Her hands shook, again. Gayle hastily removed the tray before Judith could tip the remains of breakfast onto the bed, then snuggled up next to her, wrapping one pale arm around Judith’s shoulder. Judith leaned into the embrace, welcoming the feel of Gayle’s breasts pressing against her arms, but she felt ... bad. It was wrong, part of her insisted, to do anything with Gayle while Hannah - and countless other girls - were suffering.
“It’s ok, it’s ok,” Gayle said. “You’re with me. Everything is fine.”
Judith shook her head. “It isn't fine,” she managed. Tears prickled at the corner of her eyes, dripping down onto her cheeks. “I saw ...”
She shook her head. “There was a girl,” she said, finally. “She's trapped amidst the others.”
Gayle frowned, turning until she was kneeling in front of Judith. “Start from the beginning,” she said. “What happened?”
Judith swallowed, then ran through the whole story. Trying to register the newcomers, the blatant disrespect, meeting Hannah ... and, finally, her near-kidnap. Halfway through, Gayle leaned forward and wrapped her arms around Judith, holding her tightly as she finished the story. Her breasts were brushing against Judith’s, but she was too wound up to care.
“Shit,” Gayle said, when Judith had finished. “Are you sure she was telling the truth?”
“I saw the mark on her cheek,” Judith said. She rubbed her own cheek, grimly. The bruise had largely vanished, but she could still feel hints of pain. “They slapped her, right across the face.”
She looked up at Gayle. “Did your mother ever slap you?”
“No,” Gayle said, quickly. “She never touched me.”
Judith looked down at her bare legs. “These people are monsters,” she said, softly. She felt a pang of guilt as Gayle tensed against her. “That poor girl is trapped!”
“She could leave,” Gayle said. “Anyone who wants to leave the Forsakers can leave.”
“At the cost of abandoning her family,” Judith pointed out. “And trying to fit into an unfamiliar world.”
She shook her head. “And that bitch of a director tried to tell me to be quiet!”
“She might have a point,” Gayle said. Judith looked up at her in astonishment. “There’s a lot of nonsense on the datanet. You telling your story will make it worse.”
“And if I don’t tell my story,” Judith said, “will that change the facts?”
She scowled as she drew back her legs, then stood. Her legs felt wobbly, but after a good night’s sleep and breakfast she felt a great deal better. “What happened to me happened,” she said, stiffly. “And what happened to Hannah happened, too.”
Gayle followed her into the lounge. She'd piled books everywhere, Judith noted. Her course required her to read dozens of books, even though her professors had admitted - openly - that not all of them were strictly necessary. Judith removed a pile of books, then sat down in front of the computer terminal. It blinked to life, revealing a string of emails from various student groups. They all seemed to be welcoming the refugees.
“We’re being urged to help them settle in,” Gayle said, by way of explanation. “I think ...”
Judith skimmed through the emails in a growing state of disbelief. The hacks who’d written them - she wondered if they were majoring in creative writing - seemed to have no understanding of the actual situation. There were puff pieces on student volunteers helping refugees, long articles on how much the Forsakers had contributed to Arthur’s Seat and several opinion pieces decrying the Freeholder Party for daring to oppose the refugee program. She couldn’t believe her eyes.
“Whoever wrote these,” she said finally, “doesn’t have the slightest idea of what is actually going on.”
She flicked through the news sites, shaking her head in astonishment. There were wild stories - so many of them, she suspected, that the truth would be buried beneath a mountain of bullshit. And countless more opinion pieces, commenting on the refugees, on the response to the refugees and on everything else under the sun. Reasonable voices were being drowned out under a hail of accusations, counter-accusations and absurd comparisons that wouldn't have stood for one moment in a debate chamber.
“They’re being optimistic,” Gayle agreed. “But ...”
“But nothing,” Judith said. “You weren't there. You don’t know what it’s like!”
She took a breath. Gayle and Hannah might look alike, but they were so different that they might never come to understand one another. Gayle had no understanding of how her ancestors had truly thought, let alone what they'd gone through to change their minds. And she didn't have to worry about being shunned - or worse - simply because she put a foot out of line. Hannah, on the other hand, had to know that she was in danger all the time.
Judith felt her blood run cold. What if they kill her?
It wasn't a pleasant thought. There had been relatively little violence in the spaceport campsite, at least until the mini-riot, but all that really meant was that she didn't know about it. Anything could be happening inside the tents and the watching observers would never know. Wives and daughters - and sons, she added - could be being abused all the time. Or worse. If Hannah turned up dead, her body dumped somewhere in the spaceport, would the police bother with a proper investigation?
“I have to tell them the truth,” she said. Director Melbourne hadn't explicitly told her to keep her mouth shut, had she? And even if she had, Judith wasn't sure it would stand up in front of a jury. “Gayle ...”
“I’ve been appointed to the Refugee Friendship Committee,” Gayle said, quickly. “As a Forsaker ...”
“You’re not a Forsaker,” Judith snapped. “Don’t you see? You have nothing in common with them!”
Gayle stared at her for a long moment, her mouth working soundlessly. Time seemed to slow as Judith looked back at her, wondering if she was about to be dumped. And then Gayle swung around and marched into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her. Judith half-rose, intending to go after her, then stopped herself. Gayle didn't understand, not yet ...
She’ll think I’ve betrayed her, she thought, as she turned to the terminal and started to type her story. But she wasn't there ...
***
Mike was no stranger to interrogation rooms. He’d chatted to witnesses and suspects in the bland rooms, the latter often cuffed to the table while the police asked questions. But it felt different, somehow, when he was on the hot seat himself. There were no cuffs, there were no formalities ... but that, somehow, made it worse. The PCA had very little regard for his rights.
Coombs sat at the front of the room, flanked by a male and female officer. They both had the same sense of smugness that pervaded Coombs. Neither of them had bothered to introduce themselves, let alone shake hands. Mike had spent plenty of time trying to build a rapport with potential suspects, but the PCA didn’t seem interested in trying. They’d practically already judged him guilty ...
... And they hadn't even bothered to tell him the charge!
“Constable Whitehead,” Combs said. “Please, in your own words, explain for us precisely what happened before, during and after the riot.”
Mike sucked in his breath. The riot? He’d never considered that they might be interested in the riot. They’d put the whole procedure together with astonishing speed, if that was the case. Unless this was the formal investigation procedure, carried out before the PCA recommended that charges be either filed or dropped ...
“Yes, sir,” he said, carefully. He knew he didn't have much time to think, yet a single mistake - no matter how minor - would be held against him. The PCA would watch for any inconsistencies in his words. Theoretically, it was meant to make it easier to catch him in a lie; in practice, any cop with half a brain knew it was dangerous. “I was assigned to the rapid reaction force in the spaceport.”
He took a breath. “The seven of us were in the pilot lounge, as ordered, when the panic alarm sounded,” he continued. “We checked the location, put in a call
for reinforcements and hurried down the stairs. When we reached the location, we saw a number of Forsakers dragging a girl into the campsite. Naturally, we ran after her.”
Coombs held up a hand. “Did you not think to wait and assess the situation?”
Mike kept his temper under sharp control. “Sir, there was no time to assess the situation,” he said, flatly. “The girl was in serious danger.”
He forced himself to go on. “I led the charge into the campsite to recover the girl,” he said, carefully. “At that moment, I realised that there were actually two girls - the second one dressed in Forsaker clothes. The kidnappers were turning to face me, so I knocked my way through them and recovered the first girl. I scooped her up onto my shoulder, but the second girl was dragged further into the campsite before we could intervene.”
Coombs leaned forward. “And you did nothing to help her?”
Mike gritted his teeth to keep his annoyance from showing. Coombs hadn't been there, not when the shit was hitting the fan. He'd shown up afterwards, like a vulture attracted to carrion, intent on making everyone’s life miserable. Regulations or no regulations, Mike would have bet good money that Coombs had never been on the streets. Perhaps he’d spent all of his pre-PCA career in a little police station in a peaceful village.
“At that point, dozens of other young men began emerging from the tents,” he said. “It was clear to me that there was no hope of escape unless we beat a quick retreat. Accordingly, I ordered the squad to lead the way back to the spaceport doors. I did not see any other choice.”
He paused. “Despite our clear retreat, they continued to close - or throw things - until we were safely through the doors,” he added. “I expected them to come after us, but nothing happened. The doors seemed to deter them, even though they would have broken if they’d been kicked a few times.
“Our reinforcements did not arrive. Instead, we were ordered to make our way back to the entrance hall. We handed the girl over to the medics, then joined the squads sealing off the spaceport.”
“I see,” Coombs said. “Do you know why they took the girl?”
“No, sir,” Mike said. It was a very odd question. “With all due respect, sir, does it matter?”
“It might,” Coombs said.
The woman leaned forward. “Constable,” she said. She had a surprisingly smooth voice for a PCA investigator. “Do you feel you used excessive force when recovering the girl?”
“No, madam,” Mike said. There was no point in trying to lie. “I believe we used rather less force than we should have used.”
Coombs exchanged a look with the woman. “Elaborate.”
“The situation was extremely dangerous,” Mike said, flatly. “We were utterly outnumbered. None of us had any form of armour, beyond our uniforms. Our weapons were nothing more than truncheons. The risk of being swarmed and beaten to death was uncomfortably high, sir; an innocent victim was at risk of being raped and killed too. I believe we were extremely lucky that we made it out without serious injuries.”
“But you injured at least seventeen people, some seriously,” Coombs said. He produced a datapad and held it out. “Several broken and dislocated jaws, three broken arms and one child with a broken nose. The doctors insist that your squad caused these injuries.”
Mike frowned. “A child?”
“An eight-year-old refugee child,” Coombs said, flatly. “His nose was smashed. Not broken; smashed.”
“These are serious charges,” the other man said. “How do you wish to respond?”
Mike met his eyes, evenly. “I appreciate that ... that civilians may have a different attitude to such matters,” he said. “However, under the circumstances, when we were fighting to protect both an innocent civilian and our own lives, I feel that we had no choice. I do not believe that we could have resolved the situation through negotiation.”
“You should have done,” the woman said.
“And what would have happened,” Mike asked, “to their victim while we were trying to negotiate? They could have raped and killed her before we even knew what had happened.”
He took a breath. “Even finding her within the tent city would have been tricky!”
There was a long pause, followed by a breathtaking hail of questions from all three of his interrogators. Mike did his best not to let them get to him, even though they were clearly trying to trip him up. They went over the same areas time and time again, then switched tracks and invited him to offer his opinions on everything from refugee policy to police weapons and armour. Mike wished, desperately, that he’d been allowed to get a lawyer. He had the nasty feeling that he’d been set up for something.
Coombs finally called a halt. “Constable Whitehead,” he said. “Under normal circumstances, you would be placed on administrative leave until a decision was made regarding your case. However, as we are short of manpower, you will merely be rotated back to your original police station until a decision is made. This will change, of course, if we proceed with the case.”
Mike narrowed his eyes. Their decision made no sense. Did they think he was guilty? Of what? But if they thought they had enough evidence to charge him, why not charge him? He couldn't understand it. Unless they were trying to gather more evidence ... they’d be interrogating the rest of the squad, of course. But they could probably convince a judge to order his detention if they had a case ...
“You are hereby cautioned not to speak to any of your fellow officers, the media or anyone else about this case unless it has been cleared through this office,” Coombs continued. “You are to make no attempt to contact anyone else involved in this affair. Be warned that any contact at all will be held against you.”
And if I run into one of them at a police station, Mike thought, I’m dead.
“Thank you, sir,” he said, aloud. “Can I ask for a written statement of the charges and evidence?”
The woman cleared her throat. “You have not yet been charged,” she said. “You are merely the subject of an investigation.”
Mike - somehow - managed to resist the urge to glare at her. She was technically correct. He had a legal right to know the charges, but only if he was formally charged. And yet, under the circumstances, the PCA was slipping dangerously close to mishandling the investigation, something he could use against them if the case ever came to court ...
And that means ... something, he thought. But what?
He rose. “If you don't mind, I would like to go home to my wife,” he said. He also needed a shower and a change of clothes. Sleeping in the station had brought back old memories, none of them good. And he had the nasty feeling he smelt terrible. “When do you want me to report to duty?”
“Tomorrow,” Coombs said. “But remember - not a word to anyone until the case is resolved.”
Mike nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Chapter Nineteen
This may seem odd. But remember, the average citizen of Earth knew nothing about how the world worked. The source of food was a complete mystery to them. Indeed, Earthers tended to react badly when they discovered ‘real’ meat. They were utterly unprepared to survive on a new and untamed colony world.
- Professor Leo Caesius. Ethnic Streaming and the End of Empire.
“You look ... different,” John said.
“So do you,” Hannah countered. She smiled, even though she looked to be in pain. “And no one is going to look twice at me.”
John frowned. He had no idea how Hannah had walked out of the hotel - she’d refused to tell him - but he had to admit that it had worked. She’d changed her dress, adjusted the cap she wore and even tinted her face - somehow. She still looked feminine - she would be in real trouble if she was caught in male garb - but she didn't look like herself.
He met her eyes. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yes,” Hannah said, flatly. “I need to get out for a while.”
John nodded. He’d managed to sneak her a couple of ration bars and a bottle of water, w
hen his mother wasn't in the room, but she still looked starved. And he’d seen the nasty marks on her arm when she hadn't realised he’d been looking. Their mother had done more than slap her face, this time. John didn't know how Hannah could stand it.
He took her arm and led her back towards the spaceport. The tent city had grown over the last four days, so many people crowding into the complex that it was easy enough to hide, as long as one was careful. Konrad had been spending much of his time with the other Elders, arguing over just what was permissible on Arthur’s Seat; Joel had been off, helping the Stewards to police the campsite. John was just relieved that he was staying out all day and only coming home to sleep.
They walked through the spaceport complex and down towards the main gate. A couple of doctors sat there; one male, one female. John hesitated, unsure if he really wanted to do it, then shook his head as Hannah strode forward and sat down next to the female doctor. He sighed, then looked at the other doctor. The doctor looked back, amused.
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