RE: [Story]The difference is, a Lightbulb stops working...
06-10-2024, 05:50 PM (This post was last modified: 06-10-2024, 05:52 PM by Dartz.)
06-10-2024, 05:50 PM (This post was last modified: 06-10-2024, 05:52 PM by Dartz.)
–7–
Jet slept for the first time in months - A.C’s estimate had been off by a factor of 6. Jet woke with a thundering headache, a vague memory of a dream involving a naked A.C. Peters getting annoyed at having to wait for her in a secret underwater Europan base, and a hundred notifications begging for her attention, some of which had already resolved themself once people realised she wouldn’t answer.
The house hadn’t been cleaned in months, a layer of dust coating the timber surfaces. Not eating had kept the dishes from multiplying. Not having anything to clean, saved time as well.
Aside from the footprints on the floor, the house simply looked abandoned. Ford’s bedroom still had its bed unmade from the last time she’d slept in it - a year before. Everything else had been taken when she’d Gafiated. Mackie’s room still waited for him to return from the last semester at Nekomi. It looked like a bombsite, with worn clothes strewn about the floor, mingling with the wreckage of various madboy toys and a well worn copy of Intron Depot No. 1. Mackie, for the time being, didn’t exist anymore.
The whole space felt empty - dead.
Nothing lived there. The drain traps had dried off, letting the smell of the sewers beneath fill the house. The floorboards had begun to split where her footsteps had worn through the varnish, bare wood turning pale and silver. Most of the doorhandles had broken off. The locks on many doors had been wrenched from their frames.
Kipplisation had set in hard in her home.
Even the Highway Star had started to leak its fluids onto the floor beneath it. Jet suspected the engine had begun to corrode inside. It’d need new irons at the very least to get it running again.
She got herself another booster pack from the fridge, clipped it to her waist and allowed it to charge her body back up with all the nutrients a combat cyborg could need to keep going. She mixed in a bit of her own wavemix.
It didn’t hit like it used to, evapourating inside her and leaving her feeling empty inside.
Kippleisation could affect people too, she guessed.
Jet took a breath and opened her mind to her email accounts, allowing her muse filter it down to the most important items.
Seteshang Psyche would trade under the table for water, oxygen, and a shipment of ore to meet a contract. Jet wondered if they knew she’d been there before, before the Canturbury mining group moved in.
Jet wondered if the whole fictional Innerworld and Belterworld dynamic had infected the wave, and caused the issues between Frigga and Venus. Maybe if she had the time she’d watch the bloody series, or read the books, she’d understand better.
Lun would be returning from her charter with the Tsoukalos Institute for Extraterrestrial Archaeology within the week, after a quick stop to go ice-fishing in the Oort cloud.
Tech’ had figured out what caused the leak in the water reserves and applied the technical hammer to a sticking relief valve before clearing a few loose filter beads from the pilot line.
Marsden agreed to a meeting to hash out some of the details of the ore sale. Her Majesty’s government subsidies turned any money they got for the extra rock into profit.
Stingray Motor Engineering began to wake up, demanding more of Sylia’s time. Three suppliers needed a kick. A corporate customer needed a hug.
An emergency meeting begged for her attendance. Boeing had accepted the SCHMU’d part samples they’d sent. The old Fed-Ex Death Cruisers got a stay of execution, as new rudder power control valves could be printed as completed assemblies, seals and all. A new line of revenue opened up.
An hour of her day would be given over to a marketing meeting where, again, it would be suggested that Sylia make an appearance for the public launch of a new project.
Sylia Stingray hadn’t shown her face in person in months and people had started to wonder. The techbros had started to wonder if she’d begun to hide from their trolling after she’d dared profane before the altar of the Dark Lord Musk.
Fuck ‘em.
Jet had her suspicions about what they really hated about Sylia Stingray.
One more message arrived.
The Galaxy Railroad regrets to say that they could not move the core modules without handwaving them into the consist. Anything that large would break the drive field. It broke the suspension of disbelief that kept the whole thing rolling.
Jet felt something hot and liquid pop inside her mind
“After have the plans for six fucking months. After saying you could do it for six fucking months you finally fucking figure it out a week after John Henry starts cutting fucking steel.”
Her muse translated it into something more polite and fired it back before her voice had finished ringing off the walls. A moment later, she heard the crash of something hitting the ground behind her.
She blinked
“Oh fuck,”
The entire kitchen had been destroyed. The fridge had crashed into the cupboards, then through the wall behind into the hallway. It took her a moment to comprehend that she’d just thrown it. Followed by the understanding that she’d have to fix all of it by herself.
“Oh fuck,” she said again.
All she had to do was stop.
Just. Stop.
Just like Ford told her to.
Just like she wished the universe would do. Just Stop and leave her alone.
Jet paced the floor, pinned between her obligations, her responsibilities and the reality that the only way her body could see out of it was to drive her to the point that she imploded, or had some unfortunate accident that’d leave everyone shrugging their shoulders and going ‘ Well, that was expected’. The brightest stars burnout fastest. Lets hope she finds the peace in death that she didn’t find in life.
Another message pinged through her mind, one from the barristers on Venus. They’d finished preparing for the tribunal, sending the final documents for her to review while they slept.
Get cleaned up. Look healthy, fresh and ‘good’. Show off the silverware. Try to show up looking like the hearing matters.
Just stopping would be so much easier if the universe would let her. In twelve hours, the tribunal on Venus began. For the barristers, it began tomorrow morning. For her, it’d be the end of the day.
Jet longed to just give the entire universe a piece of her mind, tell ‘em to fuck off, put up with it and get the fuck over it, whatever it was.
They all seemed so damned happy.
Jet felt anything but. Jet couldn’t tell what she felt beyond being - empty. Jet took a breath. She’d promised Ford she wouldn’t hurt herself. Something in the back of her mind probably didn’t feel compelled to follow that.
While Venus slept, the full technical details of Frigga’s reactor project would launch. Everything they’d agreed to share would dump on the web. Her solicitors knew it’d be coming.
Only the critical piece of the puzzle would be missing. But after a year of mush and half-truths, something concrete would flip the narrative. Everyone would know and they’d be happy, even if they didn’t have that last little piece of the jigsaw.
They’d be satisfied enough to keep from looking for that last fragment.
Within the hour, her head would explode with messages from bloggers and journalists looking for the personal answer. For the what, for the why, for the exuberant press-release telling the ‘verse exactly how awesome the three largest fission reactors in history would be. For the smiling photograph about how proud they were to be a part of the whole endeavour.
Jet felt her body revolt against the possibility, a sense of dread crawling beneath her armour.
It couldn’t be stopped.
And then came the hearing, and more questions.
Jet closed her network interfaces. All connections refused.
A flash of anxiety followed, the dread fear that she would miss something important. Every synapse flared with the urge to re-open them, just in case something had happened in those last few microseconds.
Someone in Crystal Titusville might’ve reposted that bloody meme featuring herself, A.C., and the final punchline ‘The Combat Cyborg we have at home’. And, of course, the flamewar would begin as even Jet had supporters.
She took a breath.
The interfaces stayed closed. Paying any attention to either side would scorch the brain.
–
RACOON FIREARMS .440 CORBON LUCIFER HAWK CUSTOM.
The engravings still shone bright. The blackened finish had worn off the edges over the years, highlighting all the switchgear. The grip had been cracked and crushed by her fingers.
“Racoon Firearms?” said the tech, turning the weapon over in his hands. “Never heard of them.”
He’d been the only gun-tech that sold a Desert Eagle - one of dozens of the garagistes using the war to try become another Whistler. Jet only knew him as Kendo. Jet doubted anyone else remembered him or cared that he ever existed. His profile on The Gun Jesus website was a redlink.
“He was based on Crystal Osaka.” Said Jet.
The day she went to pick it up, had been a hell of a day.
“Sorry,” said the tech. “This has had a lot of rounds through it.” He racked the slide back and locked it in place, peering into the gas ports. “So that’s why they used a Desert Eagle - it’s been fitted with some form of self-adjusting gas regulator - like a battle rifle.”
“It was the only pistol that’d self-compensate for atmospheric pressure.”
Only one she could afford anyway. And magnum revolvers took too long to reload.
“A rocket-valve system like a Whistler MPAW would’ve been so much simpler,” said the tech with mild derision. He released the slide catch and let it slam forward with a hard, metallic clack that threatened to sever a trapping finger and earning a raised eyebrow.
“With tungsten-core rounds, this thing was the only way we could pop helmets, without bringing a BAR,” explained Jet.
Browning Automatic Rifle. Or at least, pattern replicas. Old technology, but full-auto with 30-06 couldn’t be argued with. The tech looked at her like she’d been talking about muskets, or maybe rocks and slings. Not a patch on a dual-sector auto-electric railgun shooting sixty steel bb’s a second.
“This might take a couple of weeks if we have to make new parts.” he said.
Jet felt herself give a relieved smile. “That’s fine. I won’t need it for a month or two anyway.”
It might’ve taken Ford a couple of days, if she’d still been around, but having it go away for a while didn’t seem like a bad idea after all - especially considering the damage she’d done to her own home.
The tech locked the slide open with a yellow, numbered tag. He broke one half off and handed it to Jet as her docket.
“Don’t lose that or we can’t give it back to you,” he warned.
Jet gave him a look for a moment, half wondering if she shouldn’t dare him to try and enforce it. Both gun and owner would be fairly obvious in any world with common sense.
“Let me know when it’s ready,” she said
“Like I said, a couple of weeks at least if anything needs to be machined.”
She watched it join a rack of local-built .22 flechette rifles.
“There’s no rush on it,” she said. “No Rush at all.”
Jet stepped outside, and found herself on the station’s main concourse. Two years ago, it’d been a dead and rusting hulk. Now it buzzed with life, dozens of people milling about. Some wore industrial overalls, with high-visibility flashings across their shoulder. Others, their own private uniform that was half 19th-century military, and half short-skirt and long boots.
Ohtoripunk had become the fashion on Frigga, a revolutionary counterpart to the clean, classical neo-romanesque architecture of the Crystal Millenium.
Archwork which would’ve been grown from solid crystal on Venus, had been wrought and welded from meteoric steel into graceful, skeletonised art-noveau curves. What would’ve been formed from filigree metalwork in Crystal Tokyo, had been blown into electric neon lights, fizzing with energy.
Metal, light and concrete came alive, rather than existing in an eternal indestructible stasis. Bubblegum-pink roses with nuclear green stems framed inside brilliant white strips lit the passageways below.
Kotono’s Phitness Bee gym had a golden bumblebee merrily buzzing between white daisies. When Frigga’d been a mine, it’d been a boardroom for middle managers. The Midoriya Cafe shone a soothing, grassy green. It’d been the staff lunchroom. The Rock and a Hard place bar sparked in an electric blue. It’d once been the HR Department. The cubicles made for good private booths.
The executive boardroom had become a school for the few fen-kinder they had.
Only the general store lived in the same place as it had back when Frigga had been a corporatocracy trying to emulate the Greenwood model. The Original ‘New Bermingham Company’ sign had been restored
The Fellow Travellers had pasted a sign on the wall, warning people it still traded in souls. Justice and Peace suggested taking salary payments in scrip contravened the principals of Social Justice. The Station Council reminded that station scrip didn’t count as taxable income for your monthly dues to the Crown as it was and they were working to keep it that way .
The Company Store saved everyone money on transport costs.
People took it according to their own beliefs, what suited their goals, or what they needed most.
Rose bushes filled planters that had previously been home to monochrome shrubbery manicured to the square and level. Daylighters in the ceiling kept them alive. The diffuser panels had long been lost, throwing sharp black shadows into the corners and sparking hard and bright off glass and metal trims.
The workshop Ford had once worked out of had become the station’s public armoury. The Heavyarms sign had been replaced by the glowing pink outline of a catgirl carrying a sleek shining pistol.
Next door to it, a luscious purple cat beckoned visitors inside for a more intimate and private experience.
One smelled of gunsmoke, metal and oil. The other, of spicy perfumes and menthol aftershaves. Minnie-May Hopkins had taken over both.
Jet took a deep breath and stepped inside the Purple Kitten. Silken drapes flowed across her armour as she stepped into a world of plush fuschia cushions, golden trim and deep, crimson. Thick, luscious carpet the colour of fine wine muffled her footsteps.
The look of surprise Minnie May greeted her with, turned a nervous knot in Jet’s stomach.
“I need some help,” she said, momentarily wishing she could turtle her head into her armour.
“Help?” Jet watched Minnie’s eyes drop to a point just below her legs. “How?”
There were, of course, some obvious difficulties.
“I need to get cleaned up.” Jet said. “It’s very hard for me to get properly clean.” She demonstrated by trying to touch her back.
“Well, we know how to be discreet!” Minnie assured with a bright smile. “And I know just how to help. Room A-2-4 and someone will be right up.”
Another Patron passed by, dressed as Yuri from the Dirty Pair, her tanned skin shining with sweat as bright as her golden battle-bikini.
Jet guessed they weren’t used to walking in heels, or with so much weight up top. Someone trying on a puppet to explore a new identity, or to indulge a private fantasy? Someone who would quickly spread the rumour
The puppetmaster raised a single finger to her lips, making a quiet ‘shsssh’.
Jet matched with a steel finger and a smirk. A mutual secret that caused her to tingle inside. Whomever really lay behind those mahogany eyes thought they had as much to lose by being discovered as Jet did.
A giggle escaped the puppet’s lips, chased by a warm red blush as they realised what they’d just done.
Jet felt a soft smile on her own lips, chased by a momentarily thrill of anticipation and moments fantasisation about breaking out of her armour and giving Yuri a Kei as a cosplay partner.
What would that be like?
She found the door, and pushed it open. Inside, the lights shone harsh and bright, like an operating theater. The air still carried a faint hint of antiseptic, mingled with spiced wildflower and that machine-oil aftertaste Jet would normally have associated with A.C Peter’s workshop.
The walls had been painted a hard, clean titanium white. The floors, a clean, medical blue linoleum intended to be hosed down.
The entire room had been formed from Catgirl Mimetic polymers - adapting to every customer - with a little extra help from a Wizard trying to replicate a Room of Requirement.
Jet heard the shows Followed by fresh menthol aftershave. She turned to face three men, each carved into the image of Olympic perfection.
Jets eyes fell to the muscles first, sharp and chiseled as cut from stone, oiled glistening under the spotlights overhead Followed by the budgies being smuggled in underwear that strained to escape.
Something deep inside her stirred - a little giddy electric thrill that echoed inside the remnant of her body. A little ember that’d long been asleep sparked, flickered and began to smoulder .She felt herself swallow a lump a wave of desire rising inside her.
Wow.
“May?” she sounded her best to sound cross. “Why’d you send the Adoni?”
“I’m busy in person,” the first of the Adoni answered. “The amazons were booked.” said the second. And I pride myself on knowing what my clients want, even if they don’t want to admit it to themselves.” said the third. “Besides, all you need is some help getting cleaned up,” chorused all three.
“You know I’m not into men,” Jet said, firmly.
“You said you prefer women. That’s different” said the first. “So you won’t enjoy a single bit of this then”, said the second, teasing Of course, he gave a roguish toss of his luxurious blonde hair over his shoulder. Her face had turned a hot red. His face had been cast in the mould of female desire, longing to worship her.
It didn’t matter.
They’d already prepared the buckets of warm water, sponges, chamois leather, cloth and turtle wax.
Getting properly cleaned up was intimate work for a cyber such as Jet, and, of all things, Minnie May Hopkins could be counted on to be a professional and not blab about it.
–
Kotono glanced at the screen on her watch. Fifteen minutes to go. Daryl still hadn't shown up. Fifteen minutes and they'd miss their landing slot in Kandor. They''d miss check-in at the hotel.
Her finger tapped on the table. Her packed bags waited on the floor beside her.
-:Nothing fits anymore
She tapped an angry message into her watch.
-:We can get something there
Honestly. Then again, Daryl had never really been the sort for planning things out.
-:Fine. There in fifteen.
Kotono wished her watch could transmit more than messages. She wished to pour her boiling frustration through the screen and strangle the woman on the other side with it.
The thoughts of spending a week on Kandor with someone whose apartment perpetually looked like the aftermath of a Boskone raid began to send chilling fingers crawling up her spine.
On the other hand, going alone to a large city to meet someone she'd only ever spoken with by interwave sounded like the beginning of an episode of True Murder Mysteries.
She glanced down at her watch. The animated clock face seemed to pick up speed. It buzzed three times on her wrist, giving an electronic chime as a warning. Every other phone, watch, or pager in the café triggered simultaneously.
A speaker in the ceiling chirped twice. "Shock Warning. Shock Warning," it said, in flat tone.
A heartbeat later, a ripple shocked across the green tea on the table in front of her. Crockery in the café rattled. A moment after, a drumbeat reverberated through the air. A few of the new arrivals jumped, not used to the warning yet.
Half a kilometre away, they were blasting new chambers for new apartments.
Kotono always offered silent gratitude that they'd chosen to create their own warnings, rather than copy the Japanese ones like had been originally planned.
After a moment's pause, life returned to normal in the Midoriyah café. Kotono glanced again at her watch.
Daryl showed as typing…perpetually typing…considering her response when they were already in a hurry. Kotono forced herself to look elsewhere.
Standing in the concourse opposite the café was something she hadn't seen in a long time.
Jet Jaguar. But polished up clean and shiny for the first time in months. Was she wearing makup?
The idea of turning a double-date into a triple amused, for the few moments it took her to realise she had no idea who or what would be an ideal match for a Jet Jaguar. Or that, a fully armoured combat cyborg would probably end up becoming the centre of attention, leaving both herself and Daryl out in the cold.
A little spear of jealousy killed the idea dead, but her curiosity had been piqued.
"Hey Jet!" Jet answered with a look like she expected to be shot at. Kotono gave a soft smile "There's a free seat."
Jet thought for a few seconds, before allowing the expression on her face to soften. The cyber stepped into the café, picking her way around the patrons with fluid care, before settling down into the chair beside her.
The steel chair creaked a protest at the cyber's weight.
Lavender perfume? Mixed with car polish? What was she planning?
"Another date with Alex?" Jet indicated towards the suitcase at her feet
"We broke up three months ago."
And Jet should've known that, if she'd been paying attention to anyone outside her work
"Sorry," said Jet, momentarily ashamed. "What happened?"
Kotono drew her face into a mask of indignation. "I thought it would fun dating someone who used to be a woman." She huffed, folding her arms. "He cheated on me - the asshole. And then tried to blame it on me by saying I wasn't giving him the intimacy he needed"
And Jet needed to understand how utterly and completely blameless Kotono was in the whole affair.
"Men are all the same?"
It sounded like she was more trying to say what was expected of a female friend in the same situation, rather than what she'd actually felt.
"I really thought he'd remember what that felt like," said Kotono.
Jet gave a shrug "He became a woman's idea of what a man is – good and bad. That's how the wave works sometimes."
Kotono gave her a side glance.
"It does explain some ex-men I know."
Jet consciously pursed her lips into an indignant pout. "You're just jealous of my armoured figure." A flash of a smile showed her true intent. For a heartbeat, it almost felt real.
Kotono extended an arm, making a show of checking her nails. "Some of us prefer to be naturally beautiful and elegant."
Jet took a moment to think. "I am beautiful and elegant."
Something definitely felt forced, like she was trying to play a role, skirting the edge of the uncanny valley/
"I can't imagine you'd have much problem with men anyway."
Both from being a fully armoured combat cyborg and a fully armoured combat cyborg.
Jet raised an eyebrow. "Sylia gets a lot of hate from the Muskfen," she said, in a matter of fact tone. She paused and thought. "My first experience with men from a female perspective was trying to requisition a transport shuttle, only to be told by a Great Justice supply officer that he'd never been deepthroated by a chick that didn't need to stop to breath."
Kotono blinked. Wow. Where'd that come from?
"What'd you do?"
After all, she'd seen what Jet could do, and in the back of Kotono's mind there'd always been those little revenge fantasies.
Jet answered with a wry smile. "I didn't even realise it until I talked to Alex who was in the Gruppe with me and she was like, 'First time?'"
Kotono felt herself giggle at the idea of Jet being so naïve. A momentary blush heated the cyber's cheeks, a spark flashing in her eyes. That'd been something real.
"I'm actually surprised anyone would try that with you." she said, before realising that she really shouldn't have been. "Men really are shameless,"
A little sympathy drew a faint smile from Jet, and the faintest glimmer of a light in her eyes
"That sense of betrayal is common to all who call themselves women." Kotono continued. "It doesn't matter what age it happens at. It's one of the shared experiences that sets us apart."
"I used to be one of them." Jet took a breath, looking down at her crossed legs. "The Wave eventually washed away that part of me but, at the time I hadn't realised it yet. I still felt male - even with these hips." The chair squeaked in pain as she highlighted her exagreated figure. "I guess men changed that. Made me feel like something else."
Jet's armour likely meant she'd never really felt threatened by men. Kotono had the sense not to bring that up. It occurred to her that, perhaps, it might be the reason why Jet kept the armour.
"I can meet you in Kandor when the hearing's over, if you're alone," Jet offered.
"Oh, Daryl's coming with me," said Kotono, brightly. "I've arranged a date for her too - with a cop."
She'd already gotten her phone out of her pocket to show off his profile before she spotted an expression on Jet's face like the child left as last pick on sports day.
"That's fine," said Jet.
"Hey, I'm here," a voice interrupted. "We going?"
Summoned by the sound of her name, Daryl stood there, with a backpack slung over her shoulder. A flash of anger heated Kotono's face.
"After this long? And that's what you're wearing"
Daryl answered with a playful scowl. Jet glanced at both of them
It took a lot of effort, to look like you didn't put any effort into deciding what you wore. The right jeans with the tear in right place, the right leather jacket with artificial patina that spoke to an age it didn't have, and a freshly printed t-shirt, machine-bleached to look like she might really have bought it at the band's last concert before the lead singer ate a shotgun slug.
"At least I don't shop for clothes at Gateway 2000."
Feigning injury, Kotono placed a hand on a fresian-patterned jumper at least two sizes too large for her, before rewarding with a smile. A few gentle barbs helped hide the real things that bothered, like a sort of acupuncture.
"You look well,"
"Thanks," said Daryl, She held up a hand to show off the tanned skin of her fingers. "It still feels weird. But I feel good. More like a person I chose to be,"
Tanned skin, red eyes and white hair and all.
Kotono scowled at her "We're choosing to be late."
Daryl flash her a grin, waving it off with a bat of her hand. "Relax. We've plenty of time."
"Enjoy," said Jet. It rang just a little hollow. She knew what she was supposed to say. Even though her heart wasn't it.
Kotono had already gotten herself to her feet. She thought, maybe, they might make it if they didn't have any problems with getting a landing slot at Kandor Spaceport.
On of the stations engineer's ran up, stopping a moment to catch her breath. Kotono felt something familiar about the tabby catgirl, but couldn't place what. A familiar stranger, like most of the blow-ins from the last few months.
"Oh, hey Jet," she wheezed. "We've been trying to find you. We're going to have to take TG-1 offline."
The cyber looked to Kotono for relief. Unfortunately, Kotono had plans to be somewhere else. They hadn't really spoken in nearly six months. What could she expect? You needed to talk to people, instead of burying yourself in your work.
Ultimately, the decision was Jet's to make. Go back to work, or look after herself? Kotono already knew exactly what Jet would do.
–7–
Jet’s eyes scanned the Crystal Tokyo Courtroom, the cyber feeling like an animal caught in a trap.
The room had been built to create a sense of unchanging eternity, to impress in it the authority of millenia, even if those millenia had yet to come. The precedent of the next ten thousand years would be set on that marbelled crystal floor.
Crystal Tokyo existed in the Millenia of deep time. The columns supported the ceiling had been formed from single, solid pieces of Venusian crystal, tinted a cherry-blossom shade by fading filters on the lights. Flashes of copper and verdigris marbelled the ceiling above
It reminded Jet of a bleaching coral reef – an eternal fossil.
Frigga had life and colour, and vibrance. It might wash away the moment the climate shifted, but it still existed in the momentary now.
The words spoken in that room would echo through eternity.
The Queens Councils stood in their full court regalia. Between the Barristers and the Judge, Jet assumed the quantity of curls in the wig was some sort of rank marking.
It all seemed so bizarre.
As if the law had been reduced to a collection of wizard’s spells and arcane precedent, rather than something accessible to the common fan.
Jet hated it. Jet bit her lip. Jet stuck to the script.
Jet had to remind herself that, on some level, she attended by choice. She chose to be a part of this . This was the price of being around people and being a part of society.
This is not personal. This is all theatrical.
She wore her Great Justice awards on a Sam Browne belt across her chest, polished to a high shine. She hadn’t worn them in over a decade. Now they became part of the theatre. Jet Jaguar, Heroine of Great Justice.
Jet, the Good Person.
Even as her mouth worked through the statements prepared between her Solicitor and Barrister, she couldn’t help but feel that if they’d known the truth about how she’d gotten half of those medals, they might have a different idea.
There were some truths the world was not meant to know.
--
A cup of coffee steamed in Jet’s hands. She stared into the darkness in the cup, fighting against a building sense of revulsion. Her body fought against the idea of putting anything in her mouth.
Great Justice ran on coffee. Jet ran on booster packs. She settled herself onto a solid crystal bench.
Her barrister, Rivera, dropped onto the bench with a sigh, still in her full Court-Dress, wig and all.
“That went well,” she said.
Jet glanced away from her coffee.
“You sound surprised.”
“Well, we have been working together for the last four months,” she said.
Jet’s gaze returned to her reflection, knowing exactly what Rivera meant.
“It’s been a difficult year,” she said.
Saying it out loud in an otherwise quiet waiting room seemed to crystallise it. The weight of it all settled on her shoulders.
“We’ve stuck to the message and it’s starting to sink in.”
Jet took a breath. She still couldn’t bring herself to drink. Her stomach turned at the idea.
“Frigga is a small settlement in the Belt, doing it’s best in difficult circumstances,” she said. “The necessary crimes of the weak, are easier to excuse than the reaction of the strong.”
“People sympathise with the weak,” said Rivera.
Jet gave up on ever bringing herself to take a drink, setting the coffee down on the bench beside her.
“It helps that I’ve never felt so damned powerless.”
“Being part of civilisation means submitting to its rules.” Rivera said. She looked at Jet. “For someone used to working outside those rules, I can see how that would be uncomfortable.”
Jet put a hand on one of the medals on her belt – a particularly gaudy and shiny one.
“I did what I had to do in Jusenkyou, and they gave me this,” she said. Jet took a breath. “I did what I had to do on Frigga, and here we are.”
“Context,” said Rivera. “Is for Queens.”
---
---
Jet slept for the first time in months - A.C’s estimate had been off by a factor of 6. Jet woke with a thundering headache, a vague memory of a dream involving a naked A.C. Peters getting annoyed at having to wait for her in a secret underwater Europan base, and a hundred notifications begging for her attention, some of which had already resolved themself once people realised she wouldn’t answer.
The house hadn’t been cleaned in months, a layer of dust coating the timber surfaces. Not eating had kept the dishes from multiplying. Not having anything to clean, saved time as well.
Aside from the footprints on the floor, the house simply looked abandoned. Ford’s bedroom still had its bed unmade from the last time she’d slept in it - a year before. Everything else had been taken when she’d Gafiated. Mackie’s room still waited for him to return from the last semester at Nekomi. It looked like a bombsite, with worn clothes strewn about the floor, mingling with the wreckage of various madboy toys and a well worn copy of Intron Depot No. 1. Mackie, for the time being, didn’t exist anymore.
The whole space felt empty - dead.
Nothing lived there. The drain traps had dried off, letting the smell of the sewers beneath fill the house. The floorboards had begun to split where her footsteps had worn through the varnish, bare wood turning pale and silver. Most of the doorhandles had broken off. The locks on many doors had been wrenched from their frames.
Kipplisation had set in hard in her home.
Even the Highway Star had started to leak its fluids onto the floor beneath it. Jet suspected the engine had begun to corrode inside. It’d need new irons at the very least to get it running again.
She got herself another booster pack from the fridge, clipped it to her waist and allowed it to charge her body back up with all the nutrients a combat cyborg could need to keep going. She mixed in a bit of her own wavemix.
It didn’t hit like it used to, evapourating inside her and leaving her feeling empty inside.
Kippleisation could affect people too, she guessed.
Jet took a breath and opened her mind to her email accounts, allowing her muse filter it down to the most important items.
Seteshang Psyche would trade under the table for water, oxygen, and a shipment of ore to meet a contract. Jet wondered if they knew she’d been there before, before the Canturbury mining group moved in.
Jet wondered if the whole fictional Innerworld and Belterworld dynamic had infected the wave, and caused the issues between Frigga and Venus. Maybe if she had the time she’d watch the bloody series, or read the books, she’d understand better.
Lun would be returning from her charter with the Tsoukalos Institute for Extraterrestrial Archaeology within the week, after a quick stop to go ice-fishing in the Oort cloud.
Tech’ had figured out what caused the leak in the water reserves and applied the technical hammer to a sticking relief valve before clearing a few loose filter beads from the pilot line.
Marsden agreed to a meeting to hash out some of the details of the ore sale. Her Majesty’s government subsidies turned any money they got for the extra rock into profit.
Stingray Motor Engineering began to wake up, demanding more of Sylia’s time. Three suppliers needed a kick. A corporate customer needed a hug.
An emergency meeting begged for her attendance. Boeing had accepted the SCHMU’d part samples they’d sent. The old Fed-Ex Death Cruisers got a stay of execution, as new rudder power control valves could be printed as completed assemblies, seals and all. A new line of revenue opened up.
An hour of her day would be given over to a marketing meeting where, again, it would be suggested that Sylia make an appearance for the public launch of a new project.
Sylia Stingray hadn’t shown her face in person in months and people had started to wonder. The techbros had started to wonder if she’d begun to hide from their trolling after she’d dared profane before the altar of the Dark Lord Musk.
Fuck ‘em.
Jet had her suspicions about what they really hated about Sylia Stingray.
One more message arrived.
The Galaxy Railroad regrets to say that they could not move the core modules without handwaving them into the consist. Anything that large would break the drive field. It broke the suspension of disbelief that kept the whole thing rolling.
Jet felt something hot and liquid pop inside her mind
“After have the plans for six fucking months. After saying you could do it for six fucking months you finally fucking figure it out a week after John Henry starts cutting fucking steel.”
Her muse translated it into something more polite and fired it back before her voice had finished ringing off the walls. A moment later, she heard the crash of something hitting the ground behind her.
She blinked
“Oh fuck,”
The entire kitchen had been destroyed. The fridge had crashed into the cupboards, then through the wall behind into the hallway. It took her a moment to comprehend that she’d just thrown it. Followed by the understanding that she’d have to fix all of it by herself.
“Oh fuck,” she said again.
All she had to do was stop.
Just. Stop.
Just like Ford told her to.
Just like she wished the universe would do. Just Stop and leave her alone.
Jet paced the floor, pinned between her obligations, her responsibilities and the reality that the only way her body could see out of it was to drive her to the point that she imploded, or had some unfortunate accident that’d leave everyone shrugging their shoulders and going ‘ Well, that was expected’. The brightest stars burnout fastest. Lets hope she finds the peace in death that she didn’t find in life.
Another message pinged through her mind, one from the barristers on Venus. They’d finished preparing for the tribunal, sending the final documents for her to review while they slept.
Get cleaned up. Look healthy, fresh and ‘good’. Show off the silverware. Try to show up looking like the hearing matters.
Just stopping would be so much easier if the universe would let her. In twelve hours, the tribunal on Venus began. For the barristers, it began tomorrow morning. For her, it’d be the end of the day.
Jet longed to just give the entire universe a piece of her mind, tell ‘em to fuck off, put up with it and get the fuck over it, whatever it was.
They all seemed so damned happy.
Jet felt anything but. Jet couldn’t tell what she felt beyond being - empty. Jet took a breath. She’d promised Ford she wouldn’t hurt herself. Something in the back of her mind probably didn’t feel compelled to follow that.
While Venus slept, the full technical details of Frigga’s reactor project would launch. Everything they’d agreed to share would dump on the web. Her solicitors knew it’d be coming.
Only the critical piece of the puzzle would be missing. But after a year of mush and half-truths, something concrete would flip the narrative. Everyone would know and they’d be happy, even if they didn’t have that last little piece of the jigsaw.
They’d be satisfied enough to keep from looking for that last fragment.
Within the hour, her head would explode with messages from bloggers and journalists looking for the personal answer. For the what, for the why, for the exuberant press-release telling the ‘verse exactly how awesome the three largest fission reactors in history would be. For the smiling photograph about how proud they were to be a part of the whole endeavour.
Jet felt her body revolt against the possibility, a sense of dread crawling beneath her armour.
It couldn’t be stopped.
And then came the hearing, and more questions.
Jet closed her network interfaces. All connections refused.
A flash of anxiety followed, the dread fear that she would miss something important. Every synapse flared with the urge to re-open them, just in case something had happened in those last few microseconds.
Someone in Crystal Titusville might’ve reposted that bloody meme featuring herself, A.C., and the final punchline ‘The Combat Cyborg we have at home’. And, of course, the flamewar would begin as even Jet had supporters.
She took a breath.
The interfaces stayed closed. Paying any attention to either side would scorch the brain.
–
RACOON FIREARMS .440 CORBON LUCIFER HAWK CUSTOM.
The engravings still shone bright. The blackened finish had worn off the edges over the years, highlighting all the switchgear. The grip had been cracked and crushed by her fingers.
“Racoon Firearms?” said the tech, turning the weapon over in his hands. “Never heard of them.”
He’d been the only gun-tech that sold a Desert Eagle - one of dozens of the garagistes using the war to try become another Whistler. Jet only knew him as Kendo. Jet doubted anyone else remembered him or cared that he ever existed. His profile on The Gun Jesus website was a redlink.
“He was based on Crystal Osaka.” Said Jet.
The day she went to pick it up, had been a hell of a day.
“Sorry,” said the tech. “This has had a lot of rounds through it.” He racked the slide back and locked it in place, peering into the gas ports. “So that’s why they used a Desert Eagle - it’s been fitted with some form of self-adjusting gas regulator - like a battle rifle.”
“It was the only pistol that’d self-compensate for atmospheric pressure.”
Only one she could afford anyway. And magnum revolvers took too long to reload.
“A rocket-valve system like a Whistler MPAW would’ve been so much simpler,” said the tech with mild derision. He released the slide catch and let it slam forward with a hard, metallic clack that threatened to sever a trapping finger and earning a raised eyebrow.
“With tungsten-core rounds, this thing was the only way we could pop helmets, without bringing a BAR,” explained Jet.
Browning Automatic Rifle. Or at least, pattern replicas. Old technology, but full-auto with 30-06 couldn’t be argued with. The tech looked at her like she’d been talking about muskets, or maybe rocks and slings. Not a patch on a dual-sector auto-electric railgun shooting sixty steel bb’s a second.
“This might take a couple of weeks if we have to make new parts.” he said.
Jet felt herself give a relieved smile. “That’s fine. I won’t need it for a month or two anyway.”
It might’ve taken Ford a couple of days, if she’d still been around, but having it go away for a while didn’t seem like a bad idea after all - especially considering the damage she’d done to her own home.
The tech locked the slide open with a yellow, numbered tag. He broke one half off and handed it to Jet as her docket.
“Don’t lose that or we can’t give it back to you,” he warned.
Jet gave him a look for a moment, half wondering if she shouldn’t dare him to try and enforce it. Both gun and owner would be fairly obvious in any world with common sense.
“Let me know when it’s ready,” she said
“Like I said, a couple of weeks at least if anything needs to be machined.”
She watched it join a rack of local-built .22 flechette rifles.
“There’s no rush on it,” she said. “No Rush at all.”
Jet stepped outside, and found herself on the station’s main concourse. Two years ago, it’d been a dead and rusting hulk. Now it buzzed with life, dozens of people milling about. Some wore industrial overalls, with high-visibility flashings across their shoulder. Others, their own private uniform that was half 19th-century military, and half short-skirt and long boots.
Ohtoripunk had become the fashion on Frigga, a revolutionary counterpart to the clean, classical neo-romanesque architecture of the Crystal Millenium.
Archwork which would’ve been grown from solid crystal on Venus, had been wrought and welded from meteoric steel into graceful, skeletonised art-noveau curves. What would’ve been formed from filigree metalwork in Crystal Tokyo, had been blown into electric neon lights, fizzing with energy.
Metal, light and concrete came alive, rather than existing in an eternal indestructible stasis. Bubblegum-pink roses with nuclear green stems framed inside brilliant white strips lit the passageways below.
Kotono’s Phitness Bee gym had a golden bumblebee merrily buzzing between white daisies. When Frigga’d been a mine, it’d been a boardroom for middle managers. The Midoriya Cafe shone a soothing, grassy green. It’d been the staff lunchroom. The Rock and a Hard place bar sparked in an electric blue. It’d once been the HR Department. The cubicles made for good private booths.
The executive boardroom had become a school for the few fen-kinder they had.
Only the general store lived in the same place as it had back when Frigga had been a corporatocracy trying to emulate the Greenwood model. The Original ‘New Bermingham Company’ sign had been restored
The Fellow Travellers had pasted a sign on the wall, warning people it still traded in souls. Justice and Peace suggested taking salary payments in scrip contravened the principals of Social Justice. The Station Council reminded that station scrip didn’t count as taxable income for your monthly dues to the Crown as it was and they were working to keep it that way .
The Company Store saved everyone money on transport costs.
People took it according to their own beliefs, what suited their goals, or what they needed most.
Rose bushes filled planters that had previously been home to monochrome shrubbery manicured to the square and level. Daylighters in the ceiling kept them alive. The diffuser panels had long been lost, throwing sharp black shadows into the corners and sparking hard and bright off glass and metal trims.
The workshop Ford had once worked out of had become the station’s public armoury. The Heavyarms sign had been replaced by the glowing pink outline of a catgirl carrying a sleek shining pistol.
Next door to it, a luscious purple cat beckoned visitors inside for a more intimate and private experience.
One smelled of gunsmoke, metal and oil. The other, of spicy perfumes and menthol aftershaves. Minnie-May Hopkins had taken over both.
Jet took a deep breath and stepped inside the Purple Kitten. Silken drapes flowed across her armour as she stepped into a world of plush fuschia cushions, golden trim and deep, crimson. Thick, luscious carpet the colour of fine wine muffled her footsteps.
The look of surprise Minnie May greeted her with, turned a nervous knot in Jet’s stomach.
“I need some help,” she said, momentarily wishing she could turtle her head into her armour.
“Help?” Jet watched Minnie’s eyes drop to a point just below her legs. “How?”
There were, of course, some obvious difficulties.
“I need to get cleaned up.” Jet said. “It’s very hard for me to get properly clean.” She demonstrated by trying to touch her back.
“Well, we know how to be discreet!” Minnie assured with a bright smile. “And I know just how to help. Room A-2-4 and someone will be right up.”
Another Patron passed by, dressed as Yuri from the Dirty Pair, her tanned skin shining with sweat as bright as her golden battle-bikini.
Jet guessed they weren’t used to walking in heels, or with so much weight up top. Someone trying on a puppet to explore a new identity, or to indulge a private fantasy? Someone who would quickly spread the rumour
The puppetmaster raised a single finger to her lips, making a quiet ‘shsssh’.
Jet matched with a steel finger and a smirk. A mutual secret that caused her to tingle inside. Whomever really lay behind those mahogany eyes thought they had as much to lose by being discovered as Jet did.
A giggle escaped the puppet’s lips, chased by a warm red blush as they realised what they’d just done.
Jet felt a soft smile on her own lips, chased by a momentarily thrill of anticipation and moments fantasisation about breaking out of her armour and giving Yuri a Kei as a cosplay partner.
What would that be like?
She found the door, and pushed it open. Inside, the lights shone harsh and bright, like an operating theater. The air still carried a faint hint of antiseptic, mingled with spiced wildflower and that machine-oil aftertaste Jet would normally have associated with A.C Peter’s workshop.
The walls had been painted a hard, clean titanium white. The floors, a clean, medical blue linoleum intended to be hosed down.
The entire room had been formed from Catgirl Mimetic polymers - adapting to every customer - with a little extra help from a Wizard trying to replicate a Room of Requirement.
Jet heard the shows Followed by fresh menthol aftershave. She turned to face three men, each carved into the image of Olympic perfection.
Jets eyes fell to the muscles first, sharp and chiseled as cut from stone, oiled glistening under the spotlights overhead Followed by the budgies being smuggled in underwear that strained to escape.
Something deep inside her stirred - a little giddy electric thrill that echoed inside the remnant of her body. A little ember that’d long been asleep sparked, flickered and began to smoulder .She felt herself swallow a lump a wave of desire rising inside her.
Wow.
“May?” she sounded her best to sound cross. “Why’d you send the Adoni?”
“I’m busy in person,” the first of the Adoni answered. “The amazons were booked.” said the second. And I pride myself on knowing what my clients want, even if they don’t want to admit it to themselves.” said the third. “Besides, all you need is some help getting cleaned up,” chorused all three.
“You know I’m not into men,” Jet said, firmly.
“You said you prefer women. That’s different” said the first. “So you won’t enjoy a single bit of this then”, said the second, teasing Of course, he gave a roguish toss of his luxurious blonde hair over his shoulder. Her face had turned a hot red. His face had been cast in the mould of female desire, longing to worship her.
It didn’t matter.
They’d already prepared the buckets of warm water, sponges, chamois leather, cloth and turtle wax.
Getting properly cleaned up was intimate work for a cyber such as Jet, and, of all things, Minnie May Hopkins could be counted on to be a professional and not blab about it.
–
Kotono glanced at the screen on her watch. Fifteen minutes to go. Daryl still hadn't shown up. Fifteen minutes and they'd miss their landing slot in Kandor. They''d miss check-in at the hotel.
Her finger tapped on the table. Her packed bags waited on the floor beside her.
-:Nothing fits anymore
She tapped an angry message into her watch.
-:We can get something there
Honestly. Then again, Daryl had never really been the sort for planning things out.
-:Fine. There in fifteen.
Kotono wished her watch could transmit more than messages. She wished to pour her boiling frustration through the screen and strangle the woman on the other side with it.
The thoughts of spending a week on Kandor with someone whose apartment perpetually looked like the aftermath of a Boskone raid began to send chilling fingers crawling up her spine.
On the other hand, going alone to a large city to meet someone she'd only ever spoken with by interwave sounded like the beginning of an episode of True Murder Mysteries.
She glanced down at her watch. The animated clock face seemed to pick up speed. It buzzed three times on her wrist, giving an electronic chime as a warning. Every other phone, watch, or pager in the café triggered simultaneously.
A speaker in the ceiling chirped twice. "Shock Warning. Shock Warning," it said, in flat tone.
A heartbeat later, a ripple shocked across the green tea on the table in front of her. Crockery in the café rattled. A moment after, a drumbeat reverberated through the air. A few of the new arrivals jumped, not used to the warning yet.
Half a kilometre away, they were blasting new chambers for new apartments.
Kotono always offered silent gratitude that they'd chosen to create their own warnings, rather than copy the Japanese ones like had been originally planned.
After a moment's pause, life returned to normal in the Midoriyah café. Kotono glanced again at her watch.
Daryl showed as typing…perpetually typing…considering her response when they were already in a hurry. Kotono forced herself to look elsewhere.
Standing in the concourse opposite the café was something she hadn't seen in a long time.
Jet Jaguar. But polished up clean and shiny for the first time in months. Was she wearing makup?
The idea of turning a double-date into a triple amused, for the few moments it took her to realise she had no idea who or what would be an ideal match for a Jet Jaguar. Or that, a fully armoured combat cyborg would probably end up becoming the centre of attention, leaving both herself and Daryl out in the cold.
A little spear of jealousy killed the idea dead, but her curiosity had been piqued.
"Hey Jet!" Jet answered with a look like she expected to be shot at. Kotono gave a soft smile "There's a free seat."
Jet thought for a few seconds, before allowing the expression on her face to soften. The cyber stepped into the café, picking her way around the patrons with fluid care, before settling down into the chair beside her.
The steel chair creaked a protest at the cyber's weight.
Lavender perfume? Mixed with car polish? What was she planning?
"Another date with Alex?" Jet indicated towards the suitcase at her feet
"We broke up three months ago."
And Jet should've known that, if she'd been paying attention to anyone outside her work
"Sorry," said Jet, momentarily ashamed. "What happened?"
Kotono drew her face into a mask of indignation. "I thought it would fun dating someone who used to be a woman." She huffed, folding her arms. "He cheated on me - the asshole. And then tried to blame it on me by saying I wasn't giving him the intimacy he needed"
And Jet needed to understand how utterly and completely blameless Kotono was in the whole affair.
"Men are all the same?"
It sounded like she was more trying to say what was expected of a female friend in the same situation, rather than what she'd actually felt.
"I really thought he'd remember what that felt like," said Kotono.
Jet gave a shrug "He became a woman's idea of what a man is – good and bad. That's how the wave works sometimes."
Kotono gave her a side glance.
"It does explain some ex-men I know."
Jet consciously pursed her lips into an indignant pout. "You're just jealous of my armoured figure." A flash of a smile showed her true intent. For a heartbeat, it almost felt real.
Kotono extended an arm, making a show of checking her nails. "Some of us prefer to be naturally beautiful and elegant."
Jet took a moment to think. "I am beautiful and elegant."
Something definitely felt forced, like she was trying to play a role, skirting the edge of the uncanny valley/
"I can't imagine you'd have much problem with men anyway."
Both from being a fully armoured combat cyborg and a fully armoured combat cyborg.
Jet raised an eyebrow. "Sylia gets a lot of hate from the Muskfen," she said, in a matter of fact tone. She paused and thought. "My first experience with men from a female perspective was trying to requisition a transport shuttle, only to be told by a Great Justice supply officer that he'd never been deepthroated by a chick that didn't need to stop to breath."
Kotono blinked. Wow. Where'd that come from?
"What'd you do?"
After all, she'd seen what Jet could do, and in the back of Kotono's mind there'd always been those little revenge fantasies.
Jet answered with a wry smile. "I didn't even realise it until I talked to Alex who was in the Gruppe with me and she was like, 'First time?'"
Kotono felt herself giggle at the idea of Jet being so naïve. A momentary blush heated the cyber's cheeks, a spark flashing in her eyes. That'd been something real.
"I'm actually surprised anyone would try that with you." she said, before realising that she really shouldn't have been. "Men really are shameless,"
A little sympathy drew a faint smile from Jet, and the faintest glimmer of a light in her eyes
"That sense of betrayal is common to all who call themselves women." Kotono continued. "It doesn't matter what age it happens at. It's one of the shared experiences that sets us apart."
"I used to be one of them." Jet took a breath, looking down at her crossed legs. "The Wave eventually washed away that part of me but, at the time I hadn't realised it yet. I still felt male - even with these hips." The chair squeaked in pain as she highlighted her exagreated figure. "I guess men changed that. Made me feel like something else."
Jet's armour likely meant she'd never really felt threatened by men. Kotono had the sense not to bring that up. It occurred to her that, perhaps, it might be the reason why Jet kept the armour.
"I can meet you in Kandor when the hearing's over, if you're alone," Jet offered.
"Oh, Daryl's coming with me," said Kotono, brightly. "I've arranged a date for her too - with a cop."
She'd already gotten her phone out of her pocket to show off his profile before she spotted an expression on Jet's face like the child left as last pick on sports day.
"That's fine," said Jet.
"Hey, I'm here," a voice interrupted. "We going?"
Summoned by the sound of her name, Daryl stood there, with a backpack slung over her shoulder. A flash of anger heated Kotono's face.
"After this long? And that's what you're wearing"
Daryl answered with a playful scowl. Jet glanced at both of them
It took a lot of effort, to look like you didn't put any effort into deciding what you wore. The right jeans with the tear in right place, the right leather jacket with artificial patina that spoke to an age it didn't have, and a freshly printed t-shirt, machine-bleached to look like she might really have bought it at the band's last concert before the lead singer ate a shotgun slug.
"At least I don't shop for clothes at Gateway 2000."
Feigning injury, Kotono placed a hand on a fresian-patterned jumper at least two sizes too large for her, before rewarding with a smile. A few gentle barbs helped hide the real things that bothered, like a sort of acupuncture.
"You look well,"
"Thanks," said Daryl, She held up a hand to show off the tanned skin of her fingers. "It still feels weird. But I feel good. More like a person I chose to be,"
Tanned skin, red eyes and white hair and all.
Kotono scowled at her "We're choosing to be late."
Daryl flash her a grin, waving it off with a bat of her hand. "Relax. We've plenty of time."
"Enjoy," said Jet. It rang just a little hollow. She knew what she was supposed to say. Even though her heart wasn't it.
Kotono had already gotten herself to her feet. She thought, maybe, they might make it if they didn't have any problems with getting a landing slot at Kandor Spaceport.
On of the stations engineer's ran up, stopping a moment to catch her breath. Kotono felt something familiar about the tabby catgirl, but couldn't place what. A familiar stranger, like most of the blow-ins from the last few months.
"Oh, hey Jet," she wheezed. "We've been trying to find you. We're going to have to take TG-1 offline."
The cyber looked to Kotono for relief. Unfortunately, Kotono had plans to be somewhere else. They hadn't really spoken in nearly six months. What could she expect? You needed to talk to people, instead of burying yourself in your work.
Ultimately, the decision was Jet's to make. Go back to work, or look after herself? Kotono already knew exactly what Jet would do.
–7–
Jet’s eyes scanned the Crystal Tokyo Courtroom, the cyber feeling like an animal caught in a trap.
The room had been built to create a sense of unchanging eternity, to impress in it the authority of millenia, even if those millenia had yet to come. The precedent of the next ten thousand years would be set on that marbelled crystal floor.
Crystal Tokyo existed in the Millenia of deep time. The columns supported the ceiling had been formed from single, solid pieces of Venusian crystal, tinted a cherry-blossom shade by fading filters on the lights. Flashes of copper and verdigris marbelled the ceiling above
It reminded Jet of a bleaching coral reef – an eternal fossil.
Frigga had life and colour, and vibrance. It might wash away the moment the climate shifted, but it still existed in the momentary now.
The words spoken in that room would echo through eternity.
The Queens Councils stood in their full court regalia. Between the Barristers and the Judge, Jet assumed the quantity of curls in the wig was some sort of rank marking.
It all seemed so bizarre.
As if the law had been reduced to a collection of wizard’s spells and arcane precedent, rather than something accessible to the common fan.
Jet hated it. Jet bit her lip. Jet stuck to the script.
Jet had to remind herself that, on some level, she attended by choice. She chose to be a part of this . This was the price of being around people and being a part of society.
This is not personal. This is all theatrical.
She wore her Great Justice awards on a Sam Browne belt across her chest, polished to a high shine. She hadn’t worn them in over a decade. Now they became part of the theatre. Jet Jaguar, Heroine of Great Justice.
Jet, the Good Person.
Even as her mouth worked through the statements prepared between her Solicitor and Barrister, she couldn’t help but feel that if they’d known the truth about how she’d gotten half of those medals, they might have a different idea.
There were some truths the world was not meant to know.
--
A cup of coffee steamed in Jet’s hands. She stared into the darkness in the cup, fighting against a building sense of revulsion. Her body fought against the idea of putting anything in her mouth.
Great Justice ran on coffee. Jet ran on booster packs. She settled herself onto a solid crystal bench.
Her barrister, Rivera, dropped onto the bench with a sigh, still in her full Court-Dress, wig and all.
“That went well,” she said.
Jet glanced away from her coffee.
“You sound surprised.”
“Well, we have been working together for the last four months,” she said.
Jet’s gaze returned to her reflection, knowing exactly what Rivera meant.
“It’s been a difficult year,” she said.
Saying it out loud in an otherwise quiet waiting room seemed to crystallise it. The weight of it all settled on her shoulders.
“We’ve stuck to the message and it’s starting to sink in.”
Jet took a breath. She still couldn’t bring herself to drink. Her stomach turned at the idea.
“Frigga is a small settlement in the Belt, doing it’s best in difficult circumstances,” she said. “The necessary crimes of the weak, are easier to excuse than the reaction of the strong.”
“People sympathise with the weak,” said Rivera.
Jet gave up on ever bringing herself to take a drink, setting the coffee down on the bench beside her.
“It helps that I’ve never felt so damned powerless.”
“Being part of civilisation means submitting to its rules.” Rivera said. She looked at Jet. “For someone used to working outside those rules, I can see how that would be uncomfortable.”
Jet put a hand on one of the medals on her belt – a particularly gaudy and shiny one.
“I did what I had to do in Jusenkyou, and they gave me this,” she said. Jet took a breath. “I did what I had to do on Frigga, and here we are.”
“Context,” said Rivera. “Is for Queens.”
---
---
![[+]](/images/collapse_collapsed.png "[+]")
SpoilerI love the smell of rotaries in the morning. You know one time, I got to work early, before the rush hour. I walked through the empty carpark, I didn't see one bloody Prius or Golf. And that smell, you know that gasoline smell, the whole carpark, smelled like.... ....speed.
One day they're going to ban them.