The Thin Blue Line (The Empire's Corps Book 9) (v5.1) (22 page)

Belinda shrugged, then reached for the remote and started to flick through channels. Most of them were showing horrific scenes, almost competing to see who could show the worst pictures from the riot, but a couple were providing genuine analysis. She listened, carefully, as one of the talking heads informed the world that there had been riots in a dozen cities, including two within a giant CityBlock. The death toll was over several thousand and rising steeply. She would be surprised if it wasn't over a hundred thousand by the time the night finally came to an end.

And if there was more than one riot
, she thought,
someone almost certainly planned for them to happen
.

She glanced up as Augustus entered the room. “I’m sorry for my daughter’s behaviour,” he said, as he sat down next to her. “She is a persistent trial. I don’t know what to do with her.”

Belinda smiled. “Find someone willing to take her in and bring her up properly,” she said, darkly. “A strict mother figure would probably be good for her.”

Augustus gave her a sharp look. “Would you be interested?”

“I think my strict upbringing would probably break her,” Belinda said. She had a sudden vision of Violet, her head shaved to her scalp, standing in line with the other recruits at Boot Camp and snickered, inwardly. “You would probably do better finding someone kinder, but firm.”

“My father expected me to work,” Augustus said. “He was a hard man and I thought I was being kind to Violet by not demanding so much from her. But ...”

Belinda shrugged. “It's never easy to find the proper balance between being strict and indulgent,” she said. “I sometimes think that my parents made mistakes because their parents made mistakes – or did things my parents thought were mistakes.”

“And you went into the military,” Augustus said. “Maybe I should enrol her in military school.”

“I wouldn't bother,” Belinda said. “She’d get too much special treatment.”

She paused. “Send her to work on a farm,” she offered. “Have her responsible for the care and feeding of some of the animals. But make sure her work is carefully supervised at first, just in case.”

Augustus nodded, then changed the subject. “I meant to give you a better evening,” he said, softly. “I'm sorry.”

“Not your fault,” Belinda said. She yawned, suddenly. “And we can go somewhere else, later.”

“I’ll show you to your room,” Augustus said. “And I won’t disturb you in the morning.”

You could take him to bed
, Pug said.
He’s interested in you and it’s been years since you got laid
.

Shut up
, Belinda thought back.

“Thank you,” she said, out loud. She rose to her feet, then kissed Augustus on the cheek. “I will have to go back to the hotel in the morning, though.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Augustus said, as he stood. “You can order whatever you like from the desk downstairs. And I’ll have Bill give you access to the datanet too.”

Yep
, Pug said.
Definitely interested in you
.

Belinda sighed inwardly, then ignored the little voice.

It will come as no surprise to the enlightened reader that the Empire’s attempts to enforce a unified code of law and order – otherwise known as Imperial Law – over thousands of planets was an outright failure. The Empire was simply too large for a ‘one size fits all’ approach.

- Professor Leo Caesius.
The Decline of Law and Order and the Rise of Anarchy.

Glen started awake as he heard someone opening his door. He sat upright, one hand reaching for the pistol he normally kept stashed behind his bed, then cursed himself as he realised that Helen was entering the room. Her pale face seemed to grow even paler as he stared at her, blearily, then relaxed.

“I brought you coffee,” she said, holding out a mug. “What time did you get back last night?”

“Late,” Glen grunted, taking the mug and sniffing it. He had to smile when he realised just how much powder she’d put in the drink. The coffee was too strong for anyone, but a police officer or a soldier. “Around five o’clock on the morning.”

He reached for his wristcom and glanced at the time. It was just after ten in the morning, which meant he’d had around five hours of sleep. He was surprised Patty hadn't called to demand to know where he was, but after so many hours of overtime his boss would understand if he needed to sleep it off. She’d actually been a marshal on active duty before she’d been promoted, unlike so many others. And she knew how the job ground down her subordinates.

“I hope the coffee is all right,” Helen said, sitting at the foot of his bed. “It wasn't easy to work out how much powder I should give you.”

Glen took a long sip, then smiled. “I think you got it about right, for me,” he said. “But don’t make it so strong for anyone else.”

Helen gave him a shy smile. “Thank you,” she said. “I used to make coffee for my father, back when we were on the ship. And mum ...”

She broke off, looking down at the floor. Glen sighed and reached out to pat her shoulder, wishing he could offer her more comfort. There was no way to know what had happened to her parents since they’d left orbit, but it was unlikely it would end well. If the Nihilists had kept Helen as a hostage, he knew, they’d probably intended to force her parents to do something else for them. And it might just get them killed ... or dumped on a penal world for the rest of their lives. What would happen to Helen then?

“I’m sure you’ll see them again,” he said, unconvincingly. “And then ...”

He shook his head. “I need to shower,” he said, instead. “Can you get your own breakfast?”

“You have a microwave,” Helen said. “I could cook you packaged bacon and eggs.”

“Just get yours,” Glen urged. “I need to shower and then ...”

He sighed. Too much coffee the night before hadn’t done wonders for his condition either, he had to admit. His stomach hurt, suggesting he really needed to go to the toilet and then throw up in the sink. He pulled himself out of bed and staggered into the washroom, then stuck his head under the showerhead. The cold water snapped him awake, but left him feeling dizzy. Undressing, he dropped his uniform in the laundry basket and showered properly, then pulled on a dressing gown. He felt a little better after the wash.

Helen looked up at him, concerned, as he stepped into the kitchen. “I can do you eggs ...”

“No, thank you,” Glen said. His stomach rebelled at the mere thought of anything to do with eggs. “Just pass me some cereal. I’ll eat that and then see how I feel.”

He clicked on the viewscreen as Helen passed him a bowl of wheat cereal. A talking head – rumour had it that she was nothing more than a computer-generated persona, because her breasts seemed far too large and shapely to be natural – was pontificating about the riot, intermingled with images of advancing security officers and rioters on the streets. They weren't showing any pictures of the aftermath, Glen noted, or anything that might make people feel sorry for the arrested morons. The whole display seemed designed to convince the general population that the rioters deserved everything they got.

And some of them do
, he thought. He glanced down at his bowl as the spoon scraped ceramic and discovered he’d consumed the cereal without actually tasting it.
But what about the ones who just got caught up in the excitement
?

Helen leaned forward. “What are we going to do today?”

“I’ll probably have to go into work,” Glen said, reaching for his terminal and accessing his inbox. “You’ll have to stay here. I can give you download codes for more flicks, if you like.”

“Thank you,” Helen said, “but can I get more games instead?”

Glen smiled. “Why not?”

He paused. “You could go to the exercise centre too,” he added. “There’s a small swimming pool there, if you don't mind sharing.”

“Sure,” Helen said. She paused. “But I don’t know how to swim.”

“Oh,” Glen said. He opened his inbox and swore when he saw just how many priority messages had popped up overnight. “Maybe you’d better leave that until I can come with you.”

He skimmed through the messages, deleting a handful that were clearly spam. Just why the datanet’s limiters allowed so many spam messages through the filters had always puzzled him, particularly as he’d never purchased anything from a spam email message. Maybe the corporations had managed to convince the government that sending spam was covered under freedom of speech – or, more likely, they’d paid out huge bribes. After all, if political parties that questioned the validity of the Empire’s claim to power were denied the right to spread the word, why were spammers allowed to annoy people freely?

“I have to go into work,” he said, sourly. Patty had called a meeting for senior marshals at twelve o’clock. Isabel was already at the station, helping with prisoner processing. “I’ll try to be back as soon as possible.”

“I’ll be fine,” Helen assured him. “There’s enough to do here.”

Glen sighed as he walked back into his room to change into a fresh uniform. Helen didn't seem to be lonely, which wasn't too surprising if she’d grown up on a starship with no one apart from her parents for company, but it still seemed odd for her not to have friends. But then, who could he introduce her to in the apartment block? He didn't really know his neighbours – they kept their distance from him, because they knew he was a marshal – and the handful he did know had no children. It was possible, he supposed, that he could ask the staff which couples had children Helen’s age, but that would cause other problems. They might try to report him to someone.

And so there is no trust
, he thought, bitterly.
And people cross the road just to avoid seeing something that might come back to bite them, later
.

He dressed, then checked his weapons and terminal before waving goodbye to Helen and walking down the corridor to the elevator. For once, he could hear the sound of people chatting in the distance, rather than the normal almost supernatural quiet of the building. But then, most people would be staying at home today, after the riot. The economic damage from the riot itself might be manageable, he considered, but what about the long-term effects of most of the population staying home from work? It might be disastrous.

The streets were largely deserted, he discovered, as he walked down towards the station. A dozen light patrols of guardsmen, a handful of clean-up crews ... and very little else. Half of the shops were closed and shuttered; the remainder were open, but empty, save for staff members who eyed him with open nervousness. It was obvious that they had stowed makeshift weapons in places where they could be easily accessed, if necessary. But it was against the law.

Glen sighed, shaking his head. There were times when he felt it would be a great deal easier to protect the population if the laws against self-defence weren't so strong. As simple as it sounded, leaving the job of protecting the people to the police and security forces, it was much harder in practice. Even a far larger police force couldn't protect anyone. A handful of dead or critically wounded would-be muggers or rapists might be more of a deterrent than the threat of years in prison. It could hardly make matters
worse
. Nine out of ten rapists were never caught, no matter what happened. And the Civil Guard barely gave a damn.

The station was heavily guarded, he noted as he strode in through the doors and submitted himself to the security scanner. As always, there were a handful of prisoners in the entry room, but they were cuffed and shackled to the wall, while the guards eyed them with undisguised concern. Glen gave them the once-over, decided they were looters who hadn't realised that the time for looting was definitely over, then walked past them and through the second set of security gates. Inside, he was quickly directed to the main briefing room.

“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.