It’s spring in the forgotten colony, when the bugs and the bullets come out. The last of the police died this winter, but Kitridge doesn’t even know that. He’s up on top of an aluminum shell that was supposed to be a factory that would’ve fed and funded them had the corporate ships ever shown up.

He’s got his rifle. He’s got a bottle of moon-grown moonshine. He’s got his wife’s picture and a badge that’ll get him back to Earth on a transport ship that’s not coming.

To the couple driving by, he’s a lunatic on a roof, spraying gunfire at the stars, screaming and stamping his foot. To the couple driving by, he’s a dark shape against the curve of the gas giant they orbit, revealed in ragged light of machine-gun muzzle flash.

The bullets come down at an angle, thudding through the car. One of them comes out of the driver’s mouth, knocking out his teeth. The car coasts into another one. Inside, their RFIDs go dead.

The stats get beamed in the direction of Earth. It looks like no one’s listening. But they are.