I wake up face-down on my cot, immediately knowing three things. First, my headache is gone. Small blessings! Second, I have to pee, badly. Third; my legs are asleep. I'll tell you what, I'll skip the details of my morning ablutions. A vacuum toilet isn't fancy, and a sponge-bath isn't nearly as fun when administered to myself. I'm opting to work from my quarters today. I guess I could go in and use a desk, but I'm mostly just linking through the port. And keeping Cal deactivated. Long story, for another time.

Nothing useful back on the Missing Entity case. A few other stations sent me perfunctory denials. Not that I expected much. Well, maybe let's not start with this one... I pull up the sensor hacking case. The dock sensors keep going down. Irregular intervals, not in the middle of maintenance cycles or anything. No corresponding log-in, but someone might be scrubbing the records. Hmm....

Well, Occam's Razor, it's someone wanting to be off-grid. Keeping access to the docks off the sensors. Shuttle racers, if I had to guess. Crazy people if you ask me. Because being stuffed in a tiny ceramic or metal can and shooting through the Jovian gravity wells like a game of billiards for weeks straight is something only crazy people would do. Especially because they get higher 'points' the faster they go or the closer to the surface they get. Absolute lunacy; they might as well just main-line adrenaline and get it over with.

Well, if a bunch of shuttle racers are running a transit through the Jovian moons, they probably didn't file a flight-plan. Good money is they're covering their entrance and exits to get away with it. It's hard to imagine who else would be hiding their dock access. I mean, the station isn't exactly a hot bed of smuggling; the buyers aren't here. It's a gas-station. Some of the other Jovian stations, maybe. Could be handoffs of some sort, but I don't see the point of doing it here.

A dive into the system doesn't show any logs of improper access. If it's someone authorized to access the docks, they're going to be harder to track down. I patch the connection port with some firewalls and update the security protocols. It probably won't keep out a determine hack, but it should discourage them. For good measure, I assign an eye-bot in the dock to monitor for any more hacking attempts. It takes a few minutes to get it set up, but now I can see the livestream from the camera in my mind's eye.

Damn, that makes me dizzy. I cut the feed. I'm pretty sure our visual cortex isn't designed for picture-in-picture, and I don't have the hardware to really do both at once. I'm pretty sure there's a sex joke in there, but I'm the classy type, so I'll leave it there.

Well, I've been putting it off for long enough. I turn back to my Missing Entity case. I look through the responses I've gotten from the queries I sent out. None of the other Jovian stations reported a match in their logs in the past 96 hours. I wonder how many even bothered to check; the few responses from other stations were perfunctory denials of contact. I sigh, and ping Brent through the system.

"Hey, El Tee! How's it going?" I can hear his voice, but he might be subvocalizing.

"Better, now that I've had some REM sleep. I patched the dock sensors and stuck an eyebot there to monitor. Oh, and I tagged the wirehead pirating holos," I add smugly.

"I saw that! Lucas, he's a big gamer down on the second ring, works with one of the mining transport companies. Twitchy, skinny guy. He's gonna have to pay up big with that fine. And fast, to get back in the gaming lobby. Gonna sliiiiiide down that leaderboard," he laughs, and I can't help but chuckle with him.

"Well, I'm banging my head on the bulkhead with the M.E. case. Not getting any replies, and the trails dead," I admit, scratching my shoulder.

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"Bummer. Well, I did my fair share of combing, but nothing here either. My advice? Leave it for now and come back to it." Eh, procrastinate? You're talking my language, Sarge.

As I chat with him, I open the locker. There are two more ancient protein packs. They belong in a museum! "Maybe I should grab some biofuel from some shops. Or hit an actual restaurant," I say, biting my bottom lip.

"Sure, there's a great curry place. And an Asian restaurant that does good take out. Want some company El Tee?" He delivers the line casually.

I feel tension in my gut and shoulders. Don't read into it, Mel. He's just offering to show a new partner around. "Ah, I think I might just wander and explore on my own. I appreciate it, Sergeant. Really, I'm just kinda getting a lay of the grid. Adjusting. Bit of an introvert..." I trail off. It sounds lame even to my ears.

"Sure, enjoy. And for the record, it's just an offer to keep you company and chat, not me coming onto you. I play for the other team, El Tee," he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice.

Oof, well, no augment comes with gaydar. "Of course. Not that I thought... you know..." Damnit.

"Whatever you say, El Tee, have a good lunch." There's a little pop as the connection breaks. Ouch. Well, I'm sure impressing my new partner.

***

My embarrassment complete, I pull up the station directory and place a print order for the fab shop. Some underwear, a few other essentials, a rug and a wall hanging. It's not too expensive. The hanging is just a screen print of some scene of Earth. Not that I’ve been there since I was a kid.

Leaving my quarters, my sore legs protest. Jeez, a few months in torpor and now I can't walk the length of a station in 2/3 gravity? Maybe I should hit the gym. I swing by the fab shop and pick up my order and proceed to take a walking tour around the station. It takes me less than an hour.

Aside from two bars, an entertainment suite, a few restaurants, and some fab shops, there isn’t much. The station is sparsely populated; Europa itself isn’t slated for even temporary habitation. The cylindrical station is a mining port and gas station: a stellar truck stop. Well, at least the view of Jupiter is just as good as the holos.

***

I'm sitting on the walkway at the junction of the support struts for the rotating ring. It gives the clearest view, since the strut is directly below me. Jupiter's red spot isn't visible now, sadly, but the sight of the massive planet does make my pulse quicken. I mean, it's just a big gas ball, not that special, but it does take up a big percentage of the visual field. While I kick my legs, I enjoy some fried rice and orange (synthetic) chicken from a white paper box.

It's not even a chain restaurant. I suppose some things are universal. Quick cheap takeout is quick cheap takeout, from the core planets to the Oort cloud. The first restaurant in Alpha Centauri is either gonna be a coffee-shop or some brand of Asian take out.

It's right about then that my patience pays off. My eyes widen when the bloom of preview text appears in my vision. I let the silver script play out as I finish my faux chicken. Some independent cargo-hauler, Chimera. The captain responded to my ping, but they are declining to link directly to me. Not too surprising, I guess; who wants a cop in their head?

The message is bare-bones. There's no sender information. It's a text-only offer to ‘meet in the meat’ at one of the bars. No profile, no ID, nothing but the ship registry number from the vessel it’s sent from. That's a little odd. I tilt my head as I consider. I wonder why he responded. Not wanting to link in? Might just be a private guy. Might be running some grey-market smuggling. Who knows, might be some wirehead fishing for a payday, hoping to sell some intel.

I call up the registration information on the Chimera as I wait. However, the registry doesn’t have much. It’s a registered independent freight hauler, local only, but the Captain’s ID is just a serial number. There’s no crew list, so it must be a one or two person craft. No model number either, which is strange. Just ‘Custom Construction’ listed, with dimensions and tonnage. I scoff at that. Someone probably bolted an engine and cockpit onto some cargo containers. Plug in some fire-suppression and wire up enough life-support, and anything will pass basic freight inspection.

Some rock-scraping smuggler then, probably a hard-case with dead eyes and a quick trigger-finger. I raise an eyebrow. A blind first meeting? I smirk. I sure hope I’m not about to get my kidneys or augments harvested. I ping out a time to meet. Should be interesting, at least.