How I Got Here: "Walter"
21 Mar 2023Columbuss
Commander Justin Estok. Stardate 21-MAR-3309."If you're waiting for Jimmy, he ain't comin'".
The closer you get to the center of a rotating space station, the more temporary everything becomes. Further down, toward the crowded streets of these inverted, spinning cities, or out on the more luxurious habitation rings, with their imported trees, grass and artificial sky, things are more permanent. From the artificial pavement, to the lift tubes and even the people, everything has it's place. Everything has been carefully designed to make people comfortable enough to stay. The inner workings of the station, all of it behind the scenes and taken for granted, exist here to make it possible for people to ignore them. Behind every wall and underneath every footstep of the crowd, millions of miles of pipe and wiring provide the material necessary to keep everything where it belongs.
Somewhere, deep inside this spinning behemoth's exoskeleton, an atmospheric processor recycles CO2, transforming it back into breathable air. Filters inside root out bacteria and pathogens as people mill about their daily lives, oblivious to how this unseen piece of hardware keeps them alive. Inside an apartment block, countless residences use recycled water derived from what used to be human waste and refuse. Every glass of water you've ever drank on board a station, every shower you've ever taken, every drop has seen the insides of countless human bodies before it got to yours.
Taking a lift up from here and heading toward the center, every floor becomes more "short term".
Four floors down from the flight deck, administrators responsible for monitoring the inner workings of the station meander about their daily tasks. These people, they work on scheduled contracts. Some long term shifts can last a few months. Shorter shifts can be only a few days. All of them eventually run their course and the employees head back to the surface of whatever planet the station happens to orbit, passing by their replacements on their way out.
Another floor up, warrant officers move shipments of freight from one storage facility to another. Off loaded cargo comes in while outbound cargo moves to freight elevators and back up to the surface to be loaded onto whatever freighter is waiting to take it away. A few more floors toward the center and even the gravity isn't consistent. Not quite low-G, but not far off, up here, every foot step makes a sound. Up here, the metal on metal contact of mag boots and the floor creates the backdrop to the symphony of interstellar commerce. If you've ever wondered what money sounds like, this is what it sounds like.
Sitting in the waiting area of the pilots concourse, I watch as the lifts open and close. Some open up, letting people out, one or two at a time, while others seal shut, closing it's occupants inside. I watch as a pilot disembarks from the lift, removing his flight gloves. He heads toward the pilot's bar behind me, passing by a woman in a black flight suit, looking at a data pad and then back up to the wall terminal, which displays the word "Departures" in bold letters above some more print too far away for me to make out. Two rows back, a man shifts in his seat with his eyes closed and his arms crossed, his head resting on a backpack sitting in the spot next to him. Up here, everything is either coming or going. Up here, these people, they only exist between the time that I can see them and the time that they disappear from view.
Every few minutes, I turn to look over my shoulder, back toward the pilot's bar. The last time I was here, I didn't leave alone. The last time I was here, I left some loose ends. This time, I was here to tie them up.
"Any sign of him yet Boss?" Brandson says through the comm in my ear.
"Not yet kid," I say back. "How's our friend?"
"He's alright. Still asleep. For as long as I've known him, Finn's been tough. He'll get through this. He just needs to recover."
"How are his vitals?"
"Stable. Oxygen levels are back to normal. Internal bleeding is under control now that we have some gravity to work with."
"Good. Keep your communicator on. I'll let you know when I make contact."
"Don't kill him boss," he says back, before I reach up, silencing the comm.
Turning to look over my shoulder again, I feel the weight of the bench shift as someone sits down next to me. I can see the person cross their legs in the periphery of my vision as I gaze back toward the bar. The flicking sound of the person thumbing at a lighter echo's in my ears before the smell of smoke runs up my nostrils.
"Waiting for someone?"
Turning back toward the voice, I see the weathered face of a man who looks like he's smoked one too many of those cigarettes. It's the kind of face that says "divorced" without you having to ask. To look at him, you can tell there used to be a sturdy body underneath his now oversized jacket. From the mustache above the cigarette hanging between his lips, down past his slacks to the magnetized loafers on his feet, you can tell this man is the product of a bygone era.
"Excuse me?" I say back.
"If you're waiting for Jimmy," the man says, still not making eye contact, "He ain't comin'".
I reach inside my jacket, gripping the pistol handle hanging at my side before the man reaches over, putting his hand on my chest.
"Relax kid," he says. "I'm not one of them."
"Who the fuck are you then? Where's Jimmy?!" I ask, still not pulling my hand from my pistol.
"I'm the guy who knows who you are and who knows where Jimmy is. But don't worry," he says, removing his hand and pulling the cigarette from his mouth while exhaling a puff of smoke, "he's safe."
"Are you a cop? Am I under arrest?"
"Am I a 'cop'?" he says with a chuckle, before dropping the cigarette and stamping it out with his shoe. "I guess you could say that... And no, you're not under arrest. Not yet. But that can change... if you don't cooperate."
"If I'm not under arrest, then what' stopping me from getting up and walking away?"
"Maybe this will," he says, before pulling out a data pad and tapping it. The screen illuminates, showing the entrance to the same bar that's behind the bench we're sitting on. In the corner, a date is shown indicating the video is from a few days before. On the screen, people walk in and out of the bar. A pair of pilots mill about the entrance before two more people walk out. One is Shorty. The other, is me.
Reaching into his jacket pocket with the other hand, he pulls out a badge and drops it on the datapad screen just as the video begins to loop back around.
“The name’s Walter Tanberg. Detective… Walter Tanberg and I think you and I need to have a little talk.”