Sour and heavy. That's how the air tastes. Not just how it smells; the air of the maintenance bay smells like ozone and solvent and human sweat, and not in that order. But the air is also stagnant, having passed through too many lungs, and it has a flavor, unfortunately. It tastes like my air is coming pre-breathed. The atmospheric recyclers on Argus Station are pretty robust, but you can only pack so many into a confined space for so long without the air growing... ripe. The Engineering Division's orientation seminar must be overtaxing the carbon scrubbers.

A void-spawned workplace orientation; there's no getting away from it. Perhaps thirty people wedged together, standing shoulder to shoulder, for a prepared lecture that could have been summarized in bullet-points by ping. After a dull presentation on safety procedures, legal liability, and a rundown on the protective equipment, my patience is wearing micrometer thin.

Even after the lectures are over, we're broken into small groups to cycle through the stations for training with the diagnostic equipment. Because we're not cleared to make repairs, just diagnose problems and write reports. Ugh, and I thought the digitalwork for Codes was mind-numbing; try being an independent contractor for the Navy. Taking a position in Engineering is supposed to be simple; they're crying out for augments with a clean criminal history! Can't have felons working on ship engines, apparently. At least, not convicted felons.

Because an unindicted one with high-quality cranial augmentations and breath reeking of menthol has his hand on my ass as he explains the tools. I pull away, straightening up from the dummy engine. "So, diagnostic port is above the control panel? Sounds like bad design, if the cabling blocks the controls. I mean, what if there's a surge and you can't hit the power button?"

The man grins, his arm circling my waist and hand returning to my thigh as he presses closer. "Hah, I have some pull around here honey, but they didn't ask my opinion when they designed the hardware."

"Fair enough," I say, sidling away from him, trying not to grimace. "You have some pull, huh? You worked maintenance and repair a long time then?"

[He's interested, don't pull back. Keep him hooked.]

The man runs a palm over his bald scalp, between the two implants that jut out from his skull like devil's horns. "I'm pretty tech-savvy, love. I know my way around an engine, and I can turn a wrench, but I'm a supervisor. My skill is people; I'm good at leading in a hands-on way," he says, pressing his frame against me. "How about you, sugar? You got some skills, with an engine or otherwise?"

Ignoring his touch, I lean over the fake engine, plugging the cabling in and physically linking the pad. "I have experience with a spanner, but I'm not going to be building a ship from spare parts, if that's what you're asking," I respond, keeping the heat from my tone as I bite my tongue.

The bald supervisor seems to take it as encouragement, especially since I'm the only one under his... supervision. "Well, stick with me, hottie. I'll teach you the ropes," he says, his hand returning to my thigh. And drifting towards my ass again. "And not just around the bay," he suggests, menthol-scented breath making my skin crawl.

"I'm seeing someone," I mutter, turning my head away and pushing his hand off.

[Dame, stop pushing him away. Let him feel you up, if that's what it takes.]

"Girl, he doesn't have to know," the man huffs, crossing his arms as the pad chimes and confirms the port connection. He leans back in, grinning. "Besides, navy boys ship out for long stretches; it must get lonely for you, waiting for months for a deployment to end."

The bay has me sweating, and the air feels heavy enough to chew. "I dunno, my partner wouldn't be too happy, and definitely isn't someone to mess with," I respond, viewing the metrics on the pad.

He chuckles, squaring his shoulders, showing a thick frame heavy with muscle, and heavier with fat. "Hah, I don't scare easy. Plenty of sailors think they're tough as tungsten, but I'm battle-tested," he brags, chin rising.

I snort. "I hate to say it, but my partner? Snuffed a Scouting Officer. You might be out of your orbit."

[Dame, you're chasing him off. We need intel, and you won't get that if you keep-] (Stop distracting me, Bishop! You're fucking up my rhythm, I know what I'm doing! He's gonna try to prove how big his balls are.)

The man just raises an eyebrow, a slick grin sliding over his lips. "Just collate data, girl. I've got my bones too, if that gets your engine revving."

I pause, looking up at him and ignoring the hand wandering to my lower back. "Oh? You got a body count? Do tell."

He grins, though his volume drops just above a whisper. "Well, I popped my cherry doing some black-hat work for the League."

I scoff, turning back to the pad. "The Gaian League? They're defunct now."

"Hah, for the most part, but I was one of their best contractors," he insists, hand wandering lower again.

I look back doubtfully. "The Gaians, here? Didn't they work Earth and the Solar District?"

The man's grin turns flat. "Hey, they made plays in the Jovian," he insists. I shoot him a skeptical glance, and look away. "Shit went down, sugar. You don't even know."

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

I raise head, tossing my hair over my shoulder. "Yeah, I've heard. From what I gather, the action went down on Ganymede."

The man frowns, looking around the bay before lowering his lips near my ear. "There was action lots of places, babe, you don't even know," he protests, but softly. "There's still action on Callisto, today," he adds, a hint indignant.

"Is there?" I finish the diagnostic cycle, and a few outputs rise in blinking red. "I've only heard that thee luddite gangs are fighting. That's nothing new."

He raises a finger. "Ah, but fighting together, not against each other," he points out, barely glancing at the display. "And Luddites getting real weapons? That doesn't just happen, you get me?"

I put a hand on my hip, turning to face him. "You aren't there."

He snickers, and the menthol on his breath makes my stomach turn. "Done some runs there, but there's plenty of action here too," he adds, hand on the engine and blocking me in.

"Not that I've heard," I answer blandly.

His greasy smile only widens. "That's the point. You're not supposed to hear, hun," he says, leaning closer and lowering his voice. "But hey, remember a month ago? You think a recycler just explodes for no reason?"

My eyes widen. "No way, that was you?"

He shrugs and tilts his head. "I'm just saying; I've got some notches on my belt."

My heart beats faster, breathing quickening. "Took out some real players, huh?" He just licks his lips and grins. "What'd they do?"

[Dame, your vitals are spiking. You need to disengage slowly.]

He grunts and spits to the side. "Turned on the League, fucking traitors."

My fingers grip the diagnostic pad tighter, unplugging it. "Wow. And here I thought they were just innocent workers in a reclamation bay."

He blinks at me, glancing around. "Well, the target was next door," he says, confidence slipping.

"And you couldn't even kill her, you incompetent fuckup," I hiss, gritting my teeth. "You're proud of collateral damage? You're just oxide huffing scum."

[What the hell, Dame? You're blowing the operation!]

The man seems equally confused and indignant, glancing about the bay full of groups of two to three. "Da fuck?"

I swing the pad around and catch him in the teeth, listening to him squawk as I follow up with a kick to his belly. Flying back, he hits the dummy engine, rebounding into my fist and spinning to hit floor hard, even in low-gravity. Gasping, he coughs and pushes his head off the floor just in time for me to plant a knee on his neck.

[You chrome-licking moron. I'm en route. Try not to make things worse, Dame.]

It would be a gross exaggeration to say the bay erupts into chaos, though there's a few shouts and some general confusion from the milling crowd as I bash his head against the floor twice, just until he stops struggling. "Lenny Gruder, you've just confessed to two murders. And you had your hands all over my ass, and I'm calling that assault."

Face down, blood trickling from a split lip, Gruder spits out some bloody saliva and snorts. "Not a mechanic, then. Codes? Nah. A CI?"

"Private investigator. Call me Dame," I answer, watching Corporal Bishop and his partner rush into the bay with a sour look of their own.

I'm surprised to hear a laugh from Lenny, who twists to grin at me with a bloody mouth. "Bad move, bitch. I know people, you got no idea. You're really fucked now."

"You're really fucked now, Dame," adds Corporal Bishop, a gaunt redhead in his late twenties. It was a fairly quick walk to the precinct, and I presume they're processing Gruder now. Todd Bishop seems irritated, wearing a Code Enforcement Uniform and a frown. "He's going to be granted bail."

My eyes bulge. "You've got to be kidding. We've got him recorded, from two different angles, admitting to sabotage and murder!"

"He technically didn't affirmatively state anything; he suggested and implied," he adds, sighing. He gestures around the cramped precinct. "It's not a clinched case, so it's prosecutorial discretion," the corporal says, lips quirking up. "Oh, and you'll probably get paid for the job, but he's filed a grievance against you with the licensing board."

I shake my head, scoffing. "Well, I doubt that will go anywhere."

Bishop gives me a bland look. "Normally, I'd agree. Except this punk? The one you beat the silicon out of? He's the nephew of the governor of Callisto."

My mind races and I hang my head. "Fuck me."

He chuckles. "Sorry Dame, Sparrow might object. But you see? Politics; it always fucks you, and never buys you dinner first."

I shake my head. Of course he'll make bail if his family is loaded. "You could have warned me the perp was connected."

The redhead leans back in his chair, shaking his head. "I wasn't expecting you to do anything but talk to him. You went rogue."

"Well, he had his hands all over me," I say, passing a hand over my face. "So, what, he's alleging assault?"

"Among other things," the man says, sighing and shrugging. "I doubt he'll actually try to move forward with charges with Code Enforcement, since he'll certainly run out on his bail."

I sit up, elbows on the desk. "Well, this gives me leverage. This punk killed people on my station-"

"Your station?" The corporal asks, eyebrow rising.

I bite my lip. "You know what I mean. If it has the potential to embarrass a public figure, then all the better."

Bishop is already shaking his head. "No, it makes it more dangerous. Last thing I need is a gunfight between you and some Jovian mercs on Argus Station."

My eyes widen, and I stare openmouthed at the young corporal. "I'm sorry, you can't be suggesting I fold."

The ginger rolls his eyes. "I'm saying back off. We don't want him in jail awaiting his trial, where he'll clam up. We want him desperate to avoid prison, scared that Codes, or a vengeful widow, is coming to punch his ticket," Bishop says, giving me a flat stare. "Dame, if you'd just think, you'd get it. We want this slimy little coward running off, on a ship I planted a stealth transponder on. With a computer whose code I tagged heavily. We want him giving away his base, his allies, his network," he explains, giving me a disappointed frown.

I hold my hands up, chagrined. "Alright, fine. I get it."

He nods. "Good. Then you understand why I'm going to arrest you."

I blink quickly. "What? Are you huffing some oxides, Corporal?" He shakes his head, giving me a more genuine grin. "Why?"

"Because I want this punk believing I've arrested you, and that he can't just knock you off the board. I want him thinking that your testimony is all but guaranteed. Then he runs," he adds, standing and rolling his sleeve up.

I frown, standing as well. "I'm not agreeing to that. Besides, I'm not working for Codes, I'm working for the victim's widow."

Bishop rolls his eyes. "I wasn't asking your permission. Put your hands behind your back. I'm going to cuff you."

My mouth works for a moment as he pulls out a set of polymer handcuffs. "This is just a show, right?"

The corporal shakes his head. "Nope, I don't want him twigging to an act. That's why I'm also going to pop you in the nose. I won't break it, but I need enough blood to really sell it," he says, giving me a nod.

"You've got to be-" is about as far as I get before he socks me in the face.

I need to charge higher rates for this work.

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