You know what really I hate about this place?
It’s not the fact we’re on the edge of the galaxy, or that we’ve become the most forgotten colony humanity has ever pushed out here, it’s the fact that, real people––the ones with great jobs, living comfortably and raising families—they simply don’t come here. Not anymore that is, and none have actually shown up for a very, very long time. Well, maybe that’s a good thing, I suppose. I’ve been a cop on this station for nearly ten years. That’s ten years of having to deal with every kind of low life, perverted scum bag and criminal element one could ever possibly run into on this station.
Triton used to be a mining asteroid, believe it or not. A goldmine of rich deposits of Quadarium, a mineral no ship engine can be without, for two and a half centuries. It replaced the now defunct Quantum Magnetic Drive, as it requires less uncertainty in folding space, and makes for a much smaller engine. Quadarium is in everything these days, from small fighter ships to coffee makers. Yeah, you heard me right… coffee makers. That’s how little it takes to run something indefinitely. You might not need to fold space to make coffee, but you wouldn’t believe how crazed someone can get if it doesn’t work so they can get their quick fix in the morning.
That being said, the mining here ended a long time ago. They managed to rip out every single gram of the stuff from this lifeless rock and now––it’s just a floating stop-over gas station for the entire galaxy. There’s nothing left here. Those that stayed tried to make the best of it. Though, I don’t know why they did. Mafia bosses and former drug dealers that supplied the mining crew were left behind and continued their operations well after the place ran dry. Half of them couldn’t afford the travel back to Earth-space, the other half decided to use this place as the perfect smuggling destination.
It’s not all crime and prostitution here, though. There are some legit businesses going on; outbound mining companies, the Earth Core United Interplanetary diplomatic office and spaceports, and of course, lots and lots of shipping and trade ports for various colonies. But when you get all that combined in one place, with desperate people doing desperate things, that’s when we, the Triton Space station Authority, have to do our due diligence. The people here still refer to us as the police, or cops, even though that’s an outdated term. But I suppose it’s accurate enough. Heck, even I and the other officers keep calling ourselves that.
We’re more like security for the station though, that’s what it really is, let’s not kid ourselves here. We don’t patrol the outer surrounding station area in black and white shuttles or anything, we’re more restricted to the inner station business and keep the peace for all living inside of it. “Our budget,” as the chief would say, “is one of the most tightly closed anus of all the outlying space stations.”
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
Yeah, I would agree with that. My salary is not something I would take pride in. I barely make enough to survive the overpriced food and living expenses on this heap of rock. The occasional kick back, for many of us authoritative figures, is not uncommon. We’re not immune to being slipped something to look the other way for a few moments, if it doesn’t endanger the public or get reported by the civilians. We’re only human, after-all. And yes, I have been known to let a few items slip by when colonies need discretion or have certain interesting goods that might benefit myself, of course. It’s all about the survival here, even for us cops.
Because of my certain lifestyle, or lack thereof, I’ve never really settled down with anyone. I’m a bachelor by choice and live by my own rules. I’ve entertained a few women in my day, including a few fellow officer gals who didn’t mind just the occasional hook up once and awhile, and I don’t feel the need to be that one-woman-guy. Some on the force feel the need to experiment in their sexuality, with various genders or complicated individuals of personal erotic nature, whatever their freak-on is about. I’m not one of those, not by a long shot. I don’t judge though, I just don’t do that, they have their way and I’ve got mine. No harm, no foul… that’s what I say.
So, after being here for ten years, in all of this, and with all of that going on as well, my life is pretty abysmal. But, what can you do. This is a way of life on Triton station. You either accept it, or blow your goddamn brains out and get it over with already. And trust me, I’ve seen plenty of that. Out of the five hundred sixty-two officers assigned here, nearly fifty-five have either taken their lives, by way of a gun or opening a airlock door and stepping out. Those are the quitters, as we call them. Taking the easy way out instead of focusing on the job and filling your empty hours with sex and booze.
It’s amazing what a little drunken sex can do for ya here. Anyway, that’s just my little rant about good ol’ space station Triton three-three-nine. Just wanted you to know that as I make this vid-recording of my personal life. You know, it kind of helps to talk about it, Even though I know nobody will ever actually view this. Maybe when I die, perhaps, but… nah, not even then, I think. So why do it all, eh? Well, maybe for my own mental health and for historians to laugh about as they comb through the endless slog of what happened on this station. I’m guessing at this point. I doubt historians would focus their attention on someplace of little historic value.
Well, fuck it––I’m going to give the lowdown about this place anyway. I’ve got nothing better to do and this has become my hobby. Deal with it. Let’s give you the grand tour of this hell hole, sorry, I mean, the future of humanity as they so proudly adorned it. Seriously, they made banners and everything. There’s even a t-shirt shop still selling them by the gross on a daily basis. I have a few myself. They’re comfy okay? Don’t judge me, assholes.