In two hours and fifteen minutes, Kiseleva would be free from this annoying duty.

Since the recent drama on the ramp with former-Commander Iago and his wife, Brooks had ordered a Response officer stationed here to make calls on any such incidents.

Which was a prudent move, she thought. The boarding ramp opened onto a heavily-trafficked area, with beings walking by in a dense pack at nearly all hours.

And among the throng, loitering, were the eyes.

Spies, belonging to major companies, every political power under the stars, even some of their own watching the other watchers. It meant that anything that happened here was happening with witnesses, and visible confusion was not a good thing for them to see.

But that didn’t make the duty any less boring. And after this was another session with Apollonia. It was going to be a long day . . .

Most of the other Response personnel here were several grades below her, and she knew them only vaguely. Combined with her general demeanor that she knew made her come off as unapproachable, they did not find much to talk about.

They did talk to each other, though, and it was something to break the monotony to listen to them. One of the bigger topics was about Iago and Cassandra.

“I thought she died years ago,” one said.

“Same. Colony venting, I heard. No one survived. So how did she?”

Which she wondered about as well.

She wasn’t from the Craton, but she’d looked into the records and read about the event. There was almost no way anyone could have survived the catastrophe on her colony, and she’d been right in it.

Yet there could have been lost data. Perhaps she’d gotten into a space suit for some reason and managed to survive. It was possible someone could have had a few seconds to finish sealing up.

Kiseleva had seen more miraculous cases of survival.

Sudden, fast movement caught her eye.

The two Response officers behind her, her system informed her, had not noticed, but her automated warning sent to their systems snapped their attention to the approaching group of people.

It was three women; two had little clothing on, just enough to be considered passable by Gohhi standards. The middle woman, though, was wearing a full-body coat that was several sizes too large.

The open fear on the faces of the first two drew her attention. Most people on Gohhi didn’t show their fear, too much of an invitation.

They were moving slowly, as the two in skimpy outfits appeared to be supporting the woman in the coat.

“Halt,” one of the other Response officers said, moving to intercept them as they broke from the crowd and approached the boarding ramp. He stopped at the demarcation line that represented the point where the laws of Gohhi gave way to the laws of the Sapient Union.

“Please!” one woman said. “Please, we need help!”

The group nearly collapsed, the legs of the one being supported failing her, pulling the other two down.

“What is it?” Kiseleva asked, signalling the last officer to stay on-guard. This could be a distraction.

But as she came closer, it did not look to be. They were genuinely frightened and injured. Stress indicators and chemical signals were pouring off them, and her Response training shifted gears; this was not a security operation, but a rescue.

“Please, we have to get on the ship,” one woman said. She looked older than Kiseleva had first taken her for, with a lot of make-up attempting to hide it.

“We request political asylum,” another woman said. “Quickly, please!”

The woman who had fallen was not looking at her. Instead, her eyes were glazed over, looking into the distance.

“What happened to her?” Kiseleva demanded.

“They gave her some drugs – I don’t know what they were. And she freaked out, and she hit one, but then they-“

Kiseleva opened the woman’s coat and saw the wound.

“Medic, now!” she barked to the other Response personnel. One called it in.

“It’s severe but not as bad as it could be,” Kiseleva said, her system scanning what it could tell of the injury. It was not from a firearm, but a knife. It hadn’t been very large, and didn’t seem to have hit a major artery.

“We can move her,” she said, taking her arm and gesturing for the other Response officer to take the other. Together, they moved her across the line.

“You follow,” she told the other women. “Stand there and move no further.”

Medical drones appeared, swarming around the woman.

“Don’t worry,” she told the injured woman, whose head had raised a little to look at her, and despite the drugs she seemed somewhat aware of what was happening. “You’re going to be all right.”

“We have to go!” one of the other women said. “He’s not far behind us!”

“Who?” Kiseleva asked sharply.

The woman did not answer, but turned to look through the crowd. A man with two security guards was approaching, shoving his way through the crowd angrily.

He was tall and thin, with golden plates on his forehead arranged in a geometric pattern. His eyes were also golden, enhanced to some degree – but mostly, she thought, for aesthetics.

She stood, moving past the women, towards the line.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

“Halt,” she said to the man as he came out of the crowd.

“Those three,” the man said, pointing to the women. “They’re the ones.”

The guards started to approach. But Kiseleva held up her hand to stop them.

“I’m afraid not,” she said to them calmly. “You may not cross the demarcation line.”

They hesitated, but the man let out an angry huff. “They’re on the station, you don’t have jurisdiction, sapehole-“

“They have asked for asylum,” Kiseleva said calmly. “And until the claim is investigated they are granted it.”

“Arrest them!” the man raged to the guards.

They started to advance again, and Kiseleva drew her sidearm.

The sound of both of the other officers doing the same, and the dozen plus armed drones taking aim convinced them to stop.

“They broke a contract,” the gold-plated man said. “You understand, bitch? They’re nothing but contract-breaking whores, and you’re protecting them!”

She saw his hand drifting towards his side. It did not linger, and he did not draw, but she detected the weapon holstered there.

Kiseleva shifted her gaze, and the muzzle of her weapon towards him. “Give me a reason, pimp.”

The man stepped back. Only then did he sneer again. “Yeah, thought so. You sapeholes just steal whatever the hell you want, huh? Fuck, can’t even let a man earn an honest living-“

“I suggest you leave,” Kiseleva said. She heard the steps of more Response personnel, and the jets of more drones, approaching. In her HUD she had seen them coming, ordered automatically when her system had noted the disturbance – and put on full alert as soon as she’d drawn her sidearm.

Keeping her weapon trained, she stepped back towards them. Sending a silent message, she ordered the support team to stay back; there was no need to escalate this further.

“How is she?” she queried the drones. The data poured in, showing that moving the woman had torn the injury further; her bleeding had increased.

She cursed, but she’d not had the equipment on hand to stabilize her, and if she had left her on the other side the man would have had the right to have her arrested.

She looked over at the pimp again. He was yelling at the guards still.

“They’re right there! You can just step over and arrest them, man! They’re worth money to me!”

But the guards would not cross the line. They knew that if they did it was no simple crime.

The pimp looked livid, and his eyes went past her, towards the women behind her. The injured woman was being lifted up by the drones, while the other two were being helped by the officers.

“I’m gonna get you bitches,” he swore. “You ain’t safe!”

He took a step forward, across the demarcation line. And his hand went towards his holster again.

Kiseleva shot him.

Her expression did not change, but his went from anger to shock as he fell to one knee.

The two security guards yelled, struggling for their weapons again, but stopping as the other Response officers aimed their rifles.

Screams broke from the crowd at the sound of the shot, people surging away, pushing their way into storefronts and down the halls.

Then the only people left among them were the spies, who were staring intently.

Let them stare, she thought.

The man slumped onto his side, twitching, his eyes wide, not believing what had just happened.

More medical drones came in, but as Kiseleva expected, he did not have time to come to grips with the reality that had befallen him. At two meters range she’d not missed her target.

“He’s dead,” one of the guards said, looking at Kiseleva somewhat distractedly.

“Yes, he is,” she said calmly.

Then she looked at the pimp’s body, but said nothing, instead bringing up Apollonia in her system.

‘I will be late to training’, she messaged.

----------------------------------------

Urle entered into Brooks’s office, out of breath.

Two minutes ago, Kiseleva had fired a shot down on the boarding ramp.

Brooks had been informed of the commotion as soon as Kiseleva had reported an escalation, and he had seen the shooting.

But he didn’t have all the information yet. There would be dozens of views through which to view the event.

Which made Urle by far the best to parse that data.

“Kiseleva is outside,” he said. “I brought her up immediately.”

“How is the situation at the ramp?” Brooks asked.

“Cleaning up. Zeela’s down there, talking to port officials. She’s giving me a live-feed . . . I guess it’s under control. They seem more annoyed than anything.”

“And what happened? As best as you can tell,” Brooks asked.

“He crossed the demarcation line and she shot him down,” Urle said.

Brooks frowned.

“She had to have a stronger reason than that,” he replied.

“Well, yes,” Urle said. “She says that he threatened her, that he was armed – but he wasn’t looking at her at the time she shot him. He was looking past her.”

Thinking for a moment, he gestured. “Bring her in. You stay.”

Urle nodded, summoning Kiseleva in.

She came to attention, looking calm. Her heart rate was nearly normal, Brooks noted.

“What just happened?” he asked her.

“I defended myself and the ship,” she replied simply.

“You were in danger?”

“He threatened to get the ‘bitches’. Earlier he had also called me a bitch, therefore I took his words as a threat against my person. Given that he was armed, I gave it credence.” She paused. “Along with threatening the women who had asked for asylum as well as violating Sapient Union territory.”

Brooks did not change his expression for a long moment, watching her. She met his gaze back.

He looked down. “You are relieved from combat duties until a full investigation can be made. Turn in your sidearm. Dismissed.”

She saluted, turning to leave.

“Unofficially,” Brooks said. “You did well.”

Kiseleva looked back over her shoulder at him, and smiled slightly.

After she was gone, Urle rounded on him.

“Ian . . . you’re congratulating her? She just killed a man!”

Brooks did not seem surprised or upset by his outburst. “He was a pimp and a drug dealer.”

“That doesn’t mean she can just shoot him!”

Brooks raised his head now, looking at him. “Nothing of value was lost.”

“I’m not defending the piece of shit,” Urle said. But we can’t just kill anyone we hate!”

“He made a mistake,” Brooks replied. “And threatened the wrong people. Now, others like him might hesitate a little bit more before they hurt people. I doubt anyone will shed a tear.”

“Some will, in the Union. And so will the independent news sources. They’re going to spin this like crazy – they already are.”

Brooks shrugged. “We will deal with the repercussions, whatever they are.”

A light on his desk flashed. An external call – rated important.

Now Brooks grimaced. “Sooner rather than later. Get on the report, but send it to me before you file it,” he ordered.

Urle took a deep breath and saluted before leaving.

Brooks took a moment to compose himself before taking the call.

Music greeted him, not a person.

“Greetings,” a pleasant voice said. He could not tell if it was a highly-trained person or an AI. “Please hold – Mr. Waites-Kosson will be with you momentarily.”

After a moment of more music, it spoke again; “You are now given the honor of speaking to Mr. Waites-Kosson.”

“Hello, Captain-Mayor Ian Brooks,” a voice said. It was definitely a human, but only a voice came through, no video.

“Greetings,” Brooks said. “To what do I owe this call, Mr. Waites-Kosson?”

He thought he knew the name, but he’d had his system bring up everything relevant on the man.

Trevod Waites-Kosson was one of the wealthiest humans ever to exist if the numbers were to be believed. Like most of great wealth, he had been born into it, his ancestors the founders of a dozen of the largest companies in Gohhi – with tendrils reaching into many other areas of wild space.

Like a capitalist Hapbsburg, he was simply the culmination of many of those wealthy houses intermarrying, sharing and combining property. And now, without ever having done a day’s honest work in his life, the man had more wealth than god.

“Call me Trevod,” the man said affably. “I admit, I had expected a deeper voice from a man of your reputation, Captain-Mayor.”

“Legends dwarf all men,” Brooks replied.

“Well-said. But I’m not calling for social reasons, as interesting as that would be. I’d like you over for an in-person discussion.”

Brooks thought about telling the man to come to the Craton.

But in the scheme of things, Trevod Waites-Kosson was one of the most powerful individuals in the universe. He was a part of the Gohhi ruling class, one of the most influential in it.

He made and lost more wealth every day than some planets. He’d flouted the laws of every government he’d ever dealt with, the Sapient Union especially.

He would be far too cowardly to put himself in the hands of communists, no matter the promises of safety.

“Very well,” Brooks replied.

“Excellent, Captain-Mayor Brooks. I have dispatched a shuttle, it will reach you in about an hour. It will bring you here.”

The call ended.