by Eric Brown
‘Run!’ Rana said. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow or the next day. Be careful.’ She watched Vandita turn and squirm through the crowd surging across the bridge.
Rana returned to the car. Singh was examining the mud on his boots, and when he looked up his gaze suggested that Rana was responsible. ‘Very well ... I have seen enough here. Do you have your com-board, Lieutenant?’
Rana slipped it from her belt. ‘I am due to visit the City Children’s home at six to give a talk on road safety, and at seven—’
‘Ah-cha, enough. Give the board to Khosla - he will be taking over now.’
‘Why? I mean—’
‘Don’t argue, Lieutenant.’ Singh turned and spoke to the driver. ‘Back to headquarters. Then take Private Khosla to the City Children’s home.’
This time Singh appropriated the front seat for himself. Rana sat in the back and passed her board to Khosla without meeting his glance, wondering what all this was about. Was she being relieved of duty for good, or just for this shift? She wondered if word had got back to Singh about Vandita and the other rich kids she’d helped.
She watched the city teem by as the car carried them towards the police headquarters. So this was why Singh had come out with her, along with Khosla, to strip her of her post and charge her with dereliction of duty . . .
Ten minutes later she climbed out and hurried after Singh as he crossed the pavement and entered the crumbling Victorian building. The interior was as modern and comfortable as the exterior was ancient. Rana sometimes felt guilty that she worked in such luxury, while outside so many citizens lived in squalor.
She shared the clanking elevator with the commissioner in silence, alighted on the tenth floor and followed him along the corridor to his office, as cowed as a beaten puppy. She wondered where her insubordinate spirit had vanished to now, when she needed it most.
‘Take a seat.’ Singh indicated an uncomfortable-looking upright chair and seated himself like a maharaja, pulling up his padded swivel chair so that his swelling belly butted the edge of the desk.
Rana sat down, her stomach churning.
Singh scrolled through something on his computer screen, the blue reflection giving him the colouration of an overweight Krishna. He tapped his lips with a plump forefinger, clearly delighting in keeping Rana in suspense.
‘I’ve been going through your records of late,’ he said at last. He left it there.
Rana merely nodded. She felt cold sweat trickling over her ribs.
‘You joined the academy at the age of fifteen.’
A silence followed. He tapped his lips judiciously.
‘You had no formal education, but you passed the entrance exams with flying colours.’
She closed her eyes briefly, feeling sick. Singh had found out about her past. He was not here to reprimand her about her most recent conduct, but to accuse her of falsification of records, of lying to gain admittance to the academy.
And she knew the penalty for that sin was automatic expulsion.
‘Very interesting . . . You came in off the streets, applied for a place on the examination rota and gained a pass mark of ninety-five per cent, one of the highest passes for the past ten years.’ He paused again to regard the screen.
Rana wished she was out on patrol, talking to the kids, helping them make the best of a corrupt, uncaring world.
‘Your achievement was noted by the then commissioner, and he kept tabs on your files and records.’
So this was it. Now he would come out with the evidence against her.
‘He commended you to me when he retired. He had you marked out for great things. I took his advice and followed your career. I must admit that I have been quietly impressed over the years.’
It was all the worse because she knew what he was doing: building her up for the fall. Praising her, cataloguing her achievements, only to hit her with the fact of her duplicity.
‘Your work with the street-kids is truly impressive. The instituting of work schemes and co-operatives, self-education and health programmes.’ He shook his head. ‘Exceptional.’ Then he pierced her with his gaze. ‘What have you got to say for yourself?’
She opened her mouth to speak. At last the words came. ‘I . . . I was only doing my duty, sir. I volunteered for the position at Child Welfare, to work with the underprivileged, and saw that the scheme as it stood was lacking—’ She stopped herself. It was no good trying to justify what she had done if Singh intended to accuse her of dereliction of duty.
He was nodding. ‘As I said, I’ve been watching your progress for some years, and in my opinion the time has arrived for me to act on my predecessor’s recommendations. You are wasted working with the street-kids. Your talents for organisation and problem-solving can be used to greater effect in a different department.’
He went on, but Rana hardly heard a word. She had expected the worst, and he was offering her promotion, a move away from her work with the street-kids - and the idea filled her with horror.
‘. . . so as of now, Lieutenant, you are officially a part of the homicide team working under Investigating Officer Vishwanath.’
He beamed at her, slivers of gold glinting between his big paan-stained teeth.
‘Well, do you have a tongue in your head, Lieutenant?’
‘I . . .’ She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. I ... I can’t accept. I don’t want to work at Homicide. My place is with the children. I think that my skills can be utilised to greater effect at a grass-roots level with those who find themselves at the bottom of society . . .’ She realised that she was rattling off the line she used when high-caste acquaintances scoffed at her work with the kids.
Singh was having none of it. ‘My dear Rana, I run a police force here, the biggest law enforcement agency in India, not some welfare scheme for Dullits, beggars and pick-pockets.’
‘I like working with children, sir. I wouldn’t be happy anywhere else.’
‘Your skills are needed elsewhere, Lieutenant.’
‘Are you saying that if I were less skilled at my job, then I would still be able to work with the kids?’ The thought appalled her.
‘I am saying, Lieutenant, that the department’s work with the homeless children of Calcutta is low-priority.’
‘But it’s necessary work, sir! Much of what I’ve done has given these kids jobs and security, kept them from prostitution and thieving.’
‘Lieutenant, your work will be carried on. I am not eradicating the post you held.’
‘Who?’ Rana asked. She stared at him. ‘You can’t mean Khosla? I thought he was only taking over temporarily?’
‘He’s a young, intelligent and ambitious officer.’
‘Ambitious for promotion, maybe,’ she said. ‘But he doesn’t know the first thing about the kids. You heard him today. He’s ignorant and dangerous. He has not the slightest sympathy with them.’
‘Then perhaps, Lieutenant, a year or two in the post will educate and enlighten him.’
They stared at each other for what seemed like long minutes, opponents who would not concede defeat and back down.
‘What if I refuse the promotion?’ Rana asked at last.
‘Then I will be forced, with great reluctance, to ask for your resignation.’
She shook her head. Was he calling her bluff?
Commissioner Singh gave an indulgent laugh. ‘I’ve heard a lot about your unconventional spirit, Lieutenant. My predecessor called you a wild cat. I think he was understating the case.’
Rana felt tears prickle her eyes as she realised what she had to do. Ah-cha, so she might not be able to work officially with the kids any more, but she could still see them in her own time. She would continue helping them, try to counter the mess Khosla would make of his posting.
‘When do I start, sir?’ she asked at last.
‘Good. I’m glad you’ve seen sense. You can go and clear your desk immediately. Vishwanath’s department is on the eighth floor. You’ll find him a good man and a har
dworking boss. I hope you do as well in Homicide as you have done in Child Welfare, Lieutenant. Well done.’
She stood, saluted, wheeled around and left the room. In a daze she made her way back to her office on the second floor.
An efficient fan turned on the ceiling, disturbing what little paperwork sat on her desk. Her com-screen glowed with a dozen files she could no longer call her own. She stared at the windowless walls. One was filled entirely with the pix of young boys and girls, gazing out at her with eyes made tired by experience.
Her screen flashed. It was Singh. ‘Oh, Lieutenant. I forgot to mention a couple of things. Firstly, you’ll be moving into a new apartment near the river. Also, you’ll be receiving a pay rise. I’ll download the information right away.’
Seconds later Rana was staring at her new contract. She read the clause detailing her yearly salary. Either her pay as the Child Welfare officer had truly represented the law enforcement agency’s contempt of the post, or the officers at Homicide were grossly overpaid. She would be earning three times the amount she’d been paid in Welfare.
She considered all she would have been able to achieve if the money had been directed at her office, and not at the fat cats upstairs. Then again, she supposed, someone had to catch the killers.
She read through the details of her new apartment overlooking Nehru park. It sounded fantastic: three air-conditioned rooms, fully furnished, the building patrolled by security guards. It was a far cry from the sultry, one-room apartment she had now in a poor district of the city prone to burglary. She considered the luxury of a three-room apartment, and then felt a sudden pang of guilt.
She began the quick job of clearing her effects from the desk. They filled a small plastic bag: a stylus and an antique biro pen, an old softscreen recording from her childhood and an effigy of Ganesh, the elephant god, which her mother had given her years ago. She no longer believed in anything like that, but it was her only reminder of her mother. She decided to keep these things at her new apartment, now that she could be assured of security.
She stood and looked around the room. One thing caught her eye. She walked over to the wall and knelt to examine the pix. A small girl with jet-black bangs and frightened eyes stared out at her. On the tag-line beneath the pix was the computer code and a name: Sita Mackendrick.
Rana slipped the pix into her pocket and took the elevator to the eighth floor.
* * * *
3
After ten days in space, enduring cramped living conditions and consuming recycled food and drink, a leave period on Earth was like parole in paradise.
Bennett drove from the spaceport on the perimeter of Los Angeles and took the highway into the desert. The shuttle had touched down in the early hours, and it was still a couple of hours until dawn. The road stretched away beneath the swollen lantern of the full moon, the tarmac laced with luminescents so that it glowed green in the night. In an age of draconian energy conservation, luminous road surfaces were a means of doing away with the expensive street-lighting of old. Seen from space, as the terminator swept across the Americas, the rising sun illuminated the roads that crossed the western seaboard like the veins on the brow of an old but healthy patriarch.
Bennett accelerated, enjoying the cool air on his face. He sipped occasionally from a carton of fresh orange juice and thought about the near miss in orbit. All things considered, his extended leave would compensate for the carpeting and/or fine he could expect on his return to the station in ten days. As he drove, he considered renegotiating his contract in favour of more leave on Earth. He even entertained the fantasy of changing jobs, looking for something a little more varied.
Two hours later he passed Mojave Town, where his father was hospitalised and Julia worked as a landscape designer. Constructed piecemeal at the end of the last century by eco-freaks dreaming of an environmentally friendly society, its population had been augmented over the years by an exodus of well-to-do home-workers, artists, computer specialists and on-line business people. In the light of the moon, multi-level domes glistened like agglomerated soap bubbles, interspersed with oasis gardens, trees and lakes, and tall masts bearing solar arrays.
Bennett’s habitat dome was situated twenty kilometres further along the highway. From the veranda of his dome, Mojave Town was a blur in the distance, and his nearest neighbour was ten kays away. He was surrounded by the soothing silence of the desert, his only company the occasional patrolling condor or scavenging jackal.
He pulled off the highway, trundled the final three kilometres along the rough track, and parked in the tropical garden that shaded his dome, patio and swimming pool.
The habitat came to life as he climbed the interior steps to the main lounge. Lights turned themselves on; he was greeted by a selection of his favourite music - mood-jazz from one of the colony worlds. Beside the sliding door to the veranda, his com-screen flared into life.
He took a beer from the cooler and sat in the swivel chair before the screen. One quarter of the screen displayed a head-and-shoulders shot of Julia, frozen mid-smile, another quarter someone Bennett had never seen before, a silver-haired man in his seventies. The upper half of the screen listed e-mail shots that had come in during his absence.
He regarded the pix of Julia, short dark hair parenthesising a calm, oval ballerina’s face. She was attractive and intelligent, and he never ceased to be amazed that their relationship had lasted so long - coming up to a year, now. They had met when he’d hired her to redesign his garden, began talking and never stopped. He’d been attracted to her sophistication - an attribute rarely found among the women on Redwood Station - and he assumed that she had found appealing the fact that he was a pilot and well off.
Their first rift, a couple of months later, had come about because Bennett had been fool enough to tell her this. She had been hectoring him for some declaration of commitment, a vow of his love for her. ‘Why?’ he had responded. ‘You don’t love me. I’m just a rich high-orbit pilot to show off to your friends.’ She had just stared at him, shocked. ‘You bastard, Josh. If that’s what you think I see in you . . .’ and, unable to go on, she had hurried from the dome. A day later she had downloaded a vis-link to his com-screen. She had cried and told him that she loved himdespite the fact that he was a privileged, arrogant bastard and a pilot.
Shame, mixed with something akin to fear that she might be telling the truth, had stopped him contacting her for a few days. Then he had left a message to say that he was sorry, he knew what a shallow fool he was, and could they meet for dinner somewhere?
From then on things had never been the same. It seemed that his admission of blame gave Julia carte blanche to snipe away at his faults, psychologically reduce him to nothing more than a textbook example of adverse childhood conditioning. He wondered if it was the thought of being without her companionship that made him endure her hostility. Having someone, even someone who seemed to dislike him so much of the time, was preferable to being alone.
He brushed the back of his hand against Julia’s face, and instantly the smile unfroze. ‘Josh. I’m calling Sunday - you’re due back Tuesday, aren’t you?’
She moved away from the screen, touching her throat in the gesture he knew meant she was considering what to say next. She paused in the middle of her lounge, surrounded by baskets of hanging flowers. From there she looked back at the screen, as if to distance herself from what she had to say next.
‘Josh . . . I’ve been giving things serious consideration lately. I’ve been considering my life, where I am . . .’ This was typical of Julia, her tortured verbal circumlocutions and pained analysis. ‘I’ve been thinking about us, Josh. I wonder . . . when you get back Tuesday, could we meet for lunch? Say around one, at Nova Luna? Call if you can’t make it, okay?’ She gave a final, sad smile. ‘Bye, Josh.’
The image froze, dissolved. Josh sat staring at the emptied quarter of the screen, sipping his beer and trying to work out his reaction to what Julia had said.
It was over, at last, just as for months he had known it would be. He had never expected Julia to be the one to end it, and he had declined to do so because during the short periods he had spent on Earth he had enjoyed her company, had felt a genuine affection for her. But . . . what was it that Julia had called a man’s declaration of genuine affection? ‘Nothing more than a euphemism for “You’ll do until I find something better.”‘
He finished his beer. He would meet her at the restaurant later today, chat over old times, agree that they were going nowhere, and part on civil terms. He just prayed that she wouldn’t create a scene, accuse him of being a cold emotionless bastard, as she had done publicly more than once in the past.
He touched the second quarter of the screen, activating the face of the well-dressed stranger. The man sat sidesaddle on the edge of a desk, like an executive giving an informal pep-talk to a team of salesmen.