"Wrangling these boys ain't gonna be easy, son," Sergeant Goskis, soon to be retired, promised. "Half of 'em are gonna be calling you a baller or an antennahead behind your back. But hell, I'd rather have a baller for a son than half of them!"

"And which half would that be?" said Sergeant Kiodd, soon to be sworn in.

The old Human laughed. "Let's leave that unspoken, shall we? Alright, so this here is your desk. The Holonet connection's not bad for the department—just try not to shit up all the bandwidth with porn, 'cause the Lieut's office uses the same channel. Nochel's gonna notice if you do. And change your database and department comm passwords—first thing. The Lieut's very anal about that."

The main page of the database took a good twenty seconds to load. Kiodd wondered if Goskis was lying about the connection quality or if the base was just this heavy.

It was probably both.

"You got twelve people working under you," said Goskis, scrolling down the lines and lines of names and numbers. "Well, eleven, since Smothson's been on a sick leave for four months now and he barely qualifies as a person anyways. They're in the rotation until they catch. Once they do, they work that case, usually in pairs, but with Smothson gone, that's a problem. I mostly put either Etherby or Willow on some Ronnie Rodent bullshit or add one of them to a pair that's working something serious."

"How serious is serious?'

"This is Balosar, son." Goskis's fat lips parted in a crooked smile. "You, being a baller and all, should know what's what. Hey," he elbowed Kiodd, "you know I'm just breaking your balls, right? The last thing I need is another sensitivity course. My, my, you'd think we'd be done with those after all the Imperial reforms, but here we still are."

"No sensitivity training anymore on Corellia."

"No? That why you moved here?"

Kiodd gave him his most reserved—reserved for the most insensitive Human sons of bitches—smile. "I came here to do police work, Sergeant, not partake in distractions."

"That's my boy. So, as I was saying, you let these retards do their thing for a week or two, then you have to evaluate how they're doing. Don't worry, it's informal—at least for now. Huh! I've heard rumors it ain't gonna stay this way for long."

"I guess you got yourself out just in time."

"You don't even know half of it. It's all going to shit, son." Goskis sighed. "Well, if there are developments in the case, you let them work it for another week, maybe two, maybe three. If not, you move them fuckers right back into the rotation."

"Let the red stay red?"

"The idea is to not let the next red stay red. But in any case, try to keep every investigation under a month, barring special occasions like mass murder, serial sickos, aggravated—"

"Human vics?"

"You said it."

.

.

.

Lieutenant Nochel's antennapalps being extended were a strangely comforting sight.

"Take a seat, Sergeant," he said, pointing at the chair right in front of his desk. He was a youngish man with a considerable widow's peak. "Goskis showed you around? How do you like the workspace?"

Kiodd sat down. "I'm ready to work, sir."

"What brings you to our world, Torys?"

"You mean to ask whom I pissed off back on Corellia?"

The lieutenant raised his eyebrows: what do you think?

"A few people." Kiodd smiled. "My wife, most of all."

"Your wife? Is she police too?"

"No, sir. She's a Benedi."

"No shit!"

"No, sir. None."

"You married into one of, like, five Balosar families that made something out of themselves in the larger galaxy and you managed to waste it."

It was a statement.

"I'm afraid so, sir."

"I don't know, Sergeant. As much as I respect, you know, the rebellious streak and the enthusiasm that comes with it, I have to be able to trust my men."

"You can trust me, sir. At least until we start sharing a bed."

Nochel chuckled and said, "You're not from Balosar, are you?"

"I'm not. Corellia-born."

"This planet is home to twenty billion people, eighty-two percent of them Balosar. Fifty-six percent of the population live around the poverty threshold, and 'around' is a generous term here. About forty percent have a prior record. The budget for the planetary police force has been cut by four-point-five percent this year, and we expect further cuts the next one, because the government is more interested in not letting the factories shit themselves so that the Corporate Sector can't buy them out and instate their own people running things here."

"Governor Shordis is a Balosar. I thought he had—"

"What? Our best interests in mind?"

"The understanding of the situation."

"He does." Nochel poured water into his glass, offered some to Kiodd with a gesture, put the pitcher back down when he refused. "He understands it perfectly well that the sector senator is Human, as is the sectorial governor on Balosa I. Both those fuckers never leave the sat, even though ninety-nine percent of their constituents live down here. And the Galactic financial aid, which our budget has primarily consisted of for the past forty years, comes through the extremely," the lieutenant presented his fist, "extremely clenched buttholes of those fuckers before it hits the surface."

"And those fuckers do not care about how hard it is down here," Kiodd nodded. "All they want is to prevent the buyouts."

"Because once the suits have bought up more than fifty percent of the ownership equity of all planetary businesses with the number of employees more than or equal to two thousand sentients, the Emperor may grant them full control of the planet, especially if it's struggling."

"And when the CSA takes over, there's no need for local governments or senators anymore."

"Precisely. Like it happened on Sorina, on Stuldi XI—"

"Sir, how much does the Corporate Sector—"

"Thirty-three percent, as of now. So, Sergeant, I want us to be on the same page here: don't expect any help with policing from up high and don't blame me for being a cred-pincher asshole when it comes to paid OT and other wonders that PDs on normal worlds enjoy. Don't think about going around me. The major's the senator's creature, and don't let," he tapped his antenna lightly, "on the commissioner fool you: he's got the senator's cock up his throat and the sector governor's up his ass so deep they meet somewhere in his stomach. Their biggest fear is the Empire-level law enforcement getting involved. Thus the only help you're getting from them is the order to grab any old sucker from the streets, put it on him, and shut your case down. Would that sit right with you?"

"No, sir, it would not."

"Understand one more thing: you will end up doing that one way or another. Does this sit right with you?"

"No, sir. But I'll make it work."

"Good." The lieutenant reclined in his chair. "At ease, Sergeant."

Kiodd rose and went to the door. When it slid to let him through, Nochel said, "Welcome to homicide."

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.

.

Another welcome was given by the force, to whom Goskis introduced Kiodd later that day.

"Dearest children," said the old sergeant, "I'm leaving you for greener pastures, not that there's any green on this gods-forsaken piece of rock. As much trust as I have in your ability not to drink and whore yourselves to death and not to get kicked out of the only job that would have you in my absence, I leave in my stead Sergeant Torys Kiodd here, fresh from Corellia."

Goskis applauded, and the twelve men and women joined him. Kiodd's antennae raised, he watched their faces. Eight Balosars, four Humans. None too eager. He couldn't blame them—he wasn't either.

"I won't hold you for long," he said to the gathering jammed between the cubicles of the office. "We'll come to know each other better when we start working together next week. I also won't bullshit you that it is an honor for me to join your department." He waited for several lazy smiles to draw themselves up. "But I hope we won't make each other's service completely unbearable."

"It's okay, Sarge," said the middle-aged Balosar with a goatee. Urmak Dubb, Kiodd remembered his name from the file. "You can't possibly do worse than this fat fuck."

Goskis mocked wiping a tear. "And I thought we were friends."

Kiodd gave Dubb a short smile. "Detective Smothson," he said to the red-faced Human in a cheap suit. "It's good to see you back with us. Sergeant Goskis told me—"

"Oh no, sir," the man responded, "I'm just stopping by to see Larry off. I'm still on my leave."

"You keep going like this, you'll make thirty without having to do another day of work," a Balosar woman, the younger of the two, told him.

"It's a serious condition, Turi! With all this pollution especially!"

"Ah, not serious enough to stop you from getting shitfaced tonight at The Squirmy Worm, you old dog."

Can I make it work? Kiodd wondered, looking at his force.

.

.

.

"That's some real bad shit," Detective Vilondri was telling him as the airspeeder finally left the particularly noxious cloud of smoke coming out of the two hundred pipes of Zebeckel Automatics. "Death sticks you've seen on Corellia ain't got shit on these. We've been blocking off the caverns—the known entrances, at least— for the last two, three years, so the street scum don't really have access to the shrooms. Their only choices are," he put two fingers up in the air, "to buy from the big dogs, which comes at the danger of eventually being consumed by them, or to grow their own shrooms in artificial caves."

"The quality of those is shit," said Turi Pengoren. "It produces shit-quality death, and then they step on it, like, five times, and if you think it's better for the fiends, think again, 'cause they don't cut it with baking powder."

Vilondri produced another four fingers. "Kootaz," he counted one, "track, PBV, ASPC, you name it."

"I appreciate the background, detectives," said Kiodd, "but isn't it the narcotics' job to know all that?"

The detectives shared a look.

"More than half of this planet's homicides happen because of drugs," Pengoren said. "You gotta know this shit, Sergeant."

"I see. You're right."

He didn't like the look on Vilondri's face. Vilondri was the youngest detective in the homicide division. Kiodd knew his type: the type to never retract his antennapalps. Brash. Tatted up. One different choice in the past, two tops—and he'd've been playing for the opposite side of the law.

"You fought in the Clone Wars, detective?" Kiodd nodded at Vilondri's tattoos.

"They didn't really accept Balosars," Vilondri grinned. "Guess we weren't good enough to fuck up them clankers. So they sent me in Atros Gate—that's paramilitary. I was a sniper. Dxun. And boy, did we see more than clankers."

The pilot droid parked the speeder on the project's lot. The sentients got out. Two police aircars and an ambulance were already at the scene. A patrolman met them in front of the building entrance.

"The droid says it's OD," he said looking into his datapad.

"Man, fuck your droid and fuck you." Vilondri threw his hands up. "Couldn't call us?"

"You know how it is," the patrolman shrugged. "It ain't OD until the coroner says so."

Pengoren rolled her eyes. "I'll go in. See what our chances are."

"The initial report said there was a suspect caught," Kiodd asked the officer.

"Yessir. There he is sitting on the curb."

Vilondri was already on the guy. "Not a week without trouble, huh, Totar?"

"I didn't do it," the suspect complained. He was young, younger than Vilondri, and probably taller if he stood up, but his antennae were hidden in apprehension. "Ask the droid, you heard him!"

"What were you doing in the deceased's apartment?" Kiodd asked him.

Totar hung his head low. The makeup and the black eyes blended together on his face.

"He was rummaging through the dead man's belongings," the beat cop said.

Kiodd sighed. "We'll take it from here, officer."

Vilondri turned to him abruptly. "What for?"

Kiodd stared down at him, but the other man did not blink. "In case it's not an OD."

"Let the district handle him. That's how we always do it."

"Not anymore. Get him in the car."

"The motherfucker ODed, sir," Totar begged from down below, "it's true, I swear! I just needed a credit is all!"

"Get him in the car."

He walked to the patrolman to look at the datapad. The deceased: Bongar Temt, Balosar male, DOB: 3/12/9 BrS, two prior records: possession and DUI—

There was no movement around the car. Kiodd raised his head. "Detective! What are you waiting for?"

"Let Turi handle him."

"Why is that?"

"He was everyone's prison bitch in the juvie."

"So what?"

"I ain't touching him! It ain't right for a man to touch this filth!"

"Detective," Kiodd said, locked in another staring match with Vilondri, "bring the suspect into the car. Now."

He won this one—and lost about twenty minutes of Vilondri calling him names in a bar tonight, he didn't doubt that for a second.

At least the motherfucker was civilized enough not to mumble them while in earshot.

Kiodd could work with that.

.

.

.

His room in East Roat had a smart-tinged window that filtered the yellow out of the Balosar skies. He hoped the AC unit filtered the yellow out of the air.

He sat down on his bed. On Corellia, he'd slept on a bed almost as large as this entire room—until his banishment to the couch.

These were the first two weeks he'd ever spent among his people—his real people, not the high society Balosars back home. This was where his grandfather had come from. Ran from, more like. This was where he'd bury the old man's dream of amounting to something.

I'm thirty-four, he thought looking out of the lying window. Back to being a sergeant at thirty-four is problematic, but I can make it work. In this place? I'll be a lieutenant as soon as there's an opening. Nochel is young, but he may eat his way up to the major's office. If not, I'll take a position in theft or arson or whatever they have first. I'm not picky. Not anymore.

No, not anymore. East Roat was a good district, away from the worst factories in this quadrant.

I'll make it work. I'm already good at finding silver linings.

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.

.

Dubb passed him a casefile and sang, "Rejoice, Sarge. We may yet turn the red wave."

Kiodd looked through the file. A murder from a month ago—no possible ODs there: two bolts into the back of the man's head.

"What about it?" he asked.

"Got the perp."

"On?"

Dubb made a blaster with his fingers. "The district caught the dumb motherfucker dumping the piece into a dumpster four weeks ago. Just got the spectral expertise yesterday, and lo and behold, it's a match."

"Four weeks?"

"Must be hard to believe after Corellia, huh? Trust me, it gets worse."

"Good job, detective."

Dubb shrugged, all humble. Kiodd wondered if he realized checking up on a coldish case once in a while wasn't really a good job and Kiodd was just trying to raise his morale.

"There's one thing, Sarge. The dumb motherfucker wasn't as dumb as to not wipe the gun."

"No fingerprints?'

"Nothing clear, and the cops at the district didn't really see him with the blaster in hand. They let him go a day later, so I had to visit his grandma this morning. Always pays off to visit grandmas on this planet."

Maybe it was a good job, after all.

"DNA?"

"Done by the same lab that does spectral. Another four weeks, if we're lucky."

"So what are you saying, Urmak?" Calling his subordinates by their names was a hard habit to get back into.

"We might need to use… unorthodox interrogation techniques."

"Like what?"

The detective didn't answer.

"Like beating the shit out of the suspect, am I right?"

Dubb kept his silence.

"That doesn't strike me as very unorthodox on Balosar. Look, can't we wait until the test results are back?"

"We could. But that's gonna do diddly for this month's stats, and our clear-up rate's been in the shitter lately. And there's no telling if he was dumb enough to sprinkle LifeBurn over it or not. So…"

Kiodd weighed his options. "Give me an hour to go through his file. Put him in the second room for now."

"Already there, chief."

The guy was a true Balosarian: five priors at twenty-one, two of them aggravated assaults. Four years at the baby prison, granted amnesty to celebrate the planet governor's reelection. Last stint at the adult joint: three years for possession with intent cut short by the parole board six months ago.

"Can I get in the room with your perp, Urmak?" he asked about forty minutes later.

"I don't know, man."

"Look, I don't mean to step on your toes here. You worked this case with Atengo, right? And she's off today?"

"I can call her."

"But you haven't?"

Dubb screwed his face up. His antennae were half-extended. "Ah, Sarge. She's a sweet old gal counting days to her thirty. Every time we get one of them motherfuckers like this Marsatoise, it shakes her, legit. Should've been a teacher or something, but in this place, man, is there a difference?"

"So let me work him with you. It's still your case—yours and Atengo's."

Dubb thought on it. Dubb nodded.

They went in. Marsatoise Ullen sat on the screwed-down stool like a king, with one wrist locked to the screwed-down table.

Dubb threw the casefile in front of him. "Killed your buddy, huh?"

Ullen spat on the floor. His antennapalps were full up. "I ain't killed no one."

"Come on. We have the gun."

"Again the gun? First them district dicksucks stop me, now you bring me here? Some double jeopardy shit or somethin'."

"Oh, look at the ten-credit words you're using! Your momma would be proud of you, son."

"You ain't my father, bitch. And I don't know nothin' 'bout no gun."

"You think you are very clever, don't you, Marsatoise?" Kiodd asked. "You thought you wiped all of your fingerprints, didn't you? The cops at the district thought so too. But we are not district cops."

Ullen stared at him like he just noticed him. "And what the fuck is you? Some off-brand, off-world balla?"

"We know you killed Snavon Robada. Why? He owed you?"

"Blow me, po-po."

"You fought?"

"Fuck. You."

Dubb was looking at him. Kiodd stood up and exited the room. Dubb followed him.

"You see, Sarge?" he asked. "You just can't stay orthodox with some of them."

Kiodd thought. "What do we have in the bullpen?"

"Um… a couple of death-pushers from the narcs… the crime of passion fella… that little freak y'all brought in yesterday… the park perv…"

"That guy, Totar, stealing from the OD scene. Bring him up here."

"You really don't wanna beat on his ass, man." Dubb pointed with his thumb at the interrogation room.

"Not if I can do it differently."

"Here, different means weak, Sergeant."

Kiodd waited for Dubb to return with Totar. "Just hang on for now," he told them. "A little farther from room two."

"I'll get him in three."

"No, you hang on right here until I come in. Then lead him to room three. Make sure Ullen gets a good view. And give me the keys to Ullen's handcuffs."

"What?"

"Just do it, detective."

"Watch 'im crack tough nuts Corellia-style!" he heard Vilondri's remark.

He returned to the investigation room. Entered it, leaving the door open behind him.

"What's new, bitch?" Ullen said.

"We're letting you go."

Ullen laughed. "I knew y'all was nothin' but dumb fucks. Didn't even have to lawyer up or nothin'."

Kiodd uncuffed him. Ullen seemed in no hurry to get up. He just sat rubbing his wrist.

"Nothin' but bitches," he said.

"Another man confessed," said Kiodd.

"Fuck off!"

"Totar Bebara came to the station and told us he killed Robada."

Ullen winced. "What you sayin'? That lil' fag?"

Kiodd moved out of his way. Dubb was leading Totar past the open door.

"That fuckin' faggot? What the fuck he be doin' here?"

"I just told you. He confessed to the murder we thought you committed. You are free to go."

"That faggot? Like shit he did! It was me, aight? I done wasted that bitch 'cause he been husslin' on the side! Takin' Gor'Navato's money!"

"Are you sure? Because we already have a suspect and honestly, we don't care either way."

"I ain't gonna let no fag take no cred for what I done! Hey, faggy boy, you hear?" Ullen shouted. "Ain't his wet job to brag 'bout in jail!"

Kiodd showed him the handcuffs. Ullen sighed and gave him his wrist.

.

.

.

"Good job you did there, Sarge," Dubb told him by the vending machine in the evening.

"What's that? You jealous?"

"Nah, fuck that. Good police work is good police work."

"The case remains yours, like I said. Besides, I just got lucky. Had I not come with Pengoren and Vilondri to the scene yesterday, I wouldn't have known about Bebara."

"But you did go with them. Good job—like I said."

He left, and Kiodd was unsure if he got what the man had wanted him to hear.

.

.

.

A call woke him up. It was still dark outside.

"Kiodd," he said into the comlink, expecting to hear the narcotics lieutenant's voice and resurrecting the details of Ullen's confession in his mind.

But it was Etherby, one of the Humans under his command. "Sergeant, we got a 99-6 at Croshnield and Strugott. Your presence is required."

Kiodd sat up in his bed. "Victims?"

"Too early to say. Neighbors reported shots fired. We're waiting for backup before we go in."

"Got it. There in twenty."

He was there in twenty-three, owing to his still poor knowledge of the city as much as to the piece-of-shit rental aircar his salary could buy. Red-blue, red-blue, pulsed the corner. Kiodd counted six patrol speeders and two civilian as well as two ambulances forming a loose half-circle by the two-story house. He got out. Nearly all windows in the neighborhood were alight, and in each there stood at least one dark figure.

In each except for the house in question.

Etherby walked up to him, datapad in hand. "It's fubar, Sarge. Four bodies."

"You went in?"

"Not five minutes ago. Cole Vilondri's still there."

They went to the house. A uniformed cop stood by the door. Four more formed a semblance of a perimeter, though not a soul seemed too keen to come closer anyway.

"What have we got? Suspects?"

"A neighbor saw two people running through the backyard. Got the district searching the back alleys."

It was dark inside save for the cops' flashlights. The first body, a Balosar male, lay right by the entrance, the left side of the face burned off by blaster fire. Two more, a male and a female, sat on the couch in the main room peering into the late-night lottery nonsense on the screen in front of them. Vilondri stood over them.

Kiodd looked closer, careful not to touch anything. "An execution?" he mused at the identical burn marks on the backs of the corpses' heads.

"Looks like it," said Vilondri.

Kiodd, pointing at the viewscreen: "What's up with this?"

"Solar battery."

Kiodd nodded.

"Strange: they gunned down the one at the entrance, but these two didn't get up? Or the perps propped them back on the couch?"

"We're still waiting for the toxicology team to get here, but I can guarantee you the tests will come back positive."

"Drugs on scene?"

"Nothing unusual. Probably smoked up all they had."

"And the fourth vic?"

"On the second floor. An old lady."

"Always pays off to visit grandmas." Kiodd stood up.

Vilondri gave him a sad half-smile.

"Victims ID'd?"

"This one," Vilondri pointed at the male on the couch, "is Elan Stovares, DOB 1/1/1 BrS, lives here."

"You kidding? Triple-one?"

"Could've been a lucky motherfucker, but something didn't work out. The granny is his momma, Regina Stovares, 41/10/33 BrS, the owner of the house. The other two we don't know yet."

"Any relatives?"

"Etherby's working on it. Just got the Stovareses' licenses."

"Alright. You two caught it, right?"

"That's right."

"I'll get the lieutenant to approve more detectives on this case."

"I doubt he'll give in, but that would be most appreciated."

"Just when we got out of the red a little," Kiodd said.

"The red's never far behind. We have found two blasters, but both in the attic in some cobwebbed boxes, don't look to have been shot for a year, at least. I have the beat cops search the area for the murder weapons."

Kiodd directed his flashlight at the wounds again. "A handgun. A DL, perhaps."

"Could be."

A patrolman entered the house, doing the usual spider-dance around the body. "A cashier at the all-day grocery store two blocks away saw a brown airvan speeding up towards the Bennard Throughway about seven minutes after the shooting."

"Report it to all patrol units."

"Yes, sir."

"What about the cams?" Vilondri asked him.

"The one at the deli only looks inside. We are still checking with the city public department to get the street ones."

Etherby came in. "The officers are rounding up the neighbors for questioning, but don't put your hopes into them, you know how the locals are."

"What do you mean, you racist cunt?" said Vilondri. Etherby flipped him off. "Doug's right, Sergeant, even though he's a racist cunt. It's a bad hood. People here don't like anyone with a badge." He walked further into the house. "Well, the working theory is the perps entered through the backdoor, having cut the power off."

"The converter's been messed with," said Etherby.

"Went into the main room," said Vilondri, following his ghostly perps, "found the sweet couple here, pew! pew! The guy in the front heard something, went down the stairs, got shot. At least one gunman walked up, killed the mother, went back down. They escaped through the backdoor into the yard and the alleys. Could've used the brown van."

"Does this look like drug violence to you?" Kiodd asked them both.

"Drug violence looks any way it wants," Vilondri answered.

"They must've been after something. To execute an entire family, including the old lady—"

"Could be just death fiends," said Etherby.

"Death fiends are usually after credits to pay for the next stick."

A voice came from the kitchen. "Found the stash!"

It was an obvious one: the scratches on the floor where the table had been moved too many times gave it dead away. A patrolwoman raised the floor board, and—

"What the fuck is this?"

Radiant light filled the kitchen. The officer recoiled before she put her gloved hand in the pit and brought the lightsource out of it.

It was eight tiny gems shining from within. The light they gave off was bright, and yet one could look at it without burning their eyes.

"What the fuck is this?" the officer repeated.

"I know what these are," Kiodd said. "I've seen such stones before. Not too many times."

"All on Corellia, let me guess," said Vilondri.

"Just so. These are Desiderata stones. Mined exclusively on a single planet and two asteroids in the Mid Rim."

"How much do they go for, Sarge?" Etherby asked.

"I'm no expert. My wife never had one of these, but her mother and aunt did. If I had to guess… No less than a couple hundred thousand for a gem this size."

Etherby whistled. "Can these be fake?"

"We'll need a jeweler to look at them, but I don't think so. The light… That would be almost impossible to fake."

"How on Balosar would lowlifes like these come in possession of them?" said Vilondri.

"Good question, detective. Also a possible motive, although it would be weird to go to all this trouble and not get the stones from a cache this easy to find. Etherby, I want all you can find on the victims: names of the unID'd two, occupations, priors, relations off the planet—everything. Vilondri, you check for jewelry salons reporting Desiderata stones missing for the past five years. Also B&Es, muggings—any reports of anything resembling these."

"With all due respect, Sergeant, but who do you think can afford stones like this on this planet? And who's gonna report them missing even if he somehow obtained them?"

"I didn't say anything about the planet. Sector-wide."

Vilondri's face contorted. "Are you serious? Do you have any idea how long it will take the fucking droids in the department to run a search like this?"

"Then you'd better get to it as early as possible."

"Nuh-uh. Give it to Willow or Atengo or hell, Etherby. I should be out on the streets!"

"I'm giving it to you. You caught it—"

"You fucking baller!"

Vilondri stormed out of the kitchen and out of the house, nearly knocking down a cop in the doorway. Etherby coughed and averted his eyes. Kiodd stood straight sensing the blood rushing to his cheeks.