by Karl Beecher
Mokk’s eyes widened. “Really?”
“Oh, yes. Not only that, but you’ll get your very own office… with a window.”
His face beamed with a broad smile. “My own office?”
“Yes.” Tiffin hesitated. “Well, it might be a shared office, but I promise you’ll be in it with no more than three other officers.”
This seemed to work. The young lad sucked in his stomach and pulled back his shoulders. Tiffin truly had bucked him up.
“All right,” said Mokk. “So what do I do if someone turns up asking about Douglass?”
Tiffin reached inside his jacket and pulled out his proton pistol. The dark black weapon shone under the bright hospital lights. He placed it into Mokk’s hand. “Make sure they don’t say anything,” Tiffin replied, layering on the innuendo (as per regulations1). “If you know what I mean.”
“Yes, sir.” Mokk looked anxiously at the weapon. It was the first time he’d handled a live weapon since training.
“One other thing. Douglass’s two companions: the woman and the android. They’re unlikely to give up without a fight. Best if you… deal with them… immediately upon sight.”
“Immediately upon sight,” Mokk tiny voice echoed.
“Yes,” crowed Tiffin. “Take them out of the picture, if you catch my meaning.”
“Out of the picture,” he whispered to himself, shoving the weapon into his jacket.
“Courage now, Mokk. Think of that certificate.” Tiffin gave his shoulders a final squeeze. “Let’s go.”
They passed through the doorway and into the neurology department. Tiffin sneaked quietly along with Mokk tiptoeing behind him. It was eerily quiet in here. All the doors were closed. Nobody was around. Only the dull hum of the ventilation could be heard.
They stopped at the end of Colin’s corridor and Tiffin peered around the corner. As feared, the bodyguard had remained at his post. Without attractive young nurses to pester, he was kicking his heels and staring occasionally through the window at the other end of the corridor.
Tiffin turned to Mokk. “Ready?” he whispered.
The trainee swallowed and nodded silently.
The guard’s ears pricked up at the sound of approaching footsteps. He looked at the two ‘ambulance drivers’ with suspicion.
“Hey there,” said Tiffin in his best casual voice. He pointed at the door to Colin’s room. “Is this guy Douglass in here?”
“Yeah,” glowered the guard. “What’s it to you?”
“It’s nothing to me, friend,” replied Tiffin. “But I’ve got orders to move him out of here.”
“What are you talking about?”
“On account of these crowds. They want him moved to another hospital.”
Tiffin went to open the door. The guard thrust out a bulky arm and pushed the Inspector in the chest. Tiffin didn’t like being pushed.
“Uh-uh,” said the guard. “I’m here on orders of Brock Hanson and Doctor Gunga.”
“And who do you think told me to move him?” bluffed Tiffin.
He went for the door once more, but again the guard blocked him. Tiffin really didn’t like being pushed.
“Not without their say-so,” growled the guard. “You get them down here and I let you in. Not before.”
Tiffin sighed, reached into his trouser pocket and took hold of the little stun-gun. “Funny,” he said. “I thought you’d be trouble.”
Colin stood at his window, his face pressed up against the glass, straining to see what had become of the huge van-like vehicles that had just passed his window. Unfortunately, they had continued on out of sight. In the meantime, the crowd had grown large and made Colin anxious. He wished Tyresa would hurry up and come back.
Just then, he heard a commotion from the corridor outside. He turned and looked at the closed door to his room. It sounded like raised voices, although he couldn’t make out the words. Then came a scuffling and a thud against the wall, almost dislodging a hanging picture of what looked like a praying saint holding a pineapple. Finally, the scuffling stopped after Colin heard a sort of zap! like a sound effect from a video game.
After a moment’s uneasy silence, the door opened. The man standing there was tall and lean, with a thin, angular face and a neatly trimmed beard. His uniform bore the Saint Barflet’s insignia. Oddly, the man seemed a little out of breath and was wiping a speck of blood from the side of his mouth with a gloved hand. His eyes locked with Colin’s.
“Mister Douglass?” he asked with a prominently raised eyebrow.
“That’s right,” Colin confirmed.
The man smiled. “I’ve been so looking forward to meeting you.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I mean…” He dropped the smile. “I’ve been sent by Doctor Gunga. I have orders to transport you to a different hospital. What with these crowds outside, the doctor thinks you’d be safer—”
He was interrupted by a rumpus from the corridor. It sounded like a sack of potatoes falling over.
“What was that?” asked Colin.
“Oh, just my colleague, sir,” said the flustered driver as calmly as he could. “He’s just moving… something.” He turned back to the unseen colleague. “Mokk, will you hurry up and put that… trolley into the closet please.”
A withered, panting voice replied, “It’s a… very… heavy trolley, sir.”
“Do your best.”
Colin started to worry. “Do they really think I’m in that much danger?”
“I’m sure it’s just a precaution, sir.”
More unseen commotion came from down the corridor. This time, Colin then heard a door closing, followed by a meaty thud.
The driver looked down the corridor again. “What are you doing?”
The weedy, disembodied voice spoke again. “I can’t seem to close the cupboard door, sir.”
“You idiot. That’s because his le— its leg is still poking out.”
“Oh yeah.”
Colin came closer to the door. “I say, are you all right?”
“Perfectly,” replied the driver, moving to obscure the view through the doorway. “It’s you we should worry about. If you’d come with me, Mister Douglass, we have an ambulance waiting for you.”
“Right now? What about my operation?”
“Not to worry,” he said assuredly. “The Doctor will join you at the other hospital. You’ll get your operation as planned.”
“And my belongings?”
“We’ll have those brought over.”
Colin thought for a moment. Something wasn’t right. Ordinarily, a uniform would be all the proof he required to trust someone, but events had already taken a bizarre and troubling enough turn as it was, and this fellow seemed suspicious. He wanted someone with him he knew.
“What about Tyresa?” asked Colin.
“Um… I spoke to her too. She’ll join you at the other hospital. Now please, Mister Douglass, time is of the essence.”
He reached out to take Colin’s arm, but Colin stepped back.
“No,” he said. “I want to wait for Tyresa. She said she wouldn’t be long. I’m not going without her.”
The driver looked suddenly irritated. He sighed and reached into his trouser pocket. “Funny,” he said. “I didn’t think you’d be any trouble.”
37
Tyresa counted five men running towards her.
“There she is!” one of them yelled.
“Get her!” screamed another.
Instinctively, Tyresa reached into her jacket for her proton pistol. She gripped the handle but then hesitated. Common sense told her pulling a gun would only make things worse, but did she have a choice? These men looked intent on tearing her apart.
Before she could decide, a voice barked loudly from somewhere behind her.
“Halt!”
Whoever shouted had stopped the charging gang in their tracks. Tyresa dared to glance around at what they’d seen.
Coming towards her were four other men.
Thankfully, she recognised one of them as Brock T. Hanson, looking just as haughty and dapper as ever. As shadowy as Hanson remained in her estimation, he was still preferable to a rampaging mob. She breathed half a sigh of relief.
The other three were unknown to her, but they all wore police uniforms. Tyresa didn’t need to see his insignia to know that the oldest one—a silver-haired, middle-aged man with a paunch—was in charge. He had the kind of assured swagger that came with seniority and the ability to yell orders at armed men who were younger and fitter. The other two officers were dressed in standard riot gear: helmet, dark blue overalls, and body armour.
The older officer pointed at the thugs. “You there,” he declared in an authoritative drawl. “Get yourselves back, you hear?”
Reluctantly, the gaggle retreated like naughty schoolchildren, glaring at Tyresa as they went.
Tyresa backed up towards Hanson and the others. “Shit!” she gasped. “I didn’t think I’d be glad to see you, Hanson. Thanks, I guess.”
“Got yourself into trouble again, I see,” Hanson replied. He pointed to the older officer beside him. “This is Deputy Chief Gilper from the local constabulary.”
She nodded. “Hi there.”
Deputy Gilper didn’t answer, but gave her an undisguised look of disdain. Tyresa then noticed the scornful look on Hanson’s face too. Rather than being rescued, she began to suspect one gang of predators had simply been chased off by another.
Gilper nodded to the two officers flanking him. They lunged forward and each grabbed one of Tyresa’s arms.
“Hey!” she yelled. “Let go of me!”
She struggled, but it was no use. The huge cops had grips like vices.
“Bring her!” said the Deputy.
They walked over to the huge portico beside the hospital’s main entrance, where dozens of medics and hospital workers were watching the crowds. A handful of them turned to observe the protesting off-worlder when they heard her colourful and ungodly language. Several doctors covered the ears of the nurse nearest them.
Tyresa was still protesting after they came to a stop. “Get your hands off me, you assholes. I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Nothing wrong!” exclaimed Gilper. He gestured to the baying crowd. “What about this mess?”
“This is nothing to do with me,” said Tyresa, her arms still pinned behind her by the officers. “It’s not my fault if a bunch of crazies want to worship a stranger.”
The Deputy shook his head. “Why do you think they’re angry at you, dummy? Because of the things you and your friend have been saying.”
“What things? We never said a word to them.”
Hanson interjected. “You haven’t heard?”
“Heard what?”
He explained to her about the recordings of Colin which had ended up on the news: his grave insults to Abrama, accusations of religious corruption and fakery, and Colin’s declared intentions to become a fraudulent prophet.
She recognised the quotes from her earlier conversation with Colin, albeit chopped up and out of context. No wonder the crowds were baying for blood.
“But that was a private conversation,” she implored. “Besides, Colin’s entitled to his opinions. If he doesn’t like this place, that’s his right. Don’t these people realise that?”
“Maybe,” Hanson retorted. “But what about all this revolutionary stuff about liberation and emancipation and such nonsense?”
Insulting the place was one thing, Tyresa knew. Insulting the religion was quite another. There was no way she could make excuses for that, but she tried anyway.
“That was just silly talk,” she replied. “A ridiculous idea he had. He would never have gone through with it. Believe me, I wouldn’t have let him.”
Gilper interrupted. “None of that matters now. All that matters is cleaning up this mess. And once that’s done, you’re off this planet.”
“You can’t throw us off-world,” said Tyresa.
“Yes, we can,” replied Hanson. “You’ve caused us all this trouble, and I see you continue to ignore the rules and wander around here without a chaperone. We’ve more than enough cause to eject you.”
“What about Colin? He needs his operation.”
“And he’ll get it. Colin will stay with us, now.”
“What?” exclaimed Tyresa. It finally dawned. They weren’t going to throw them off-world, they were going to throw her off-world.
“You’ve played your part in this,” explained Hanson. “The Creator (Grant Unto Him Glory) has enabled you to lead him here to us, and we’re grateful. Now you have to leave.”
“I won’t leave.”
“Either you leave voluntarily on your own ship, or you leave in the brig of one of our vessels.”
Tyresa wrestled once more in an attempt to break free but to no avail. “I have to get to Colin. He needs me, he might be in danger!”
“He doesn’t need your protection. I’ll protect him. My guard is outside his room right now.”
“That’s all very well, Hanson,” said Gilper, pointing at the mob, “but these crowds are getting ugly. One guard won’t do much good if they decide to storm the hospital.”
Hanson pointed to the three large vans nearby. “What about those?”
Tyresa saw several streams of armoured police jumping from the vans and lining themselves up. One of them barked orders at the rest as they hustled out. Each carried a portable forcefield projector in one hand and a mean-looking buzz-truncheon in the other.
Gilper looked regrettably at his riot squad. “It’d be a shame to use those boys. Always leaves a bad taste when you have to bash heads in. Of course, there’s something else we could try.” He turned and patted Hanson on the shoulder. “Hanson, ol’ buddy, can we count on you to work your magic this time? If anyone can inject some sense into them, it’s you.”
Hanson looked solemnly at the Deputy. At first, he sighed and looked sceptical. Then, he closed his eyes, as if in silent prayer. An almost indiscernible change came over him. Physically, nothing was different, but when he reopened his eyes, they radiated a fervent sense of determination. Whatever was going on in that mind of his, it worked for him.
“All right, Deputy,” he said at last. “Give me a hailer.”
The Deputy reached to his belt and took out his loud-hailer. It was only a little thing, about the size and shape of a small cup, but capable of projecting a voice loudly and clearly for hundreds of metres around.
Hanson stepped forward and brought the hailer to his mouth. In a loud voice that echoed around the grounds, he asked the crowd to quieten down and requested humbly—or as humbly as a man with a loud-hailer could—to address them. The crowd seemed to recognise him and obliged. It was quite a thing to see a mass of people react so obediently.
He slipped into the role of preacher so naturally. Even Tyresa became fascinated by the performance, quite forgetting about the two cops restraining her. He began his sermon by lamenting the current state of affairs. How had people allowed their anger and vindictiveness to lead them so far? Why had Abramans resorted to threats and violence, not only against a guest, but against each other? Did not the Creator say that if someone strikes you on the cheek, you should point to your chin and say, “try one there, my son?”
Then, Hanson turned the subject to Colin, reminding the crowd how their god had instructed them to be merciful and welcome strangers in need. Now and again, a member of the crowd would heckle. One claimed those guidelines didn’t apply here. Another protested that Abrama’s honour had been insulted. Others, too, argued in favour of Colin being kicked off-world. But, in each case, Hanson responded with his favourite weapon: scripture. A choice quote from an Abraman holy book always neutered the protests and got a murmur of agreement from the people.
Tyresa had to admit that Hanson knew how to work a crowd.
He rounded off by addressing the gravest offence of all: Colin’s blaspheming. Hanson declared he saw two possibilities. One: Colin was lyin
g, in which case he was deranged and needed medical care. Two: Colin truly was a prophet, but had not yet been touched by the Creator and brought to his calling. His inner zeal, burning bright, might have led him to phrase things badly. If this were the case, he needed time to come to his revelation. But in either eventuality, Colin not only deserved the hospitality of Abrama, but required it. Hanson skillfully avoided coming down in favour of either possibility. Tyresa could imagine that everyone in the crowd was reading Hanson like a horoscope, believing him to be on their side.
As Hanson finished his speech, the normally grey skies of Procya lit up as the clouds broke and a rare beam of sunlight shone through. Hanson leapt on this as a sign, a blessing from the Creator. He implored the Conservatives in the crowd to go home, assuring them that Colin was safe with him. Then he begged the Moderates to follow that example, calling on them to exercise their mercy. The crowd, pacified and engorged on piety, seemed to agree whichever side they were on. They began to filter quietly off the hospital grounds.
Amazing. He’d done it.
Hanson turned to Tyresa, his eyes gleaming. He looked high, as though zeal were a drug. “Now, Ms. Jak—”
“Doctor Jak.”
“Whatever,” he gloated. “It’s time for you to go.”
He nodded to the two restraining officers, who each released their grip. Tyresa nursed her sore wrists and shot a hostile glare at her former captors. They simply stood, unmoved, more robotic than robots.
“We’re not unmerciful in Abrama,” said Hanson with mock chivalry. “You can gather your things and say goodbye to Colin. After that, you’re gone.”
“Yeah,” spat Tyresa. “We’ll see about—”
Tyresa broke off as she noticed that one section of the crowd furthest away from the building wasn’t moving. In fact, they were trapped between the hospital’s perimeter wall on one side and a row of riot police on the other. They looked like non-believers.
Gilper’s eyes were fixed firmly on them like a hungry fangbeast eyeing a pink-nosed blossom-fawn.
“What’s going on there?” she demanded. “Deputy, what’s happening to them?”