Will and Horatio similarly adapted, and they joined her in the ship’s corridor. Behind her, in the cargo hold, the far bulkhead fell away. There was no atmospheric decompression—the external atmosphere matched the internal. The pincers of a big robotic arm reached inside and removed a crate.
That would be our belongings.
“We are to debark now,” Targon said over the comm.
He emerged from the bridge hatch, using that bounding walk Rhea had only just learned, and stood next to the bulkhead. The deck shuddered as a hatch slid down and formed a ramp to the floor outside.
Targon led the way with those big, bounding steps. Rhea followed, slowly stepping from the ship, hanging onto the railing as she descended. She considered using the lower gravity to jump down in a single leap but thought better of it lest she make a fool of herself—she still wasn’t completely comfortable in the lighter environment. Also, there was a chance potential assassins might use the moment of debarkation to strike, so that was another reason to take extra care. She warily surveyed her surroundings as she descended, however she saw only the empty corridor, and the Molly Dook.
Targon reached a walkway and vaulted into a small opening in the wall. Rhea followed, taking smaller, bouncing steps.
She found herself in a long corridor. A share request appeared on her HUD.
Centaar Customs, Ganymede, would like to open up a private channel. Do you accept? (Y/N)
She accepted.
“Please remain still,” a metallic voice intoned over the comm.
A conveyor belt activated beneath her, dragging her forward.
Different colored lamps flashed from the corridor walls around her, and Rhea was under the impression she was being scanned.
“Checking us for contagions,” Will transmitted. “Just watch, they’re going to say we’re infected with something and need to be transferred to isolation.”
As she neared the far side of the corridor, the voice over the comm told her: “You have been granted entry. You may open your helmet at your convenience.”
“Guess I was wrong,” Will said. “Happens, from time to time.”
Rhea opened the faceplate of her helmet and the internal life support system of the spacesuit instantly shut down. She took a deep breath. The air smelled… musty. Not as stale as the transport craft, but she could still tell it was recycled.
A pair of doors opened at the far side of the corridor, and Targon sprung through. Rhea stepped off the ramp and followed, taking a bounding leap. She emerged in some sort of receiving area that was part of a larger terminal. The ceiling here arched far overhead, providing ample room for the bounding steps supported by the lower gravity.
A long counter was set against the wall beside her. Two robots with plasma rifles embedded in their arms stood guard on the far end. Defense turrets also hung from the ceiling, ready to open fire if any of the new arrivals proved threats.
“Please approach the counter,” the metallic voice intoned.
Rhea removed her helmet, resting it between one gloved hand and her hip, and let her artificial hair hang down. Then she took three arcing steps to the counter.
“Please activate augmented reality overlays if you have not done so already,” the metallic voice said in her head.
She already had public overlays active, so when the hologram of the friendly customs official appeared before her, she saw the woman immediately. The hologram was positioned so that it appeared to be behind the counter in front of Rhea.
“Hello!” the holographic woman said. “And welcome to Centaar, a Europa colony! We hope you enjoy your stay. Please fill out the required customs form.”
“Funny how they call it a ‘Europa colony,’ when this is Ganymede!” Will quipped, coming up beside her.
Rhea received another share request and accepted. A digital file downloaded. When she opened it, she discovered the aforementioned form. Most of the details such as her age and name were hardcoded and could not be changed. The occupation field was blank, as was her reason for visiting the moon. She was also asked to declare all her belongings and their values.
She left the occupation blank, and for reason, she put: “sightseeing.” She filled out the belongings section, putting one credit for most of them. For the X2-59, she had no idea how much it retailed for, so she accessed the local Internet. A quick search returned no results: apparently the local government censored all weapon searches. She put fifty credits for the weapon, which seemed reasonable.
Then she submitted the form.
The women smiled stupidly, as if she was still waiting for something.
Rhea glanced at Targon, who stood just to her left.
“The customs official won’t allow us to proceed until everyone submits their forms,” Targon explained.
Rhea switched her gaze to Horatio and Will.
“Don’t look at me, I’m done,” Horatio said.
Will’s eyes were defocused. “I’m working on it.” Finally he met Rhea’s gaze. “Done.”
“Your weapons and drone will be held in the terminal for the duration of your stay,” the holographic woman said with a friendly smile. “They will be returned to you when you leave Centaar.”
Will shrugged. “That’s fine. We already knew your weapons policy.”
The customs hologram didn’t answer.
A robot emerged from a back hall. Its upper body was humanoid, its lower body a box mounted on treads. It carried the crate she had seen the bigger arms remove from the Molly Dook. When it reached the counter, the robot plopped the crate down.
Their weapons had
