I managed to gently turn down Rabi’s eager offer to walk me to my assigned quarters, citing exhaustion. I’m still groggy from the torpor, but truthfully, I just need a quiet stim and a meal. And a bath; a bath first, please. Rabi gives hands me a slim case my assigned kit and uploads the specs for my equipment, both software and hardware. I manage to thank her and trudge towards the residential rings without sticking my foot in my mouth again. Hopefully she'll chalk it up to the effects of torpor. It might even be true this time.
Head pounding, I take inventory on the walk. I’m rated for firearms, but I didn’t even bother requesting one. There’s no chance anyone gets greenlit for conventional ballistics on a pressurized station. Anything with enough stopping power to put someone down could blow a hole into hard vacuum. Exciting, but generally avoided.
No chemical deterrents either, not on a closed station with recycled air. Most gases and sprays are iffy on augments and a bust on synths, anyway. My kit has two pairs of composite cuffs, which could be fun in certain circumstances. I’m also assigned a taser and stun-stick. If I end up using either, I’ll be shocked. Heh. I take it back; I’m definitely as funny as I think I am.
My software loadout is much more impressive. I’m assigned twelve sub-sentient hunter-killer AIs, half ‘sniffers’ and half ‘biters’. Always good to have them at my heels. I get access codes for four 'eyebots,' or mobile cameras. To keep my eye on things, get it? I know, I'm the height of wit. I also get several packets of the latest sanitizing software for my augments. Included are some input-filters, to protect from malware attacks and hostile code. I can browse the naughty sections of the exonet without fear now. Well, as much as any malware filter can fight the tide of spam and worms.
Lastly, my new Code Enforcement Registry Key. The personalized sequence of code assigned to every Code Enforcement officer. Our ‘in-case-of-emergency, last-resort, I’m-commandeering-this-vehicle-and-will-have-hell-to-pay-for-it-later’ 10-minute override. Within lots of limits, and with loads of caveats, with this key, I have master access to the admin systems. I could, conceivably, use it to perform epic feats. Like, destroying my entire career in moments. Or, ensuring I drown in paperwork and depositions and hearings for the next twenty months. Or, being arrested and thrown into a tiny cell until the sun burns out. That sort of thing.
You can use it at any time. But don’t ever use it, because you’ll spend the next year explaining exactly why you had to. And praying the Board of Review agrees. Basically, it’s the length of rope that command gives every officer to hang themself with. I know, from personal experience. Come to think of it, there aren't many people who can say, both ironically and unironically, that they love their job. I guess I'm blessed.
In any event, I decline to explore the station proper. My head is pounding, and I smell rank. I take a junction straight to the first residential ring, squinting as my eyes adjust to the light. The residential halls are non-descript and utilitarian; a simple curved eight-foot square hallway, with sealing doors for each unit. Nothing to tell them apart, aside from the numbers printed on the side and the occasional etching or painting. My own door is unadorned, number 062. As I ping the access port, the door slides open.
I'm greeted by the sight of... nothing much. The room is spartan, the walls beige. There's a prefabricated sleeping cot and molded metal storage locker one side, and a zero-g couch and tiny kitchenette with a heating unit on the other side. No bathroom. I step inside, kneeling and seeing a vacuum toilet and sponge bathing kit under the bed. Well, I guess I’ll get a bath of a sort. Whee.
“Welcome Lieutenant Cruz,” calls an androgynous voice. I turn, grimacing, as I see a profile pop up next to the room’s terminal. Cal, Dependent ‘Helper Class’ EI (Emulated Intelligence), medium grade sub-sentient. “I’m Cal, and I’ll be-”
“Cal, deactivate autonomous functions, and shut down.” A series of low-pitched tones indicates the EI shutting off. One less distraction. I’ve got… about four hours until duty. Ugh, how bad would it look, calling in sick first shift? I open the locker. Some freeze-dried protein packs that look older than I am. Ah, and a pack of stims, nicotine and caffeine. They might be old and stale, but someone was thoughtful enough to leave the basics.
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Well, no point in being picky. I’ve got enough time; might as well meet the boss with a full belly and clean skin. And some stimulants. Small mercies.
***
I'll spare you the details of bathing; it's no tub, but I'm clean. I leave my bare unit with time to spare. There wasn’t much to occupy my attention, and I hadn’t brought any bags with me. Frankly, I'm going to have to put shopping on my task list, but I settled with heat-treating my uniform; it passes the sniff test, so I’ll call it good enough.
I dash out a quick to-do list as I walk to the precinct. Clothes and other non-consumables are easy enough; hit up a shop and have a fabricator print me a few things. I flag a few shops in the directory that look promising, nodding to a few people as I walk into the main ring. Here, the ceiling is high and transparent. In addition to helping air circulation, it lets natural light filter through the station's transparent skin. It gives a sense of space. Get it? I told you, I'm hilarious.
I try to ignore the open sky above me. I know it sounds strange but looking up into the void gives you vertigo. Ever gotten dizzy looking down from a high ledge, or through a transparent floor? Imagine that sensation while staring up, in spin gravity no less. I kinda miss Luna. I shake my head; it's easier for me to focus on my overlay. A delicate lace of silver threads connects terminals and systems running just behind the bulkheads. As I walk, many of these threads split and converge, but overall seem to join like streams forming a river. A river flowing towards the core of the station.
As I walk towards the axis, there’s a series of junctions of the shining threads, twisted and braided into ropes of brilliant white. These ropes lead to the main processing hub, the heart of the stations computation and processing and communications. And sitting two buildings over, with smaller cords of silver running through its network, is the Precinct. It deserves the capital letter, though you wouldn't guess by looking at it.
It’s dull, a simple rectangular block of a building without ornament. The windows are translucent, but the surface shows only scrambled patterns behind it. Smartglass, I guess. The doors are metal, an unfamiliar alloy, and look like they could tank a shot from a railgun. The walls seem to be some dark carbon-composite. I always wonder if they build these things expecting some sort of siege. What, are the shipping magnates gonna blow a hole in the station? Doesn't really seem cost-effective to me.
A green authorization symbol blinks, and the doors slide open softly, despite their bulk. I walk into a surprisingly mundane office. Pre-fabbed polymer chairs and cheap molded metal desks. A few viewscreens display scrolling orbital data and exonet activity on the walls, but nobody seems to be paying them any attention. There are only five people here, including me. Compared to the bustle and occasional chaos of any Luna precinct, it’s dead quiet. A tall, slim man with close-cropped brunette hair stands, dressed in a pressed uniform with a captain’s epaulet. He gives me a tight smile.
“Ah, our new officer. Welcome, Lieutenant Cruz,” he says smoothly. His profile shows his name, face, ID number, and rank in shining silver, but nothing else. The rest of his profile is completely locked down, but I try not to show any surprise at that. He’s in his early 50’s at a guess, a little salt streaking through his hair and the stubble on his chin. “A pleasure to meet in the meat,” he says.
“And same to you, Captain Ashton,” I say, as we exchange salutes. “It’s been a long trip, but I’m glad to be here, and I look forward to working with you.”
“Well, working for me," he corrects. "You’ll be working with Brent here. Or rather, Sergeant Rockchaser will be your assigned partner,” he says. I turn to the Sergeant, a broad shouldered, thickly built man with short brown hair. Maybe in his early thirties, and with the broad build of those who grow up in low g. He breaks into a much more genuine grin and gives me a salute that I return, but I’m taken aback for a moment by his eyes. His pupils are slits crossing at right angles. He’s been gene-sequenced. It's... unsettling. I briefly wonder how deep into the EM spectrum he can see.
“Pleasure, El Tee!” he says, gripping my hand hard and shaking it, making me wince. “Don’t mind the name; my grandpop was an old-school ice wrangler, left his old name behind.”
I smile weakly at that. “Oh? Well, I guess some of our ancestors who were Smiths or Coopers or Carpenters did the same. Got a grandpop who made wagons, Captain Cartwright?” I ask.
The temperature of the room cools. “Not that I’m aware of, Lieutenant,” he says in a flat voice. Damnit. “Morning report will be in ten minutes, along with case assignments. In person is mandatory twice a week; nobody on my squad does their job solely from a couch,” he adds in a clipped tone.
“Not a problem, sir,” I quickly say, but he’s already turning back to his desk. Brent claps me on the shoulder, leading me away.
“Don’t take it personally, partner. The captain had his sense of humor replaced by augments. Now, let me give ya a rundown on our little corner of the Jovian system.”