Different Senses
Authors: Ann Somerville
Tags: #race, #detective story, #society, #gay relationships
Different
Senses
Ann
Somerville
These stories are a work of
fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products
of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are
not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or
dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely
coincidental.
‘
Prologue’
Copyright © 2009 by Ann Somerville
‘
Javen and the
Ex’ Copyright © 2009 by Ann Somerville
‘
Javen and the
Lost Girl’ Copyright © 2009 by Ann Somerville
‘
Javen and the
Seeker’s Gift’ Copyright © 2009 by Ann Somerville
‘
Javen and the
Inside Out Bracelet’ Copyright © 2009 by Ann Somerville
‘
Javen and the
Pretty Boy’ Copyright © 2009 by Ann Somerville
‘
Javen and the
Bomb’ Copyright © 2009 by Ann Somerville
‘
Javen and the
Night of Fire’ Copyright © 2010 by Ann Somerville
All Rights Are Reserved. No part
of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever
without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations
embodied in critical articles and reviews.
For more
information please visit my website at
http://logophilos.net
Smashwords
Edition
2, January
2011
Smashwords Edition, License
Notes
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Published by Ann Somerville
Javen and the
Inside Out Bracelet
Different
Senses
I acknowledged the controller
on my comm, then turned to my partner, Trilok. “Report of an ILT
over by Haeve Street. Sri Gerjan.”
“Again, sarge? That guy needs
to calm down. The kids just like looking at his stuff. I don’t
think he’s even had a theft in over a year.”
“
He thinks
banis
teenagers hanging around isn’t good for trade. Come on. If
we don’t attend, he’ll keep calling.”
Some days, patrolling the
central shopping district in Hegal, we spent more time moving on
completely harmless youths too many store owners saw as an
‘Indigenous Loitering Threat’ than we did investigating actual
offences. Sri Gerjan could be counted on for a call a week at the
very least, if not one a day. The irony was that he sold
banis
-manufactured textiles—but his customers were Kelon, not
unemployed natives. Rich Kelon wives didn’t like having to edge
past sullen
Nihani kids to spend their
dolar. And if we, the police sworn to protect and serve the entire
population, didn’t make life as comfortable for rich Kelon wives as
they felt they deserved, rich Kelon husbands tended to be cranky.
That kind of crankiness ended up making my father, the regional
governor, an unhappy man.
I had to admit very little of
my days was spent worrying about my Dad’s feelings but my
superintendent’s disapproval tended to be more immediate and
forceful. So off we went to Haeve Street to shift bored kids over
to some other part of the city where they could indulge their
fantasies of being wealthy and wasteful without pissing off the
worthy Sri Gerjan.
We rode our cykes over, and as
soon the kids saw us, they scattered—all but one. I groaned to
myself. Darpak Charan, the thorn in my flesh. He hated the
police—he hated Kelons, actually—and loved pushing us to arrest him
for mouthing off, knowing that the superintendent at whatever
station he ended up at, would let him go with a warning not to be
such an idiot in future. The kid needed a new hobby.
“Let me handle this, Trilok,” I
said into my helmet communicator.
“Right you are, sarge. I’ll go
in and talk to Sri Gerjan.”
“You do that. See if you can
persuade him to be a little more tolerant.”
We parked the cykes, and I
walked over to Darpak, while Trilok headed into the upmarket
material store owned by Sri Gerjan.
The kid wore no shirt,
but had on an open waistcoat displaying lots of flesh, which tended
to upset the wealthy shoppers, and loose-cuffed pants slung low on
his hips, ditto. The pants and the dyed feathers woven through his
braids were youthful fashion statements rather than indigenous
custom. Kelon teenagers wore them too, much to their parents’
dismay, but what was mere rebellion on a Kelon kid, looked
threatening on a
banis
one—at least to the respectable citizens of
Hegal. Darpak wasn’t helping that impression with the fierce face
striping either. I reminded myself that underneath the paint and
the attitude was a seventeen-year-old boy who hadn’t yet got
himself into serious trouble with the law and I wanted to keep it
that way.
“Good morning, Darpak.”
An ugly sneer deformed the
boy’s skinny face. “Sergeant Ythen. Come to tell me I can’t walk
the streets of Hegal because my hair’s the wrong colour?”
“No. How’s things? Any luck
with the job hunting?”
“What business is it of
yours?”
“None at all. Just making
conversation.”
“Disappointed you can’t hassle
my friends again? Does it spoil your day?”
I sighed. “Strangely enough, it
doesn’t. Look, I know you lads are doing nothing illegal, and I
also know it drives the storekeepers insane when you hang around
their stores. They call us and then we have to come down and talk
to you. Wastes everyone’s time.”
He leaned back against
the wall. “I’ve got plenty of time,
chuma
.”
“But is it the best—?”
Darpak jumped as three loud
bangs came from behind us. People screamed, ran for cover into
shops. I belted towards my cyke, yelling into my communicator.
“Shots fired, vicinity of Haeve Street. Send assistance.”
Trilok came barrelling out of
the shop as I started my cyke. “Control the civilians, constable.
Wait for backup!”
Another shot. I was already
gunning the cyke down Tworqel Street. Over my communicator, I heard
which officers were attending. “Suspects spotted in blue Jekin
hatchdoor auto, identification number Alpha Tango Foxtrot seven
zero four, travelling at speed west on Tworqel Street. I’m in
pursuit on cyke.”
“Observe, but do not engage,
sergeant.”
“Understood. Ythen out.”
Non-engagement might be
difficult—a passenger in the blue vehicle fired again from the rear
window, striking sparks off a metal wall to the left of me. I wore
body armour but there were plenty of places I could be hit that the
armour didn’t cover, and if the rounds were duin-tipped, I might as
well be naked for all the protection I had. I dropped back.
“Suspects shooting at random. Falling back.”
“Understood, sergeant. Two
units heading to your position.”
The auto increased speed, and
the passenger’s arm disappeared back inside. I sped up too,
reporting my position as the vehicle turned towards Pada Bridge.
Suddenly it spun on its front wheels, and headed straight for me on
the wrong side of the road. I swerved hard to avoid it, and the
three autos behind me. Horns and curses sounded. “Suspects headed
towards the city again, driving on wrong side of road. Request
aerial support, Control.”
“On its way, sergeant.”
The auto veered recklessly over
to the other side of the road, and I followed, hoping backup would
hurry up and cut these idiots off before they caused a serious
accident. More shots, and a vehicle on the other side of the road
crashed onto the sidewalk. I called it in, unable to tell if the
driver had been shot or simply distracted.
Again they switched direction,
back to the bridge. Overhead I heard a flyer, and its pilot calling
reports into Control. The perps wouldn’t get away now.
But then the auto made a sharp
right, cutting off a large transport, forcing me to stop until the
transport could back up. When I could finally follow the auto down
the side lane, there was no sign of it.
“Air Tango, can you see the
vehicle?”
“Negative, sergeant. Those are
covered streets. Suggest caution.”
“Thanks, AT.”
I slowed the cyke to a crawl,
turning up the outside mic to listen for the sound of wheels on
tarmac. The street ended a hundred metres ahead, with turns to the
right and left. “Lost sight of vehicle in Hurn Lane,” I reported.
“Air support has no visual. Control, are you monitoring the
approach to Pada Bridge?”
“Yes, sergeant. Hurn Lane has
no exits at your point, other than back down your direction.”
“Understood.”
I rode slowly up the lane, and
stopped. I took off my helmet. All was eerily silent under the
weather protective awnings crossing overhead. Where were all the
people who worked here, the transporters, the delivery
vehicles?
There. Footsteps, running, to
the left, towards the bridge, most likely heading for the
pedestrian crossing over the river. I jammed my helmet back on,
sped up, and at the junction, saw the blue auto to the right,
pulled over at an angle across the road, empty, its passengers
apparently gone. “Vehicle abandoned. Suspects may be headed on foot
towards Pada Bridge.”
I dismounted and drew my
weapon. Behind me sirens approached. Backup was close.
I walked towards the auto, gun
held ready for firing. “Sergeant, have you got visual on the
suspects?”
“Negative, Control. Vehicle is
empty.”
A quiet beep behind me, but I
barely had time to register the sound as a pistol’s sighting
mechanism before a blow to my chest—not a fist but a bullet
striking the body armour—knocked me flying. The breath punched out
of me, I struggled to raise my weapon as a man approached from the
corner of a building. He fired twice more, once into my thigh, the
other at my stomach. The shock left me unable to grip my gun, or
even cry out. My dimming vision caught sight of the assailant
throwing himself into the front seat of the auto, and the driver
rising from his hiding place on the floor. He reversed the vehicle,
missing me by mere centimetres, and accelerated towards the
bridge.
“Officer...down,” I whispered
into my communicator. “Officer...down.”
~~~~~~~~
Apparently I died twice
that day. According to the
banis
, I should have been
reincarnated well and truly as a result and the Deists would swear
I should be sitting down for chai with the Almighty right now.
Being nothing but a Scientific Rationalist, I wasn’t aware of my
brushes with oblivion or anything else for the next three weeks. My
family told me later it had been one of the worst experiences of
their lives, waiting for me not to die.
For me, one minute I was
bleeding out on a street, the next minute I was waking up in a hard
bed, drugged and hazy, covered in data sensors and hooked up to
oxygen, two drips and a catheter. My first utterance was something
like “uhga,” which Kirin, my lover, interpreted as “I’m alive, and
what the hell happened to me?” Close enough, I supposed.
