Third World (28 page)

The insect life on the planet was
relatively innocuous, but even so, thought Newton. They must be
insane.

A larger building, sided in corrugated
metal, revealed itself for a jail in a sudden wash of light, for
they could see feet and bodies inside, as the bottom eighteen
inches of the wall was just fence wire stapled or otherwise somehow
fastened to the concrete pad it rested on.

“
Oh, boy.” Shapiro looked
over his shoulder. “Okay, people. I need two pairs to secure the
area. You will remain in contact and not go more than a two hundred
and fifty metre radius.”

Ensign Spaulding, sensing his tiredness
and knowing it wasn’t over yet, took over in a quiet voice and
began organizing it. He reached up and turned the volume down. Like
him, she had taken to just grabbing people.

Undoing his straps, he stood up, a
little woozy after the inactivity of the last hours. With each
step, the noise in his inner ears went up and down in volume and
pitch…

Physical exhaustion brought mental and
spiritual exhaustion. He was learning exactly what that
entailed.

It was hard to make good decisions when
all you craved was the blessed relief of sleep.

He sought the rungs of the side ladder
in the darkness and was grateful when he found them. The hot tarmac
of the street, a real street after all this time, was reassuring to
his feet. He moved towards the door and it was like the ground was
rolling. His pulse pounded in his ears.

The door was locked, and there were
only a couple of small lights on inside. It didn’t look much like a
cop station, but then he was pretty sure it wasn’t a fish shop…his
mind was going.

Gasping in his tiredness, he found a
com device hanging on a piece of chain. A number was on it, in big,
bold, white-painted numerals.

911. What a homely feeling that
was!

Pushing the one and only button that
wasn’t grey, a red one, the thing lit up and he dialed the
number.

Hopefully, somebody was
home.

He turned and regarded the vehicles as
he waited for someone to pick up.

God, what a mess.

Chapter
Twenty-Two

The Local
Constabulary

When the local constabulary
arrived, it was in a vehicle little better than a golf-cart,
although it was black and white with a flasher on top and
Capital City P.D.
painted
importantly on the low sides.

A man got out, wearing a generic police
uniform.

Tired eyes took in the troops, some
lounging around the back end of Unit One, the vehicles, and
Lieutenant Newton Shapiro waiting patiently on the step.

“
So. What’s all this then?”
Not bothering with a hat, the man’s habitual gesture merely
reinforced an impression of a fuzzy brush-cut and a heavily-lined
forehead.

Shapiro introduced himself properly,
showing the bench warrant which was stored in his
data-device.

“
I’m Alfred Markovitz, duty
officer.”

They shook hands, the conventional
greetings mundane but important.

“
I have a prisoner. I need a
fingerprint reader to properly identify him.”

“
Very well,
then.”

Taking a bunch of keys from a deep side
pocket, the officer unlocked the door. Stepping in, he turned and
switched on the lights.

“
Bring on aforesaid
prisoner.”

Heaving a sigh of something, Newton
turned and beckoned at the side window of Unit Two.

“
Kane and Marlowe. Bring in
the prisoner.”

He stood there in the doorway until
they were safely at the first step and then he led the small
parade.

They stepped up to the front counter
where the officer waited. With his overcoat off now, they could see
he was a sergeant.

He reached under the counter and drew
out a flat plastic device with a shiny front screen and a curling
cord going back down under the desk.

“
Place your right hand on
the pad.”

Hank complied humbly.

The sergeant pushed on a coloured
square on the screen and then nodded at Beveridge to take his hand
off.

The sergeant raised his eyebrows.
Wordlessly, he showed Newton the results.

“
Subject
Unknown.”

“
Aw, for…” Shapiro bit it
back.

His data-pad didn’t have the palm
reader. Inside the data pad were full briefing notes, including all
biometrics at time of desertion or going absent without
leave.

Beveridge grunted, and looked at the
cop, standing there with raised eyebrows.

“
What do we do now?”
Marlowe’s question was a good one, as she looked up at Hank
Beveridge a little fearfully.

“
What about a DNA
sample?”

“
We’d most likely get the
same results. Anyhow, there aren’t any on Third World.”

Hank seemed perfectly calm, just like
an innocent man would or should…

“
What about a patch cord?”
Newton brought out his own pad.

The sergeant raised his hands
helplessly.

“
I don’t know…I guess I
could have a look.” His face implied that he really didn’t have one
or know of one.

“
Ah…” Newton keyed up the
microphone. “All troops. See if you can find any patch cords,
wireless adapters, anything like that on the trucks or in our
equipment bags.”

There were inevitable questions, and he
answered them as well as he could and then ignored the griping and
the chatter. It seemed, according to Faber, that the military
operating code and the civilian operating codes were different for
obvious reasons, and there wasn’t much chance anyway. But only by
actually making the connection could he be certain.

After twenty minutes, during which
their police sergeant went though drawers and cupboards looking for
anything that might fit, and not having any luck, Newton finally
gave up.

Hank Beveridge, Kane and Marlowe were
seated by this time on a bench by the longest wall, the soldiers
obviously bored and Beveridge becoming a little red in the face as
he was taking quite an interest in the goings-on.

Shapiro wasn’t giving up that
easily.

They put their heads together, huddled
over the desk as Newton brought up the fingerprints first, and then
the palm print, simple and ubiquitous security data these days all
over the galaxy.

“
My eyes just aren’t that
good.”

The sergeant tended to agree. He stared
at the tiny pictures, shaking his head.

Newton’s eyes were tired and aching as
well.

“
Honestly, sir, in the old
days—centuries ago, it would take a specialist, going over a
fingerprint with a fine-tooth comb, and comparing…I don’t know,
seventeen points or something like that…”

“
So what are you saying?”
Newton wasn’t disputing the problem, the one on his screen was
barely a hundred millimetres tall and the one they had just
recorded on the cop’s screen was only two or three times the
size.

They weren’t getting
anywhere.

“
It takes the computer
comparison to have any hope of accuracy at all.”

The man thought for a
moment.

“
Do you have any other
evidence? What’s the charge, incidentally?”

“
Desertion.” There was an
incoherent outburst from Beveridge, but Newton didn’t turn to look.
“Facial recognition is a ninety-five percent
probability.”

He explained how it had been over
twenty years since the subject had either gone AWOL or deserted in
the proper sense, and that artificial aging had made the
match.

Beveridge was clearly seething
now.

“
I’m afraid we’re not going
to be much help to you. That’s not even listed under the Planetary
Code.” The man was washing his hands in typical bureaucratic
fashion: not my job in other words. “I couldn’t hold him even if I
wanted to.”

There was some unspoken implication
there that he didn’t much want to hold anybody. Newton couldn’t
afford to take it too personal.

Newton sighed deeply.

“
Yeah. I appreciate your
position.” Always be diplomatic, even when you don’t really mean
it. “What if I commandeer a cell?”

The man just looked at him.

“
Oh, I don’t know about
that. Your prisoner has constitutional rights.” Now the cop was
standing on the prisoner’s rights!

“
Yes, and I understand that.
However, civil rights under the aegis of a military tribunal, for
service personnel, is somewhat different, although the principles
are the same.” He looked earnestly at the sergeant. “Look, I’ll
make it easy for you. I’ll commandeer the cell, and I’ll agree to
pay for meals, supervision, janitorial services and any other thing
that comes up.”

“
Ah…I’d better call the
captain.” Passing the buck was standard operating
procedure.

Newton grinned ruefully. He was hoping
he would, actually. He would have liked to do it
himself.

“
Yes, please do.”

After going into the back room and
closing the door and speaking in hushed tones to somebody, the
sergeant returned. Looking at his watch, Newton saw that another
fifteen minutes had passed.

He’d already killed all the troop’s
microphone pickups due to incessant talk and not a few complaints
and grudging comments of one sort or another.

“
All right.” The man paused.
“Only with the understanding that you acknowledge in writing that
this may be a violation of the civil and human rights of a citizen
of Third World. Only with your guarantee in writing that you will
appear in court, which is right next door, at nine-thirty a.m.
tomorrow morning, and show just cause as to why you should have
this man in custody at all.”

“
So you will hold him
overnight?”

“
Yes. And I will abide by
the decision of the court, whichever way it goes. I would suggest
that you do so as well, sir.”

“
Very well,
then.”

The sergeant went to his desk, typed it
up and printed it off, then came back and shoved a piece of paper
at him and Newton signed it with a flourish.

The sergeant looked at Marlowe and
Kane. Giving them a wave, Newton pointed at the back and they led
with prisoner in with more haste than was truly dignified, but he
imagined that like him, they wanted a shower and their beds above
all else.

What a hellacious trip.

***

Due to their unexpected
return—the original plan was to go directly to the spaceport and
take the shuttle directly back to
Hermes,
troops were scattered all
over the hotel, and because of a rare influx of travelers, five
soldiers had to be put up at a smaller place just down the
block.

Newton had a hard night, tossing and
turning and unable to turn off his thoughts. This was Fate’s
revenge, he decided. All kinds of scenarios went through his head,
not least of which was having the thing tossed, with all kinds of
liabilities coming back on him and the Fleet, and being stuck on
the planet for the foreseeable future as legal technicalities
worked themselves out. As someone once said, the wheels of justice
grind slowly, but they grind exceedingly fine. Now he had gotten
caught up in it, and all for the lack of sleep, perspective, and
any relevant previous experience.

At some point he bowed to the
inevitable. Looking at his watch, he got out of bed and headed for
the bathroom.

He was in the courtroom right on time,
making himself known to the prosecutor, who was not particularly
glad to see him or their prisoner. He had Jackson and Benson with
him, no more.

The rest were under orders to stay put.
The prosecutor was not happy.

“
I can’t handle this. It’s
not in my brief. The whole thing is highly irregular.”

“
Will I be able to speak to
the judge?”

The lady, Maxine Black-Porter, studied
him intently for a moment.

“
I think you can count on
it, Lieutenant.”

She left out the
Sonny-boy
but he caught
it clearly enough. His guts were eating away at the insides of him
and his palms were sweaty. But what other options did he have? He
still hadn’t been able to contact the ship. Guarding a prisoner in
the truck, round the clock, for an indefinite time-period was
clearly unsuitable, and those considerations included the welfare
of the prisoner as much as anything else. Mister Beveridge was
better off someplace where they had the facilities to deal with
him, and Newton Shapiro was well within his own rights according to
the warrant to
apprehend, identify, and
charge
anyone who fit the bill.