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Bank, my fingers feel vaguely numb. I can’t even remember the account numbers to get past the first security check, so we’re forced to push the call button. An irritated blond man flashes onto the vid screen above the double doors.

    “This location doesn’t handle transplanetary wires or open new accounts,” he tells me brusquely. “For that, you need to visit our wonderful new branch in the city center, just two blocks from the AquaDome.”

    Before he can turn off the feed, I answer, “I have an account here already, I just can’t remember the code.”

    He sighs as if I’m mentally defective. “I’ll send someone.”

    At least fifteen minutes pass before a stocky brunette appears to unlock the doors manually. Her expression radiates disapproval for customers who forget their account codes. If I’d entered them, the door would have verified them as viable with in-house security and their AI would have unlocked the doors for fifteen seconds. It’s not a foolproof system, but it cuts down on passersby asking to use the lavatory, at least.

    “How can I help you today?”

    “By looking up my account information,” I say, as she leads us toward her workstation.

    “I need to scan your thumb and index finger. You can provide additional information if you like, but it is unlikely to be required.”

    “Not a problem.” I let her zap me with her wand.

    Transplanetary Bank doesn’t believe in embellishing the workplace: beige walls, beige carpet, and one fake plant. Her desk is even beige, built of heavy synthetic wood. A prominent nameplate reads SILVIA KUYEIDI, which means she’s descended from the original settlers. I wonder whether her distant ancestors, who revered raven and wolf totems, would approve of her career in banking.

    Then again, so what? My distant ancestors specialized in spending money and putting on airs. They wouldn’t be impressed with me either.

    While she taps away, I unwind some of my layers, my least favorite part of a cold climate. They don’t offer chairs for clients unless you’re important enough to be ushered into a private suite. I guess we don’t qualify.

    When March grins, I don’t need to be a mind reader to know he’s considering a reprise of the whole ambassador bit. That’s going to take some getting used to. I fidget, trying to ignore the unusual aches and pains I’ve acquired along the way.

    Ms. Kuyeidi bites her lip. Uh-oh. I know that look.

    “I’m sorry, I have bad news, Ms. Jax. When you were . . .” She makes a moue that I interpret as discomfort. “. . . declared dead, your husband filed a next of kin claim, and we consolidated your accounts. And when the Conglomerate froze all Corp assets, that included the personal accounts of Corp executives, such as your husband, who are now awaiting trial.”

    “Which means . . . ?” I don’t really need her to say it. I’m broke.

    “Your accounts have been closed.” Ms. Kuyeidi refuses to meet my eyes, which tells me she’s aware how shitty this is. “I can provide you with the amount that your husband received at the time of your . . . er, death,” she adds. “Perhaps the Conglomerate can see about retrieving the wrongfully allotted funds. Such inquiries take time, I’m afraid.”

    “Of course they do,” I mutter.

    “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more assistance, Ambassador.” She speaks the last word with a conspiratorial air. I must have looked perplexed because she adds, “I saw the announcement on the news just before you arrived. I didn’t recognize you right away, though. Your hair . . .”

    Great. My mother doesn’t comment on it, but the bank lady does. I muster a smile. “Yes, I look quite different now.”

    Silvia sees us to the door. After thanking her, I stomp out into the cold and immediately regret the impulse. I shiver from head to toe as I rewrap myself. Feeling me tremble, March powers up the thermal vents, which help a little.

    “So what now?” he asks, as we