The ringing of an antique phone woke Burton from the silk and Egyptian cotton sheets. He rolled over the other side of the luxurious king size, four poster bed and answered. “Hello?” He sounded hoarse, one too many cigars, and two too many whiskey sours the night before.

“Good morning Mr Blake, it’s Clara at the front desk with your wake up call.” Burton smiled, that’s why he loved The Grand, old world class, the personal touch, not a bot. An odd preference for the former director of Robco Industries R and D. “Would you like your usual breakfast?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Very good Mr Blake.” Clara’s tone sounded anything but professional, reminding him how good she looked naked. Another thing he loved about The Grand, his hand picked staff of moonlighting high end working girls.

Ex-wife number four fought tooth and nail for to keep this place, thinking the ever at the lab Burton cared nothing for the reclaimed and restored piece of nineteen twenties architecture. She never looked deeper than the surface, he doubted she ever knew about the infamous first resident of the opulent penthouse he now lived in. Boots Drecker, miner turned bootlegger kingpin, and a man smart enough to build a series of tunnels that ran for miles around. Ex-wife number four had always been shallow, Burton thought to himself, or was it number three.

Burton threw on a soft, white robe, impressed with the comfort of something made from recycled plastic. He stopped to admire himself in the mirror above the dual marble sinks, washing his thick beard, combing the long, dark hair from his face, still in good shape for a man pushing forty. He couldn’t wait to call a barber, but he needed this image a little longer, knowing how much it would grate on the four star this and brigadier that, currently waking in their complementary suites below.

Today he needed to be the Burton from the tabloids and gossip mags, the man pictured staggering out of casinos while tossing fistful's chips to strangers, supermodels on each arm. All this would rile up the high and tight haircuts, putting them off balance, then just at the right moment he’d reveal his asking price, and they’d jump at it.

The military gets shiny new tech and another doomsday fantasy to waste money on, and he’d get the resources needed to leave this infested rock behind, before the people he’d help arm for two decades turned their fantasies into grim reality. He smiled as he showered, if it went well today, he’d make the Old Man’s lunar colony look like a second rate Nuka World.

Burton found his breakfast waiting under a silver dome. Freshly squeezed blood orange juice. Hash browns just the right side of burnt. Bacon from the genetically modified pigs and double yolk eggs over easy. He clicked the antique style radio on, then sat on plush leather couch.

“The day today is March fourteenth, twenty seventy, this is GNR, and these are the headlines this hour. Tensions are high in the South China sea as naval escor—” Burton clicked the radio off. He needed to focus on today, not the sabre rattling of empires. At least not empires that weren’t his.

Burton dressed in his casual attire a took a walk to clear his mind. He heard the Old Man’s voice as he left the plates and unmade bed behind. ‘Burton, a man of intelligence should not waste him time on menial tasks, let the dullards handle dull.’ Arrogant snob. Although the joys of living in a hotel might be the last thing they agreed on. Of course Burton left his penthouse everyday, even in the pouring rain, just to spite the shut in.

He sat under the imported oak trees in the square outside The Grand. The month long soft reopening meant most of the activity moved around him. Builders starting working on the apartment blocks. The row of boutique shops opened opposite. And bus collected the day shift for a nearby factory. All of it owned by Burton Blake.

Burton spent every penny he had, leveraged every asset to the hilt, and used every trick he knew to buy up the land in the Green Valley. Most of it in the company name, a few shell corporations, bribing politicians with jobs in their districts instead of automating his factories. He’d make it back ten fold on the patents alone if today went well. Or he’d start his new career in hotel management.

Spring rain pattered on the new green leaves, prompting people to rush with today’s gazette held over their heads. Not Burton, he ambled round square, admiring this year’s Corvega coupe and chatting with the owner.

“Mr Blake.” Clara came from behind reception as entered. Blonde hair in a tight bun, navy blue suit with a pencil skirt and modest heels. Every inch the professional night manager, unlike the last time he saw her. “You have a message.” She handed him the folded note on headed paper.

“Fuck.” Not a good start.

“Did someone’s Icelandic supermodel cancel on them.” Clara had recognised the name, assuming he’d be blown out by an old flame. Burton had handpicked this particular Nordic beauty for a reason.

“Clara, it’s business, and I need your help.” He let her see his worry, asking a woman to be a second choice felt rude. “You’ll have to sign a non disclose.”

“I already did.” Clara agreed to help him with a wink.

“Yeah, but this one covers state secrets.”