Suddenly the world around him was ablaze with color, form, and dimension. The light flickered slightly as he moved to ignite the paper and plant stick that dangled from between his lips. He inhaled quickly twice and then once again, the smoke filled his lungs and warmed him during the cold night. He exhaled the smoke over a steaming container of brown liquid, no matter what they did, it never tasted like coffee made from the bean. The street was deserted and the light from the planet’s three moons, each luminous red, reflecting the planet’s temporarily absent star. The man pulled from his overcoat a Polaroid of his partner, a grimace of pain swept across his face. In the cold night of Carakuss the lone figure mused silently to himself.

Regardless of all the power of the Council of Clandestine Operations on Planets (CCOP) and the aid of technologically advanced weapons, cerebral implants, and the ultimate in transportation — Delta Warp, the private investigators and even the CCOP clandestine teams were not beyond the grasp of the big bosses.

A few more stars gave way to the relentless dawn that approached the city and the single waiting figure consumed in his thoughts.

He looked again at the picture of his late partner. Phillip Trent stood knowing that the plight of this, the first planet contacted by Corporate Earth, would continue possibly long past his life time — as it did his partner’s. Still he felt deep hatred toward the big bosses and the traders who dealt in illegal goods, who place no value on life, who work against the councils and only for their own profit, regardless of the techno-social pollution of the people and the planet. The Military AeroSpace Security’s (MASS) report on his partner’s death only suggested a professional hit, but it was the only explanation. A hit from one of his enemies would make the most sense, but Jonathan Bishop had many enemies and precious few friends. Which one of his enemies, that was the key. The trench coat clad figure’s facial expression changed from one of searching to one of analysis. The pictures and experiences of the past few days flowed across his mind as the cerebral implant re-played them into his cortex.

… The inner-city. A dealer of illicit technology owned a small shop. The large windows were hung with all manner of goods and gadgets, alien and foundation alike, to the point of darkening the store inside. Immediately upon entering the store a short heavy man approached and started into his sales- pitch. I stopped him mid sentence and threw him against one of the cluttered walls. As I grabbed his shirt, beads of perspiration emerged from his bald head and information flowed from his lips like the light from a sun on a hot summer day. The man I was looking for was a typical gun, the type the mob hired. A kind which I had seen before, the kind that was too stupid to know when to die. His name was Joey Scarpini, I searched my cerebral implant’s main files and selected a 50 % computer/sight overlay. As I walked through the accumulated filth of the inner-city with it’s ghettoes, and over crowded populous, their hearts and minds corrupted from exposure to techno-pollution I read the file in my mind. Joey was a small time hit-man, he was charged three times and released on bail each time with help form the inner-city Don. It made the most sense, Jonathan and I were investigating a TPD ring (Technology, Prostitution, Drug ring) run by the Don when he was killed.

The sun moved closer to the horizon and all but the three moons were opaque in the inevitable dawn. The man thought
>The Don had been involved in techno-pollution before, but bosses never did time on mining colonies, one of their men always took the fall. CCOP had tried to stop the Don, but sending some of his men to mining colonies and killing the ones who misused their second chance didn’t phase him. Nothing they did stopped him. So, in this instance the target was the Boss himself, not just one of his men. Bosses who break laws aren’t given a second chance. A feeling of hatred filled Phillip’s mind when he remembered the morning before, the difficulty of getting license for this one. He almost didn’t because of his involvement with the case, he had to use-up a lot of favors, but he owed it to Jonathan.

The red sun of the solar system Constella B crept closer to meet the horizon

His communicator signaled an incoming message. The perfectly shaped face of a woman appeared, nodded quickly in acknowledgement and then disappeared; he raised his eyes toward the penthouse of the Metroplex across the street, where the inner-city Don slept in the early morning light, and thought. >“… for all the people you have ever hurt, including Jonathan … “

… The giant red sun was just visible over the horizon from the high penthouse overlooking the city. The light filtered through the half open polarizing screens, in-place on the huge round windows and beyond them the balcony. The light from the sun, shifted the colours of the room to a red- orange. Renderings by de Vinci, Titian, Raphael and other artistic masters hung from the fabric covered walls and the floor was covered by a hand made rug. All this framing a mahogany bed set against one wall of the room. The bedding was almost pure red, reflecting into the room the color of the morning sun. A lone figure stirred beneath the sheets and as it moved there was an inaudible whisper of a body sliding between silken covers. The figure’s mind was a blaze with the color of the sun mixed with dreams of the night before. Slowly, he opened his eyes only to shut them once again. He lay there in bed thinking. He felt the sheets against his body, and imagined the room and his body under the sheets in his mind. The pictures and the furnishings came to mind and he thanked this planet and all its diversity, it was the essence of his business. He turned over and drifted off to sleep comforted by the fact that he controlled the city awakening beneath him. A tall exquisitely shaped woman walked into the room with a silver platter in one hand. The platter held two objects, the first large and asymmetrical, the second small and triangular both covered by a once white, now orange-red, cloth. She moved to the side of the bed, flanking the sleeping body. From beneath the cloth she pulled the first asymmetrical object, a Sting Ray pistol. She took aim, though it was unnecessary; she wanted to be certain. Slowly, she squeezed the trigger and the bullet left the gun without a whisper. As the shot hit a faint slap rang around the room and was repeated seven more times. She pulled back the covers to be sure, and recognized the now lifeless inner-city Don’s face. She replaced the pistol and pulled from the covered platter a small triangular patch. On the body she laid the silver anodized triangle with the letters CCOP emblazoned on it in Galactic script. Philip Trent pulled from his pocket a small device similar to a calculator. He pressed a few buttons and positioned the device. He hit one last button, and a five second countdown started. A portion of the buildings behind him simmered and buckled. The instant the timer reached zero the shimmering coalesced into an alien landscape bounded by the sharp edges of the hole. It opened onto a red meadow of a bright and sunny world. He turned and casually walked toward the hole. He stepped over the threshold and planted one foot on the other side. As he stood, with one half of his body on either side of the galaxy, he turned to face the rising sun. The first photons of light from the red sun struck his face — he turned and walked to his next assignment.

In the Genesis RPG universe there are two kinds of investigators — the first, private or freelance, serve the public and the foundation, the second, are the CCOP investigators these people have been trained by CCOP as covert operatives. Investigators gather information which links people with crimes. This information is then given to the proper authorities so the offender can be apprehended and put on trial before the Alliance. Private investigators hire themselves out to individuals and the many branches of the Foundation and corporations. They may serve in many different ways, including tracking down stolen jewels or bringing a planet hopping murderer to justice. As early as the 19th century, there have been private investigators who have solved crimes. Private investigators are made up of an enormously diverse class of people including ex-MASS officers, ex-CCOP officers, and regular citizens of the Foundation. Any person can become an investigator with the proper training and the licenses to carry a firearm. CCOP investigators are highly trained not to interfere with the people of culture and to fit in as one of its members. While working for CCOP, fielders look for Chaendlers dealing illegally and causing techno-pollution. To enter CCOP outstanding members of the foundation are contacted and asked if they would like to join. Once accepted there is a gruelling training course which is followed by a number of assignments in the field during which new trainees are closely monitored. After trainees have passed these field assignments they will be assigned to watch for techno-pollution. Later when the officer has been proven as a clandestine operative he or she will be reassigned to a planet where only initial contact has been made. The tasks of the CCOP officer are very taxing and require that the officer remain incognito for extended periods, often years on end. CCOP officers however, retire and live extremely well after serving the Foundation.