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

by Christopher Nuttall

  “The chicken tastes odd,” Helen said. “Is that normal?”

  Glen took a bite, rolling the piece of meat around his mouth. “I think so,” he said. “It’s just the preservatives they force into the meat.”

  Helen gave him an odd look. “Preservatives?”

  “People sue over everything,” Glen said. “If someone bought a piece of rotten meat, they’d sue. So the shopping malls inject preservatives into the meat to ensure it lasts longer and no one gets hurt eating it. And if it doesn't taste as good as it should ... well, it’s for the good of society.”

  “And to ensure they can keep the meat on the shelves longer,” Helen added.

  Glen smiled. “How cynical,” he said. “But yeah, you’re right. They’ve been known to keep pieces of heavily-preserved meat on the shelves for weeks, then remove it just before the meat reaches its expiry date.”

  Helen looked at the piece of meat on the end of her fork. “But don’t people sue over the taste?”

  “Probably,” Glen said. He sighed. Half of his time as a rookie had been spent dealing with safety precautions forced on society by endless lawsuits. It had been nightmarish because the vast majority of decent citizens couldn't afford to keep up with the regulations. “If there’s a chance to make money from a lawsuit, Helen, someone will take it. And leave everyone else to clear up the mess.”

  He finished his meal, then dropped the plate in the sink. Helen had insisted that she be allowed to do the washing up in the daytime, rather than leaving it for Glen to do later. Glen had argued, but not too hard. Helen needed to do something to feel that she was earning her place in his home, if only to keep her from becoming an over-entitled kid like too many of the little bastards who ended up in holding cells. It spoke well of her parents, he decided as he poured himself a mug of tea, that they’d trained her to do a portion of the work as soon as she could walk. There were too many children on Terra Nova who never learned the basic life skills until they moved into an apartment of their own and discovered just how hard it was to manage a household.

  And some of them never learn at all, he thought, morbidly.

  Helen led the way into the sitting room and inserted the chip into the viewscreen, then sat back on the floor as the endless series of warnings against piracy popped up on the screen. Glen rolled his eyes – nothing, not even the most advanced encryption available to commercial interests, had been able to prevent electronic piracy – and poured himself a drink as the warnings scrolled on. No one, as far as he knew, paid any attention to them. They were just annoying, as were the series of trailers that followed. And if there had been a way to switch past them, he suspected, there would be fewer pirate copies on the streets.

  “These trailers are all the same,” Helen complained, as Glen sat down on the sofa behind her. “Why don’t they come up with anything different?”

  Glen smiled as yet another fire-breathing dragon flew across the screen. “Because they’re not allowed to have a decent plot,” he said. “It’s easier to indulge in ridiculous special effects and gut-wrenching violence than try to get a story idea through the censors. Everything has to be as clinched as possible.”

  Helen turned to look back at him. “Why?”

  “Don’t want the masses getting ideas,” Glen grunted. “You couldn't have a resistance movement on a colony world that actually had a point. That might start people thinking.”

  He sighed. It hadn't been that long since he’d watched Colony Wars CXI – a remake of a remake – where a colony world had revolted against Earth. The leader of the revolt had been a sadistic coward, so fearful that it was hard to see how he’d ever worked up the nerve to revolt, while his behaviour had been so reprehensible that only utter depravity explained why his followers hadn't revolted against him. And he’d made a point of gloating, as often as possible, about how he was starving Earth. The whole flick had been nothing more than an exercise in poorly-disguised propaganda.

  And they glossed over how he was finally removed from power, if not the execution, he thought, wryly. Can’t have the military seen in a good light now, can we?

  Helen looked doubtful. “People actually believe everything they see?”

  Glen shrugged. The average citizen of Terra Nova – and Earth, before the Fall – lived in a single tiny apartment and rarely saw anything of the world outside, let alone the rest of the universe. They never questioned what they were told by their teachers, let alone the flicks that were supposed to be grounded firmly in reality. The smart ones saw the tiny discrepancies and eventually worked out the truth – and then applied to join colony missions leaving the Core Worlds far behind. By now, after centuries of the smarter ones weeding themselves out of the population, he had a private suspicion that most of Terra Nova’s population couldn't tie their own shoes without government assistance.

  “Mostly,” he said. The screen brightened as loud music began to play. “Sit back and watch, if you still want to see it.”

  He had to fight the urge to throw something at the screen as Hero Cop went to work, or to provide commentary on the many boneheaded mistakes made by the producers. Hero Cop wouldn't have lasted five minutes as a Marshal before he was summarily sacked – or fired out of an airlock – for gross incompetence. Patty would have gone ballistic if any of her subordinates had acted in such a manner, Glen was sure. She’d certainly never hesitated to chew them out whenever they made a mistake.

  And none of us are quite so loathsome, he thought. And we certainly don’t flirt with suspects.

  “He’s handsome,” Helen said. “But he’s also as thick as a brick.”

  Glen had to smile. Hero Cop was tall, blonde and built like a bodybuilder. The uniforms he wore were designed to show off his muscles, rather than provide either protection or identification. His female colleagues wore uniforms that were barely there, not even covering their nipples. Glen considered, briefly, sending such a uniform to Isabel, then dismissed the thought when he realised she’d castrate him if she ever worked out who’d sent her such a useless gift. She wouldn't see the funny side, not when she had to work extra hard to earn respect from the Civil Guard and citizens on the street.

  But the uniforms were a minor complaint compared to just how unprofessional Hero Cop actually was. He flirted with suspects, allowed himself to be distracted every five minutes by a pair of breasts and scattered evidence randomly over crime scenes. Any half-witted defence lawyer could take advantage of Hero Cop’s carelessness to get the suspect off, even if he was as guilty as sin. And then there was the scene where he boned his partner in the back of a police van ...

  “I hope you don’t do that,” Helen said. “Or do you?”

  “No,” Glen said, shortly. Once, a Civil Guardsman had been caught having sex in the back of a prison van with a suspect, but he’d never heard of a Marshal being so careless. Or stupid, given how easy it was for a desperate suspect to take advantage of a moment of stupidity. “And having sex with one’s partner is grossly unprofessional.”

  “My parents were partners,” Helen objected. “They worked together ...”

  “That’s different,” Glen said. From what he’d heard, many spacer families were closely related, trading husbands and wives from time to time to keep the gene pool as wide as possible. “Isabel and I can't afford any emotional entanglement.”

  Helen looked oddly downcast. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You deserve someone in your life.”

  Glen shrugged. “Most of the women I meet are suspects,” he said. “It’s hard to date someone when you’re taking them into the station for one reason or another.”

  He sighed. It was an open secret among the Marshals that a pretty girl, arrested by the Civil Guard, could get out of trouble by offering herself to them. Glen had no idea how many girls had escaped jail because they’d made the trade, although he had to admit that the thought of having sex with a guardsman was horrific, perhaps a punishment in its own right. And besides, most of the girls couldn't have looked fo
rward to anything other than being transported off-world as indentured colonists. They might have thought it was worth the trade.

  “And don’t forget it,” Hero Cop announced, as he strode into battle. “The good guys always win.”

  Glen rolled his eyes as the shooting commenced. In real life, Hero Cop would have been riddled with so many bullets that there wouldn’t have been anything left of him, apart from blood on the ground. But in the flick, he walked through a hail of bullets without being touched, then drew his pistol and started shooting back. Over a hundred shots later – the pistol hadn't been reloaded once – the shooting came to an end. Glen made a face as the camera panned over the dead bodies, the men having their faces blown away while the women were still beautiful, even in death. Gunshot wounds weren't like that! Hero Cop stepped forward, snapped off a couple more one-liners as the girl he’d rescued started to remove what remained of her clothing, and then the flick mercifully came to an end.

  Helen frowned as she removed the datachip. “Where did that girl come from?”

  “I don’t think it matters,” Glen said. If there was a plot, beyond ‘Hero Cop fucks, shoots and fucks again’ he couldn’t see it. There was no link between the various scenes, as far as he could see, nor was there any reason for the girl to be at the shootout at the end. A little imagination would have provided the answers, if the filmmakers had bothered to think about it. Perhaps the girl had been a hostage who’d been saved by Hero Cop ...

  He shook his head. “But they couldn't shoot a realistic cop movie anyway.”

  “Why not?” Helen asked. “It might be fun.”

  “It would be boring,” Glen said. He could see why shootouts were considered exciting, but much of a Marshal’s life consisted of gathering evidence, interrogating suspects and presenting his findings to court. Hero Cop hadn't bothered with forensic evidence, his interrogation technique would get him whatever he wanted to hear rather than the truth and he didn't seem to give a damn about proving the case afterwards. “And nothing like the movie. I wouldn't even know where to begin picking it apart.”

  “No sex with your partner,” Helen suggested.

  Glen snorted. That wasn't the worst of it, he knew. The complete disregard for forensic evidence was bad enough, but the treatment of suspects was worse. Beating people up at random didn’t tend to produce hard evidence and defence lawyers could use it to suggest that their clients had lied out of self-preservation. And then there had been the detailed torture scene, where Hero Cop had beaten a half-naked woman bloody for information. The mere inclusion of the scene said more about the producers than about real life on the streets.

  He shuddered in disgust. Two years ago, he’d arrested a conspiracy theorist who’d claimed that the prevalence of violence – particularly sexual violence – was a plot to manipulate the population into reducing itself. Glen hadn't thought much of it at the time, but now he tended to wonder of the theorist had had a point. It was difficult to be sure, as the figures were suppressed, yet he had a feeling that sexual violence had been on the rise for quite some time.

  But then, most people feel helpless, he thought. Taking it out on their partner seems the only way to cope.

  “No excuse,” he said, out loud.

  Helen stood. “Pardon?”

  “Just woolgathering,” Glen said. He glanced at his watch. “Bedtime, I think.”

  Helen nodded and walked to the bathroom to brush her teeth. She’d slept better since her first night, but she still had nightmares from time to time. Glen had found himself comforting her more than he cared to admit ...

  His wristcom bleeped. “Glen,” Isabel’s voice snapped,” get your ass down to the station now. Priority One.”

  Glen swore. “Understood,” he said. Priority One meant drop everything and do as you were told, without argument. Helen would have to sleep in the apartment alone. “I’m on my way.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Nor is that the only issue lawyers can raise. What justifies, for example, a murderous assault? The lawyers will find a justification that every sensible person will consider absurd, yet will find immensely difficult to dispute.

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

  The station never really slept, Glen knew from long hours on the late shift as a rookie, but it was true that activity tended to slow down during the night. Prisoners were still booked, of course, yet they would be held in the cells until morning before they were properly processed and given a chance to call a lawyer or their families. If nothing else, the curfew had helped ensure that most people stayed off the streets overnight.

  But the station was brightly lit as Isabel and he strode inside, hundreds of officers and guardsmen running around carrying weapons and equipment. Glen felt his blood run cold as he glanced from face to face, seeing a mixture of concern and grim resolve in experienced officers and outright fear on the faces of the rookies. Isabel caught his arm before he could start asking questions and pulled him into the briefing room. A number of officers were already there, looking puzzled and alarmed. It was rare for anyone to be summoned outside working hours unless the shit had already hit the fan.

  “There’s no time for formality,” Patty said, shortly. She was wearing a suit of body armour and carrying her helmet under her arm. “There’s a budding riot in the central district, one that is already out of control. We are to stop it before it causes real damage.”

  Glen cursed under his breath. Beside him, Isabel shuddered. No Marshal liked riots, not when the crowds were too maddened to realise that they were hopelessly outgunned – or, for that matter, when there were agent provocateurs in the mass, stirring up trouble. A great many people were about to be hurt and not all of them would be civilians. He’d seen police officers and guardsmen killed by mobs before, brought down and trampled to death before their comrades could intervene. It was a horrific way to go.

  A large map of the central district appeared on the projector. “The crowds seem to have largely gathered in the shopping district,” Patty continued. “So far, there’s no real threat to Government House, but we’re evacuating the Governor and his staff already, before the rioters see fit to take out their anger on the legitimate government. The eyes on the ground tell us that the rioters are concentrating on shopping malls, smashing windows and looting the hell out of the buildings. We have to stop them.”

  Glen sighed, inwardly. The central district was more than just the home of the Governor and his family. The shops there were among the most expensive in the Empire. No one was allowed to so much as look in the window if they didn't have at least a million credits in their bank account. And the apartments nearby were occupied by some of the richest citizens on Terra Nova. Their security staffs had to be burning up the airwaves with demands that someone – anyone – intervene before the rioters realise that Terra Nova’s filthy rich were at their mercy. The law enforcement forces would be sent into the chaos before they could formulate a proper plan.

  We couldn't let them burn themselves out either, he thought, as Patty started handing out assignments. They’d do far too much damage.

  “Grab your riot gear,” Patty concluded. “And watch your backs out there.”

  Glen nodded, then followed Isabel down to the equipment store. Normally, even a senior Marshal had to fill out reams of paperwork to take anything from the store, no matter how urgently it was required. Now, someone had cuffed the procurement officer to the wall and slapped a mouth guard over his face, making it impossible for him to object as the store was raided for riot control gear. Glen concealed a smile – the officer wasn’t a Marshal, merely a paper-pusher – and found a set of body-armour and protective gear in his size. Beside him, Isabel pulled her armour over her uniform and motioned for him to hastily don his own.

  “It’s always too hot,” Glen muttered, as he pulled the protective gear over his head. He knew better than to trust it completely, no matter what the manufacturers said. Equipment
had failed before, always at the worst possible times. “Make sure you take extra stunners and neural whips. We don’t want to have to rearm ourselves in the midst of a fight.”

  He turned and checked her straps, then allowed her to check his before he pulled the helmet over his head. The helmets were designed to be intimidating, hiding all traces of individuality behind a black mask that rendered him indistinguishable from everyone else in the police line. Normally, the numbers on the armour would be noted, but there was no time, not when the richest citizens on the planet were demanding action. He removed the helmet, then strode over to the equipment racks and took a neural whip, a stunner and a large number of zip-ties. Beside him, Isabel did the same, hanging them on her belt. They would be needed if the shit really got out of control.

  “Take your shield,” he ordered, finally. He picked up the piece of transparent – and almost indestructible – plastic and held it up in front of his face. It never failed to surprise him just how light it was, for something that was so resistant to attack. “And let’s go.”

  Outside, the armoured vans were already waiting for the officers, their engines rumbling impatiently. Glen led the way into the cramped rear compartment, resting his helmet in his lap, and forced himself to breathe normally as the vehicle rumbled into life. Beside him, the other officers did the same, listening to reports from the spotters as the riot moved further and further out of control. People were swarming in from the outskirts of the city, despite emergency broadcasts and a swift closure of the public transport system. Clearly, despite the need for swift movement around the city, leaving the tubes open had been a mistake.

  This isn’t one person breaking curfew, Glen thought, as he started matching the reports to street locations. This is hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions.