I’m deep in the thrilling heart of my onboarding packet when the drive shuts down, so the end of deceleration surprises me. My chin length hair begins to drift up with the sudden lack of gravity. I flick the silver orientation outline aside; I know most of it already. The ship shudders as thrusters kick in. Despite the mesh harness, the jostling is giving me a headache; this ship could really use some shock-absorbers in the cargo-hold. A yellow flashing light makes me wince, and several loud clangs echo through the ship. Torpor; it's worse than a hangover. Most hangovers, anyway.

Standby for Docking Procedure flashes in grey through my overlay. Instructions and procedures for decontamination and debarkation pop up. Thankfully, no need to quarantine; my nanos’ vaccine protocols are up to date. No virulent new viruses, digital or otherwise, to worry about. Well, one always hopes. The only way to be totally malware-proof is to be tech-free, of course.

The Scarab hisses and withdraws the tubes from my neck, leaving angry pink welts on my flesh. I rub the spot. Ugh, at least it’s numbed. I wonder if I need a dermal patch, and I know need a bath. A green compliance symbol flashes and the straps fall off my back. I float free, pulling my way towards the hatchway.

The cargo bay is loaded with pressure containers, but I’m the only passenger on this run. Booking a ride on a cargo-runner has its downsides, but it’s cheap. Europa is no tourist destination, and private charter vessels cost through the nose. Unless I want to abandon my meatsuit entirely and just upload my mind. Because in our malware-laden virts, that never goes badly.

The hatch hisses open, and brilliant light sears my vision. I cringe back, blinking. After months of darkness, the docking lights are blinding. I close my eyes and let my overlay outline the world in silver thread. There’s more activity on this station beyond the visible, painting the walls in silver lines. All of the integrated systems interact just beneath the surface.

Hundreds of AIs and EIs labor to keep the station working, and their communications light up the halls with glowing ribbons. Not the bustle Luna or the cacophony of Earth, but signs of life. I pull myself into a sterile dock. With an effort, I open my eyes a little, shading my sight with my hand. It's about what I expected. Off-white scratched paneling all around. Harsh yellow-white light from the walls. It smells like machine-oil and ozone, which is at least a step-up from my body odor. It's a dock, what can I say?

“Ah, Lieutenant Cruz, hello! Nice to meet you,” an excited voice calls out, and I whip around, squinting. The silhouette outlined against the light is blurry, but slowly resolves into a slim, dark complected woman in tight casual attire. She’s wearing a bright orange and yellow… I think it’s called a sari? The right half of her head is shaved or depilated, and several layered augments hug the bare hemisphere of her skull. The sleek metal and polymer plate blends smoothly into her darker skin tone right above her ear.

In my overlay, countless brilliant silver-white threads writhe around her, cascading and twisting through a blazing white spike in the cranial augmentation. My mouth falls open as I stare, seeing more exonet throughput in one person than I usually see in two-dozen. This woman has a network hub in her skull! Is she one of those uploaded hiveminds? Or something crazier?

“Sorry, are you having trouble seeing? Yes, I know torpor can be quite rough. Do you need to go to medical?” she asks, leaning closer. I see concern etched on her features, and I rub my temple with one hand. Rabi Kavya Gupta, rank; Captain. Current Assignment: Third Precinct Code Enforcement Branch, Ursa Miner Station. The name floats above the writhing nexus of silver nestled in her skull. Right, the head of forensics. She’s looks young for her forties. And why does she need a hub in her head? Would it be rude to ask?

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I restrain my curiosity. “Ah, no, thank you,” I say, extending my hand. She doesn’t react to that, and I wonder what she sees. Maybe meat-space doesn’t exist for her. “I’ll just walk it off,” I add, trying to regain my rhythm. Well, I suppose we aren’t walking; we pull ourselves along rungs set through the walls.

If Rabi is flustered by my reaction, she doesn’t show it. “Yes yes, good. I came to escort you. Well, really I came to meet you. We don’t get a lot of transfers from the binary, Luna or Earth. You know, novel and new beats tried and true.” She reaches the end of the dock at the center of the rotating station.

“Fun, just what I wanted; to be the latest novelty,” I say, biting my tongue. C'mon, play nice Mel. There’s little spin gravity here, but the pull grows as we move away from the axis of rotation and towards the residential rings. I’m hit with a sense of vertigo as I pull myself through the corridor, the ‘tug’ of gravity growing.

Thankfully, Rabi doesn’t seem to notice my sarcasm and carries on the one-sided conversation without pausing for breath. “Of course! We’ll introduce you around tomorrow. We’ve got some great officers, sixteen for the station. Seven humans, including us, all but one augmented. Nine are synth, but only three of those have bodies,” she adds.

She must be talking to fill the silence, because I feel several pings from Rabi on my primary node. She’s connecting directly to my implants and ‘reading’ my profile. Strictly speaking, I wouldn’t know someone is checking my avatar; she’s politely poking me and letting me know she’s rummaging around. With her hardware, she could probably run an emulation of me in her own head. Creepy.

As my feet hit the floor, my legs buckle. The room spins with a wave of nausea. My throbbing headache grows worse. Yay. Spin gravity feels different, and I wobble as I walk, finding my equilibrium. “Good to know. Let’s see if I can tell on sight. I’ll ask if their chassis is all-natural,” I say, hoping to get a laugh. Or a chuckle, even. A smirk?

Nothing? Maybe I’m not as funny as I think. Eh, she probably has an algorithm processing her inputs; it’ll alert her when I say something she cares about. It’s an upgrade that’s catching on in the core; most small talk can go on autopilot, and the user gets fed the pre-digested thoughts from their augments. Yummy.

The silver threads from her implant caress the ports in the walls as we float past, continuously uploading and downloading a lot of data. Goosebumps rise on my skin as I realize how deeply she’s plugged in. She must be so overclocked, her bandwidth wrenched so far open... I wonder if she can even leave the station without a hibernation pod. The lack of stimulation might kill her. Well, if Rabi notices my discomfort, she still doesn’t react.

“You’ll get to meet Ash first thing! Did you read his file?” Rabi asks, as I tilt my head. I pull up the file to refresh myself, seeing a solemn face. Ashton Montgomery Cartwright, rank: Captain. Current Assignment: Third Precinct Code Enforcement Branch, Ursa Miner Station. The new boss. Well, for me.

“The man, against whom we rage?” I say before I can think. I snap my mouth shut, flushing red. Dammit, Mel. I look over at Rabi, the head of the forensics department. Ash’s colleague.

I’m relieved when Rabi’s face splits into a grin, and she hoots loudly. “Yes Yes! Mel, you have no idea. Ash has a titanium pole lodged where most people have a stick,” she says, giggling. Ok, I guess she is listening after all. Well, as least she agrees; I am funny.

She chuckles shakes her head, making the silver threads ripple and wave in my overlay. “But he’s good people, even for a Cop, and even a Code Cop.” The gravity is getting stronger as we walk down the corridor, and she’s bouncing on the balls of her feet. “He looks after his own, and he’ll go to bat for you if you do it by the book." She gives me a knowing grin. "Just don’t go off schematic; he doesn’t like rogue actors, no no!"

Oh joy. I'm sure my boss is going to love me then. We'll get along like saline and circuitry.