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the monitors telling him nothing new, his
eyes drifted to the bridge’s forward window, where the entire deck lay open.
Lounging on the battered folding chair was the very attractive reporter, Brandi
Broadhope, here to capture a “Rags to Riches” sub-segment of the regular
feature, “Striking It Rich” for the nationally syndicated Wake Up, America. She
was a natural redhead with the frosty beauty that told most men to back off.
All it said to Jarod was, “I’m a challenge.”
    Challenge…accepted, baby, challenge accepted.
    Aloud, he mimicked the scientist’s clipped speech. “Buton,
my dear man, there’s more at stake than gold…” Jarod pointed toward the deck as
he talked with the curvy redhead.
    The East Indian frowned. “Seldom does the process of
historical discovery trouble itself outside the realm of bounty.”
    Rob snorted. “Or booty!”
    “Well, it should,” Jarod agreed, winking broadly at Rob. A
sharp elbow in Jarod’s side interrupted their male bonding moment.
    Cleo tugged on his arm, drawing him away from the cluster of
monitors, a frown creasing her smooth, cocoa skin.
    “Jarod, what happened to our ‘no more pajama parties’ rule?
Remember? Creating a more ‘wholesome’ atmosphere?”
    “Um, I can hear you,” Rob intoned. “And I’m fourteen, Cleo,
not four.”
    “Exactly!” Jarod turned away from Cleo so she wouldn’t see
the eye roll he directed at Rob. “And if you’re upset about a booty call, blame
it on Buton.”
    Buton’s head swiveled around. “Excuse me?”
    “Hey, you’re the one who invited Brandi onboard,” Jarod said
with a shrug.
    “For…to…to help synergize our marketing paradigm…” the
computer expert stammered on. “To create demand from collectors by—”
    Jarod saved Buton from flailing anymore by redirecting his
energies to Cleo. “The deal was that I’m not allowed to bring chicks onboard.”
Jarod pointed to the top-heavy reporter. “This one was served up on a big, fat
digital platter.” Cleo’s scowl intensified, but Jarod just smiled. “Darlin’,
don’t hate the playa, hate the loophole.” To make his point, he low-fived Rob
behind his back.
    Before Cleo could scold him any further, a monitor crackled
to life with a news report.
    “Shut it, guys!” Rob yelled. “It’s our segment.”
    The display whirled in 3D as the sidebar streamed enough
information about the location, likes, and length of the transmission for all
the geeks out there watching.
    A male reporter sported blond hair so perfectly coiffed that
it looked plastic—especially given the run-down farm in the background. The Ken
doll was ready to interview a scientist, complete with an out-of-place starched
white coat. It appeared that the proverbial stick up the guy’s backside, at
least in this case, was maybe not so proverbial.
    Rob turned up the volume. The men on-screen seemed engaged
in the icy, age-old battle between the news reporter looking for sound bites
and the scientist unwilling to give them.
    “Chad Whistler here, with Dr. Weigner.” Jarod noticed that
Buton crossed his arms at the scientist’s name. Was some professional rivalry
going on? Before Jarod could ask, Chad continued, turning to the starchy
scientist.
    “Being a preeminent stellar geologist, could you tell us
about these ‘Star Diamonds’?”
    “Well, your first error is in calling them diamonds,” Turned
out that Weigner’s tone was as stiff as the fabric of his lab coat. “These
precious gems were forged by a collision of stars. It’s a trillion-to-one
event. Not soon to happen again.”
    The reporter’s silicone smile cracked just a bit. “Any
estimates of how many of these jewels are buried on the dark side of the moon?”
    “Any number I gave you would be wild speculation, due to the
crystal’s elusive structure that defies detection by traditional means.”
    “Well,” Chad said with an overly warm smile, “with everyone
flocking to the moon, we’ll know soon