The Thin Blue Line (The Empire's Corps Book 9) (v5.1) (7 page)

“She’s underweight, probably hasn't been fed properly, and in mild shock,” Laura said. “Be nice to her. I’d write a prescription for her wrists, but it would be quicker if I gave her the ointment now. There’s no guarantee you’d be able to find it outside the station.”

Glen nodded. There were shortages of everything now, from medicines to spare parts and weapons systems. The average citizen was entitled to free prescriptions, in theory, but the Marshals had busted a dozen criminal rings involved in producing fake medicines that, at best, would have been completely useless. At worst, they would have killed their victims or crippled them for life. Only the very rich or the well-connected could hope to find what they needed at once, rather than queuing for hours and taking their chances.

“Make sure you give her plenty of food too,” Laura added. “She really needs supplements as well as proper meals, but I don’t have any on hand. I’ll put a request in through the system and you should get them within the next two weeks. No promises, though.”

“I understand,” Glen said.

Laura checked Helen’s wrists again, then found her a small bottle of ointment. Glen took it – one of the security officers would probably object to a prisoner carrying anything through the station – stowed it in his pocket and motioned for Helen to follow him. She obeyed, walking beside him as they made their way through the corridors. Oddly, he noted that she didn't show any real interest in her surroundings. The last time he’d escorted a group of students through the station, they’d asked questions about everything until he’d been on the verge of tossing them all into the drunk tank for the night.

Maybe it’s just an act,
he reminded himself,
and she’s just biding her time until she can make a break for it
.

He sighed, inwardly, as he pushed open the doors to the canteen. It was half-full, with officers and guardsmen sitting at various metal tables and stuffing their faces with half-edible food from the cooking staff, all of whom acted as though they’d been dragged out of the nearest mental asylum and chained to the stoves until they produced enough food to keep the officers fed. Glen pointed Helen towards a two-person table in the corner, then walked over to the counter and inspected the choices. As always, the food looked unpleasant to the eye, although it was plentiful. The Marshals joked that prisoners in the cells were fed better than their captors. There were times when Glen was sure it wasn't a joke.

“Two plates of chips and beans,” he said, when the cook condescended to glower at him. It wasn't a healthy dinner for either of them, but it was hard for the cooks to turn it into foul-tasting sludge. “And two bottles of water.”

“I suppose you’ll be wanting extra chips,” the cook grumbled, as he served the first portion and reached for the second plate. “For the girl, that is.”

“Of course,” Glen said. He pressed his ID badge against the scanner, then rolled his eyes as it deducted the price of the meal from his account. The Marshals were supposed to have their bed and board provided by the service – it helped keep them free from corruption – but it had long since been cancelled by the endless budget cuts. If Glen hadn't been paid a considerable sum in compensation after his wife had died, he would never have been able to afford his own apartment. “She would appreciate it.”

“She’d probably also appreciate some hot chocolate,” the cook said. “But we don’t serve that here.”

Glen glowered at him, then carried the tray over to where Helen was sitting, staring at nothing. He’d half-expected complaints about the food – the chips were stringy, while the beans looked as though they’d passed through the digestive system of a cow – but Helen merely started to eat without comment. It was another piece of evidence, he decided, that she was used to living in space. The spacers tended to eat algae-based ration bars and repossessed foodstuffs rather than anything planet-dwellers would consider edible food. And they tended to rewire their stomachs to make eating it easier for them.

He felt his head swim, briefly, as the food interacted with the remainder of the drugs in his system. The tiredness faded, but he knew from bitter experience that it wouldn't be gone forever. He needed to get home and lie down before he collapsed completely, which meant taken Helen home with him and putting her in the guest bedroom. The food tasted as appalling as he’d expected, but at least it was edible. He looked up and saw her looking back at him, her pale eyes nervous. She had no idea, he reminded himself, what to expect from him.

“We’ll go somewhere you can sleep,” he said, as reassuringly as possible. The dammed guardsmen who’d taken her into custody had a lot to answer for. She probably thought he intended to take advantage of her as soon as they were alone. “You won’t have to worry about answering questions for the moment.”

Helen lowered her eyes, then opened her bottle of water and took a long swig. Glen did the same – the water tasted flat, as if it had been run through the purifier a few times before being bottled – and then replaced the lid and stowed the bottle on his belt. He knew, all too well, that they might be caught in a traffic jam when they drove back to his apartment and they might need the water then.

“We’ll go back now,” he said, standing. “Do you need to go potty first?”

“I’m not a child,” Helen said, crossly. “I can go to the toilet on my own.”

Glen concealed his amusement, then showed her to the nearest toilet and waited outside for her to finish. Standard procedure insisted that no prisoner was to go to the toilet alone, but he had no intention of forcing her to go with him in the room or finding a female officer to stay with her. He’d never liked sharing a toilet, even during basic training. But he was starting to worry when she finally came out of the room, having washed her face and remodelled her hair as well as using the facilities. He nodded to her, then escorted her through the sealed doors that led out into the enclosed car park. His service-issued car was parked at the far end of the giant compartment.

“You should use an aircar,” Helen said, as he opened the door for her. The rear was configured for prisoners, but he didn't see the point in chaining her to the seat. “I think that would get you home quicker.”

“The Air Traffic Control system was taken down a day or so after we heard the news from Earth,” Glen said, as he started the engine. “Besides, I never trusted the system. We were having countless accidents each day even before the Nihilists went to work.”

He drove out and onto the darkened streets. There were no non-official cars on the roads, but there were far too many vehicles that had been branded as official after the curfew had been placed over the entire planet. He noticed a handful of troop transporters making their way through the streets, carrying soldiers to replace the guards on the central government buildings and other places of importance. The curfew would have been difficult to enforce over the city, but the Governor had imposed it on the entire planet. There just weren't enough men to hold the curfew in place, let alone arrest everyone who might break it for one reason or another. Glen had a dark suspicion that the Civil Guard had been making quite a bit of money from catching curfew-breakers, then letting them go in exchange for cash. But nothing had been proven.

“The stars look odd from down here,” Helen said, suddenly. “They’re twinkling!”

“That's the atmosphere distorting the light,” Glen explained. He glanced upwards, briefly, then returned his attention to the ongoing journey. “The stars that appear to be moving faster are spacecraft and space stations. I believe the bigger ones are the giant battlestations protecting the planet.”

“And making life harder for spacers,” Helen said. “Daddy always says the crews require much bigger bribes than anyone else.”

“That sounds about right,” Glen said. He briefly considered probing at her, to see what she might tell him, but decided she probably didn't trust him enough yet. “Everyone tends to have a price.”

He turned the car and drove down into the underground garage, then parked near the elevator. His apartment was midway up the giant skyscraper, behind the finest security system available to civilians. It wasn't a reassuring thought. He knew just how easy it would be for a determined attacker to make his way through the security screens and break into the apartment blocks. The only real defence was a solid – and firmly non-regulation – lock on the door.

Helen yawned, loudly, as they entered the elevator and rode up to the apartment floor. Glen encouraged her out, then pressed his fingertips against a scanner, opening the door that led into the main corridor. There was no one there, which didn't surprise him. The inhabitants of the floor kept themselves to themselves, most of the time. Earth’s habit of obsessively ignoring what everyone else was doing had translated nicely to Terra Nova, even if it was annoying to a police officer. Few people could be considered reliable witnesses when paying no attention was considered a virtue.

He opened the door to his apartment and motioned for Helen to get inside. She looked a little disappointed at the bare walls – the only decoration was a picture of his dead wife – but Glen found it hard to care. Instead, he showed her the bathroom and told her to have a wash while he sorted out the guest bedroom. Isabel had slept there on more than one occasion, which was why he kept the room ready for guests at a moment’s notice. He uncovered the bed, placed one of the bottles of water on the bedside table and checked to make sure there was nothing dangerous in the room. His personal weapons were stored in a safe – they should be inaccessible to anyone, but him – yet he knew that almost anything could become a weapon.

Helen eyed him nervously as she came out of the shower, wrapping a towel around her body. Glen carefully averted his eyes, making a mental note to go shopping if she was staying with him for longer than a couple of days, then pointed to the guest bedroom. Helen scurried inside and ducked under the covers. Glen found her his spare dressing gown – it was the only thing he had she could wear – then told her to get a good night’s sleep. Closing the door behind him, he turned and walked back to his bedroom. He was so tired that he didn't bother to undress, or do more than stow his pistol in the safe before he lay down on the bed and closed his eyes. Sleep came almost at once.

And then, what felt like moments later, he heard screaming.

Bride rape is far from the only act that is now criminal. It was not uncommon for children to be beaten at school – this is now considered child abuse. It was not uncommon for workers to be forced to slave for hours for tiny sums of money – we now have minimum wage laws to prevent exploitation. It was not uncommon for factories to be dangerously unsafe places, with workers killed or injured on the job – we now have laws in place to protect workers from unscrupulous employers.

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

Glen was on his feet at once, one hand reaching for his gun before he realised that the screaming was coming from his guest bedroom. He turned on the light, then opened the door into the hallway and stepped out into the hall. The noise was definitely coming from his guest bedroom. He hesitated, then opened the door, unsure quite what to expect when his eyes adjusted to the gloom. Helen was lying in the bed, thrashing helplessly in the grip of a nightmare. Glen cursed, then stepped forward and sat down next to her. She promptly hit out at him.

“It's alright,” Glen said, taking her in his arms. Helen shuddered against him, her body dripping with sweat, then fell still. “You’re safe now.”

He held her gently as she started to cry, cursing his own inexperience with children and teenagers. If his daughter had lived ... he pushed the thought aside angrily, then wiped the tears from her face with a pocket handkerchief. Helen looked surprised at his touch, then wrapped the dressing gown around herself tightly. Glen slowly started to release her, only to have her grab hold and cling to him for all she was worth. It was clear that she’d had more than
just
a nightmare. The aftermath of a traumatic experience could be just as bad, in many ways, as going through the experience itself.

“It’s going to be all right,” Glen promised her. He sighed, wondering if he was telling the truth. At some point, he would have to interrogate her about precisely what she was doing in that warehouse – and just where she’d come from, in the first place. Patty might not consider the girl to be a criminal, but she would want answers. And then ... who knew where Helen might end up? “It will be fine.”

He rose to his feet, then helped her stand up and walk into the kitchen. It was a smaller room than she might have expected, but Glen took most of his meals at the station, even if it did unpleasant things to his digestive system. Helen sat at the table as Glen poured them both hot milk, then stirred chocolate powder into her mug. She took the mug and wrapped her hands around it, but didn't try to drink. It was clear she was still caught in the aftermath of the nightmare.

Glen sat down facing her and took a sip of his own milk. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Helen looked up at him, her eyes haunted. “You wouldn't understand,” she said. “You’re a grown-up.”

“I was a child too once,” Glen said, giving her a sly smile. He was pretty sure, now, that Helen had been the only child on her ship. It didn't narrow the field as much as he would have liked, but at least it was a start. He made a mental note to start querying the Orbital Traffic Control service in the morning, then turned his attention back to her. “And you really should have seen my nightmares.”

“It wasn't a nightmare,” Helen said. “They felt
real
.”

“Nightmares always do,” Glen said. The day after they’d started basic training, he’d had nightmares about being on the wrong side of the law. Being shut up in a cell for training was bad enough, he’d decided; he hated to think about what it must be like to be locked up for real. “And then you wake up and start wondering what is real and what isn’t.”

Helen nodded, very slowly. “I was dreaming that they were cutting me open,” she said, softly. “Their knives were digging into my very soul. And then there was nothing left of me. And then ...”