Immigration & Customs officials never worked fast. Burt Carlson had passed through them dozens of times when journeying between the dingy space stations out on the edge of the explored galaxy to sniff out the hidden scum. He always thought their creeping, methodical procedures were to find the hiding riff raff. Now he saw that those working at the ports for the most exclusive resort in the known galaxy weren’t any different. Officers examined every arrival’s travel documents and biometrics with a memorized sequence. And even the androids went through the same slow motions to create a similitude of being human. Their language was more polite and their uniforms were better pressed, and other than that they were just like everywhere else.

  He stood with the other arrivals at the spaceport and tried to appear as calm and casual as the rest. He just had to get through without a scene. He figured he could do that with some smooth talking, when needed, and just keeping quiet elsewise. The station officials didn’t want a scene either, and so they would help him to a point. The open, lavish design of the spaceport helped too since it would be easy for them to set up a private conversation with him.

  Most spaceports in the Outers were cramped and spartan. They were designed with the minimum amount of materials and space to fulfill their function. Spaciousness and comfort were luxuries not afforded. But not here. He and the other arrivals were greeted to expansive rooms and halls which were completely free of winding piping and unsightly cable runs. Great marble statues towering over men amplified the sense of grandeur in the spaceport. And many baroque styled paintings and blue flags embroidered with three golden fleur-de-lis occupied considerable wall space. He had never seen so much volume devoted to artistry and pomp. And he wasn’t even in the resort section of the station yet.

  He didn’t completely fit in with the crowd, and neither with the establishment. Le Roi Soleil was a place for money. Most of the arrivals were dressed in fitted suits or ornate dresses. Polished shoes, crafted watches and bracelets, and luxury brand handbags all screamed money. Even the station officials possessed a regal look in their full dress uniforms composed of tricone hats, white wool outer coats, royal blue waistcoat and (for many) copious gold buttons and trim. He stood out easily in a plain shirt and trousers, and then a greatcoat of synthetic fabric. Not that any of that really mattered for his job. The people who he would meet had already memorized his face from his personal file.

  He was glad Sci-Med hadn’t held him up. The station’s doctor handling Paramount duties shuttled out to the transport and performed all the usual immunity introductory therapy and medical examinations while the ship was in que for docking. Being young and in good shape helped out with that, and so did having an excellent file for the alias he was using. But he still credited the station’s Sci-Med with excellent service. Hopefully, he wouldn’t see them again during the visit. It wouldn’t be a scheduled, and routine matter if he did.

  The smell of coffee and pastries caught his attention after disembarking the ship. He ignored it at first but, given the slow progress, now walked over to the nearby barista and purchased a blonde roast. It was the first time he had ever seen such a thing, and its color had stood out among the incredible variety available. He put one spoon of sugar in and then gave it a taste. It was excellent – and he soon felt it had quite a caffeine punch too.

  Travelers from the Core had often told them that the selection of coffee available in the Outers was poor. He had always thought there was some truth in that but those saying it were mostly affirming how superior the Core’s denizens were in culture. But as he savored the sweet, mild taste with hints of citrus he began to lean more to their view. The Core had greater variety for certain, and he would form an opinion on the quality of the other varieties as he sampled them throughout the coming weeks. Maybe even months, considering the scope of his assignment. He would just write up the coffee as a business expense to be reimbursed. His employers would understand that – so long as they weren’t outlandishly extravagant.

  Le Roi Soleil wasn’t like anything else in the Outers. It was an exorbitant decadency crafted for those with more wealth than they could ever use. It was a means to flaunt great wealth and mingle with the galactic elite, and possibly even more so than any place within the Core. Prices mirrored the net worth of the inhabitants. He would need to be careful with money even though the pockets funding his investigation were themselves pretty deep.

  He took a seat in the sprawling atrium to await his turn at inprocessing. He linked his phone into the public net and streamed a newspaper to get a feel of the current happenings. The first page contained a prominent headline announcing a merger of tech titans – no surprise that business was a prominent focus. He set a search for “crime” to get to his business.

  A news headline describing the results of a deep dive into possible suspects of the Angel Harris crime empire captured his eye. The caption was both intriguing and yet expected. All of this ‘perfection’ that Le Roi Soleil showed off had to be just skin deep. People were the same all over. And you would find those ruled by their darker nature everywhere. The cesspool of villainy was only better hidden here.

  A young man with a shaved head and east Asian features, and wearing a lieutenant’s insignia, interrupted him. “Monsieur Hancock?” the man said to get his attention.

  Burt turned off his phone with a swipe of his finger and looked up at the officer. The man had addressed him by his faux identity “Jack Hancock” and either believed it or was discreet enough not to blow his cover. “That’s me,” he said while slipping his phone in a coat pocket. “What can I do for you, officer?”

  The officer swiped through files on his tablet while speaking. “I apologize for bothering you, monsieur, but our office needs clarification on some of your travel paperwork.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s nothing serious,” the officer promised with a warm smile, “just a matter of process and procedure. If you come to the back office then I’ll handle your affairs and have you on your way within ten minutes.” He pointed toward a hallway door in the corner of the room. “It’s not far.”

  Burt nodded, preferring their inevitable chat to be in private. He grabbed his tote and followed the officer to an office a short way down the nearby hall. The officer opened a room to him and had him sit in front of a large table where two other officers were already waiting for him. One of them was standing with his arms folded and dressed in plainclothes. The other was seated and wearing a very ornate uniform that identified him as holding a high rank within the Maréchaussée – the main police and military force of the station. A large oil painting of King Louis XIV covered most of the wall behind them. The immigration officer then shut the door and took a seat with them.

  “Good to meet you, Burt,” the regal looking officer said, “I’m Lieutenant-Colonel Justin Aubert of the Maréchaussée, and my plainclothes colleague is Capitaine Andre Pasha. Lieutenant Benjamin Cousineau represents Immigration and Customs.” He extended a handshake to Burt, and afterwards leaned back in his seat, put a cigar in his mouth, and lit it.

  He held the humidor toward him. “Would you like one? I want this to be a friendly talk, and I promise these are the best you’ll ever find in the Outers.” The plainclothes Maréchaussée officer remained standing in the corner, but the immigration official adjusted his chair for comfort.

  A friendly – but mandatory – talk. There was a hidden threat to it. They were showing that they had so much power on the station that they could revel in extravagances (and waste oxygen) while performing mere office work.

  Burt decided that he may as well indulge them. He took a cigar from the humidor, tore off the end, and lit it. The aroma had already filled the room, and he took several long puffs, coughing slightly, to get a direct hit. The colonel’s confidence in the cigar was no vain boast; the taste and smell marked elegance, and he thought he could enjoy such things in time – if he could ever afford them. He would better fit in after this meeting at the very least, since the lingering aroma hinted at money. He pointed at the other officers. “What about your friends?”

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  The immigration officer shook his head, “Smoking is only allowed on breaks for us.” The other plainclothes cop merely smiled and flashed his nictitating membranes. He was a replicant – a bioengineered hominid with superior physical attributes. And he looked to be both tough and serious as far as replicants went. “I’m alright,” he said, “I feel more like talking then smoking.” His words came out like a hiss.

  Burt crossed his legs and took another puff of the cigar while considering the air of the room. The officers had proved to him that they had studied his file and started a good cop, bad cop strategy with the cigar offer. He momentarily thought about playing dumb but decided against it. They knew that he knew. Better to be direct and get it over with. “How can I help you, gentlemen?”

  “Monsieur Carlson,” Lieutenant-Colonel Aubert said with a warm smile, “we’re here to help you.” He took several relaxed puffs and then spoke again while breathing out. “The case you are working on must certainly be one of delicacy. I’d like to hear about your investigation in case I can provide you with helpful information or to warn you of things that might cause you difficulties. The Maréchaussée possess a wealth of information.”

  Difficulties could only come from two sources – the targets of his investigation and the Maréchaussée. He knew the former would try to obstruct him, and he would have to fight through that obstruction. They certainly knew that too. But he chose to pretend to be oblivious to the idea that they would hinder his work. He took a big sip of his coffee and then made a satisfied sigh – embellishing it beyond what was natural. “Are there things that would cause me difficulties?”

  “Plenty,” the plainclothes cop said. He pressed his large hands against the desk and leaned over to Burt with a cold glare. “Many of the residents here have more top-tier lawyers at their beck and call than you know. They’ll make my life painful if you make them mad. And then I’ll find you and make your life painful.”

  Burt took another puff of the cigar and suppressed his urge to smirk. The threat of finding him was real. Replicants worked very well teamed with dogs – the replicants were smarter but the dogs slightly better with picking up a trail. And only slightly. Disguises wouldn’t work well against the Colonel’s team. But they didn’t want to operate on threats alone. And now the other one will shift the conversation back to friendly.

  “Not intentionally,” Colonel Aubert pleaded. “But my friend is right. If the expensive lawyers are breathing down on us, then we will be forced to abide by policy and procedure. But if you conduct your work in a delicate manner, then you won’t attract any notice and we can extend you the leeway to complete your task efficiently. And I want you to understand that we want you to handle all the matters you’ve been sent here for. The Maréchaussée prides its work in maintaining Le Roi Soleil as the foremost place for both business and pleasure.”

  Burt looked in his eyes, wondering whether he was asking him to follow all their laws and regulations or just to get his work done ‘quick and dirty’ (as long as out of sight) and catch an outbound flight at the soonest possibility. Lieutenant-Colonel Aubert had a good poker face, however, and his mannerisms didn’t reveal anything besides his desire for friendliness (for his own benefit) and a true enjoyment for the cigar.

  Burt deeply inhaled the warm, sweet-smelling smoke and let it come back out with his words together with a subtle cough. “Thank you for looking out for me, but I’m confused about something.”

  “How can I clear that up?” the Colonel asked. His pale blue eyes fixed on him, warm and lively and he had a pleasant, wide smile.

  You can really make it look sincere; I’ll give you that. “The case I’m on is part of a business association. It’s confidential, of course, and I can’t disclose much. But the people I’m investigating freely joined a business partnership for their own benefit, and which requires them to abide by certain ethical policies to maintain that association. And the policing and reviewing activities are clearly specified. So, nothing I do here as part of my work could be construed as harassment.”

  The plainclothes lieutenant was about to speak but Colonel Aubert cut him off with a motion of his hand. “In a perfect universe, Monsieur Carlson. But they may have agreed for you conduct investigative activities which are nevertheless illegal here on this station. And, if they did forget about such conflicts when signing for your authority, then their legal teams still will have the leverage to get us involved.

  I don’t want that. That’s bad for you, it’s bad for the legal team you work for, it’s bad for my law enforcement team, and it’s bad for the happiness of the residents here. So, if you can find a way to complete your investigative requirements without breaching our laws, or even appearing to…” He paused for another puff on his cigar before finishing. “We would all win. Be discreet. And be sure of your actions – don’t make a mistake. I’ll happily take a call from you at any time.”

  Discreet. He couldn’t promise that all of his activities would be so. Business investigations were as dirty as the criminal ones. Those at the top of society just mired themselves in a different kind of dirt than the street crooks did. But he himself would never have the appearance of behaving indiscreet or illegal. And maybe (the Colonel’s face was hard to read) that was all he was asking. “That sounds like the best thing for everyone. Is there anything else you need from me?”

  “Did you bring any weapons?” the Immigration Officer asked. “Including nonlethal varieties?”

  He shook his head. “All my work will be with gentlemanly types. Not needed for this kind of case.”

  They seemed happy with that response. Even Andre relaxed his posture a slight bit.

  “Equipment for surveillance?” the Immigration Officer then added.

  Of course. He simply nodded.

  “Normally, there’s a waiting period for that too,” Colonel Aubert said. “But I’ll sign for this meeting being sufficient grounds to waive the usual internal review. You may take all your belongings with you after passing them through Immigration’s scans. It was a pleasure meeting you, Monsieur Carlson. And I hope you devote some time to pleasure while you’re here. There’s nothing in existence like Le Roi Soleil.”

  Burt agreed to enjoy some of the amenities while he shook their hands and followed the Immigration Officer out to a scan station away from the general crowd. He still had to wait for several minutes while the man drafted the appropriate documents, but it wasn’t a burden. He had great coffee and a fine cigar. That’s living the high life as far as the Outers of the early 24th century is concerned.

  Once processed, he rejoined the other arrivals in the cleared section of the Immigration section. The crowd knew that they would soon be able to indulge in the station’s many luxuries and were far livelier. Usually people in the great cylinder habitats only showed escapism. True excitement was rare. He soon boarded his assigned elevator to take him the long way down to surface level. The PA gave what he assumed was the usual greeting.

  “Bienvenue dans l'Empire colonial fran?ais. Votre h?te, Sa Majesté le Roi Louis XIV, vous offre sa plus aimable hospitalité. Nous espérons que vous apprécierez votre séjour au Le Roi Soleil.”

  He only understood a little bit of French, but that didn’t matter. It was an act, mere pretending, and his focus was real business. Le Roi Soleil was something of a sham; there was no French Empire. And King Louis XIV had been dead for centuries. But the McKendree cylinder was the physical embodiment of the mythologized finesse and luxury of the old empire and its Bourbon dynasty. And every bit of that was immediately seen.

  But his focus was a very real man dwelling somewhere within the megastructure. A man with associations and secrets carefully hidden. And he would uncover them one and all. By hook or by crook.

  The whole elevator, which was more like a room than a traditional elevator, was made of transparent materials. The entire majesty of Le Roi Soleil appeared before him. The great lightbar ‘above him’ stretched the whole length of the cylinder and appeared to go on forever. Great Eiffel Tower groups rose from the ground level far below to hold it in place. And that earth gravity, gardened ground layer far below stretched on for nine thousand kilometers and provided the inhabitants with a greater surface area than the North American continent back on Earth.

  It was a wondrous view from what he estimated to be at least 400km high and late morning light. He could make out cities spread out within the enormous structure, surrounded by great forests and expansive fields. Several clusters of lakes, each resembling the Great Lakes from Earth, broke up the land terrain. And there were even a few ranges of small mountains. All beneath swirling clouds. Nothing he had seen compared with it in beauty.

  But it was as much a problem as a wonder. His quarry could hide anywhere. And they knew the land. They certainly had also preprepared means of covering their trail.

  And he had sold himself for the job by promising to complete the job faster than others could. It was a lot to think about while he rode the elevator down. At least it was a beautiful view like nothing else in the universe, and which he would likely only see this once in life.

  They knew he was coming. But they didn’t know his plan and that he would have a partner. They didn’t know about him pre-preparing a workplace, and they would certainly underestimate his competency. They always did. What harm could a “normie” from the backwater parts of the Outers really do?

  They would see in time.