“I just– It's all so standard... and boring,” Zoe grumbles as she follows her husband down yet another corridor, indistinguishable from the last ten.

“Two-thousand and eight, two-thousand and nine,” Wash mutters under his breath as they pass the numbered doors. “How can it be more boring than our bunk?” he returns, “Wait and see, you don't know what it's going to be like yet.”

“Honey, it's a hub. They're all the same. They give me the creeps,” she says flatly.

He stops short outside a door, folds his arms and sighs. Too late she remembers he grew up on a hub most likely the twin of this one, just wreathed in a fog of pollution. “This will be different,” he says firmly, “But if you're determined to hate it, let's turn around now.”

She deflates a little, suddenly feeling far less justified in her complaining, like a petulant child caught out. “I'll give it a try,” she says, a bite of impatience still in her voice.

Wash doesn't care, he knows victory when he sees it. He slots his identi-chip into the lock and it goes from red to green. “You first,” he says.

She pushes open the door and steps inside. “You silly little man,” she says softly, “How much did this cost?”

There's a double bed with satin sheets. Thick, soft carpet on the floor and tasteful hangings over cream walls. The windows look out over New Dunsmuir, the docks just visible in the distance and the houses of none-corporate workers laid out far down below. The sun is setting, the horizon a smear of pinky-orange fading to blue. It's not a bad view, as far as they go on Beaumonde.

“Enough,” he replies, and then can't quite suppress his glee, “Wait until you see the bathroom.”

She drops her bag on the bed and pushes open the other door. There's a jacuzzi-sized tub, more than big enough for them both. “A real bath!” she enthuses, turning around and flinging her arms around his neck.

He lets her kiss him for a moment. “Why don't you run that bath? I bet it takes a while to fill,” he says quietly when their lips break apart for a mo