“What? The man who saves the world before lunch every day, scared?”

“Fuck you.”

“Remember, don’t smile too wide for the photographer, you’ll look insincere. But do smile. Oh, and be respectful.”

“I’m always—”

The Pretorian guard of lawyers, accountants, architects, and PAs parted. Ainsley Baldunio Zangari looked around in interest. The side of his mouth lifted in wry acknowledgment. “Callum!” His voice was like a shout as he put his hand out in greeting.

Just like the news streams.

“Good to meet you, son,” Ainsley said, shaking hands effusively. “People, this is Callum, who saved our collective asses yesterday.”

The entourage finally mustered smiles of approval.

“Let’s him and me get a picture here, for history’s sake.”

The entourage spread out as if they’d been threatened with a cattle prod. Callum saw one of them, in a slightly cheaper suit than the rest, stand directly in front of him, adjusting his screen glasses. To one side, Dokal mouthed “smile” with a furious expression.

Callum slowly produced a lopsided grin, and said: “Honor to meet you, sir.”

“Good man.” Ainsley’s smile got even wider, and his other hand clamped down on Callum’s shoulder.

Callum felt ridiculous. Ainsley was sixty-one, with thick silver-fox hair and a large frame that wasn’t entirely apparent beneath a suit that was superbly cut to de-emphasize his bulk. Cal couldn’t tell if it was fat or muscle; could have gone either way. And here he was in what media trolls would caption as a wrestling lock—or worse—with his boss, the richest man there’d ever been.

“Give us a moment,” Ainsley said. The entourage melted away faster than an ice cube dropped on lava. “Good job yesterday, Callum. I appreciate it.”

His hand and shoulder were released. “Just doing my job, sir.”

“Shit.” The jovial patriarch persona vanished. “You ain’t a kiss-ass, are you, son?”

Callum took a moment and glanced at the nearest group of the entourage, which included Dokal, all clustered together and carefully not looking in his direction. “No. I live for this shit. I fucking saved Sweden from a nuclear catastrophe—well, me and my crew. You don’t know what that is. But it’s my life, and it’s the best.”

Ainsley grinned. “And you, son, have no idea how envious I am. These dicks that can only say yes.” His hand waved around the pit. “This is my life. Don’t worry, I’m not going to come ride along with you. Insurance, for one thing, and the board would go apeshit.”

“Each to his own.”

“Yeah, but seriously: Thanks for yesterday. Fucking Brits, can you believe that? Don’t they get plutonium is a century past its sell-by date?”

“They were trying to get rid of it.”

“Ha! Fucking Johnston; you shake hands with him, son, you count your fingers afterwards. Nations are dissolving; Connexion’s made sure of that. Everyone’s a neighbor now. It’s not a race to kill each other anymore. We’re off to the stars instead. How about that? You going to emigrate when the starships reach a proto-Earth exoworld?”