Milton was not intelligent. Milton did not know when to let dangerous men have their way. Milton was a dead man.

Every month, the villagers filled a small strongbox with banknotes and had Tyrell shuttle it off to Niska’s satellite. The sum of money in that box was a pittance to Niska. He might as well have been using those notes to wipe his nose for all the good they did him. But to the villagers it was money scraped together with increasing difficulty every month off their meagre miners wages, adding up to a grand total that could have paid their way off their rocky homeworld many times over. But if Niska didn’t get the protection money, his wrath would end their settlement. Put them all out of work. If he wanted, he could have them sold as slaves. Niska held all the cards, and so the villagers paid up, month after month, year in, year out.

Tyrell was a good man, a no-nonsense war vet whom everybody trusted to get the money up to Niska. He was a big guy, you’d think he was just a knuckleheaded brute to look at him, but his eyes had a steely glint that belied a sharp wit and a level head. Scarred head to foot from the war, he looked like he was carved out of granite. Never had a pistol more than an arms reach away. Nobody had ever tried to put one over on Tyrell.

Except Milton.

Milton was a born-and-bred miner, he’d spent more hours in his life under the ground than above it. And he was a *wiry* son-of-a-bitch. He was thrown down the pits as soon as he was old enough to swing a pick, his momma knew he’d get work quick on account of him being skinny enough to fit through just about any crack or crevice down there. More than that, being a bit simple-minded, Milton didn’t have any fear of cave-ins, gas, getting crushed by the big mechanical grinders on the bigger lodes. It just didn’t occur to young Milton that the mines were a dangerous, hellish place to work. Or that his weekly wages couldn’t have bought him half a packet of cigarettes off-world.

But then he went and pissed off Tyrell. Now