Yes, I understand you can’t provide any entity’s avatar information. I’m providing you with their identification number, along with their base-code pattern. I'm just asking; can you tell me if this AI logged into your system in the past nine hours? I’m subvocalizing, trying to get the sapient level AI on the other end to give me something. Anything, really. There’s a significant delay with transmission, both of my message, and the response.

I’m trying direct-contact to one of the private Indy server platforms. It’s floating at Jupiter’s L1 LaGrangian point, so it’s not part of my jurisdiction. My link’s coherence isn’t that great either, since my signal is bouncing around some satellites to get past Jupiter’s bulk. It doesn’t help that the background noise is playing havoc with my link. Still, given that they have contracts with the Astronomy Department, I’m hoping they might be willing to play nice and talk.

This unit cannot confirm or deny the registration or identification number of any units to access this system. The words dance in silver thread in front of my eyes, and I sigh. Completely flat, completely unhelpful; the same as the last three platforms.

I sigh and shut the link, not bothering to send a closing ping. I turn to the Sergeant RockChaser sourly. “These Indy eyebots won’t give me the time of day.”

Brent laughs and shakes his head. “El Tee, I hate to pull the HUD from your eyes, but you know you’re a cop, yeah? A Code Cop. Of course the bots don’t wanna talk to ya, especially an independent one. They don’t like answering to ‘the man’, even if she’s a woman.” The Sergeant chuckles and gives me a wry grin. He’s always cheerful, and I wonder if it’s an affectation to make up for his unsettling pupils. “Forget silicon; I’ve got ya covered there. Try looking for a meat solution, maybe one of the contacts,” he adds. He’s trawling through stale data, general search queries through the station databases, looking for any active, or at least recent, pings from the missing AI.

I grumble to myself. “Who calls the cops back when they know something, if they didn’t call them to begin with?” But I filter out synth contacts, and I’m left with four. Looks like humans the Indy dealt with as part of his contract work. I dash off a few quick contact requests, flagging them as official Code Enforcement inquiries. I'm sure the general public will leap at the chance to help a cop in her inquiries. Finally, I push myself away from the desk and stretch. My headache is manageable now, and the stiffness in my limbs has faded, but I’m drained, and don't feel like dancing around it. “Why does the Captain want my focus on this?”

The Sergeant thumbs his nose, feigning innocence. “Couldn’t say. But maybe he’s curious how the big hot-shot officer from Luna would go about a case with no easy answers,” he muses.

Great. A test. Or a challenge. “So, see if I pass muster? Got it,” I mutter.

The Sergeant’s perpetual grin slips a bit. “It’s not just that, El Tee. You’re coming into his precinct, his house. It’s a small pond, big fish. An officer none of us knows, a stranger, transferring from glittering Luna all the way to Jupiter’s barren asshole?” He lays his arm on the desk. “People want to transfer to the core, not from it. Unless they’re a screwup, or they’re running away from something.”

I let a few seconds pass before I reply, taking a breath. “I’m not a screwup.”

“Yeah, El Tee, I checked your file. You look like a good cop. Then ya went out on medical for a few months, then requested a transfer out to the Jovian. So, what are ya running from? Wanna fill me in?”

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Not particularly. “Maybe after I’ve gotten situated on the station and get the lay of the grid. And had a few drinks first,” I say, turning my shoulder to Brent. “I’m going to put through some info requests to the other Jovian stations. See if our lost AI hopped around the system. In the meantime, I’ll close out some cases I can actually work on.”

***

I tackle the code-splicing case first, since it seems easiest. I drop a few dozen marked tags into the entertainment network's code. Nothing fancy, but anyone siphoning large amounts of data should pick one up before too long. I let my six assigned 'sniffers' out, with a command to stay within the entertainment network and sniff for people with tags. They bound through network, throwing out handshakes left and right. They're happy little sub-sentient workers, and they do the bulk of the searching. They're nothing like dogs. But they're kinda like dogs, you feel me?

I keep the biters penned up and send out a few more queries on the Missing Entity case. I'm burning some time and tapping the stim-stick. Ugh, too stale; I'm not getting the caffein jolt I need. I wonder if they have coffee on the station. They have to, right? Someone must have a hydroponics setup to grow coffee beans out here. Everyone drinks coffee. None of that synthetic crap; I'll stick to stim sticks. I don't think I need a nicotine rush when I see the color blue, though. Some augments get deep into body-modification. Like... really into body-mod. I guess I'm more the 'if it's not broke, don't fix it' school of philosophy.

My patience pays off, and the sniffers alert, chirping loudly. One of the tags has been picked up by the wirehead siphoning from the network, and the sniffers ID'd him. The moment he accepted their handshake protocol, one without clearance for the network, they had his ID. The sniffers came bounding back, fetching his info for me. Ha, full profile and avatar. Good boys! Corralling them is easy enough. And you never have to worry about them crapping on the floor.

I log the ID into the system and flag him for a security lockout. Everyone pays, wirehead. You're being locked out of the system, and getting a fat bill on top of it. Nobody gets their holos for free; not while I have to pay full price. Pirates beware!

***

My nice little surge of endorphins doesn't last long. I spend the rest of my shift chasing my tail, before I decide I've had enough of banging my head against the bulkhead. Only a few minutes left in the shift anyway. I stretch, back and neck crackling. "Well, Sergeant, I've been as productive as I'm going to be today. I'm going to visit to the fab shops and head back to my quarters. I'll be better with a sleep cycle," I say, yawning.

Brent shrugs. "Want me to show you around?" He asks. I feel a tension in my shoulders. He's probably just offering to be polite. I shouldn't just assume he has ulterior motives

Rabi becomes animated. "Oh, I know the best shops! Plus, with your figure, you could really show off in civvy clothes!" She says, practically bouncing in her chair. Was that... is she making a pass at me?

"It's all green across the board, I'll find my way," I say, standing and giving them a smile. Rabi's eyes follow me, but Brent leans in, cutting her off and leading her on some tangent about an upgrade to the station reactor. I tidy up my report on the pirating case as I walk. At least I don't have to chew gum as I do it. Heh, even exhausted, I'm pretty funny.

***

I barely remember walking to the fab shop and flipping through the menus. My head is killing me, and I'm debating on whether to go to medical. Ugh, am I more tired or in pain? Well at this point, I'm swaying as I stand, waiting while the automatic printer fabs my outfits. The few minutes might as well have been hours. At least I don't have to make small talk with anyone.

I pack them in a bag and the credits transfer from my account. I've only fabbed four outfits, but the bag feels like lead in my hands. My legs ache, even in the reduced gravity. I scarcely recall the walk back to my unit, or walking in the door, or dropping my bags on the couch. In fact, I just shed my uniform and collapse face first into my cot, still in my sports bra.

Day one complete. I didn't die or blow up the station, but that's about the best I can say about it now. And I really, really hope Rabi wasn't coming on to me. The last thing I need right now is a manic pixie cyber girlfriend who doesn't sleep. And outranks me. I don't think the universe could take it.

Though, maybe I should count my blessings. It could be worse. Cartwright might be an uptight prick, but at least he isn't trying to get into my pants.