didn’t look up from his paper.
“The guild is talking about blocking milk sales to corporate worlds as part of
their trade sanctions against the Lunar Oligarchy.”
    “Cutting off their own noses,” Roz
said to the wall of paper. With a grain embargo, the locals could make alcohol
or fuel with the excess. Not much one could do with extra milk. It sounded like
the farmers already had a surplus of cheese.
    Betty Lou wrinkled her upper lip.
“The oligarchs have done nothing but exploit the colonies to squeeze out as
much profit as possible. They own all the ships. It’s been a fixed game for too
long. Once we have a ship of our own, they’ll see.”
    Roz wanted to roll her eyes. This
backwater place didn’t even have a construction shipyard. Any local company
that mortgaged a ship from Jotunheim would side with the oligarchs to pay off
the loans as soon as possible. Earth would collapse if the colonies stopped
shipping food, and the ranchers’ families might suffer. No one would let that
happen. “Right. Are you blocking milk to this table, too, or just letting it
age?”
    “I’ll make sure it’s extra fresh
for you,” said Mary Lou.
    When the waitress was gone, Max
said, “She’s going to spit in your drink now. The whole idea was to blend in
and listen.”
    Not the second date or dining
experience I was expecting. The back page advertised something called a
“Meat Raffle,” along with books about Union conspiracies: hidden prophecies by
a secret forerunner race, how the oligarchs were manipulating the masses, and
who was behind last year’s drought in the south. These people are so flaky
we should put them in a breakfast bowl.
    By the time the food arrived, Roz
was calmer. The first thing she tried was a forkful of his eggs. Max guarded
his plate with an arm like a prison inmate. “Hey. You’re worse than the
Saurians.”
    “Don’t be such a baby. You can have
anything of mine you want,” Roz said.
    “I ordered what I wanted. I
don’t want any spit-in food.”
    She took a deep drink of the
chocolate milk. “Ahh.”
    “Gross. Let’s just hope you don’t
catch anything.”
    “Or go blind,” she agreed, thinking
of the Crimson Fever.
    “Huh?”
    “After dinner, I’m going to teach
you how to drive.”
    Max looked apprehensive. “I thought
we were going to check into the hotel. You’ve been all about having a nice, hot
soak for that sore arm of yours.”
    “Yeah. We’ll be on the road a
little longer than I thought. We can get to a decent-sized town by sundown and
sleep there if we leave in the next half hour.”
    “I guess. Can we wait till we’re
outside town first? I don’t want anyone to see me.”
    The fragile male ego. “Sure.”
    He watched in disbelief as she
demolished half the meal. “What?” she asked. “It might be a while till our next
meal.”
    When the waitress wasn’t looking,
Roz took sealable plastic bags out of her pocket for the rest of the meal, his
toast included.
    “Um … is there something I should
know?”
    “You ever go hungry?”
    “Once, when I was four. Then I
learned to hunt and trap.”
    Roz lowered her voice. “As migrant
workers, we ate twice a day, most days—a little bit of cold breakfast, usually
leftovers, and warm dinner once we finished the day’s quota. Normally we didn’t
eat till after dark. If we didn’t get back to camp in time, sometimes