Cadet Gabrial Branavich was about to become Officer Gabrial Branavich.

Gabe stood on the stage with the rest of the cadets from his graduating class, as some ivory haired fossil who had graduated what must have been a century ago sang the classes praises while also touting his own achievements. The grandstanding made Gabe wince, even if the ability to praise others while simultaneously making yourself look good was rather impressive. All the same, Gabe simply wanted the speaker's speech to be over. He wasn’t here to listen to someone’s grandfather tell him and his peers how great they were. He was here to get a piece of paper and become a member of the United Police force, dammit!

“I still look back fondly on my years at the United Police Academy, only back then it was still known as--” the man droned on like the buzzing of a fly that Gabe was slowly learning to tune out.

He was going to save lives. Gabe was going to be an officer.

Suck it, Erstein! Gabe said to himself.

Gabe had been raised by his uncle after his mother had died. A hard man who refused to let his nephew call him ‘Unc,’ ‘Uncle,’ or anything affectionate, Gabe had simply grown up knowing the name only by his name: Erstein. Erstein had regularly let Gabe know what a burden it was to raise a child that was not his, and how fuckin’ GRACIOUS he was for having taken in Gabe in the first place. When Erstein was in a particularly foul mood, or when he had drunk too much Glow Beam juice, he would tell Gabe that if he didn’t behave himself, Erstein would sell him off to the markets in Ursa Minor. In retrospect, it might have been a hollow threat. But that didn’t stop young Gabe from fearing and loathing the man in equal measure.

Gabe knew that he had joined cadet training just to spite Erstein, and prove his worth as a man. He knew, and he didn’t care.

“Ladies and gentlemen! I present to you, the graduating class of 3972!”

Gabe didn’t care, because he was a mother-fuckin’ police officer now.

* * *

Kyrin realized all too quickly that his impulse and decision to escape Ursa Minor had been rash and completely driven by emotion. He found that for a man that didn’t display many outward emotions, he sure did have a lot of them.

“Nother fuckin’ guard detail,” One-Eye said, coming around a turn in the blind alley Kyrin was hiding in.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

Kyrin jumped. No matter how many times One-Eye snuck up on him he never got used to it, and he never got any better at sensing One-Eye’s approach.

“You have GOT to stop doing that!” he complained.

“You bein’ jumpy’s the LEAST of our problems right now!” One-Eye said, and then caught himself and looked up and to the right a bit. “Well, you bein’ all jumpy and such is actually probably a pretty damn big problem considerin’ how many Ursa Major guards we’re gonna hafta sneak ‘round.”

“I’m not--” Kyrin started. “Fine, fine. I’ll work on it. But you were saying?”

“Yeah, I was sayin’ we are only two levels down from the lower gates to Ursa Major, and we gots to get ‘round them guards! An’ you being all jumpy like isn’t gonna held one glue worm squelchin’ minute!”

One-Eye was many things, but a poet was not one of them. Many of the residents in Ursa Minor retained detailed histories of their family lineages dating all the way back to the early times before colony ships left Earth. Somehow, One-Eye’s family had also retained their accents.

One-Eye was appropriately named. He had lost his right eye as a teenager in a scuffle with some Ursa Major daytrippers who had ventured too far into Ursa Minor looking for thrills. He and Kyrin had taken them for easy targets. Three of the upper crush punks proven pretty soft, and Kyrin and One-Eye were about to make off with their lot when a third daytripper pulled a vibro-blade and started welding it with ease. Kyrin had made it out unscathed, but One-Eye hadn’t been so lucky. At least he had kept the blade as a memento.

One-Eye, whose given name Kyrin couldn’t even remember anymore, cut an imposing figure. Taller than most doorways in the slums, One-Eye had no notable markings or tattoos, only the streaking scar that bit into the hole his right eye had once occupied. His salt and pepper hair was receding steadily on his scalp, but he maintained an impressive physique for a man pushing 48. His waist was trim, and his arm muscles bulged from years of doing any manual labor odd job he could pick up in the depths of Ursa Minor. Kyrin had always felt small standing next to his friend. Small, but never insignificant. One-Eye made sure to always make Kyrin feel included and valuable.

“Kyrin! Are you fuckin’ listenin’??” One-Eye whispered through clenched teeth.

Kyrin snapped to.

“Right! The guards,” Kyrin said, focusing back on the present moment. “We have to find some kind of way to distract them.”

One-Eye snapped his fingers as if that were one of the best ideas ever known to man.

“You still have that vibro-knife you always carry?” Kyrin asked.

“Never leave home without it!” One-Eye said proudly, and patted his right pant’s pocket.

“Well we’ve sure as shit left home now, my friend,” Kyrin tried to only sound partially exasperated with One-Eye’s obliviousness. “Go ahead and I’ll follow. I need to get a good idea of their position and then we can come up with a more concrete idea for how to get around them without being spotted.”

They set off, hopeful that this would be their last task before finally reaching the streets of Ursa Major.