Detective Paskal''s day starts off like any other blue collar worker does except he gets to wake up next to his lovely Eyleen. By the time his alarm goes off, he’s usually already sitting behind the morning’s first traffic jam, showered and drinking coffee, eating his sandwich while waiting for arrival at the PD.


    When he gets to work, he’s greeted by his coworkers with respect. He doesn’t demand it, because he’s accomplished for his age and his sharp mind is very valuable for the department, and as such he doesn’t have to. If he would’ve been a policeman in the 1980s, he would’ve been sitting behind a mountain of papers and reports needing to be filed. He’s never been a very determined desk worker, preferring to do the legwork rather than the work of a clerk. Anderson’s the one who shoulders most of the menial tasks. Therefore unlike the hypothetical Paskal back in the 1980s, his stack of papers would be neatly organized on his desk. Now they are stored in their terminals and take up very little physical space. Luckily nowadays most of all paperwork is handled by a special paperwork bot. All Paskal’s gotta do is double check for inconsistencies and mistakes. Still, for a cop in a city of 1.5 billion, there is no shortage of things needing to be written down.


    He puts his earplugs in and he listens to a band now over 300 years old. Most music nowadays is compiled by AI-s. One of the few things the computers are still allowed free reign of and according to many, they’ve created the perfect soundscape. Pharao Paskal is not so sure, though. He thinks that the imperfections of human instrumentalists are what make for genuine creativity, not optimized goop made to attract the largest common denominator.


    At around 12-ish he goes for his second round of caffeine. As part of his daily routine he chats up the secretary for 5 minutes until the servicebot Caféfornia 5000, or Mr. Coffee as he’s called lovingly across the Solar Empire, makes him coffee. By now, word about his tag-along with Eurus has reached his colleagues. A younger cop, by the name of Sidour Mackelstrong approaches him and says:


    “How was it, sir?”


    “How was what, Sid?” asked Paskal.


    “Rolling with a Cell. Tell us about it,” and other cops turned in their chairs, too, to listen in. Some even walk closer to listen.


    Paskal lights up a cigarette. He says:


    “Let me put it this way - if you ever need to bring down a Cell, don’t call me in for help. I’m not coming.”


    “They’re good, huh?” asks one of the older cops.


    “I’m guessing you’ve had a few run-ins yourself, Jenkins?” Paskal says.


    “Yeah. On both sides of the fight. Once we were taking down a rogue Ultra member. I’ve never seen anything move so fast as that Cell fighting that Ultra Operative. Apollo was his name. A lot of operatives died that day. Even more did when we had to kill a Cell. Lost 600 men that day just tracking the fucker through the caves. It took a well-placed mine to incapacitate it long enough to take him out. We ended up writing up 900 cops on disability.”


    “Damn. You took down a Cell? When was that?” Paskal says.


    “It was… some decades ago,” Jenkins says. Paskal is skeptical – many just make up stories to sound tougher. Hard to believe a Cell was killed in combat by ordinary policemen. He figures Jenkins heard some story in a bar by some Ultra operatives.


    “Paskal! Anderson! In my office! Now!” someone suddenly shouts in a raspy  booming voice.


    It was the commissar, Yusef Drynashvili, a man of Georgian heritage. He is distinguishable by his black moustache and short, curly hair and a synthetic left hand. He has served on the force for 40 years and is exemplary at his service.


    His office is decorated by various medals, honors and trophies from defeated foes. Behind him are two framed photos: Solar Imperial Commander Notus, a Cell and a proven governor, currently stationed on Earth. Behind him is also a framed copy of the first page of the Imperial Codex. It reads:


    Imperial Codex


    2144 1^st edition


    Signed by War Martials Falyris, Lorenzo, Marquis, Wu


    All imperial servants hereby must vow to uphold the contents of this document. Governed not by any body or any single representative, this set of ideals and laws serves as the guiding hand of mankind.


    Above Yusef is also the Martian flag, with military red and white stripes crossing over it, with a black line in the middle of them. In the centter there is a side-facing golden lion with black detailing. As a devoted patriot and imperialist, Yusef is held in high regard by his contemporaries.


    When Paskal and Anderson enter his office, he simply gestures for them to close the door and to take a seat, which the men do. Paskal lights up another cigarette, to which Yusef responds with lighting one up himself. He says:


    “So, how’d it go with the surface problem?”


    Anderson says: “We got a Cell to handle it. As you’re aware we’d lost several policemen on it already.”


    “I went along personally to see what was going on,” Paskal says.


    “And?”


    “It was some sort of mutant experiment, as expected, however it seems that someone was unsuccessfully trying to recreate Cell technology,” Paskal explains, “Eurus, the Cell we have on it, was quite concerned about it.”


    “Jesus,” Yusef says, “You didn’t think to call in someone from Ultra? Endanger yourself and potentially the city by hiring a Cell?”


    “Sir, with all due respect…” Paskal says.


    “I don’t wanna hear it. Next time, you call an operative. I’ve got a case for you. Young girl, Kalopsia Chromo. Finest genes money can buy apparently. She was reported missing. I want you on it, her mother has a lot of favors to pull with the precinct.”


    Detective Paskal decides to go to Kalopsia’s place alone while Anderson studies her background and investigate. When he arrives, the subbuilding looks like a warzone, with graffiti and lots of downtrodden people hanging about. In front of the apartments is a black hoversedan.


    “This is detective Paskal, badge number 934911, requesting immediate backup, possible hostile combatants in the vicinity,” Paskal says into his com device.


    “Roger, proceed with caution,” a female dispatcher responds.


    He pops open his cruiser’s trunk and puts on Civic-Officer anti-kinetic energy vest and takes a police issue semi-automatic beam-rifle AR-87. Secretly, he’s cursing himself, thinking what an idiot he must be for going there alone - he could’ve at least asked Eurus for help, but hey, he might get fired if he pretended he was deaf. When he opens the door to the stairwell to take him to the first tri-level of the complex, it appears that all the apartments in the section are abandoned. The stairs each end with a corridor to the apartments.


    Paskal starts investigating the building. He slowly strafes through the corridors and quietly opens each apartment door, trying to be as careful and undetectable as possible. Suddenly, a loud noise comes from one tri-level above him, about where Kalopsia’s apartment is supposed to be. He hustles faster until he climbs to the second tri-level. He sees two cartel agents and they’re actively discussing something. He sure wishes he could hear them, but before he can get closer, one of them spots him and yells:


    “IT’S A COP!” and starts fumbling for his pistol on his hips.


    “FREEZE!” Paskal shouts out, but the men give no mind to the command.


    Just as they’re about to get him in their sights, Paskal reacts fast and with a burst from his AR 87, he kills them both on the spot, riddling the walls around them with bullets as well.


    His heart is pounding almost thrice a second and he can feel sweat running down his face, even though he hasn’t had any exercise. Blood is rushing into his ears and everything sounds static. He’s hoping that there aren’t any more of those gangsters in the building and he doesn’t dare to go and check himself, fearing an ambush the most. So, he waits for at least 120 seconds before slowly moving forward again.


    When he gets to the apartment, luckily, it doesn’t seem like anyone else is in there. But before the mobsters arrived, it’s clear that there had been a hard struggle at the apartment. Spilt blood, loose furniture and several other dead mobsters sprinkled throughout the apartment. What’s happened here? Kalopsia’s missing though. Has someone taken her? The reinforcements arrive and soon the CSI with them to document everything. It becomes apparent that the mobsters had a struggle with someone. Kalopsia is missing so perhaps she is with one of them? The mobsters are clearly of the Leone family, recognizable by their top of the line gear and a small embroiding of a lion with a black mane and its lines sown in gold.


    Paskal sits into his cruiser but before he can put on his seatbelt he can feel a rush of blood into his head. A splitting headache and glimpses of the altercation flash in his mind. Suddenly, a sour taste in his mouth and he can feel his stomach convulsing. He opens the door and bile and his breakfast spew out of his mouth. And he convulses once more and additional puke bursts out. Having caught his breath and looked around to see the CSI not paying him any notice, he closes his car door.


    He decides to take a little break before he barrels towards the precinct. Luckily for him, he has a bottle of water in his glove department, which he quickly uncorks and starts drinking in small sips to not irritate his stomach any further. He wishes he too would have emotional damage damping genetics like his super soldier friend. Never before in his life has he shot another person before and never before was it kill or be killed. His mental images are flashing between utter terror and the primal instinct he felt when he managed to defeat the mobsters. It felt... good almost? He shakes his head without even really entertaining the thought.


    He then buckles his seatbelt and drives off.


    As he’s driving back to the precinct, Paskal gets to thinking: ”What if Leone stole Kalopsia’s body to sell her or use her genetic code for something nefarious? Or someone else picked her up and now is doing God knows what. The Chromo family isn’t exactly famous, but I think we should ask her acquaintances if they know how much she’s worth.”


    When he gets back to the PD, he sits at his desk and describes to Anderson what had occurred. Without saying a word, Anderson stands up and pours whisky into two coffee mugs they have on their opposing tables. He slides one over to Paskal, his eyes telling him:


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    “It sucks... I know...”


    Without hearing a word from Anderson, Paskal responds:


    “Still… Never used my gun before.”


    “Ah… Don’t worry, man, you gotta look sharp. Drink up, get your trembling under control. Don’t wanna end up with mandatory departmental counselling do you?” Anderson tries to cheer him up.


    “Hah, not that,” Paskal says, with a flicker of light returning into his eyes. He downs the cup of whisky in one go.


    “There’s a good man,” Anderson says, “So… Kidnapped huh?”


    “Yeah, so we need to go ahead and meet with Kalopsia’s mother and submit an inquiry into Ultra. I’ve got reason to believe she was being watched by operatives either sanctioned or not,” says Paskal.


    “Is Ultra really a good idea?” Anderson asks.


    “No. But what else do we got?”


    “Not much. And not many can afford a few trillion in enhancements.”


    “I wanna try the inquiry first. Ultra might deny us. That could say something,” Paskal says.


    “Or nothing,” Anderson says.


    The duo arrives at one of the biggest buildings in Papülonis. A big black metal silinder with no windows and some platforms to park on for visitors. It’s dotted with its logos which are a three straight lines on equi-distant axis crossing each other. At the end of each line, they veer off perpendicular in clockwise direction. Anderson and Paskal, too, are just visitors. So they park their cop car on one of the platforms about midway to the top and enter the buildings. Immediately they see a few Ultra operatives. These metal clad soldiers look similar to Eurus in many respects but usually their standard equipment consists of more advanced weaponry and wear their power armor constantly, whereas Eurus doesn’t wear his power armor unless he has to.


    The thing of notice is the interior - it is huge. As they step inside, Paskal fights off a nauseating feeling of wonder mixed with dread. It holds a hanging Spitfire Mark V from the ceiling, which has been kept in its original shape as it came from that era. It’s even got bullet holes and the cockpit is decorated with a skeleton wearing its original uniform. The big lobby also holds a few showcases with swords or older guns from the 20th century or before. It is teaming with people and drones whizzing about and in the middle of the chasm - a gigantic sculpture of War Martial Falyris, made out of pure cobalt no less!


    The place itself is neat and spotless. A hundred yards behind the front desks stands an enormous library of floors and different labs or conference rooms, reaching so high and so low that neither the top nor bottom were visible from the balconies directed inwards toward the heart of the building.


    To give some reference to what kind of an institution this is - something between the Navy Seals, CIA and DARPA with a blank check from the imperial government and a penchant for red, black and white eagle-styled memorabilia. Everyone besides Eurus and other Cells are wary of this shadowy institution, and Paskal is no different. Its interior is effectively imposing and successfully makes a him feel small. As far as buildings, institutions and lobbies go, few give off such an aura of something simultaneously so awesome and yet so gaudy having been planned and executed there.


    Other people there are wearing suits, they’re transporting important documents or having important chit-chat.


    Paskal and Anderson arrive at the front desk of Ultra and Paskal says: “Hello, friend” to the administrator. She barely gives him a glance while she keeps on typing something into the terminal in front of her.


    “I just wanted to file an inquiry, where might I do that,” Paskal asks. To the reader it might seem as if it’s weird that Paskal has never been to Ultra or filed an inquiry there, but at the same time it’s unusual for any regular cop to do so. Ultra pretty much has free reign to do as they please and nobody can stop them, unless said so otherwise by the judicial and imperial legislative system specifically.


    “You can file the complaint at 99-405. Take care!”


    They take the elevators to 99 and in one of the hallways there is the room 405. When they open the door, it contains a table and three chairs. Anderson says:


    “I don’t like this.”


    “Please, take a seat,” says a man behind them, who turns out had been following them since they got out of the elevator.


    Paskal gives Anderson a look that goes “oh jeez, what the hell did we get ourselves into” and he responds with the same. They sit down and the man says with an unnervingly nasal and droopy almost amber-like tonality in his voice:


    “Hello, officers, my name is Oliander Schultzer, can I offer you a beverage? A coffeé perhaps?”


    A bony face with high cheekbones, he’s got darkened skin around his eyes and a veiny face. He’s probably in his 50’s but looks almost 70. Gray hair, black eyes and the man is all in black leather and he’s wearing his rank and medals on his chest.


    “Let’s cut to the shit,” Anderson says, “Kalopsia Chromo, what’ve you got on her?”


    “Gentlemen,” says Oliander, “no need to act so outwardly hostile. I also feel obliged to tell you that she is of Imperial interest and therefore a lot of what we know about her is classified. However, I am here to help you in any way I can. As far as I can tell you, you’re barking up the wrong tree here. It’s the Leone family district she was last seen, not here.”


    “So you’ve been watching her?” Paskal asks.


    “Well, let’s say, that we all know how much in raw enhancements she’s worth. This kind of shall we say merchandise is always observed by the Ultra. Right now though, our chiefs don’t see the point putting all our resources into a wild goosechase that may be random hearsay anyway. But I understand your concern and if you find anything I’ll give you my word that the Ultra is behind you.”


    “So we do the dirty work and you get all the credit,” asks Paskal.


    “Gentlemen, we’re all after the same things, surely we can work together. Go visit the Leone family, maybe you’ll find something useful,” says Oliander.


    “Thanks for your assistance,” Anderson says.


    Paskal and Anderson leave the Ultra building and get in their car to go visit the Leone family. In a city as unruly as Papülonis, it can happen every once in a while that cops die while visiting mob bosses. Not every nook and cranny is covered by a camera feed and sometimes a toe is too sensitive to be stepped on. As the duo arrives at the Leone family building, it’s distinct as well. Mostly because it’s more covered in graffiti than other buildings on its lower levels and of course, the gangsters. Dressed almost business, they try to emulate their ancient leader, Leypolé Leone, a once feared and respected leader on both planets. Having worked himself up from almost nothing, his offspring is now responsible for one of sthe biggest crime syndicate in the solar system, dwarfing the likes of Pablo Escobar in his prime, both by influence and fearsomeness.


    While driving, Anderson says: “You know, it seems whoever has Kalopsia, it seems unlikely that we’re able to help that poor girl.”


    “Dude... Why say this?”


    “She’s either dead in an abandoned complex somewhere, mixed up with the Leone family, or Ultra in which case you think it’s worth digging up dirt on the mob? Ultra? People can get offed by their own officers, man.”


    “To former I say her supposed death deserves justice and about the latter, I must ask, why did you join the force?”


    “What? I was on the force way before your balls had dropped.”


    “I meant that with no disrespect, Anderson,” Paskal says.


    “I get it. But it’s been long since I’ve had the luxury of your naiveté,” Anderson says.


    “If it comes to the latter, we need to have each others’ backs,” Paskal says.


    They start moving upwards toward the top levels of city.


    “You think I don’t know that? And it’s not the mob that has me worried,” he says.


    “Yeah, I don’t like Ultra either, but whaddaya gonna do. Can’t go around believing conspiracy theories,” says Paskal.


    “No conspiracy theories here, bud. If you’d seen the absolute dog shit behaviour from them I’ve seen over the years, you’d get cold sweat running down your ass crack same as me. Anything you think you know about justice in the world is casually smacked down by the shit pulled by Ultra. I’ve had entire year-long investigations smacked down by them. Redactions, assassinations and maimings are just a few of the niceties they can afford that we simply cannot. They’re in no way accountable to anyone, or at least they act like it.”


    As they arrive at the higher levels, the balconies and common areas get much nicer. They can see the sun and many of the buildings have built-in SunRayUV systems that make it feel like the pools and suntan seats are by a real-life promenade. It’s what the richest can afford. Many top level trillionaires of Papülonis allow their resorts to be used by the public to get that extra dough, but the building Paskal and Anderson are pulling up to only boasts top level beauties by their pools and promenades and a few gunmen to keep anyone unwanted from entering.


    There are a few floors between the parking lot and the forests on the higher level, so they park their car there.


    When they get out, they’re immediately greeted by one of the Leone family goons. His face is leathery from all the drugs and alcohol and his eyes squint when he looks at them. A skin that would be brown in tone but has dilapitated into a dreary beige.  The skinhead with a machine gun says with the voice that can only be described as a hundred thousand chain-smoked cigarettes: “You lost, friend?”


    Paskal says: “I’m here to see your boss, pal, and I’m not your friend. Before you get excited, PC-PD, investigating a disappearance and just looking into every avenue.”


    “Does your boss know you’re here? Get into your little cruiser and get the fuck outta here, pig, we’re not letting you in.”


    One of the goons gets a message on his earpiece.


    “The boss says you can come talk to him.”


    “Aw…,” Paskal says mockingly.


    They are lead through the building towards the elevators. The whole area looks like a fine hotel, with a butler running through now and then or some women tiptoeing about. Sometimes they see heavily armed grunts running somewhere - probably to beat up a debtor or something shady like that. Cinemas, arcades, shops, all in top condition. No cheap neon, concrete or plastic or metal. The floors are hardwood, and the walls are hidden behind red brick. It’s like an old hotel from the 1920s, still operational and at the top of their game or the most expensive steam-engine cruise ship you can imagine.


    The elevator they ride up in is golden inside, spacious, with couches and chairs, unlike many on the lower floors, which look like they belong in a horror film featuring a torture master. And when the elevator doors open, fresh air, no smell, not that there was any before. Trees, birds and pets running around. It’s lush – almost like a jungle but at the same time very clean. All the things money can buy!


    As they walk, they arrive at a clearing where a caramel-skinned woman is throwing a stick for her dog. Paskal immediately recognizes her - it’s the Leone family matriarch, Mirra, smart as a fox, wicked and baneful. She’s a rather lethal looking woman in her early thirties at 2.0 meters, black hair flowing just over her chest, curvaceous and busty but not corpulent, with toned muscles instead. She wears a black jumpsuit, having herself decorated with sparse jewelery. Her stunning looks are as much a weapon as the probable tens of thousands of militia she employs on Martis alone.


    “Hello, detectives,” she says. “How can I help you?”


    “It’s a lovely forest you’ve got here, ma’am. Quite the view, too,” says Anderson.


    “Oh? Here to discuss real estate? Or just small talk? I hate foreplay. Make it my job to get you going. Let’s get intimate, rough and dirty. I ask you again, what can I do for you?”


    She stands up and is an inch taller than Paskal or Anderson.


    “We’re here about the girl. You’ve got any idea who we’re talking about?” asks Paskal.


    “Puzzles, detective? I’ve always pegged you for a straight shooter. I know why you’re here. Come, we’ll talk in private.”


    She leads the men back into the elevator, where they ride for a few seconds and stop at what seems like Mirra’s apartment. The entire time they travel, the policemen and Mirra are accompanied by a few of her grunts, but when the elevator stops, she says:


    “My boys will stay here. I trust we’ll not have trouble?”


    Paskal gives the grunts a slight wave. Anderson says: “Alright, where’s the girl?”


    “Frankly, I have no idea where she is currently. But I do know she’s got herself mixed with some people.”


    “Some people?” asks Anderson.


    “I don’t have information right now. But I hear you’ve got the ear of a Cell? He’s been avoiding me it seems.”


    “Hard to imagine why,” Anderson says, “As far as we know, he’s dealing with a top-secret assignment.”


    “I see,” she says, “Well, if you see him, tell him to call.”


    ?Come on, Mirra… You don’t have any information? The goons found at her apartment were clearly Leone henchmen. You lost touch?“ Paskal asks.


    ?Manners, boys, I believe we can help each other. I need your help with a small matter pertaining to that. I have reason to believe there is a rogue faction within my family. I was hoping our mutual friend from Erebus can be of assistance in both matters? I’d never stoop so low as to ask this from him myself. We’re friends, too, you see.“


    ?You’ve got infinite money. Why not just hire one yourself?“ Paskal asks.


    ?I get the feeling the one you have cares about collateral damage a tad more than the average goon. I want this to be handled with discretion.“


    ?Collateral damage? You’re a mob boss! I still can’t figure out why you’re not hanging people by their thumbs!“


    ?Mob boss? You plan on taking that to court, detectives? I like your wife detective, I’d hate to spoil her promotion!“


    ?Listen here, you bitch...“ Paskal growls.


    ?Pharao, Pharao,“ Anderson interrupts him, ?No need to get hostile. We’ll talk to the Cell, won’t we? Do you have any names from your outfit in mind, Leone?“


    ?Call me Mirra, please. But yes, ?rk Zaroj, my father’s former right hand man. We had a falling out of sorts... He’s been quiet for quite some time, but now I’m starting to suspect why. Will you help me detectives?“


    ?We’ll see what we can do.“


    When they drove back, there was tension in the car. Paskal was visibly upset. A not-so-subtle threat made by the woman they now had agreed to help? This was too much. He says:


    ?You’re going to help that fucking bitch?“


    ?You were standing in the middle of her apartment about to say or do God knows what. I don’t know about you, but I like having legs. Besides, she’d not have done anything. She was clearly sizing you up.“


    ?Sizing me up? Are you dying of dementia? She threatened my fucking wife! Can you imagine if she did that to you?“


    ?I don’t have to...“ Anderson says monotonously, “Why do you think that seat was empty?” He continues with increasing gusto, “Besides, we have zero leverage! What are you going to do? Arrest her for saying something that’s not even a crime? Her lawyers are going to have your badge if you pipe up – and that’s the best case scenario here, man! Like it or not – we’re playing a game where everyone else was dealt the better hand, so we gotta play smart.”


    A silence fell over the car.


    ?You’re right... Sorry... I was being stupid,“ Paskal says.