Star Cops

by Chris Boucher

  “Actually there are a couple of things I want to stay on top of,” said Nathan. “I decided against taking the break.”

  “You should take your leaves when they’re due. Nobody’s indispensable.”

  Nathan smiled. “That’s usually a good reason for staying put,” he said.

  “However, it wasn’t your leave I was thinking about,” said the Commander.

  Nathan waited, then after a brief silence he asked – more or less politely – “Well, what then?”

  “It’s your application,” said the Commander.

  “I’m sorry?” For a moment, Nathan found himself wrong-footed.

  “The Commander’s job with the ISPF. Surely you haven’t forgotten?”

  “Oh, that.”

  “You had forgotten,” said the Commander with obvious relish.

  “It wasn’t worth remembering,” said Nathan.

  “You’re not normally so negative, Nathan.” The Commander and the sun were both beaming now.

  “I was going through the motions. It was a formality, sir, nothing more.”

  “In that case, the news will be all the more welcome,” said the Commander, and paused momentarily for full dramatic effect. “You’ve been short-listed for the job. Congratulations.”

  Nathan remained expressionless. His self-control was good, but his autonomic responses let him down again, and colour drained from his face. The Commander’s weather had settled on the perfectly summery as he enjoyed his moment of triumph. Nathan said, “I’ll withdraw the application immediately.”

  The Commander shook his head. His hair remained perfect, his smile still unnaturally smooth. “Not a very good idea,” he said. “In fact, a very bad idea.”

  “I don’t want the job. I never wanted the job, you know that.”

  “Do I?” The Commander looked vaguely doubtful.

  “I didn’t want to apply,” said Nathan.

  “Just testing the water, eh?”

  “You should know, sir. You suggested it.”

  “I did? Are you sure?”

  “You were quite insistent, as I recall.” Even as he said this, it struck Nathan, with a small shock that was almost physical, just how comprehensively he had been outmanoeuvred.

  “I don’t remember that,” said the Commander, smiling serene sunshine from every direction on all the screens. “Good idea, though. Put down a marker. Remind us all that you’re not content to stay in your present rut. It’s not enough to be ambitious, is it? You have to be seen to be ambitious. That’s why withdrawing at this stage… not a good career move. No. Not a good career move at all.”

  “Whereas Commander of the International Space Police Force would be,” Nathan said, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

  “A Commander at your age? I’d say so, yes.”

  “The ISPF is a token. That’s all it is.”

  “That’s all any police force is, Nathan. A token. A token of people’s desire to be civilized.”

  Concerned not to underestimate the Commander’s low cunning any more, Nathan bit back his instinctive reaction, and determined to be reasonable. “It doesn’t do anything,” he said. “It’s a political public relations exercise.”

  “You couldn’t be more wrong, you know,” said the Commander, sounding some way short of sincere.

  Nathan said, “It’s just there to take the blame if anything goes irredeemably pear-shaped.”

  The Commander nodded sagely. “That’s all any –”

  “And don’t tell me that’s all any police force is there for,” Nathan snapped, his temper finally getting the better of him. “It may amuse you to pretend to be stupid sir, but don’t bother to pretend that I’m stupid as well. A force of twenty or so part-timers? They’re a joke!”

  “You’re exaggerating,” said the Commander.

  “They were nicknamed the Star Cops, for God’s sake,” Nathan said, beginning to recover his self-control.

  “That was a cheap journalistic jibe,” said the Commander with an almost straight face.

  Nathan smiled. “It stuck though, didn’t it?” he said.

  “They need someone like you, Nathan. Someone to shake up the organisation.”

  “Someone who’s never left Earth in his life, you mean.”

  “Spacemen are ten-a-penny,” said the Commander. “What they need is a good copper.”

  Nathan shook his head and said, “It’s like that old joke about not being drunk if you can lie on the floor without falling off. Well, up there, you can’t.”

  “Out there,” said the Commander. “I’m told the expression is ‘out there’ rather than ‘up there’.”

  “The expression is ‘no, thank you’, sir.”

  “You’re the only Brit who’s been short-listed. It would look very bad if you withdrew your name before the final adjudication.”

  “I didn’t realize this was Telesport Supernational. Do I have to wear a sponsor’s logo?”

  “No. But you do have to attend the final round of interviews and tests. Assuming, of course, that you wish to continue in your present career. Do I make myself clear, Detective Chief Superintendent Spring?” said the Commander, knowing quite well that he did. He stood up and flexed his neck again. “Shall we make our way to the canteen? I find I’m really quite peckish now.”

  “This is the Space Station Coral Sea, a development of the First National Pan-Pacific Basin Consortium,” the perfectly proportioned receptionist said, smiling her perfect smile from Theroux’s communication screen. “How may I help you?”

  “Connect me with Inspector Pal Kenzy.”

  “My feeling is,” murmured Simon Butler in the background, “if you’re going to connect with a colleague, connect with a pretty one.”

  On screen, the receptionist looked sincerely apologetic. “Inspector Pal Kenzy is unavailable at present. Do you have an alternative?”

  Theroux had spent his rest period trying to decide what to do about his misgivings over the death of Gunter Stein. Discussing them with Kenzy seemed marginally better than the only alternative, which was to do nothing. He wasn’t exactly sure what he expected from her, but what he didn’t expect was not to get her at all. “Shit,” he said, then, “Put out a general call for Inspector Kenzy. Make it priority.”

  “I will need authorization.”

  Theroux keyed in his police authority code.

  “I will need authorization,” repeated the receptionist.

  “Oh no. I don’t believe this!”

  “I will need authorization,” repeated the receptionist. “I will need authorization.”

  “Not now.” He keyed a bypass code and said, “Coral Sea, you have a malfunction on the reception program; please reroute and reboot.”

  “I will need authorization, I will need authorization, I will need authorization, I will need authorization,” continued the receptionist imperturbably.

  “Christ I hate computer personals,” said Theroux.

  “I will need authorization, I will need authorization, I will need authorization –”

  “Their conversation is a bit limited,” Butler said.

  “I will need authorization, I will neeeeeeeeeeee.” On Theroux’s screen, the receptionist froze and then faded, to be replaced by the FNPPBC’s corporate montage of product images, accompanied by orchestral variations on their theme jingles.

  “But when they fuck up like that,” Butler continued, “I must confess to a certain sneaking affection for them. They seem almost human, then. Don’t you think so?”

  “No.”

  “You’re just pissed off because it got between you and the object of your lust.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “In thrall to your glands, all you tinted type
s. That’s why we do our best to keep you away from the white women.”

  Theroux shook his head. “That’s not why,” he said.

  “No?”

  “No. You’re afraid they’ll find out we got bigger dicks than you white boys.”

  “With most of the women I’ve known, David old love, that would not be regarded as an advantage. I understand Kenzy is a colonial of course, so her attitude might be…” He paused delicately. “…more robust?”

  “I wouldn’t know. This is strictly business.”

  “Of course it is.”

  “She’s an experienced police officer.”

  “I had heard that.”

  “I mean she’s got a lot of service in.”

  Butler remained deadpan. “Did Freud die in vain, I ask myself?” he said.

  “You’re a real scumball, Simon.”

  “It’s a thankless task, but I do my best. All right then – if it’s not sex, what is it?”

  “Police business,” said Theroux.

  Butler chortled. “Police business. I’m impressed. No, really, David, I am.”

  Stung, Theroux said, “I still don’t like the way Stein’s suit failed.”

  Butler controlled his amusement with some small difficulty. “I don’t imagine Stein was exactly thrilled,” he said, “but these things happen. It’s the law of averages.”

  “I don’t trust laws I didn’t get to vote for.” As Theroux said this, his communications screen cleared of corporate babble, and a woman, with enough imperfections to establish her humanity, glared out at him.

  Pal Kenzy was in her thirties, slim and sharp-featured with white-blonde hair, cropped short for free-fall living. This, together with her very pale skin, would have made her look like an albino, were it not for her startling deep blue eyes.

  “This better be important, Theroux,” she said. “I had to fold three queens to come to a screen.” Kenzy’s Australian accent tended to be noticeable only when she was irritated – as now.

  Slightly taken aback by her reaction, Theroux said, “Death rate from suit failure,” rather more abruptly than he intended. He had only spoken to her a few times before, but she made a big impression on him, and – as Butler had shrewdly observed – his admiration was not entirely professional. It made him clumsy.

  “What about it?” she said.

  “What are your figures like at the moment?”

  “This is a joke, right? You interrupted the first winning streak I’ve had in months to check actuarial tables?”

  “Some of us are on a losing streak,” snapped Theroux, embarrassment increasing his anger. “Are your figures up or down?”

  “Down,” said Kenzy, puzzled by his vehemence. “Have been for a while.”

  “What does your computer make of that?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “Death rate for all the orbit stations plus Moonbase is constant. Why, does yours say something different?”

  “Nope,” said Theroux.

  “So what the fuck is the problem?”

  “We had another death,” he said.

  Kenzy looked at him for a moment. “A friend, was it?” she asked.

  Theroux shook his head. “Not really.”

  “Then why all the angst?”

  “It bothers me.”

  “Come on Theroux. You win some, you lose some. Christ.”

  “It’s a little more permanent than folding three queens,” said Theroux.

  Kenzy shrugged. “Same principle.”

  Glancing away from the screen, Theroux thought he saw Butler watching him and smiling. On the screen, Kenzy said, “Am I boring you?” and he looked back at her.

  “I get this really weird feeling we’re being jerked around,” he said.

  “Put in for some groundside time,” said Kenzy, not unsympathetically. “Could be a touch of cabin fever.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Listen, it happens to the best. Who died, and made you Superspacejock of the solar system?”

  Theroux nodded and smiled, in what he hoped looked like a reasonably sane way. “I’ll bear it in mind. Nice talking to you, Kenzy,” he said, and reached for the screen switch.

  “Hey, have you heard anything about the Commander’s job yet?” Kenzy asked quickly, before he could break the connection.

  “I could care less,” said Theroux.

  “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn,” murmured Butler in the background – in a passable imitation of Clark Gable. He grinned when Theroux scowled at him.

  From the screen, Kenzy said, “So you don’t know who’s on the short-list then?”

  “Are you?” Theroux asked, joking.

  “I didn’t get an interview,” she said.

  Again, Theroux was taken by surprise. “You mean you did apply?”

  If she noticed the surprise, Kenzy gave no sign of it. “Damn right,” she said, “I don’t do Star Cops duties for love, I do ’em for money. And that job’s worth a lot of it.”

  “It doesn’t pay that well,” Theroux said.

  Kenzy’s smile did not reach her eyes. “Neither do most elected offices, but how many poor politicians do you know?”

  Before Theroux could decide on an answer, the flat tones of the Earth-12.00 shuttle pilot came through on the general overrides. “Eurostat, Eurostat, Euroshuttle Seven copy?”

  “Euroshuttle Seven, Euroshuttle Seven, Eurostat copy. Go ahead,” Butler responded automatically. He was the only human professional-class flight traffic controller on the orbit stations and had responsibility for all flights in the European sector, as well as co-coordinating non-routine traffic movements between the others.

  “They still haven’t replaced you with a nice respectable computer, then? Like on the grown-up stations?” said the shuttle pilot.

  “Gotta go,” Theroux said to Kenzy. “I’m on back-up traffic control, and we’ve got one inbound.”

  Butler said, “Dealing with morons is best handled by a human being, they felt,” – continuing the ritual exchange of insults which had become as much a part of the routine as the confirmation of approach vectors.

  “Oh, so they are replacing you, then,” said the pilot.

  “If you do hear anything,” said Kenzy, “let me know. Maybe we can pull some strings.”

  Theroux said, “To do what, for Chrissakes?”

  “Euroshuttle Seven, this is Eurostat Charles De Gaulle, we have you inbound on green two with fourteen minutes flight time remaining, your estimated docking is twelve seventeen,” Butler chanted.

  “Roger Eurostat.”

  “Wake up, Theroux,” said Kenzy. “Suit failures could be the least of your problems if they give us some idiot with slogans where his brain should be.” She broke the connection.

  “You’ll miss me when I’m gone,” Butler said.

  “You think so?” said the pilot.

  “Oh yes,” said Butler, then added, “More to the point, you’ll probably miss the docking bay…” He glanced towards Theroux and smiled, but got no reaction.

  As per standard operating procedure, Theroux had switched his screen to the approaching shuttle and was watching the spacecraft. It was clearly visible now, though in truth he was hardly aware of it – and of the readouts scrolling across the bottom of the screen, only their green colour was registering with him. A sudden anxiety had unfocused his thoughts and cramped his concentration. Up to this point, it had not even occurred to him that a newly appointed Commander could be one more problem in what was already a miserable, shitty fucking job.

  Chapter 3

  “I thought the Commander said to drop it.” Lincoln was peering closely from the small tollbooth screen, trying to get a better look at Nathan’s face.

 
Nathan glanced out through the booth’s perspex dome towards the distant reservoir. He told himself that tollbooths were more secure, but the truth was that the new generation mobilinks made him uncomfortable, and he avoided carrying one. There were times, though, when his aversion to being constantly available for the ‘unbreakably close person-to-person contact’ promised by the manufacturers was definitely inconvenient. He said, “We had a meeting.”

  “Are you sure?” Lincoln pressed. “Only he seemed pretty definite.”

  Nathan turned back to the scratched, slightly hazy callscreen. “Only he seemed pretty definite, sir,” he said mildly.

  Lincoln’s saggy expression did not change. “Sorry. Sir,” he said, without rancour. “I just wondered what had changed, is all.”

  Nathan smiled. “Yours not to reason why, Inspector. Yours but to go and talk to the dead man’s business partner.”

  “Anything particular you want me to ask him?”

  “You’re investigating a murder by drowning. I expect you’ll think of something.”

  “It uh… it’s been confirmed as murder then has it, sir?” Lincoln asked, trying not to make too much of the question, but still making it sound a bit like an accusation.

  “I’m confirming it,” Nathan said. “Consider it confirmed. It’s a murder. Right?”

  “Right,” said Lincoln. “We… uh… we still don’t have a budget number, presumably?”

  “Stop thinking like an accountant, Brian. That’s my job. Your job is to think like a copper.”

  “Perhaps I could question him over a screen link. There’d be no need to book that.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Brian!” Nathan’s anger was only partly because of his Inspector’s dogged refusal to buck the system; mostly it was because he knew Lincoln was right. Right from his point of view, anyway. And that made losing his temper with the man even more pointless. He forced another smile. “You’ve got to do this one face to face.”

  “If you say so, sir. What about the widow?”