An artificial intelligence talked to a mercenary. "Four million credits," Diana said, raising a quartet of extended holographic fingers and wiggling them up at her partner's face. "Four million credits." "We have four million credits," Diana continued cheerfully. "That's one million times four. Four times one million. Four one millions--" "Alright, I get the picture," Simon groaned, reaching for the mug of dull, flavorless beer he'd taken from the bartender. "Yeah, we had a good haul. Not that it matters now." "But you've been flushed down the shitter with four million credits for the trouble."