She almost giggled. It really does feel like going to see the principal ...
“Miss Parkston,” Director Melbourne said. “Explain why you saw fit to defy my instructions not to talk about your experiences.”
Judith looked back at her, evenly. “You never ordered me not to talk,” she said. “And if you had, it would have been of questionable legality.”
Director Melbourne’s face darkened. “I am in charge of handling and resettling the refugees,” she said. “My orders are legal.”
“Actually, there are certain orders that cannot be issued,” Judith said, silently relieved she’d taken the time to look them up. “You cannot, for example, forbid me from filing charges concerning criminal acts, regardless of whether they are aimed against me personally or I was merely unlucky enough to witness them. Nor can you forbid me from whistle-blowing if I see criminal acts, including sins of omission, carried out by my superiors ...”
“No such acts were carried out,” Director Melbourne snarled.
“Declining to rescue a young girl in danger is a sin of omission,” Judith countered. “Holding me prisoner without proper care and feeding is a criminal act. And retroactively insisting that I keep my mouth shut, without any signed agreement, is legally unenforceable.”
Director Melbourne gave her a baleful look. “Are you sure you’re not studying law at the university?”
Judith kept her face blank with an effort. She’d thrown so many arguments at Director Melbourne because she wasn't sure which of them - if any - would actually stick, but it was clear that one of them definitely had. Perhaps more ... any halfway competent lawyer could easily make a case for all of them. But she had no idea how well they would hold up in court.
“Being aware of one’s rights is as important as being aware of one’s responsibilities,” she said. It was something her father had said, although he’d gone on to remark that rights must be balanced with responsibilities. “I would not have signed up to serve as an emergency volunteer, director, had I not read the paperwork very carefully first.”
Director Melbourne looked as though she’d bitten into something sour. Judith rather suspected she’d been summoned to be browbeaten, then perhaps forced to recant her online statements in front of the media. Instead ... she wondered, absently, just what the director considered a suitable fallback position. She could kick Judith off the emergency roster and no one, not even Judith herself, would complain. But apart from that, her ability to make Judith suffer were limited.
“You could be expelled from the university,” Director Melbourne said, finally. “You have not comported yourself with the dignity expected of a lady and a scholar.”
“The university would need a very good reason to expel me,” Judith countered. She hadn't considered the possibility of being expelled, although in hindsight it was obvious. She’d used the university’s datanet to broadcast her article, after all. “And it would be debated in court.”
Dragging the university’s reputation through the mud, she added, silently. And now, when they are desperate for funds, would be a particularly bad time.
Director Melbourne snorted, rudely. “Can we rely on you to refrain from making inflammatory statements in future?”
“The truth is an absolute defence in such matters,” Judith said. There were literally millions of rumours flowing through the datanet, half of them completely unbelievable. “And what I said can be backed up in court.”
“You might be wrong,” Director Melbourne said.
“I might be right, too,” Judith countered.
Director Melbourne stared at her for a long moment, then scowled. “The refugees are going to be moving out of the spaceport over the next few days,” she said. “You can report to the spaceport tomorrow morning - at 1000 - to assist in the move, then in cleaning up the mess before the next set of refugees arrives.”
She smiled, rather nastily. “And as you were not removed from the roster,” she added, “I should warn you that failing to show up will be considered desertion.”
Ouch, Judith thought. There was no point in arguing. Director Melbourne had managed to score a zinger after all. A truly terrible detention.
“Understood, director,” she said, tartly.
Director Melbourne smirked. “See you tomorrow,” she said, sweetly. “And I really would advise you not to be late.”
Judith nodded, then turned and walked out of the room. She had a day, a whole day, before she had to report back to the spaceport. Maybe she could find Gayle ... and then? And then what? Gayle had never forgiven her for writing that post, for revealing what she - and Hannah - had endured. And Judith found it impossible to forgive Gayle, too, for making light of Hannah’s sufferings.
She stepped out of the building and walked back towards the university. The streets were surprisingly quiet, the handful of people within view glancing around nervously as they hurried to their destinations. A number of shops were closed, a number of stalls were missing ... she winced, inwardly, as she noticed that one of her favourite roadside cafes was closed and shuttered. The owner had done such wonderful burgers ...
And he’s decided he can't stay open, she thought. What did that mean? Had he just decided to remain in the country until the whole crisis blew over? Or had the insurance company refused to pay for the damage, if there had been damage? Rumours insisted that insurance premiums were going up all over the city. What does that mean for everyone?
Deep inside, she had no answer.
***
“As you are aware,” Captain Stewart said, “matters are now approaching a resolution.”
Mike had his doubts and he knew, judging by the way the other constables shifted uncomfortably, that he wasn't the only one. It had been two days since the riot, two days since the police had been humiliated by a gaggle of refugees ... two days since Bobbie had been put on administrative leave, the first step to gently dismissing her from the force. The mood in the room was grim. No one expected the matter to be resolved quickly.
And Stewart isn't helping, Mike thought morbidly. He’s not even trying to convince us of anything.
“It has been decided,” Stewart continued, “that the vast majority of the refugees will be transported to the Kinsman Estate. There is enough space there to house a large number of people in relative comfort and ...”
A low rumble of anger ran through the room. The police force was a tightly-knit organisation. Everyone present knew someone who’d been attacked in the riot, even if they hadn't been there themselves. The idea of just letting the bastards get away with it was horrific, particularly as a number of locals were in jail, awaiting sentencing. And to think that they’d acted in defence of local women ...
They won’t find a jury willing to convict them, Mike told himself. But it still makes us look like bad guys.
“Quiet,” Sergeant Cox bellowed.
Silence fell, sharply. “I know this is not an ideal situation,” Stewart said. “But it is the best solution we have.”
“Send them back to Tarsus,” someone called.
Mike concealed his amusement as Sergeant Cox looked around sharply, but didn't seem to notice who’d spoken. The police force was on the verge of outright mutiny - and while its officers understood, their political superiors did not. They existed to protect and serve the public and now ... and now, they were being told that the greatest threat to the public was being rewarded for its crimes. It was intolerable. Mike rather suspected that a considerable number of policemen would be handing in their resignations over the whole affair.
And if I didn't need the job, he thought, I might be joining them.
“The good news is that the people we arrested will be handed over to us, along with the two refugees who attempted to rape Constable Parkhurst,” Stewart continued. “They will be put on trial within the week, then sentenced accordingly.”
Mike coughed. “What about the wankers who rescued them?”
Stewart looked annoyed. “It has been de
cided,” he said, “that the rescuers believed that the prisoners were in severe danger. Accordingly, they will not be prosecuted.”
“Fuck that,” someone snapped.
“Silence,” Sergeant Cox said.
“I will not be silent,” the speaker said. Constable Robertson pushed his way through the throng. “Attacking us is bad enough, Sergeant; trying to rape one of us is worse!”
“They’re handing over the rapists,” Stewart said. “Constable ...”
“They should all be handed over to us,” Robertson insisted. There was a low rumble of agreement. “Attacking us is a crime! There’s no dispute about that!”
“And if they’d been arrested on Tarsus,” Stewart said bitterly, “they would have gone into the cells and never been seen again.”
Mike stared at him in shock. Stewart ... he’d never doubted that Stewart had the best interests of his men at heart. The man had been a good constable, then a lieutenant ... his promotion and assignment to the station had been warmly welcomed by his subordinates. And now ... he was defending murderous scum who’d attacked a group of policemen and nearly raped one of them? It was unthinkable.
“Tarsus does not have a very nice government,” Stewart added. “The Forsakers got the blame for most of their problems. They knew they would lose anyone who happened to be arrested ...”
“So what?” Robertson demanded. “They came here! They committed crimes here! And we are to ... to do what? Tolerate it? How long will it be before one of us dies? Will you still be making excuses then?”
“Enough,” Stewart snapped.
He was ashamed, Mike realised suddenly. The Captain Stewart he’d known - he’d thought he’d known - would not have let such a challenge to his authority pass. But now ... Stewart would have exploded at Robertson, if he hadn't believed - at some level - that Robertson was right. Someone a great deal higher up the food chain had to have leaned on him. It was the only explanation that made sense.
“It isn't our job to judge them,” Stewart said. “It's our job to protect the people ...”
“And we’re not doing that,” Robertson said. “What next? Are we to protect the refugees from a howling mob that wants them dead? Because if we can't protect the people, they’ll take matters into their own hands.”
Mike swallowed. There was no strong tradition of self-defence in the city, but the rural population had to take care of their own problems. It was easy to imagine posses already forming - perhaps called by the District Halls, perhaps not - to deal with the crisis. And if a posse did march on the estate, would the police get in the way? It might turn into a full-scale civil war.
Impossible, he told himself. How did we fall so far so fast?
“The government believes that the refugees can be slowly broken down into more manageable units,” Stewart said. “And that exposure to our population will show them a better way to live.”
Mike snorted. He wasn't the only one.
“Now, those of you who are assigned to the spaceport will be responsible for escorting the refugees as they make their way down to the estate,” Stewart continued. “The remainder will continue to police the city ...”
Afterwards, he asked Mike to remain. “The PCA has requested that the case be held open,” he said, grimly. “Judge Silver granted them a stay of execution. I wasn't able to convince him to close it.”
Mike cursed. After everything that had happened, he’d almost forgotten about the PCA and their absurd attempt to find him guilty of ... something. Indeed, he’d decided the case would probably be quietly closed before it became a matter of public interest. But instead ...
“They have no case,” he said, numbly. “Why have they kept it open?”
“I don't know,” Stewart said. “It’s possible Coombs thinks he needs a scalp, even yours. I don’t think the PCA have claimed any heads recently. But it’s also possible that it’s political, that someone behind Coombs has a reason to keep the case open. Watch your back.”
“Judge Silver has political ambitions,” Mike muttered. The judge had run for office during the last election ... a Unionist, if he recalled correctly. He’d lost, but his party might just have decided to run him again. “This is political, isn't it?”
“I would keep those speculations to yourself,” Stewart said.
He took a long breath. “This is a dangerous situation,” he added, softly. “Bobbie’s experience has not, so far, gone public. We have been given strict orders to keep that absolutely confidential.”
“A woman is broken,” Mike said, shortly. He hadn't seen Bobbie since their talk, but she wouldn't have been placed on administrative leave unless there was no hope of a speedy recovery. “And we choose to ignore it?”
“No,” Stewart said. “As I said, they’re handing over the people who assaulted her.”
“It isn't their choice to hand them over or not,” Mike said. “We wouldn't tolerate that from our own people, would we?”
“This is political, Mike,” Stewart said. “And don’t you forget it.”
He shrugged. “Grab a cup of coffee, then report to the vans,” he added. “You’re going back to the spaceport.”
Mike saluted, then turned and left the room. Cold anger, mixed with a bitter sickness, raged within his heart. He’d been a constable for ten years - he’d never sought promotion - and yet he’d never felt so betrayed. The charges against him were spurious, utterly unable to stand up to the merest scrutiny, but Judge Silver had decided the PCA could continue to try to make them stick! It was absurd. If they couldn't prove it within a week, let alone the time they’d had, they’d never be able to prove them ...
... And they’d betrayed Bobbie too.
And the rest of us, he thought, as he stepped into the changing room. Her story should be all over the planet, but instead it had been covered up. Who knew what else had been covered up? And how long will it be before one of us dies?
He looked down at the terminal for a long moment. It would be easy enough to send a message to one of the datanet newsgroups, outlining what had happened and why. Who knew what would happen once that little datum was in the public sphere? And yet, sending it from a terminal inside the police station would be traced back to him. He’d need to be more careful. A whistle-blower was supposed to be protected from retaliation, but only a fool would count on it. Old certainties were falling everywhere.
It wasn't until he removed a portable com from the evidence locker and stuck it in his pocket that he realised he’d already made up his mind to blow the whistle, consequences be damned ...
... And he knew precisely who to message.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
It was easier for them to believe that dirt-poor hick farmers were refusing more immigrants because they were bigots, rather than because the immigrants were simply useless and demanding.
- Professor Leo Caesius. Ethnic Streaming and the End of Empire.
“Make sure you’ve got everything,” Joel ordered, as he peered into the room. “We won’t be coming back here.”
John resisted the urge to say something sharp, then nodded to Hannah. His sister had packed up the clothes, such as they were; his mother, behind her, was either picking up stuff they wanted to take or shoving anything they didn't into a corner. There wasn't much, he noted, feeling an odd twinge of pain. The clothes they wore had either been donated by the locals or washed repeatedly, until they were on the verge of falling apart.
It’ll be different once they land our supplies, he told himself, firmly. The women will start sewing again.
He pushed the thought aside as they made one last sweep of the room, then walked outside into the bright sunlight. The Stewards were running around, sorting out the people who would be heading directly to the estate from those who would be remaining behind, at least for the moment. Joel had picked most of the former personally, John knew, trying to make sure that the first settlers were ready to turn the estate into somewhere to live. It wasn't going to be easy, John was sure
, but it should be doable. And anywhere, even a soulless estate, had to be better than the spaceport.
“There’s Beth, over there,” Hannah whispered. John turned his head, catching sight of a white cap covering an untidy mop of black hair. “I think she likes you.”
John shrugged. “Her father wouldn't,” he said. The words cost him a pang. If his father had lived ... but he hadn't. “What prospects do I have?”
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