The Thin Blue Line (The Empire's Corps Book 9) (v5.1)

by Christopher Nuttall

  She was still mulling over her thoughts when she was shown into Major Quincy’s cabin. The Marine Intelligence officer nodded to her, then reached for a terminal and clicked a switch, activating a holographic display. This time, instead of a star chart, it showed a biography.

  “We went backwards and forwards on what kind of cover to give you,” Quincy said, cheerfully. He had a zest for life that Belinda had once shared, before the disastrous mission on Earth. “It was deemed inappropriate for you to have anything linking you to the Corps, not when it might earn you more attention than you might wish. Instead, we decided to give you a very loose profile, but one with military ties.”

  He tapped a switch. “Lieutenant Belinda Lawson,” he said. “Native to New Washington, but joined the Imperial Army instead of the local self-defence force. You spent seven years as a military policewoman, then you had an ... accident and retired, choosing to seek employment on tramp freighters rather than returning home. One of our covert operations starships will drop you off on Terra Nova, adding to your cover story.”

  Belinda frowned as she took the datapad and read the cover story. It was as complete as it was likely to be, without inserting details directly into local databases. Sending an inquiry to New Washington would probably raise red flags, but it was unlikely anyone would dig that far into her cover. If they did, she’d have to leave the planet before they zeroed in on her and started asking awkward questions.

  “There should be a copy of the Imperial Army’s records on Terra Nova,” she said, slowly. “What happens if they check these records against my cover story?”

  “That’s the beauty of it,” Quincy assured her. “The ... details of your accident are classified, so the records won’t be copied to Terra Nova. They were on Earth when the planet died, so they can ask questions all they like and ... well, there will be no answers. Unless they hire a medium, I suppose.”

  “Very funny,” Belinda said, crossly. “And what sort of accident am I supposed to have had?”

  “I was going to suggest that you claimed to have been molested or raped by someone with powerful connections,” Quincy said. “It would explain why the records are sealed – we can probably add a record hinting that you received a colossal payoff for keeping your mouth shut.”

  Belinda grimaced. It was vanishingly rare for female marines to be sexually harassed, certainly not by their male comrades. The men knew that the women had been through the same Slaughterhouse as themselves, without any allowances made for their gender. But it was far from uncommon for female soldiers outside the Marines to be harassed, not least because the Imperial Army did reduce the training program for them. And rapes were not unknown. The Civil Guard had no female soldiers at all.

  “It will do,” she said. On Greenland, her homeworld, there had been one way of dealing with rapists. The bastards were shot – and if the would-be victim shot him herself, before he could knock her down, she would receive a medal for improving the human gene pool. But it wasn't a standard of justice known in the Core Worlds, where defending oneself could lead to criminal charges. “I don’t suppose you could add something about me defending myself?”

  “Not really,” Quincy said. “It would attract attention.”

  “Then leave it as it is,” Belinda said. She sighed. “What can you give me to take down to the surface?”

  “You have a gun permit issued by the Spacer’s Guild,” Quincy said. “We have quite a number of blank permits, so it’s only a matter of adding your name and ID number into the blanks and tagging it to the weapon. I doubt you’ll be allowed to bring it down to the surface, but they’d be more surprised if you didn't have one. But we can't give you any overt weapons.”

  Belinda nodded, unsurprised. It wouldn't be a problem. No matter the law, there was no shortage of illicit weapons in the Core Worlds. A few days on the surface, with access to local records, and she would be able to obtain any number of weapons. The trick would be doing it without being detected or identified.

  And besides, she still had some of her implanted weapons. It would be enough to give her an advantage if the shit hit the fan.

  “We can give you several different kinds of money, as would be expected of a spacer,” Quincy continued. “The problem, however, is that they may be worth less than nothing on Terra Nova. I suspect the value of the Imperial Credit is still plummeting and ... bearer bonds from a different world may be useless if there is no overall backer of debts. I’ve taken the liberty, therefore, of giving you copies of some of the latest music and entertainment flicks from several different worlds. You may be able to trade unsecured copies for cash. I’ve also given you some rare metal chips, but they may take them off you when you pass through customs.”

  “Understood,” Belinda said. If worst came to worst, she could break into an unsecured apartment and rob it, or even pick up a man for a night. She'd done both before, during her first missions as a Pathfinder. It wasn't something she cared to do, but it was part of her job if necessary. “What other equipment can you give me?”

  “A modified multitool, for a start,” Quincy said. He held up the pencil-like device and demonstrated one of its hidden functions. “You can use this as more than just a lockpick, with a little effort. And it passes for a standard multitool unless someone takes it completely to pieces.”

  Belinda leaned forward, interested. She loved her rifle, even if she hadn't carried it since Han, but she enjoyed hearing about spy technology. It never failed to amuse her, particularly when Quincy demonstrated how a sex toy could become a useful tool with a little manipulation.

  She was almost disappointed when the call came for her to board her starship and leave the Chesty Puller far behind.

  Chapter Five

  This may make more sense when you realise that a woman’s virginity was vitally important to the locals. The parentage of her children could not be called into question. Even if it became clear within a few months that she was not with child, she could never give up her virginity again.

  - Professor Leo Caesius. The Decline of Law and Order and the Rise of Anarchy.

  The waiting room had, if anything, grown fuller since Glen had entered the station and made his way to the conference room. Dozens of men and a relative handful of women sat on the hard chairs, some watched carefully by the security staff. Quite a few of them looked dangerous, which suggested the holding cells were already full. Glen sighed, remembering a handful of riots that had started in the waiting rooms, then started to look for the girl. She wasn't hard to spot.

  He felt a flicker of rage as soon as he realised how she’d been treated. She was tiny, very obviously not a threat to a grown man, yet someone had cuffed her hands behind her back and shackled her legs together, before sitting her down on a hard metal chair. It was nothing more than an attempt to make it clear how helpless she was, that her fate was completely in the hands of her captors. Glen knew, all too well, that the Civil Guard considered it standard procedure. Helpless captives were safe captives.

  Up close, it was clear she was alarmingly thin, so slight she barely came up to his shoulders. Her face was thin and pinched, her long brown hair was tied in a single ponytail that hung down over her shoulder and past her breasts. Her eyes were bleak and hopeless, suggesting depression and tiredness. Glen looked at her and felt nothing, but pity. She was very definitely not a suspect who needed to be chained up to prevent movement.

  Damn you, he thought, looking towards the security staff. Procedures were procedures and no one, it seemed, had seen fit to apply some common sense. He wished he was surprised, but it was a common problem in the Empire. Someone could avoid punishment, even after a complete disaster, if they could prove they had followed procedures and stuck firmly to the letter of regulations. The morality of keeping a young girl in chains took second place to keeping one’s job. But then, it wasn't really a surprise. These days, being unemployed meant the kiss of death.

  He stopped in front of the girl and knelt down to face her.
“Hi,” he said. “My name is Glen, Glen Cheal. What’s yours?”

  “Helen,” the girl said. Her voice was accented, suggesting she hadn't been born on Terra Nova. “I ...”

  She shuddered, her wrists flexing against the cuffs. Glen winced in sympathy, realising that she was on the edge of shock. Being a prisoner couldn't have been much fun, even if she hadn't been abused by her captors. And then she’d moved from one prison to another. Hell, it was quite possible the Civil Guardsmen who’d captured her had taken advantage of the situation to cop a feel. Glen considered making a full report and demanding satisfaction, but he knew it would be futile. The Civil Guardsmen regarded molesting captives as one of the perks of their underpaid job.

  “It’s alright,” Glen said, patting her shoulder. She flinched away from his touch. “I have to take you out of here, really.”

  “They said I had to stay here and wear these,” Helen said. She kicked her legs, rattling the chains. “And they told me I wouldn't be going anywhere.”

  Glen listened, but couldn't place her accent. There was something oddly formal about it, suggesting that Helen had grown up largely isolated from planetary society. Given her pale skin, he was fairly sure she’d lived on a spaceship rather than a planet, which might explain her build as well. It was quite possible that she’d been exposed to a low-gravity environment from a very early age, which would have left marks on her body even if she’d had treatments to prevent muscular decay. She'd just have to be given proper treatment before she went anywhere else.

  “I think they were lying to you,” Glen said. He winked at her. “And since my boss outranks their boss, what she says goes.”

  He reached into his belt and produced a handcuff key, which he pressed against her cuffs. They clicked free, allowing her to start rubbing her hands. Glen cursed under his breath when he saw the bruises – the cuffs had really been on too tight – then released her legs as well. It was against regulations, but if he couldn't catch Helen if she started to run he’d be well advised to hand in his resignation on the spot. And besides, where would she go?

  “Come on,” he said, holding out a hand to help her to her feet. “You need to go somewhere else.”

  Helen ignored his hand, but rose slowly to her feet under her own power. “They said I was a flight risk,” she said, stumbling over the unfamiliar words. “Why ...?”

  “Well, I’ll leave your hands free if you promise not to try to run,” Glen said, turning to escort her down the corridor. “There’s always someone who wants to show how badass he is by slapping cuffs on everyone in sight. I think they’re compensating for something.”

  Helen giggled.

  Glen smiled, then led the way through a pair of metal doors, into the examination chamber. A harassed-looking medic glanced up at him, then gave Helen a sharp look. Glen motioned for Helen to stand in front of the scanner, then turned to face the medic. The medic – her nametag read LAURA - looked as tired as Glen felt.

  “I don’t have time to do anything more than a basic examination,” she said. “I’ve got thirty prisoners to process before the end of the day.”

  “That’s fine,” Glen said. He looked over at Helen. “Do as the nice medic says, will you?”

  Helen said nothing as the medic poked and prodded at her, then took her fingerprints and ran them against the planetary database. Glen wasn't too surprised when the scan came back negative; in theory, every civilian on Terra Nova was supposed to be listed, but in practice there were plenty of people who had escaped the registration program. Helen’s blood didn't produce any matches either, although there were definite traces of genetic modification, suggesting that she did come from a spaceship. It looked as though she’d been starved too badly for the modifications to do their work.

  “She’s underweight, probably hasn't been fed properly, and in mild shock,” Laura said. “Be nice to her. I’d write a prescription for her wrists, but it would be quicker if I gave her the ointment now. There’s no guarantee you’d be able to find it outside the station.”

  Glen nodded. There were shortages of everything now, from medicines to spare parts and weapons systems. The average citizen was entitled to free prescriptions, in theory, but the Marshals had busted a dozen criminal rings involved in producing fake medicines that, at best, would have been completely useless. At worst, they would have killed their victims or crippled them for life. Only the very rich or the well-connected could hope to find what they needed at once, rather than queuing for hours and taking their chances.

  “Make sure you give her plenty of food too,” Laura added. “She really needs supplements as well as proper meals, but I don’t have any on hand. I’ll put a request in through the system and you should get them within the next two weeks. No promises, though.”

  “I understand,” Glen said.

  Laura checked Helen’s wrists again, then found her a small bottle of ointment. Glen took it – one of the security officers would probably object to a prisoner carrying anything through the station – stowed it in his pocket and motioned for Helen to follow him. She obeyed, walking beside him as they made their way through the corridors. Oddly, he noted that she didn't show any real interest in her surroundings. The last time he’d escorted a group of students through the station, they’d asked questions about everything until he’d been on the verge of tossing them all into the drunk tank for the night.

  Maybe it’s just an act, he reminded himself, and she’s just biding her time until she can make a break for it.

  He sighed, inwardly, as he pushed open the doors to the canteen. It was half-full, with officers and guardsmen sitting at various metal tables and stuffing their faces with half-edible food from the cooking staff, all of whom acted as though they’d been dragged out of the nearest mental asylum and chained to the stoves until they produced enough food to keep the officers fed. Glen pointed Helen towards a two-person table in the corner, then walked over to the counter and inspected the choices. As always, the food looked unpleasant to the eye, although it was plentiful. The Marshals joked that prisoners in the cells were fed better than their captors. There were times when Glen was sure it wasn't a joke.

  “Two plates of chips and beans,” he said, when the cook condescended to glower at him. It wasn't a healthy dinner for either of them, but it was hard for the cooks to turn it into foul-tasting sludge. “And two bottles of water.”

  “I suppose you’ll be wanting extra chips,” the cook grumbled, as he served the first portion and reached for the second plate. “For the girl, that is.”

  “Of course,” Glen said. He pressed his ID badge against the scanner, then rolled his eyes as it deducted the price of the meal from his account. The Marshals were supposed to have their bed and board provided by the service – it helped keep them free from corruption – but it had long since been cancelled by the endless budget cuts. If Glen hadn't been paid a considerable sum in compensation after his wife had died, he would never have been able to afford his own apartment. “She would appreciate it.”

  “She’d probably also appreciate some hot chocolate,” the cook said. “But we don’t serve that here.”

  Glen glowered at him, then carried the tray over to where Helen was sitting, staring at nothing. He’d half-expected complaints about the food – the chips were stringy, while the beans looked as though they’d passed through the digestive system of a cow – but Helen merely started to eat without comment. It was another piece of evidence, he decided, that she was used to living in space. The spacers tended to eat algae-based ration bars and repossessed foodstuffs rather than anything planet-dwellers would consider edible food. And they tended to rewire their stomachs to make eating it easier for them.

  He felt his head swim, briefly, as the food interacted with the remainder of the drugs in his system. The tiredness faded, but he knew from bitter experience that it wouldn't be gone forever. He needed to get home and lie down before he collapsed completely, which meant taken Helen home with him and putting her
in the guest bedroom. The food tasted as appalling as he’d expected, but at least it was edible. He looked up and saw her looking back at him, her pale eyes nervous. She had no idea, he reminded himself, what to expect from him.

  “We’ll go somewhere you can sleep,” he said, as reassuringly as possible. The dammed guardsmen who’d taken her into custody had a lot to answer for. She probably thought he intended to take advantage of her as soon as they were alone. “You won’t have to worry about answering questions for the moment.”

  Helen lowered her eyes, then opened her bottle of water and took a long swig. Glen did the same – the water tasted flat, as if it had been run through the purifier a few times before being bottled – and then replaced the lid and stowed the bottle on his belt. He knew, all too well, that they might be caught in a traffic jam when they drove back to his apartment and they might need the water then.

  “We’ll go back now,” he said, standing. “Do you need to go potty first?”

  “I’m not a child,” Helen said, crossly. “I can go to the toilet on my own.”

  Glen concealed his amusement, then showed her to the nearest toilet and waited outside for her to finish. Standard procedure insisted that no prisoner was to go to the toilet alone, but he had no intention of forcing her to go with him in the room or finding a female officer to stay with her. He’d never liked sharing a toilet, even during basic training. But he was starting to worry when she finally came out of the room, having washed her face and remodelled her hair as well as using the facilities. He nodded to her, then escorted her through the sealed doors that led out into the enclosed car park. His service-issued car was parked at the far end of the giant compartment.

  “You should use an aircar,” Helen said, as he opened the door for her. The rear was configured for prisoners, but he didn't see the point in chaining her to the seat. “I think that would get you home quicker.”