Saturday morning.
Late morning.
Ash was still in bed.
Naked and feeling very relaxed.
That synthetic masseuse had worked wonders.
The kneaders pushing down into her back like
a big cat's paws.
Ample pours of jasmine-scented gel rubbed
with patient care into every inch of her long,
slender body while soothing music filled the
air.
But now Ash would have to get moving.
Allow the dreams to evaporate as she amped
herself back up for work.
Detectives were still very much cops and the
brass expected them to get their hands dirty
while out in the streets.
Because criminals didn't care what your rank
was.
They didn't even seem deterred by all the
cameras and sensors that were everywhere.
Not only was crime up, but Ash thought it
was getting more brazen—as if in defiance
of the new models of robot officers that had
recently joined the force.
Ashley Westgard wouldn't say that she resented
or despised lawbreakers the same way some
cops did.
She felt she understood them—and besides,
she was no angel herself.
Although that didn't stop her from taking
pleasure in grinding their faces into the
dirt and calling them trash.
Because there was just a certain line she
wouldn't cross that the criminal element didn't
respect...
She had a working theory about what was going
on, which she called the dilemma of the steam
valve.
On one hand, the world was being built up
and maintained virtually on autopilot by an
interconnected network of machines that could
assemble and repair themselves.
But people still had doubts and flaws and
uncontrollable passions that needed some kind
of release.
That didn't always make for a rosy picture.
Which is why Ash loved a good throwdown after
words went too far.
Or working the hormones into a frenzy, then
spiraling upward all night with someone new.
And as was the case lately, plotting with
cold calculation how to climb her way up the
police ranks and enter into gilded society.
What she couldn't forgive was the likes of
that shoplifter from yesterday.
People who tried to cut the line, and then
came up with excuses after they got caught.
Ash pondered whether that attitude was also
part of this symptom she was seeing on the
streets.
A desperate flaunting that seemed to be saying
“look at me” more than “I want this
thing.”
Some strange pressure was weighing people
down, and Ash wondered if she was the only
one who even noticed.
While this keenness of mind had helped accelerate
her promotion from beat cop to detective,
she still was a flesh-and-blood animal, and
often found herself unable to resist falling
prey to her own worst vices.
And if working in law enforcement kept you
mostly above reproach, then being a female
officer in 2045 meant you were untouchable.
Ash's superiors didn't care what she or anyone
else did in their off hours, as long as they
kept clearing cases and the streets were safe.
Still, Ash couldn't help but feel that she
was starting to slip...
Because something was definitely changing
inside her, as well as society at large.
The steam valve wasn't enough to balance her
out, or maybe she was just pushing it to the
point of breaking down.
Five drinks too many one day.
Late-night calls to the street tough who sold
her information and tasties.
Churning and burning through women like she
was shucking corn for a community potluck.
And then there was her most shameful weakness,
which had started to boil over from a rare
guilty pleasure into something she craved
and relied on.
Those men.
The hired guns with flexing buns.
But even they were mostly ineffective now.
Ashley Westgard was being hounded by some
mysterious need.
An itch she couldn't scratch, a blind spot
that wouldn't come into focus.
Just as society itself seemed sluggish within
the fog of a new malaise.
A pinched nerve that was driving people so
crazy, they were willing to commit foolish
crimes in the picture-perfect world that was
being built just for them.
