Hello, I’m Lieutenant Mel Cruz. It’s short for Melody; something of an older-style name. It’s not because I sing, for the record. My parents were throwbacks to a simpler time, and enjoyed some antiquated naming conventions. I’m currently in torpor, a machine-maintained hibernation used for deep space travel. I’ve been on a six-month journey from Luna to Europa, though I’ve barely been aware of it. Oh, before I forget, I’m a 34-year-old Scouting Officer for the Code Enforcement branch of the Exonet Maintenance Bureau. To put it in Luddite, I’m a cyborg law enforcement officer, and digital systems are my beat.
I’m also realizing that a twelve-year long stint as Scouting Officer on Luna, deep in the core of the Sol system, has spoiled me. It’s obvious the moment I try to access the exonet. I’m used to lightning-fast connections. I’m accustomed to the vast web of interlocking virtual environments that pervade the Earth-Moon binary. Sadly, I find only a few virtual ports, low bandwidth, and whisps of automated traffic. Well, since I’m now aware of it, I presume the ship’s AI is waking the meatsuit.
My body, that is, and I suppose not a half bad one. Just over 180cm, no physical augmentations. It’s as human as any, save for a ring of four small implants running from my right temple to the back of my skull. All subdermal; I prefer going stealth. No need to advertise that I’m augmented. I mean, most Scouting Officers are, but less than a fifth of the baseline population goes for it. I’d rather not hear the whispers and answer questions.
My implants let me visualize most of the input from the exonet. That’s purely an aesthetic choice. I know some cyborn prefer auditory input. Some perceive sensory input entirely in virtual environs, or virts. I prefer an overlay; I can see data-ports shining like gems in the walls of the aging vessel, and rippling threads of silver where wireless signals propagate from the access terminal. As I access the terminal and touch that thread, the line blooms with code, like a tree sprouting branches and twigs and leaves. It’s versatile. And beautiful.
It’s about the only thing that is. My smell is… ripe. I smell like… well, someone who hasn’t bathed in months, but with sharp chemical overtones. My skin somehow feels both dry and oily. And sticky at the same time. I’m wearing my full uniform, the blue and black synthetic fibers wrinkled, but thankfully unstained. My mouth tastes like… nothing I care to name. I’m just saying, I’ve had better days.
I’m still groggy as I open my eyes, feeling the burn of the ship’s deceleration pressing me against the mesh webbing of my harness. My limbs ache, my skin is cold and clammy, but my belly and torso are burning. It takes me a moment to realize I’m still coming out of torpor, the mechanical scarab on my back flushing the chemicals from my bloodstream. Twin tubes pumps saline into my dehydrated veins, and suck metabolites out.
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Being webbed in place leaves me feeling helpless and edgy. Licking my dry lips, I crack my neck and take a slow look around the cargo bay. The transport is utilitarian; there are no private rooms, or even hibernation pods. Just twin racks of ‘scarabs’, the insectoid-locking backpacks that provide the cocktail of chemicals to send passengers into torpor and slow metabolic activity to a crawl. It’s not a quick or easy revivification. I can see why the Jovian passenger liners ditched it.
My jaw clicks as I work some moisture into my mouth and call up the navigation system. Our destination pops up; the grey-white oblong sphere of Europa, and the massive body of Jupiter behind it. The station above the icy moon looks insignificant by comparison. A heavily modified O’Neil Cylinder conjoined with a skyhook. It looks like a child welded two toy models together.
It’s balanced in synchronous orbit over Europa, ferrying loads from the autonomous mining machines below. I smirk a bit at the title: Ursa Miner Station. It never gets old. That’s what happens when you let an exonet poll pick your station name. Somewhere near Venus, there’s a navigational beacon named Buoy McBuoyface. People never learn.
The route is etched in silver lines across my vision, along with docking information in hashed lettering. There's a docking port along the axis of rotation, outside the habitation rings. The skyhook itself emerges from the other end of the station. Not a true orbital lift, unlike Callisto. But I can see the glow of the active networks, and resist the urge to link in. I’m still a few hours out. The lag would drive me mad.
I check some stale beam-in news from Luna. Nothing much, a few interesting digital-life demographic reports, some unrest after the Gaian League seeded malware in a mining company’s networks. Some Luddites on an anti-synth march in New York got gassed. An uproar on the exonet over some privatization contracts on virt spaces. Same shit, different day.
Feeling my stiff back protest, I turn my head and try to ping the Scarab. I sigh when I receive flashing denial in my vision; it’s safety-locked and won’t release during deceleration. Fantastic; I guess I’ll just…hang around. Well, I don’t have any luggage to get to, anyway. Passengers pay for transport by the gram; nobody’s comping me the extra fuel costs. It was cheaper for me to just buy everything there... or, here, I suppose.
Plus, it helps make it a clean break. A whole new place, with all new people. Starting over. Speaking of that, a few unread messages blink in the periphery of my vision, like raindrops tapping the surface of a pond. Preview text pops up in a bubble; Alex Wells. I flick it away: yesterday’s problem.
With nothing better to do, I ping my implants and pull up my work files. A series of icons and written text appear in my mind’s eye. Melody Cygnus Cruz, rank; Lieutenant. Current Assignment: Third Precinct Code Enforcement Branch, Ursa Miner Station. Orientation Packet and Onboarding Materials. Well, if I’m stuck waiting for my flight to taxi in, I might as well get on with the paperwork.
***