Taking a mental health day. It's not something that should be stigmatized, even in a time when slicing and splicing one's brain is merely uncommon, rather than rare. But then, maybe taking the first day of work as a mental health day is stretching it a bit.

  I suppose being an independent contractor means I get to set my own hours. Sure, being self-employed has benefits; that's not the issue. I have my flaws, and the problem driving me crazy isn't one of them. It's the little things that make us crazy. Little, like the little problem of my PI license. Or rather, the fact that my weapons certifications were rescinded due to, and I quote, 'a history of untreated mental illness.'

  Cartwright really screwed me when he gave me a medical suspension. I imagine it was intentional, a little twist of the knife. It's ironic that a disciplinary suspension wouldn't have flagged my application, unless it was weapon-related misconduct. Oh, but a medical suspension? No, that's a problem for the licensing board. I could take bribes, steal evidence, beat a spacer into a coma; all that, and my weapon's certs would still be valid.

  But because I resigned before any sort of appeal of the suspension was heard, as far as the licensing board is concerned, I'm an unstable former cop who quit in lieu of a medical discharge. My argument that it's only half-true doesn't seem to be very persuasive in my pings with the field office on Ganymede, so now I have the joy of appealing the decertification. After two hours of filling out the same information across two-dozen forms, I'm a tad frustrated.

  And what does this mean for my career? Well, it means that although I'm licensed as an independent private investigator, I do not have authorization to carry any projectile, plasma, or combustion-based weapons. It essentially means I'm restricted to tier one and two 'less-than-lethal' weapons. I technically can't even carry a taser, given their lethality to certain synth models. I'm legally limited to a stun-stick, chemical deterrents, and non-lethal hunter-killer AIs. In other words, I'm practically unarmed.

  It also means the plasma rifle hidden in the Chimera's engine room is not only unregistered, but one I can't legally register and carry myself. The cherry on top? I'm stuck negotiating with the dumbest software-peddler I've ever dealt with for anything useful. Or possibly he's playing dumb because he's selling stolen merch.

  The heavily tattooed man behind the counter boasts a shaved head and augments over his eyes. The augments glow red as he snaps his fingers at me. "Yo, don't know what to tell you sugar, I can't sell you that shize."

  I give the man a brittle smile, crossing my arms over my chest. "Don't call me sugar," I say, looking him up and down. He's wearing a thick polymer-fiber jacket, and I'm trying to decide if he's hiding a weapon under it or he thinks it's cool. "And I don't need a weapons cert for a class two 'biter' hunter-killer. I should know, I used to be a scouting officer,"

  He snickers at me, augments shifting to glow blue. "Can't have been a good one, if you don't know. Class two is lethal," he says, waving two fingers.

  "No, they are 'sometimes lethal'," I explain. "If you register their code base, make sure they're neutered, they're legal."

  He shakes his head, eyewear scoping in and out. "Hard disagree; can't sell it to you, honey."

  "Honey isn't any sweeter than sugar, if you're using it to sweet talk me. Might even be less," I say, leaning across the counter of the small, dingy shop. "I'm thinking maybe you don't want to sell them because that can't be registered. Because they're pirated, perhaps?"

  I get a blank look back, which is easier to pull off without eyes. "I deal second-hand, sweetie. My goods don't come with certificates of authenticity. You don't like it? There's other software dealers."

  I roll my eyes. "Fine, won't sell me biters? Give me those two sniffers, and I want a broadband EM signal-dampener."

  The man lifts an eyebrow, more unsettling for the lack of eyes. "Dampener? Strength and range?"

  "Whatever you got that could cover a civilian vessel, shuttle size."

  The punk tsks at me, sucking his teeth. "Don't got that. Could give you a personal dampener. For a ship? Can't do stealth tech."

  I grit my teeth. "You keep telling me what you can't sell me. What can you do?"

  He purses his lips, looking me up and down, and I don't think he's checking for weapons. "A scrambler?"

  I scoff. "So... a white noise generator," I say, rolling my eyes. "Basically, scream where I am so loudly, I drown everything else out?"

  He shrugs. "You could wrap your ship in Faraday wadding."

  I lean back and put my hand on my hip. "Your customer service is top fucking tier, you know that?"

  He gives me a gap-toothed grin, eyewear zooming in. "Suck hard vacuum, copper."

  He still sells to me, of course. Not the biters, but everything else. Credits are credits, though I'm sure he marked up the price. At least I got a personal dampener. It's only lunchtime, but I'm calling it. Mental health day. If I have to deal with a mouth-breather like this any longer, I'm going to deck someone. Ideally him, but then I don't get to buy. At the end of a half-day, I have a malware filter, three packets of sanitizing software, and two sniffers. No guns, no taser, and I can't find anyone selling a stun-stick that isn't stolen. Plus, no CE key.

  I don't like it. Even after three weeks, I can barely scrounge together the tools I need. It's not so much a problem of credits, though I do have to tighten the purse-strings. It's a problem of availability. Anything unregistered is suspect and probably illegal, so I want to avoid that like the plague. But there's no major retailers on Io, and the second-hand shops charge an arm and a leg for legitimate products. I could place some expensive orders in over digital-space, but then everyone who does some digging will know the specs of what I ordered.

  Besides, no self-respecting cop buys new.

  The scrambler and signal-dampener are something else. A little prep for this crazy wirehead who might pop up. I got her nanos out of my head, at some expense, but I'm not underestimating her. Next time, I'm gonna have some surprises waiting to bite her face off. Again, if I can find someone to sell to me.

  Well, there's one person who knows this station inside and out. Someone who can read the crowd better than me, and even better than Sparrow. Time for a walk in the park to clear my head.

  Walking along the station, I can't help but notice the angry red storm looming outside. Argus station orbits Io after all, the moon orbiting closest to Jupiter. The radiation levels this close to the gas giant are actually super-high. If not for the radiation traps around the station and the active high strength magnetic fields maintained along the hull, we'd all be dead pretty quickly. It's partially why the Navy picked it, or so the sailors say; it's an environmental hazard that prevents attacks by anything that isn't heavily shielded, which would also make it stand out. No stealth.

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  The effect is a permanent aurora. The high-energy particles hitting the field makes a rippling sea of blue-green dance along the skin of Argus station. It wreathes the place in permanent foxfire. I'll admit, walking along the spinning deck in the low gravity, my gaze is drawn to it. Even the rippling threads of silver code in my overlay, revealing the nodes and computation under the surface, can't compete with this lightshow. The first time I saw it from the inside, I walked into a pole.

  Thankfully, Sparrow and her mother were generous about gently ribbing me, and eventually let me off the hook. Sparrow's mother is who I'm going to see right now, in fact. I'm still getting to know Lucy, but she's welcomed me like I've always been part of the family. And she might be able to give me some guidance.

  The station is essentially sliced in half. It's a Stanford torus; one section is designated for Naval use, and one for the civilian population, who mostly exist to support the shipyard and drydock floating at the opposite Lagrangian point. Many of the bays are rented out for use by civilians for storage, shops, distilleries, and hydroponics. And Lucy is part of a co-op that rent one of the largest bays, by the recyclers.

  Even just approaching, I can smell the scent of damp earth and spices. And maybe I'm fooling myself, but coffee too. I'm not the least bit surprised to find Sparrow's mother in the modified cargo-bay, fiddling with a closed hydroponics setup. The bay is formally named the 'Greenhouse', but everyone just calls it the farm. Lucy is short, greying, wiry, and tough as old jerky. And when she sees me coming, she pulls off her gloves, throws them down, and pulls me into an embrace. "Mel, you look like you're about to deck someone."

  I laugh, feeling the tension drain out of me. "That obvious? Don't even get me started, Lucy," I say, shaking my head. "I'm taking a mental health day so I don't do time for murder." I say, earning a snort from her. "But regardless, I was hoping to speak with you..."

  She gives me a level look. "I swear to the virgin Mary herself, if you offer to pay me rent again, I'll beat you until your brains drip out your ears.'

  I lift my hands. "No no, lesson learned, I promise," I say with a weak smile. "I was sort of hoping you might recommend some place to set up professionally, actually. If you knew somewhere on Argus that would make a office or something, so I'm not running my business out of your place," I say, looking around at the racks of basil and thyme. I definitely smell mint too.

  Lucy snorts, picking up shears and clipping a plant that I'm almost certain isn't a coffee plant. "Screw that, you'll just be putting credits in the station administrator's palms, and the holy mother herself wouldn't hear that worm Verner's prayers. Besides, nobody just walks into a shop on Io looking for a PI."

  I bite my lip, sliding some gloves on. Might as well be useful. "Well, I'm not earning a lot of business by word of mouth," I admit. Just one test case with Sparrow's referral, and I haven't even cracked that yet.

  Lucy cackles as I lean down to fill the water-tank. "What, hun, you think the people are crying out for a PI to solve their problems? Things work differently out here, more slowly. You won't get a half-dozen contracts to juggle at once. You'll get one or two at a time, maybe. Callisto and Ganymede have a higher population, most of the works out that way," she says with a knowing look.

  "Yeah, but there are PIs on Callisto, so they're going local for their needs," I murmur, transferring a few seedlings to larger beds.

  Lucy snorts. "Then relax. Take it from someone who worked their youth away; time is the most important thing. Even a blind woman could see you're hurting. Take the time to heal, to square up your debts. Work will be there tomorrow; you can stay as long as you need."

  I feel the tension in my back. "But it's your family's home-"

  "And I can host whoever I please, for as long as it pleases me," Lucy says, giving me a glare. I raise a placating hand, and she nods. "I enjoy the company. Especially from someone who saved my daughter."

  I squirm a little at that. "I mean, we kind of saved each other," I say softly, filling another bin with earth and seedlings.

  She just nods. "That's always how those sorts of things go."

  "I just..." I trail off, fingers clenching.

  Lucy sighs and pats my arm. "You've left things undone and you feel like you should be rushing out to set them right, but you don't know how?"

  I cough, eyes widening. "Uh... you know about that?"

  "No, but it doesn't take a genius to see you've got unfinished business. But rushing out isn't gonna fix it. Fix things at home, first."

  "Your home," I say, biting my bottom lip.

  She gives me a cool glance. "Our home. You, me, Sparrow. It's a safe place, and family is where you find them."

  I give her a dry chuckle, just breathing deep of that earthy air. "That quick, huh? Three weeks and I'm family?"

  I get a genuine laugh back from her. "What, you think I set the timetable? Talk to Sparrow; my daughter loves fiercely and quickly, she's the one who laid down the law."

  We laugh together at that. "I do have to ask... why the name Sparrow?"

  Lucy shrugs her wiry shoulders. "Don't ask me, she picked it."

  I blink a few times. "Sorry, of any name she could pick, she chose Sparrow?"

  Lucy smiles, her hand darting back and forth. "Small, flighty, chirping loudly and flitting here and there? Very apropos."

  I grin at that. "Dare I ask why she changed it?"

  The older woman crosses her arms, raising an eyebrow. "Ms. Cruz, I hope you're not digging for her dead-name."

  I hold up my hands. "I would never, Lucy."

  "Good. Speaking of my daughter, she offered to cook us dinner," she says. Lucy turns and grabs a plastic bin filled with carrots, potatoes, and something green and leafy that I'm pretty sure isn't lettuce. "And since you're taking the rest of the day off, go bring this inside. You can wash and chop the vegetables."

  I'll say this about Lucy's home; the use of space is economical. It's a two-bedroom unit, same as most in the station. However, since it pushes up against the recyclers, there's a few benefits. One, it's always warm. And two, because the recyclers don't abut the rear, they have extra space in their kitchen and living room. And since Lucy was kind and subtle enough to give us some alone time, I'm chopping vegetables while Sparrow sears some vat-grown meat.

  I toss my hair back, sliding the chopped carrots aside, and beginning to peel some potatoes. "I'll admit, when you said she lived near the recyclers, I kinda figured it was gonna reek of rotting biomatter."

  Sparrow laughs at that. "From the name, you might expect that. But mom really looked at the schematics to find the place that would give us the most room."

  I smile, looking around and nodding. "And the recyclers are where she picked? She wasn't worried about the smell?"

  I get a look from Sparrow, blue bangs sliding messily in front of her eyes. "If we're smelling what's in the recyclers, somethings wrong. Besides, no neighbors on that side, close to the docks, close to the Greenhouse... she knows what she's about. She's a planner," Sparrow says, flipping the strip of sizzling meat on the skillet.

  "Oh? Not the go with her gut sort?" I tease, dropping the potato skins in the compost pot.

  Sparrow's smile fades a little. "Nah, that was dad," she says, before shaking her head. "And by the way, I'd never stigmatize taking a mental health day, but are you feeling alright Melody?"

  I sigh, putting the knife and potato down. "Yeah, just the whole weapon cert thing is driving me up the bulkhead."

  She turns the stove down and faces me. "Do you need the cert?"

  "To be a CI? Not technically, for licensing purposes. A few employers would demand it. It's a bonus in some cases. It's more... people who hire me will wonder why," I say, leaning closer, wrapping an arm around her.

  She tilts her head up to meet my eyes, her arms wrapping around me in turn. "Do you want to appeal?"

  I nod as we hold each other for a moment. "I already did."

  "Well, sounds like the right thing," she mews against my collarbone. "And I'm here for you. So, what now?"

  I chuckle. "Now? Now I'll have a chance to explain everything before a hearing officer and hopefully convince them I'm not a nut who's going to shoot the station up," I say, pushing a hand through my hair.

  Sparrow turns and takes the chopped carrots, dropping them into a pot. "I mean, to be fair, you did blow up Europa."

  I fling my hands up. "How long am I going to be living that down?"

  She turns the pot on to boil, before tilting her head. "Probably at least until the fallout settles, both figuratively and literally."

  I sigh, picking up the knife and peeling another potato. "Well, that's a great example right there. I didn't need a license to turn a reactor into a nuke. So, kinda silly to say denying me a weapon certification would prevent it happening again," I point out, before I begin peeling another.

  Sparrow giggles at that. "If anything, it makes it more likely." I raise an eyebrow, but she turns and nods. "Really! Think about it; if you can't shoot the problem, you might have to bomb it, and that'll be all their fault."

  I laugh with her at that, dropping the small potatoes in the pot and wiping my hands clean with a towel. "Yeah, maybe I'll raise that point. They should just give me a heavy-weapons certification and get it over with; it would be safest for everyone."

  Sparrow looks up at me with wide brown eyes. Smiling devilishly. "Melody..."

  "Sparrow..." I lean down, drawing close to her, one hand sliding around her hips and to her lower back.

  Sparrow's lips part. "Promise me you're not going to blow up Io."

  I smile at her. "I promise to try not to," I say before I kiss her.

  We always promise what we can't deliver, right?