"That was highly irresponsible of you, sir."
I let out a long groan and shut the car door harder than necessary. This was not what I needed right now. I didn't have the bandwidth to care what Zack thought.
"Just drive," I sighed. "We'll discuss this later."
No response.
The hovercar lifted smoothly off the street, engines humming as we merged back into traffic.
I'd have to change his personality settings one of these days. I hadn't touched his software in nearly two decades, and he still ran on the same behavioral parameters Mom had set when she first installed him. Apparently, she liked her assistants with a bit of an attitude.
It didn't really bother me. What unsettled me was how real he felt sometimes. The pauses. The timing. The judgment. Every now and then, I forgot he was just an AI.
A very good one, admittedly.
I leaned back into the seat and felt a dull ache bloom across my ribs. That old man had done some serious damage. If I was any less skilled or careful, things could have gone very wrong.
Zack was right.
That had been irresponsible. I shouldn't have been so reckless.
Still—at least now I had an alibi. Even if I was reprimanded for being late, an arrest on my first day might earn me a little leniency.
As we passed through the North East Ring, my thoughts drifted back to the fight. The man had still been unconscious when I handed him over to patrol, which wasn't surprising given the amount of alcohol in his system.
What was surprising was everything else.
Where did someone like that even come from?
A combat rating of six. Six.
You didn't find people like that brawling outside bars. Those kinds of fighters were Class two marshals at the very least—and usually respected ones, even long after retirement.
"Zack," I said. "Were you recording?"
"Yes, sir. I began recording the moment he first struck you."
He was annoyingly competent.
"Put it up."
A hologram flickered to life in front of the windshield. I replayed the fight, slower this time, watching frame by frame.
Details leapt out immediately.
His foot placement. The way his guard shifted. Sloppy on the surface, but disciplined underneath. His movements followed a familiar doctrine.
Similar to what we'd been taught at the academy.
A cold realization crept in.
No. Not yet. I needed confirmation.
"What do you think?" I asked.
Zack paused, processing.
"After cross-referencing his movements against public databases," he said, "I found a close match. His fighting style closely resembles those commonly utilized by Martian marshals."
You've got to be kidding me.
I covered my face with my hands and exhaled slowly.
Perfect.
My first arrest as a Marshal, and it just had to be a highly skilled former foreign Marshal. And not only had I arrested him—I'd taunted him, provoked him, then knocked him unconscious.
I wasn't too worried about what I'd said. None of it could reasonably be classified as a direct insult. Excessive wording at worst.
And the facts were on my side. He'd assaulted a Marshal. That alone made the arrest lawful.
Still… his background could complicate things.
I leaned back, resigning myself.
It was out of my hands now.
For the moment, my only priority was making it to the briefing.
The North Central Ring came into view shortly after, and with it, the station.
It dominated the skyline.
Twenty-two floors rose above ground, but the structure extended far deeper than that—something you could feel as much as see the closer you got. This was one of Conrad's four command stations, and it wore that authority openly.
We parked outside the exclusion plaza, where civilian vehicles weren't permitted beyond the perimeter.
"Thanks, Zack," I said. "Take the car home. I'll let you know when to bring it back."
"Understood, sir."
I stepped out and headed for the personnel gate. Biometric scanners swept over me, followed by a brief pause before the gate officer nodded me through after checking my badge.
Inside, the station was alive with quiet efficiency.
Layers of security overlapped invisibly—motion sensors, thermal scans, EM detection fields, and more passive systems than I was even aware of. At any given time, over two thousand highly trained marshals operated within these walls.
Uncle Jerry once told me that an unbreakable defense didn't exist.
I'd pay to see someone try with this one.
A handful of civilians stood at the front desk, making inquiries. Above them, mounted on the wall, was the marshal emblem: our moon framed by a pair of wings, with a slogan beneath.
Keeping Peace. Protecting Order.
I approached one of the desk officers. He wore a sleek brown jacket over his uniform. His slate-colored skin was rare on Ganymede—Callistan heritage, most likely.
He looked up as I stopped in front of him.
"Rookie Marshal Aldrich," I said. "Could you direct me to the briefing rooms?"
His eyes flicked to my bruises.
"You're late," he said flatly. "Got into some trouble, I see."
"Nothing I couldn't handle."
He nodded. "Down the hall to your left. Take the elevator to level five."
'Thanks—Philip,' I added after checking his name tag.
'Just doing my job.'
The briefing room was easy to find. I could hear a woman's voice giving instructions through the door—and even caught the familiar scents of my squadmates.
I stopped just before the door.
"Zack," I whispered, "you know PAAs aren't allowed while on duty."
"Understood. Best of luck, sir."
"Thanks."
I removed the earpiece and slipped it into my pocket before stepping inside.
The training officer stood at the front of the room—broad-shouldered, posture rigid, presence commanding. She was in the middle of answering a question when my squad noticed me.
They stared.
Wide-eyed. Alarmed.
The officer followed their gaze.
"And who might you be?" she asked, unsmiling.
"Rookie Marshal Aldrich," I said then hesitated. "Squad Captain."
Her eyes swept over me slowly. Disapproval was unmistakable.
"I would love to hear a squad captain's explanation for arriving fifteen minutes late on his first day."
I stayed silent.
"Go on," she pressed. "Humor me."
"There are no excuses," I said evenly. "But I should report that I made an arrest."
Gasps rippled through the room.
Jen grinned. Just like her to find this situation amusing.
The officer considered me for a long moment.
"Smith," she said, "is that true?"
'Yes, sir. An incident report was just filed naming marshal Aldrich as the arresting officer.'
"Is that so?" she said, still looking at me, "Pull up his file."
A hologram flashed in her face. She quickly scanned through it and turned back to the room, dismissing the screen.
"Very well. Take your seat. Consider this your only warning."
Relief loosened my shoulders as I joined my squad, taking the empty seat beside Jen. She was still grinning. My other squadmates stared at me with some amusement. They would be having some words with later.
"Alright. Moving on," she said. "You're all familiar with how we encourage competition between squads. Excellence is not optional here—and to enforce that, we maintain squad rankings."
We'd covered this at the academy. Higher-ranked squads were prioritized for promotions, received better assignments, and had first claim on upgraded equipment. Rank wasn't just prestige—it was leverage.
"Although you are in your probationary period as initiates, you will still be ranked internally until you can join the official listings." she continued, "To that end, you'll be participating in an immediate evaluation to determine your initial standings."
A low murmur rippled through the room.
"Change into your sparring kits," she added. "Training room three. Thirty minutes. Don't be late."
Thirty minutes.
My ribs gave a quiet, traitorous throb at the thought. I had no idea what the evaluation would involve, but if it was physical—and it usually was—I was already at a disadvantage.
"That's all. You are dismissed. Kon Jarna."
"Kon Jarna," we answered in unison.
Chairs shifted as they began to leave. I was halfway out of my seat when her voice stopped me.
"Aldrich. Stay."
The others filtered out slowly, more than a few of them glancing back at me. The room soon emptied and it was just the two of us.
She studied me for a moment.
"An arrest on your first day," she said. "That's… notable. Catching lawbreakers is commendable, but don't confuse initiative with judgment. Our primary duty as Marshals is to serve and protect. Never lose sight of that."
There was no bite in her tone. No posturing. She meant it.
Good for her.
"Yes, sir," I said. "I'll remember that."
She nodded once, then her expression shifted—curiosity edging out authority.
"One more thing. Your first name. It's… unusual to say the least. How is it pronounced?"
I smiled inwardly. Every time.
It might've annoyed me when I was younger. Now it was just routine.
"Sytkrweatacthi."
She blinked.
"I'm sorry—what?"
"Sytkrweatacthi, sir," I said. "But everyone calls me Stretch."