“Glen,” Isabel called, as he entered the chamber. “Get over here!”
She elbowed him as soon as he sat down. “You left me with a mess,” she added, in a tone that suggested she was plotting revenge. “Do you know how many girls were added to the bag in the Arena?”
Glen shook his head. There had been an update in his terminal, but he hadn't had time to read it. He’d planned to catch up while waiting for Patty to begin the briefing.
His partner snorted. “Try nearly a thousand,” she said. “And I hear tell that it’s worse in the male section. Gavin was saying that he’s responsible for over a thousand prisoners, most of whom are stupid or desperate. It’s not good.”
“I suppose not,” Glen agreed. “And what about the other cities?”
“Lots of riots,” Isabel said. “And lots more prisoners. I don’t think we’ve ever arrested so many people in one day, ever. Fucked if I know how we’re going to cope with them all.”
She sighed. “And you know what happened this morning? A little piece of shit from a colony agency came round and offered to make me wealthy for life if I signed every girl in the Arena over to him.”
“Shit,” Glen said. “And what did you say to the bastard?”
“Bugger off,” Isabel said. “I was tired. I’d have arrested him too, but he’d be out within a day and back trying to round up new servants for his colonists.”
Glen nodded, then looked up as Patty entered the room and the low buzz of conversation slowly came to an end. He blinked in surprise and concern as he realised she was late, that it was seven minutes since the announced time for the meeting. Patty wasn't one of the asshole pointy-haired bosses who insisted on keeping everyone waiting, just to show how important she was. If she was late, he knew, it was serious.
“For those of you who haven’t been paying attention to your briefing notes, we had more than one riot last night,” Patty said, without preamble. She sounded tired and cranky. “There were twenty-one riots in total, scattered over seventeen cities. It looked as though there were going to be another three, but the crowds dispersed before they could get worked up into outright violence and defiance of the law. These were not random riots.”
Glen couldn't disagree. So many riots in the same short space of time, without a clear provocation, could only mean that someone had planned and organised them – and done so without the various security forces getting any sniff of it beforehand. He thought, sourly, of just how much money was wasted on informers, for nothing. Or, perhaps, the informers had informed and their handlers hadn't passed the warning on to the people at the sharp end. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had decided the marshals didn’t need to know what was coming their way.
“The death toll, so far, is around ten thousand people, of which roughly five hundred belonged to the security forces,” Patty continued. “The riots in Telomere City alone claimed two hundred, when the barricades failed and the Civil Guardsmen were crushed to death by the crowds. This is Terra Nova’s bloodiest day since the early ... hiccups ... with planetary unification. I don’t think I need to tell you that the Governor is most displeased.”
No, Glen thought. That goes without saying.
“We also have around four hundred thousand prisoners in custody,” Patty told them. “As local jailhouses were utterly unprepared for such a large influx of prisoners, they have been stored in stadiums and other makeshift prisons. Conditions are far from good and we’ve had to detail extra security forces just to keep them under control. Processing such a vast influx of prisoners will take far too long and determining their final fate will take longer still.”
“Send them to a hellworld,” someone called from the back row.
“The transport facilities for so many prisoners or indentured colonists don’t exist,” Patty said, with a glower that promised shit duty for the speaker. “More to the point, our arrests probably include quite a few of the people actually responsible for the riots, but we don’t know it. The only way to find the people responsible is to interrogate the prisoners, one by one, and put together a comprehensive list of just who was arrested and why. This will not be easy.”
Glen couldn't disagree. Even a very basic interview would take time – and doing it again and again, for over four hundred thousand people, would take weeks, if not months. They would all have to be fed and watered in that time, while their parents started hiring lawyers and causing trouble for the security forces. Most of them would have to be released quickly if they weren't going to be charged, then walked in front of a judge. The consequences of holding them without trial would be far too dangerous.
Patty sighed. “The Governor has decided to declare outright martial law,” she said. “Troops from the Imperial Army will assist us and the Civil Guard in maintaining order. Furthermore, anyone arrested in the riots or successive events will be held under the terms of the Emergency Powers Act. They can be held indefinitely, without charge, as long as they are not deported or otherwise faced with severe penalties.”
Such as execution, Glen thought.
He considered it, quickly. By law, only the Grand Senate could invoke the Emergency Powers Act – and the Grand Senate was gone. Could the Governor assert the Act on his own, without reference to superior authority? A lawyer could certainly argue that the mere act of invoking the Emergency Powers Act was illegal. The thought of using it sent chills down his spine, just because of the vast possibilities for abuse inherent in the law. And yet, the law was not a suicide pact. If they needed the authority of the Emergency Powers Act ...
Fuck it, he thought, bitterly.
“The Imperial Army’s Engineers have already begun construction of a number of containment centres for the rioters,” Patty informed them. “Once the camps are ready, we will proceed with transferring, registering and housing the suspects currently held in the Arenas. You will have full authority to use lie detectors and truth drugs, if you feel them necessary, to interrogate the prisoners.”
She cleared her throat. “In addition, the Governor is calling up everyone with police or military experience who hasn't already been called to the colours,” she added. “They will be added to our forces in the hopes of strengthening our presence on the streets. I don’t think I have to warn you to keep an eye on them. Some of them will be poorly trained, others will have left the service for very good reasons ... they could be disasters waiting to happen. If you think one of them should be sacked or arrested you have my full permission to do so.”
Glen blanched. The idea of adding newcomers, no matter their experience, to their ranks was horrifying. If nothing else, there would be no time to train together, let alone to learn their strengths and weaknesses. And the prospect for abuse was dangerously high. It was bad enough that they had to supervise the prisoners, just to keep them separate from the Civil Guard ... this, he knew, could easily be worse.
“It will not be an easy few days,” Patty admitted. “But I expect you to do your duty.”
Marshal Singh stuck up a hand. “What about our other investigations?”
“Placed on hold,” Patty said. “I need all manpower diverted to handling the rioters and hopefully keeping another riot from taking place. Everything else needs to go on the backburner.”
Glen frowned. It was a mistake, he suspected, to stop hunting for the Nihilists. He couldn't escape the feeling that the riots were just a cover for something else ... but he couldn't fault Patty for following orders from the Governor. Besides, she was right. Keeping another riot from taking place was definitely a priority.
And you don’t know where to look for the Nihilists, a voice at the back of his head nagged him. Every lead you looked at went dead.
“You have your assignments in your inboxes,” Patty concluded. “Good luck, all of you.”
She turned and marched out of the room. Glen watched her go, then looked down at his terminal. The orders were blinking up already.
“Prisoner transfer,” he said.
�
��Snap,” Isabel said. “They really want to keep the Civil Guard away from the prisoners, don’t they?”
“Yeah,” Glen said. He stood. “Let’s go before all the good vans are taken.”
Chapter Nineteen
This shouldn't have been surprising. There were hundreds of different races, religions and creeds in the Empire. The basic Imperial Law had to be adapted to fit local circumstances, particularly on worlds that were – in theory – allowed to determine their own internal political and legal structures.
- Professor Leo Caesius. The Decline of Law and Order and the Rise of Anarchy.
For the first time in years, since her completion of the dreaded Conduct After Capture course, Belinda woke up without knowing precisely where she was. The bedroom was large and luxurious, bright light was shining in through the window and there was a small tray of tea and coffee sitting by the windowsill. She had to replay her memories from the previous night to recall that she was in Augustus’s apartment, where she’d gone to bed ...
And slept like a corpse, Pug said, in her mind. And alone too, mores the pity.
Belinda sat upright, feeling grimy in the remains of her outfit from the previous day, and glanced at the door. It was shut, but she had the feeling it wasn't locked. Not that it would have mattered, she told herself firmly. Her implants would have woken her if someone had entered the room while she slept.
“Good morning, My Lady,” a smarmy voice said. “Would you care for breakfast?”
“You’re not human,” Belinda said, automatically. “Are you?”
“Indeed not, My Lady,” the voice said. “I am a Mark-XII Stupid Intelligence, capable of responding to over a billion different commands, verbal tones and other human interaction cues. My operation specifications are as follows ...”
“Stop,” Belinda said. She’d used expert programs – stupid intelligences, as they were called – before, but they had always been buggy. To use one in a house was a sign of either staggering wealth or sheer desperation. A stupid intelligence couldn't be argued into submission by a bratty teenage daughter. “I need to wash.”
“The washroom is connected to your suite,” the stupid intelligence informed her. A door clicked open as she climbed out of bed. “You may shower or bathe as you see fit. Can I take your order for breakfast?”
Belinda had to smile as she walked over to the washroom and peered inside. There was a shower, but also a large bath with a built-in Jacuzzi. It wasn't something she was used to from Marine Transport Ships, where there was a strict limit of two minutes to shower and dry one’s body. She clicked a switch and water started to run into the bathtub, hot enough to scald her. It took several moments of experimentation to find out how to lower the temperature enough to bathe properly.
“I don’t know,” she said. “What can I order for breakfast?”
A hologram appeared in front of her as she undressed, displaying a menu which started with bacon and eggs and then went on to increasingly exotic and expensive dishes, some of which she’d never even heard of before leaving her homeworld. Clearly, Augustus had hired a catering staff from somewhere, perhaps from whoever owned the apartment block. They did the cooking, then shipped it up to the living room. It was both impressive and rather lazy.
“I’d like a full English Breakfast with coffee and orange juice,” she said, “but only when I’m out of the bath.”
“I will have it held in stasis for you,” the stupid intelligence said. “Please inform me when you are ready to eat.”
Belinda hesitated, on the verge of removing her panties. “Is there a visual monitor in this room?”
“No,” the stupid intelligence said. “Privacy concerns do not allow the use of visual monitors without permission. However, I am capable of monitoring your location through heat sensors within the room itself.”
And I can believe as much or little of that as I like, Belinda said, as she pulled off her panties and climbed into the bathtub. The water was hot enough to relax her muscles. A stupid intelligence will say what it’s ordered to say.
“Miss Violet likes having music when she bathes,” the stupid intelligence offered. “Do you wish music too?”
“No, thank you,” Belinda said. Whoever had designed the system’s Turing Interface had done a remarkable job, circumventing many of the prohibitions on developing genuine artificial intelligence. But it still bothered her at a very primal level. “But can I have a news round-up?”
There was a pause. When the stupid intelligence spoke again, the voice was very different, almost business-like.
“News round-up,” it stated. “The Governor has declared a state of emergency over Terra Nova, invoking the Emergency Powers Act. Rioters are currently being held indefinitely under the terms of the Emergency Powers Act. Legal experts will discuss the constitutionality of the Emergency Powers later today. All former police and military personnel have been ordered to report to their nearest police station for conscription into the security forces. Princess Belldandy has been sighted leaving the Westside Arena after skipping out on a pledge to sing and dance for her fans.”
“Stop,” Belinda ordered. “What was that about conscription?”
There was another pause. “All former police and military personnel have been ordered to report for service,” a third voice said. “Failure to report within one day of receiving a conscription notice, as stated in the terms of separation from the security forces and/or armed services, will result in automatic court martial for dereliction of duty.”
Belinda rubbed her head as the voice twittered on. Everyone who had served in the military, regardless of their rank or responsibilities, was liable to be called back to the colours if necessary. It had never happened in her experience, save for a handful of individuals with specialist knowledge, but if it was happening now ... she cursed under her breath as she realised she would be expected to report in as soon as possible. Her cover identity classed her as a military policewoman.
On one hand, it would let her get into the security forces, she told herself. But on the other hand, it would be a major headache. And yet, she couldn't think of a way to escape without making it impossible for her to do her duty.
She sighed, then pulled herself up and out of the bath. “Please have my breakfast ready now,” she ordered, as she reached for a towel and dried her body. “I’ll dress and come out of the room.”
“Your new clothes have been ordered and are waiting for you,” the stupid intelligence said. “If you place your old clothes in the hamper, they will be washed and returned within the hour.”
Belinda’s eyes narrowed as she walked out of the bathroom. When had anyone had a chance to take her measurements? But the clothes on the bed – and they hadn't been there before – were definitely in her size, close-fitting enough to require only a little alteration to be perfectly serviceable. Augustus, if Augustus had chosen them, had done well. The white dress suited her, setting off her hair nicely, without making her look too sexy or undignified.
You might have to cut off your hair if they do conscript you, McQueen pointed out. You don’t look like a Marine.
I thought that was the point, Belinda thought back. You didn't look like much of a Marine either.
The dining room proved to be yet another example of elegant taste, mixed with the undeniable presence of a bratty teenage girl. Violet sat on a wooden stool – hand-carved, if Belinda was any judge – picking at a breakfast large enough to feed a grown Marine. Belinda eyed it in puzzlement, then realised that Violet was picking out the best pieces of meat and planning to discard the rest of her dinner. If she hadn't had some genetic modifications, like Prince Roland, her poor diet would have probably killed her by now. As it was, she really needed to eat more.
I’m not playing nursemaid again, she told herself, firmly. Once was quite bad enough.
I could play nursemaid, Pug offered. He wolf-whistled, loudly. She’s hot.
Belinda ignored him as she found her breakfast waiting in a
stasis chamber. The whole system, she realised, was a cleverly-built dumbwaiter, shipping food up from the kitchens and then holding it in stasis until the occupants were ready to eat. She carried the tray over to the table and sat down, then started to eat. It tasted far better than she’d expected.
“You can really put it away,” Violet observed. “Why aren't you fat?”
“Exercise,” Belinda said. She’d never met a fat Marine, at least outside the sections of Boot Camp that handled overweight recruits. Either they lost weight sharply or they quit in horror at discovering the physical requirements were inflexible. “I have to work hard for a living.”
“Fucking my father?” Violet asked. “Is that hard work?”
Belinda looked up at her, feeling a mixture of rage and pity. She knew what would have happened to her, or any of her siblings, if they’d talked like that at home. But Violet was neglected by her family and probably largely home-schooled, or at least kept isolated from kids who weren’t Old Money. And she probably didn't really have anyone to teach her how to behave.
“I’m a spacer,” Belinda said, “and I used to be a military policewoman. That was hard work.”
Violet smiled. “Do you arrest people?”
“I used to arrest soldiers,” Belinda lied, smoothly. “They were always the worst when on leave. And they always used to like stealing my redcap and running away with it. Tradition stated that they got to keep the cap if they managed to get back to the barracks without being caught.”
“Oh,” Violet said. “Is that true?”
“Yes,” Belinda said, although she didn't bother to mention that she’d been one of the ones who had stolen a cap, rather than one of the military policewomen who’d lost her cap. It had been a game at the time, back on a world everyone called Shithole. They’d been more interested in having fun than following the rules to the letter. “It was very embarrassing to lose a cap.”
Violet smiled. “What happened to you?”
The Thin Blue Line (The Empire's Corps Book 9) (v5.1) Page 18