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

by Christopher Nuttall

  And isn't that the same excuse, he asked himself, that the Civil Guard uses?

  He turned back on Isabel’s command. Cynthia was now wearing an ill-fitting orange jumpsuit, with her hands cuffed behind her back and shackles wrapped around her ankles, making it impossible for her to walk quickly. She looked torn between outrage and fear, somewhat to Glen’s amusement, as Isabel signalled for two other Marshals to take Cynthia to the van. The prisoners would have to wait until the van was full before they were transported to the holding camps. Glen shook his head in tired pity – it wouldn't be an easy time for any of them – and then turned to collect the next prisoner.

  “We need to check up on William Finsbury,” Isabel said. “He was apparently one of the ringleaders.”

  “Understood,” Glen said. “But we may not have time to follow it up.”

  The next seven prisoners went through the same routine. Three of them admitted to knowing in advance that there was going to be some ‘excitement’ – Glen was starting to hate that word – while the other four had just been swept up in the riot. Their lives would be ruined, Glen knew, because of their momentary weakness. But how could they be blamed when the riot was the most exciting event they’d ever seen? Life on Terra Nova was boring for the vast majority of citizens. They didn't have the gumption to leave the planet, despite all the incentives, or even try to make a life for themselves that wasn't centred around the viewscreen and foul-tasting government-supplied food.

  “I would like to cut a deal,” the ninth girl said. Unlike the others, she was either a very good actor or felt no fear. “I have information I can share.”

  Glen studied her for a long moment. She had claimed to be around seventeen, but he would have placed her at nineteen or twenty. If the apartment block records hadn't checked out, he would have assumed she was lying and threatened to use enhanced methods of interrogation to get at the truth. Even wearing the remains of a scanty set of clothes, she managed to look confident and determined.

  “I see,” Isabel said, finally. “And what is that information, so we can judge its value?”

  “Oh, no,” the girl said. “You have to agree to release me in exchange for my information.”

  Glen clenched his fists, calling on years of training and discipline to keep himself from simply jumping forward and pounding hell out of the silly girl. Didn't she know what the Civil Guard would do to her if they thought she was withholding information? She’d be beaten, then raped, if she refused to talk ... and by then the Guardsmen would probably have forgotten that they were supposed to be extracting information in the first place. But she was his problem rather than anyone else’s.

  “We could make whatever deal we like and break it afterwards,” Isabel pointed out, sardonically. “I suggest, young lady, that you tell us what you know and we will take it into consideration.”

  “Not good enough,” the girl said.

  Glen cleared his throat. “In the event of the information panning out, we will release you,” he said. He did have the authority to make such an offer, but it was always risky. Criminals had been known to manipulate the system to escape punishment for far worse crimes than rioting in public. “However, if the information does not pan out, or if you commit further crimes afterwards, you will be re-arrested and charged with your previous crimes as well as your later crimes.”

  The girl looked at him for a long moment. She really was strikingly beautiful, he noted, an odd flower amongst the cold CityBlocks. The girls tended to look beaten down, particularly if they were alone, because they grew up without any real security at all. And the girls on Earth were worse. They jumped at their own shadows.

  And now they’re dead, he thought, morbidly. Very dead.

  “I trust you,” she said, with a sly smile. “My name is Verona. And I was in charge of organising our side of the riot.”

  Isabel snorted. “You’re in deep shit,” she said to Glen. “I hope this is worth it.”

  Verona smiled. “I am – I was – a communal organiser,” she said. “I used to be in charge of organising the playrooms for teenage children in my CityBlock. It was a boring job, really, unless one wanted to be mean and petty. And then I was bribed to organise an anarchist club for young men and women.”

  Glen leaned forward. “Bribed? By whom?”

  “They claimed to be anarchists,” Verona said. “I never knew their real names. But they wanted to deliver a mob on command. I thought it was just the same as the other mobs. It wasn't until we got to the city centre and they started handing out masks and weapons that I realised things weren't what I’d thought. And then all hell broke loose.”

  Glen and Isabel exchanged glances as Verona kept talking. Her words would have to be checked – and checked carefully. But there was no way the riot had happened by accident, even if it had swept a number of young idiots into the madness. Someone had planned it from the start and then ... and then what? Were they really anarchists or ... Nihilists? Or what?

  “You will be transferred to a holding camp until we can check your words,” Isabel said, finally. “If they pan out, you will be released.”

  Glen watched as Verona submitted with icy dignity to the strip search, then donned the prison uniform and handcuffs without protest. Somehow, she still managed to look attractive. He shook his head as Verona was led out of the building, then hastily made notes for support staff to start following up on her words. The Civil Guard couldn't be trusted not to accidentally obliterate the evidence if they went blundering in, loaded for bear.

  “She was involved,” Isabel said. “Legally, she was obliged to report anything suspicious to her block’s security.”

  “I doubt she trusted them,” Glen said. In theory, each CityBlock was closely monitored; in practice, most of the security officers were either on the take or incompetent. The block he'd grown up in on Earth had had almost no security at all, which explained why the gangs had been able to take such complete control of the inhabitants. “And I wouldn't either, in her place.”

  “Silly girl,” Isabel said. “At least she knew who else to consider potential suspects. One of them might lead us to the people behind the riot.”

  “Yeah,” Glen agreed. He rubbed his tired eyes. Had it really been only a few short hours since he’d been in bed? “Or it might be just a giant waste of time.”

  “You’d better hope otherwise,” Isabel said. “Making that deal with her will look pretty damn bad on your resume.”

  “Thank you,” Glen said, crossly. “It’s nice to know you’re looking out for me.”

  “I try,” Isabel said.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  This was not, of course, the only problem. Local laws could and did conflict regularly with Imperial Law in hundreds of different ways. One planet might not allow outsiders to testify in court, another might insist that people who followed the wrong religion were not considered equal to those who followed the acceptable religion.

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

  The station was a towering monstrosity of concrete and glass, Belinda discovered, as she climbed out of the car and strode briskly towards the main entrance. There didn't seem to be many conscripts reporting for duty, not entirely to her surprise, and the guards at the door eyed her suspiciously as she climbed up the steps. Inside, the complex had been designed to take a bomb blast without serious damage, to the point of lining the interior of the reception with starship hullmetal. Belinda honestly wasn't sure if she should be impressed or start laughing hysterically.

  “Belinda Lawson,” she said, as she stopped in front of the desk. She dropped her fake ID chip on the wooden table and gave the officer a charming smile. “I’m reporting for duty.”

  The officer gaped at her. Belinda concealed her amusement with an effort. She knew, perfectly well, that she didn't look like a military policewoman, still less a Marine. The long blonde hair was most unmilitary. But Pathfinders weren't meant to look military, she
’d been told often enough. It had been immensely difficult to lose habits like standing up straight, saluting senior officers and generally keeping herself neat and tidy at all times. And she still felt like a slob every so often.

  “Ah, ok,” he said, finally. He took her chip and plugged it into the system. “We’re a little shorthanded at the moment, so this might take some time.”

  Belinda shrugged, then glanced around the reception. It was dull and barren, save for a number of metal chairs firmly bolted to the floor and a pair of doors that looked to be built to the same specifications as starship airlocks. Absently, she wondered if those specifications included a lock that could be opened hastily from the outside, if necessary. It was a precaution that had saved her life on more than one occasion. There was no one else in the room at all. Indeed, it was clear that the building was largely deserted.

  They’re all out on the streets, she thought, with grim amusement. The thought of paper-pushers trying to keep the peace wasn't funny, but she couldn't help a twisted smile. Or trying to come up with some very good reasons why they shouldn't be on the streets. I wonder if any of them will put forward practicality as a reason.

  “You served on several different worlds, but not Terra Nova,” the receptionist said. “I’ll need to forward your file to the Colonel.”

  “No worries,” Belinda assured him. She gave him another smile. “I can wait.”

  She paced over to the closest chair and sat down, crossing her legs as she took a deep breath. The room smelt of fear and too many humans in close proximity, a stench that reminded her of her first days in barracks. It was funny how quickly she’d grown used to sleeping next to sweaty men and women, but then she’d been too tired to do anything but go to bed. There certainly hadn't been time for hanky-panky. But for prisoners brought to the reception, she decided, the smell was merely one part of their nightmare.

  The receptionist cleared his throat. “The Colonel is on his way,” he said. “He wishes to see you personally.”

  Belinda nodded, wondering if her service record was really that impressive. Senior officers never came to see junior officers, at least in her experience, unless they’d won the Medal of Honour, which entitled the bearer to a salute from anyone who hadn't won it for themselves. But then, the security officers wouldn't want strangers running around inside the station without escort. The Colonel, whoever he was, might prefer to keep an eye on her himself rather than detail a subordinate to serve as her escort.

  The airlock opened, revealing a dark-skinned man in a wheelchair. Belinda rose to her feet as she took in his uniform, then saluted. The man returned the salute, his dark eyes looking her up and down carefully, then beckoned for her to follow him. She couldn't help noticing that despite missing a leg, his upper body was strong and healthy.

  A very impressive man, Doug said. You should watch him.

  “I’m Colonel Christopher Fraser,” the Colonel said, as they rode the elevator up to the seventh floor. “Your service record is very impressive.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Belinda said. She wondered, absently, what he would have made of her real service record. “It was my pleasure to serve.”

  “Not enough, or you would never have left,” Fraser told her, darkly. He patted the wheelchair, as if it were a dog or a cat. “And to think I stayed in the service after having one of my legs cut off by a terrorist shithead.”

  Belinda had wondered why he was still in the military. The Imperial Army was not allowed to discriminate, even when it was blindingly obvious that a man in a wheelchair was incapable of serving in the infantry. Some of them became clerks and did good work, she had to admit, but others were nothing more than oxygen thieves. And even they weren't as bad as the ones who claimed that being fat was a kind of disability. Maybe it was, she considered, but it was one that could be overcome. It wasn't like losing a leg.

  She gave him a sidelong look. “Why didn't you have the leg regrown?”

  “Doctors say my body will reject a force-grown leg,” Fraser said. He didn't show any irritation at the question, surprisingly. “And I don’t seem to work well with prosthetics.”

  “I’m sorry,” Belinda said, as they entered his office. It was rare for someone to remain crippled, in a universe where bodily parts could be replaced with ease, but it did happen. “I didn't mean to pry.”

  “Everyone does,” Fraser grunted. He waved her to a seat, then motored his way around the desk. “You have an impressive service record, for a redcap.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Belinda said.

  “You’re welcome,” Fraser said, dryly. “Thank me after you’ve completed your first assignments.”

  He paused. “Have you kept up with your skills?”

  “Yes, sir,” Belinda said. “I’ve been working out daily and shooting weekly, in a makeshift shooting range.”

  “Not since you landed, of course,” Fraser muttered. “Bloody morons keep insisting that I should cut down on shooting practice, just to prevent accidents. It isn't enough to use low-power ammunition, not now. They want shooting practice cancelled altogether.”

  Belinda winced. Low-power ammunition was only ‘safe’ in the deluded minds of politicians who knew nothing about guns or ammunition. Bullets could still kill if fired from a low-power gun, while normal ammunition felt quite different when fired in combat. Using low-power ammunition on a shooting range was actually hampering soldiers when they went into action, she knew, recalling some of the other problems the Imperial Army had had. But the politicians were more concerned with pandering to their base than practicalities.

  Fraser cleared his throat. “You’ve worked as a team leader,” he added, “so I’m assigning you to a snatch squad. We’re sorting out names and faces of suspects now, which you will be in charge of arresting once we have them all listed. You may have to impose yourself on the team.”

  Wonderful, McQueen said. This guy is setting you up to take the fall.

  Belinda nodded, inwardly. It made no sense to assign her to command a team, not when there had to be hundreds of officers more familiar with Terra Nova and, for that matter, on active service. Her fake record clearly stated that she hadn't seen active service for over ten years. But if someone was concerned about losing his job, or about the effects on the efficiency of his department, it made sense to assign the task to a newcomer. Belinda had no powerful patrons who might intervene on her behalf.

  “It’s been quite some time since I commanded anyone in action,” she said. It was true enough, unless one counted Roland. “Will your team accept me?”

  “Probably,” Fraser grunted. “Most of them are newcomers anyway. We don’t have enough experienced officers to go around.”

  Belinda didn’t try to argue any further. Being team leader would offer her more opportunity to look around without being noticed. She didn't want to argue so hard Fraser actually gave her what he thought she wanted. Instead, she rose to her feet, stood at parade rest and waited for orders.

  “Your team is being assembled now,” he told her. “I was looking for a commanding officer when you arrived.”

  He wheeled his chair around the desk and headed towards the door. “Come with me,” he added, as the door hissed open. “You can meet your new subordinates.”

  Belinda coughed. “That quickly?”

  “This is a state of emergency,” Fraser reminded her. He powered his way down the corridor, narrowly missing a young officer in a skirt so short Belinda could see the underside of her ass when she walked. “There isn't time to go through the entire process of recruiting and vetting you again, Lieutenant Lawson. We’ll catch up later.”

  And probably cheat you of some of your pay, Pug put in. Wanker.

  Shut up, Belinda thought.

  Another door hissed open, revealing a large room holding five men and one woman. Belinda looked from face to face, noting that two of the men looked like thugs and the woman looked alternatively scared or furious. The remaining men eyed Belinda with obvious interest,
but said nothing out loud. It was clear, from their sloppy appearance, that it had been years since they’d been in the service. And none of them were Marines.

  “This is Lieutenant Lawson,” Fraser said, by way of introduction. “She’s your new CO. You can spend the next hour or so getting acquainted, then you can go out on your first mission. I expect nothing, but the best from all of you.”

  He turned and wheeled his way out of the room, leaving Belinda facing the team alone. One of the thugs rose to his feet and stamped over to Belinda, trying to look intimidating. It would have worked, she freely admitted, if she hadn’t had years of training as a Marine and then a Pathfinder. He was so strongly muscled that she rather thought he had muscles on his muscles, quite literally. But years of experience told her that all he really had going for him was brute force.

  “I don’t take orders from bitches,” he hissed, as he forced himself into Belinda’s personal space. “And I only have women under me ...”

  Belinda hit him in the chest, hard. He doubled over as she darted back, clutching his chest as he coughed, loudly. She wondered what he would have thought if he’d known she’d pulled her punch. One blow with augmented strength and she would have put her fist right through his chest, leaving him dying on the floor.

  “Let’s get one thing straight,” Belinda said, as the thug recovered from her blow. “I am in charge and you will do what I say, or I will beat the living shit out of you.”

  She studied the thug closely, wondering just what sort of person he was. Would he be so offended at being beaten by a mere female that he’d undermine her constantly or would he accept that she was strong enough to serve as leader and do as he was told? She’d seen precedent for both in the Marine Corps, although it was muted. Anyone who reached a rank above Rifleman had definitely been tested and not found wanting. There was no need for anything more than a little tomfoolery when a new CO arrived.