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

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Understood,” he said. “What about the remaining prisoners?”

  “We’re currently securing the sporting area,” Patty said. “We’ll march them there once the building is secure and turn it into a temporary detainment zone. After that ... we’ll see.”

  “Most of them are young idiots,” Isabel said, as Patty broke the connection. “Just like my kids.”

  “Yeah,” Glen agreed. He signalled to the Civil Guard officers, then looked back at his partner. “And their lives will be ruined after this crazy stunt.”

  Slowly, the stunned or sleeping rioters were cuffed, then left to sleep it off by the side of the road. The ones who had remained awake were marched into the centre of the road, then left to sit there under guard while the security forces searched the shops over and over again. A handful started to object, demanding to see lawyers or call their parents, until the dead bodies were dumped next to them. Glen noted, with some amusement, that the implicit threat was better than shouting for forcing idiots to be quiet.

  “We’ve recovered over five hundred bodies,” one of the dispatchers said. “And ninety-seven rioters have been injured so badly as to require immediate medical attention.”

  Glen winced. He had no sympathy for the rioters, but it was unlikely they would get any medical attention very quickly. There were only a handful of clinics in the central district and they were all primed for rich customers, not rioters from the cityblocks. And the less said about the medical clinics in the cityblocks the better. The doctors there, through bad training and worse equipment, were often more murderous than an entire legion of Civil Guardsmen armed to the teeth.

  “Get them somewhere secure,” he ordered. A quick check revealed that medical corpsmen had arrived, but were busy tending to the wounds of various law enforcement officers, not the rioters. “And then find one of the local clinics and order it opened up for treatment.”

  “Aye, sir,” a voice said.

  Glen walked back towards the rows of prisoners, shaking his head at their stupidity. What had they expected when they’d decided to defy the curfew and start a riot? The smarter ones had engaged in some quick looting, then vanished back into the shadows, leaving the slower ones to take the blame. They looked pitiful, sitting on the ground with their hands bound; hell, some of them were even crying. But it wouldn't get them any mercy from the judges.

  His wristcom buzzed. “We’ve secured the Talbot Arena for the men and the Hastings Arena for the women,” Patty said. Somehow, she didn't sound very tired. “Glen, I want you to hand the men over to the Civil Guard, then escort the women to the Hastings Arena yourself.”

  Glen smiled, despite his exhaustion. “Just me?”

  “Take a squad of Marshals with you,” Patty said. She sounded irked at his sarcastic question, while Isabel smiled wryly. “I just don’t want them in Civil Guard hands.”

  “I know,” Glen said. Most of the female prisoners were in their teens or early twenties – and hopelessly vulnerable, now the fight had been knocked out of them. The Civil Guard wouldn't hesitate to take advantage of the prisoners, not when the prisoners would probably be sent to a holding pen prior to involuntary deportation to a new colony world. They’d never see Terra Nova again. “I’ll take care of it.”

  He closed the channel, then started to issue orders. The prisoners were helped to their feet one by one, patted down and then lined up for the march. Some of them complained, but most of them were quiet and submissive, keeping their legs tightly pressed together. Glen rolled his eyes – what sort of idiots didn't bother to wear proper clothes if they knew they were going into a riot? – and then dismissed the thought. As soon as all the prisoners had been patted down, they started to march through the city to the Arena.

  “The media is out in force,” Isabel warned, as they passed through the security cordon. “They’re going to have their faces splashed over the datanet.”

  “Keep your helmet on,” Glen advised. “We can't do anything for the girls.”

  Isabel was right, he realised; the media was out in force. Hundreds of reporters, photographers and others were standing just beyond the line, filming the prisoners as they were marched through the streets. Glen wondered, vaguely, if there was a law against public humiliation, then decided it didn't matter. The prisoners would be lucky if they had a chance to make a phone call to their families before they were herded into a holding pen. He kept a sharp eye on the prisoners as the reporters jostled at them, preparing himself to intervene if necessary. But the reporters didn't press close enough for him to have to act.

  He heard a low moan run through the prisoners as they saw the Arena finally come into view, the leaders of the march somehow guessing that it was their destination. Given what sort of entertainments were hosted there, Glen didn't blame the prisoners for their sudden despair; they probably thought they were going to be thrown to the lions or sent to fight the gladiators with their bare hands. The Arenas were sickening places, in his opinion. For every young man who became a star, there were thousands who died before even passing through the first round or two.

  A security officer, wearing a bright green uniform, met him as they approached the ramp. “We’ve set up the main chamber as a makeshift cell,” he said, in a tone that grated on Glen’s tired mind, “but we don’t have any facilities for them. They’ll have to make do with the animal showers and ...”

  He paused, significantly. “We could sell the footage ...”

  Glen punched him in the face, sending the officer stumbling to the ground. He'd known, of course, that the arena staff did make money by selling footage – particularly of the stars in their private moments – but it wasn't something he was going to tolerate. There might be a disturbing brand of pornography set in prisons – slightly more realistic than Hero Cop – yet everyone who took part in it were actors and actresses. He wasn't about to allow unsuspecting girls, even prisoners, to be recorded without their permission.

  And some of the girls were no older than Helen.

  “Get up,” he snapped. “You will treat them with the maximum dignity compatible with the safety of your subordinates. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes,” the man stammered, staggering to his feet. “I do. I ...”

  Glen glowered at him. Clearly, he was too tired to make a proper impression. The man should have been out like a light.

  “Good,” he snapped. “I’ll inspect the security arrangements once we have the girls settled in.”

  The interior of the Arena was large enough to play four football games at once, the ground coated with sand to soak up the blood after the contests were finished. Glen checked the walls and decided they were impossible to climb without special equipment, then peeked into the animal pens. They smelt funny, but they were clean and had enough room for the girls to shower, if necessary. And they probably would need a shower. One section had been turned into a toilet, which would suffice long enough for better arrangements to be made.

  “The complex is secure,” Marshal Davis said, appearing from a side door. “They don’t seem to like the thought of fans getting into the arena, so it’s really just a matter of reversing the thinking and keeping the girls on the inside.”

  Glen shrugged. The Arena’s collection of animals included – had included – hundreds of samples of man-eating wildlife from across the universe. As important as the Arena was when it came to distracting the population, it was still vital to ensure that civilians weren't accidentally eaten by the monsters, or the lawsuits and bad publicity would ruin the Arena and its owners. The security officer he’d knocked down hadn't been impressive, but he wouldn't have to be if the Arena was as secure as it was supposed to be.

  “Get some clippers up here, then free their hands,” Glen ordered. “They’ll be here for at least twenty-four hours, I think. Probably longer.”

  “Probably,” Davis agreed, as Isabel came back to join them. “I heard the Governor was considering establishing a new detention centre on the outskirts
of the city.”

  Glen wasn't too surprised. It would take days, perhaps weeks, to process all the prisoners, then decide their ultimate fate. Particularly, of course, if one or more of them could be convinced to explain just what had happened before the riot began. Had they all been moved into position beforehand or had it been spontaneous and they’d been caught up in the general excitement? Most of them – he cast a glance towards the prisoners, who were sitting on the sand and looking downcast – had probably been unaware of what was about to happen until it was too late. They’d probably be eager to talk.

  “Make sure they’re protected,” he ordered, instead. “They don’t deserve to be abused.”

  “They deserve a flogging,” Isabel said, tartly. She yawned, suddenly. “Getting us out of bed like this.”

  Davis snorted. “Go ask the boss for extra pay?”

  “And get stuck with all the shit jobs for the next few weeks,” Isabel said. She shook her head. “No, there’s no extra pay for anyone. And probably no sleep tonight too.”

  “There are rooms in the Arena,” Davis said. “You can probably use one, if you ask.”

  “I’ll see,” Isabel said. “Glen?”

  “I need to check on Helen,” Glen said. He cursed, inwardly. Would Helen have slept peacefully, or had a nightmare, or stayed awake to watch the news? “But it can wait until relief arrives.”

  “It might be a while,” Davis said. “I heard this wasn't the only riot, Glen. There were riots in a dozen cities. We’re badly overstretched and its only going to get worse.”

  “Shit,” Glen said.

  No one bothered to disagree.

  Chapter Seventeen

  It also destroys respect for the law – and for those who enforce it. When the law-keepers are seen as enemies, when the law is a tool of powerful interests rather than society as a whole, the end cannot be far away.

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

  “The security forces have secured the lower levels,” the waiter said, suddenly. “This building is secure.”

  “It’s about time,” a loud and overweight man proclaimed. “This whole affair has been just disgraceful!”

  Belinda ignored him, choosing instead to peer down into the streets, far below. Hundreds of Civil Guardsmen were moving around, shoving bound prisoners into lines and searching them roughly. It reminded her of some of the early battles on Han, when it had been impossible to tell the difference between friends and enemies ... and the occupation force had ended up largely converting the former into the latter. Some of the prisoners looked to have been beaten too, unsurprisingly. The Civil Guard wasn't trained to handle riots without considerable levels of violence.

  “I shall be complaining to the Governor about this,” the man thundered. “I will ...”

  “Be quiet,” another man said. “The Governor won’t want to be bothered with you.”

  The waiter spoke before the argument could properly begin. “The security forces have established a cordon at the main entrance,” he said. “You will all have to pass through the security sweep, then take taxies to your homes. Please proceed to the elevators in an orderly manner.”

  Augustus caught Belinda's arm as the room slowly emptied. “I’m sorry about tonight,” he murmured, as they walked towards the elevators. “I meant it to end better.”

  “It’s not a problem,” Belinda assured him. “None of this was your fault.”

  She mulled it over as they entered the elevator, which started to sink down towards the ground floor. Whose fault was it? Unless she was very much mistaken, the riot had been planned in advance, given when and where it had appeared. And that meant ... that someone thought they could benefit from the chaos? A criminal faction, perhaps, or someone with darker ambitions? And what, if anything, did it have to do with the conference?

  Augustus had hinted, once or twice, at doing something for the Governor. The conference? It was quite possible, Belinda considered. Augustus was clearly competent – a far cry from the drunk she’d met on the orbital tower – and if the Governor intended to build up a power base of his own, someone like Augustus would be invaluable. But she couldn't ask him without revealing that she knew too much, information that would not normally be available to a visiting tourist. She hadn't even found a hint about the conference on the planetary datanet.

  The elevator shook as it reached the bottommost floor, then opened the doors. Outside, Belinda saw a line of uniformed Civil Guardsmen, all of them looked nervous. It was a worrying sight, given the way they were fingering loaded weapons, but she understood how they felt. Riots were never safely predictable; rioters might be cowed as soon as the security forces arrived or they might turn on the newcomers and attack them with terrifying force. And the people they were meant to process, right now, were among the planet’s elite. A single complaint would be enough to ruin a career and a whole family.

  If they have families, part of her mind noted. The thought of a Civil Guardsman going home to a wife and children seemed a little absurd. Marines rarely married when on active service, but they had the excuse of being moved around the galaxy like pieces on a chessboard. The Civil Guardsmen were generally stationed on one planet, yet their idea of courtship was everyone else’s idea of rape. Or maybe she was just being unpleasant for the sake of being unpleasant.

  “Please form an orderly line,” a senior officer – Belinda couldn't help noticing that he wore no nametag – ordered. “We’ll process you as quickly as possible.”

  Surprisingly, no one complained. Or perhaps it wasn't surprising, Belinda decided; the hundreds of armed men were hellishly intimidating. So were the sounds from outside, the moaning and crying from the wounded or prisoners. She ran through her audio discrimination programs and decided that there were at least thirty wounded on the streets outside, all in need of help that might not come. Terra Nova wasn't as overpopulated as Earth, she knew, but the ratio of doctors to patients was still terrifyingly low.

  One by one, the guests passed through the security check. Belinda watched carefully, nervous about the prospect of a deep-body scan, but it seemed to be nothing more than an ID check and a handful of questions. That was a relief, she told herself; a deep scan would reveal her implants, if the masking systems failed to work properly. A couple of thickset men were given a more thorough search – they were bodyguards, she suspected, and probably had some enhancements of their own – but they were let through the system afterwards. And then she watched grimly as Augustus passed through the check. It was astonishing how the guards moved from being suspicious to practically genuflecting as soon as they realised who he was.

  “Please step forward,” one of the guards ordered, once Augustus had passed through. “And place your ID chip in the reader.”

  Belinda activated her masking systems, then obeyed. Her sensors reported a light scan for concealed weapons, which wouldn't go deep enough to locate her implants, and nothing else. Like the scanners on the orbital tower, it would reveal the shape of her body, practically stripping her naked, but it wouldn't reveal anything sensitive. But then, she reminded herself, even a full strip and cavity search would reveal nothing. They’d have to cut her open to reveal and remove her implanted weapons.

  “You’re a long way from your hotel,” the guard observed. “Why did you come here?”

  “I was on a date,” Belinda said, nodding to Augustus. She cursed herself under her breath, annoyed. Every so often, the Civil Guard revealed a surprising amount of competence. Her address on Terra Nova was well away from the central district, so they needed to understand why she’d been there in the middle of a riot. “We met on the orbital tower.”

  The guard looked disbelieving. “Really?”

  “Yes, really,” Belinda said, trying to sound haughty. A hint of weakness might prove disastrous. If he tried to take her into custody, she would have to leave it the same night and go underground. That would make her task much harder. “You can ask hi
m, of course.”

  “We were dating, true,” Augustus said, when asked. “And she was here for hours before the chaos started.”

  “That will be checked,” the guard grunted, but he waved Belinda through without further questioning. He clearly didn't want to make an enemy of Augustus. “Your contact code has been noted. If you are called upon for questioning, you will need to report to the nearest police station as soon as possible.”

  “Asshole,” Augustus muttered, as they stepped out onto the street. “You want me to have words with his superiors?”

  “No, thank you,” Belinda said. She shrugged. “I’ve been in his place, vetting people who might be innocent bystanders or who might be responsible for the trouble. It’s never an easy job.”

  “I suppose it isn't,” Augustus said. He looked up and down the street. “And to think this was such a peaceful place, once. My daughter used to love it.”

  Belinda followed his gaze. The shopping district had been wreaked. Hundreds of windows had been shattered, a number of burned-out vehicles lay smoking on the side of the road and dozens of prisoners sat in the middle of the streets, their hands bound behind their backs. She had a feeling that most of the prisoners had gotten in over their heads, but a handful eyed her coldly and calculatingly, suggesting that they might have helped coordinate the riot. It wasn't her job to report them to the Civil Guard, but she made a note of their faces anyway, recording their details in her implants. She could check them against the planetary records later.

  “I’ve seen worse,” she said. She shuddered at the memory. There had been a market on Penang, where shoppers could find and haggle over everything from food to brightly-coloured traditional clothing. And then one of the many factions had detonated a bomb in the midst of the crowds. The carnage had been unbelievable. “And this might be just the beginning.”