Lost Time: Part 1 [SECOND SKYN] by Damien Boyes

Author:Damien Boyes [Boyes, Damien]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2015-12-05T05:00:00+00:00

GAGE | 06:19:21. Friday, April 12, 2058.

I wake in the position I lay down in, completely refreshed, hungry to start back at the investigation into Connie’s killer before remembering I’m expected at work instead. I consider calling in sick but know I won’t. Whether I want to be there or not, I made a commitment. I have a job to do.

Fifty-Seven Division is a fifteen-minute walk from my new apartment, which makes me wonder if my IMP knew where I’d be posted before I did. I leave early, wearing one of the new suits I ordered yesterday morning, custom to my strapping new body.

Connie used to warn me before I left the house dressed like an off-duty rodeo clown but the IMP assured me everything I ordered was mix and match so I picked randomly, ended up in a brown suit with a light blue shirt and muted grey tie. I walk along Eastern Avenue in stiff brown shoes, squinting into the blushing sunrise, and get to the station twenty minutes early.

Fifty-Seven Division HQ is housed in a converted red-brick factory dating back to the early part of the last century. It’s gorgeous. Originally two long narrow buildings with a small gap between the short sides, they’ve been incorporated into a single unit, connected by a glassed-in walkway. The roof slants down from an unbroken strip of windows along its entire length and more giant windows curve up from the ground floor. Four tall chimneys, stretching like guard towers along the south wall, have been converted to support the rooftop hopper pads. The whole thing is covered to the second story in deep green ivy that seems to glow in the morning light.

Up the short sidewalk from the street, big clear doors open onto a wide lobby. Along one wall sits an old wooden bench and a wallscreen regaling visitors with the latest, always impressive, Service history and stats. A glassed-in meeting room sits off to the left. A place for public consultations, press conferences, middle-school civics classes.

With shift about to change the large room is busy with uniformed officers returning to the station or in civvies passing through to get changed. I’m momentarily refreshed, just by standing here. By the pace of it all. The familiarity. This is the first time I’ve felt remotely normal since the restoration.

Maybe Yellowbird was right. Maybe a routine will be good for me.

It turns out, I even know the desk sergeant, Herbert Montgomery. Herb’s worked nearly every station in the city over his career, sticking around just long enough to put in his time for promotion, but never long enough to be trusted with any real responsibility. Which seems to be exactly how he likes it.

Herb notices me through the curved green-tinged wall of shock glass at the end of the room and buzzes me through. He leaves reception to his constable and saunters out into the lobby, brandishing his ubiquitous grin.

“If it isn’t the Service’s latest convert, in the flesh. Well, mostly flesh anyway, isn’t that right there, Gage?” He extends his thick hand and I take it.

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