Hot from having to wear body armor in the perfectly controlled temperature of Deimos City, Deverau felt the material of his sweaty MSS uniform damp against his skin.
At least, the uniform from the MSS store which he had been mandated to wear. He understood crowd control duties required him to appear distinct from members of the public, but it still felt like a demotion. He hadn’t worn a uniform since his graduation ceremony on Earth when he was a young man starting out in his career. His parents had been proud to see him dressed like that, while he had felt embarrassed at being turned into a clone of every other graduate in the hall.
The armor he didn’t mind so much. With tensions running high among the population, the stab vest and helmet were necessary precautions. There had been multiple scuffles among people in ration queues and several more serious outbreaks of violence. One officer at the station, Cinquetti, had to have one of his fingers sewn back on after he stepped in to quell an argument and someone had pulled a knife.
Deverau’s shift on one of the ration queues had been less eventful, like the mood in the city had changed. He merely stood as people shuffled past to collect their allocation of food, their faces blank with acceptance. In some ways, he would have preferred them to have fought and argued, at least it would have shown they were alive. Stunned by Sharif’s announcement that rations were to be tightened, the people appeared to have lost their fighting spirit. Or they were keeping it bottled up inside which, should it spill out all at once, threatened to be even more dangerous.
Relieved to get back to the locker room at the station, Deverau placed the helmet on one of the benches and sat beside it to remove his stab vest.
He saw from his WristTab that Jones had been trying to contact him. He considered waiting to speak to him until after he had peeled off his sweaty uniform, but decided if there was something he needed to know, he was better off knowing it sooner than later.
He returned Jones’ call. “What do you want, Jonesy?”
“Dev, thanks for getting back to me. We got a call about a serious firearms incident in the Martian Tropics resort.”
“Firearms?”
Deverau sat up straight, suddenly alert.
“As in illegal gun,” confirmed Jones. “As in actual bullets.”
Deverau thought of the layers of security personnel who had failed to do their job properly in allowing bullet-firing weapons to be smuggled to Mars. Their incompetence angered him. He remembered reading a report which said ninety percent of lethal contraband was seized before it reached Mars, as if that was some sort of victory. The authors of the report didn’t have to deal with the ten percent that was missed.
“At a holiday resort of all places,” said Deverau. “Do we even have jurisdiction there?”
“The MSS does, but which branch has responsibility is… debatable. Deimos claimed it because one of our operatives took the call and we’re nearest. Sort of. The shooters got away, but if we went to the crime scene now, we could claim the investigation ahead of Noctis…”
Deverau tapped his fingers on the top of the helmet beside him. The idea was tempting. “You do realize how busy we are?”
“Yes, but I thought you would want the option.”
Deverau pulled at the fastenings of his stab vest as he considered adding to his workload. If ten percent of lethal contraband was going to end up on Mars, the least they could do was make sure it was dealt with by one of their more experienced officers.
“If we took the case,” said Deverau, thinking aloud, “it would annoy the heck out of those smug, over-resourced charlatans at Noctis City.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Jones.
Then they were agreed.
“Book a rover,” said Deverau. “I’ll get changed, then I’ll join you.”