The Thin Blue Line

(The Empire’s Corps – Book IX)

Christopher G. Nuttall

Series Listing

Book One: The Empire’s Corps
Book Two: No Worse Enemy
Book Three: When The Bough Breaks
Book Four: Semper Fi
Book Five: The Outcast
Book Six: To The Shores
Book Seven: Reality Check
Book Eight: Retreat Hell
Book Nine: The Thin Blue Line

Cover Blurb

Earth has fallen ... and humanity is holding its breath, waiting for the next blow to fall.  

On Terra Nova, Earth’s oldest colony world, chaos and anarchy are threatening to break out, with total collapse only one disaster away.  In a desperate attempt to save the rest of the Empire, the planet’s Governor has summoned the leaders of the Core Worlds to Terra Nova, in hopes of sharing power and preventing civil war.  But dark forces are on the move, intent on ensuring that the conference fails.

As the first strands of a deadly plot are uncovered, Imperial Marshal Glen Cheal finds himself fighting to uncover the plot before it is too late.  Meanwhile, on her own mission to save the last best hope for peace, Specialist Belinda Lawson of the Terran Marine Corps is plunged into a nightmare where she can no longer trust her own mind, while her decisions will save or damn the Empire ...

Failure isn't an option.  But success may not be an option either ... 

[Like my other self-published Kindle books, The Thin Blue Line is DRM-free.  You may reformat it as you choose.  There is a large sample of the text – and my other books – on my site: chrishanger.net.  Try before you buy.]

Historian’s Note

The Thin Blue Line starts one standard month after When The Bough Breaks.

Prologue

“It doesn't look very comfortable from up here, does it?”

Captain Kevin Vaughn – who was only a Captain by courtesy – turned and smiled at his sole crewmember.  Cynthia was a bright young thing, a girl from a diehard Marine family who had insisted on becoming a spacer rather than a groundpounder like her father, brothers or cousins.  He had to admire her resistance to peer pressure, even though he privately doubted that she would have survived the Slaughterhouse.  It chewed up and broke an alarmingly high percentage of young recruits who made it through six months of Boot Camp.

“The Slaughterhouse isn't meant to be comfortable,” he said, feeling his legs itch.  It was psychometric, the shrinks had said; he’d lost his legs on an operation that had gone badly wrong and had to have them regrown in a tube.  “It’s meant to push its victims to the limits.”

He sighed as he gazed down at the planet below.  The Slaughterhouse was a confused patchwork of environments, each one possessing its own nasty surprises for unwary recruits, the result of a failed terraforming program.  By now, keeping its environment as uncomfortable as possible required a full-time crew, who did everything from replace topsoil to introducing nasty critters from right across the Empire.  The Slaughterhouse might break far too many of the recruits, but those who survived were the best damned soldiers in all of history.

“Everything is in working order,” Cynthia assured him.  “How long do we have to remain here again?”

Kevin shrugged.  The Commandant’s orders had been clear.  Polly was to remain behind in orbit after the evacuation, watching and waiting, until something happened.  Something had already happened, Kevin had thought rebelliously when he’d been given his orders, but he’d done as he was told.  The empty planet below was living history, even if it was a part of history most of the Empire would prefer to forget.  Watching it from high orbit was not a particularly unpleasant task.

“As long as we are ordered to do so,” he said, patiently.  Cynthia was young.  She’d learn patience soon enough.  “Besides, it does give us a chance to run all those checks we never managed to do before the state of emergency was declared.”

He sighed, inwardly.  The reports had been all too clear.  Earth had been destroyed, her society ripped apart by social conflict, then smashed flat as pieces of debris fell from orbit and struck the surface with terrifying force.  Kevin had no particular attachment to Earth – he’d been born on a planet hundreds of light years away – but it was still horrifying.  Mother Earth might have been a poisoned, polluted mess, home to literally billions of civilians who did nothing but suck at the government’s teat, yet she was still the homeworld of humanity, the planet that had birthed a hundred thousand colony worlds.  To know she was gone was terrifying.

Something has been removed from our lives, he thought.  He’d heard any number of rumours before the Commandant had ordered the Slaughterhouse closed down, with all of the staff and recruits moved to a secure – and secret – location.  And nothing will ever be the same.

“I could bring you a cup of coffee, if you’re busy wool-gathering,” Cynthia said.  “Or would you like to find something else for me to do?”

“Coffee would be nice,” Kevin said.  “And ...”

He broke off as an alarm sounded.  “Contact,” he snapped.  “Man your station!”

Cynthia obeyed, scrambling into her chair and bringing the sensor console online.  Polly was really nothing more than a handful of passive sensors and stealth systems, mounted on a squashed drive unit that had been pared down to the bare minimum.  Kevin had no illusions about what would happen if they were detected, even by something as small as a gunboat or a corvette.  He and his ship would be blown out of space before they knew they were under attack.

“I have five contacts, all coming out of cloak,” Cynthia snapped.  “They must have realised there’s no one here to greet them.”

Kevin nodded, unsurprised.  The Slaughterhouse was barely defended, compared to Earth or Terra Nova.  No one in their right mind would consider attacking the Slaughterhouse when the reputation of the Marine Corps reached right across the galaxy.  But Earth was gone and nothing would ever be quite the same.  Who knew what was about to happen now?

“That wouldn't have been hard,” Kevin said.  They weren't in the best position for optimal observation, but they were close enough to separate individual targets.  It helped that the newcomers weren't even trying to hide.  “Give me a complete breakdown, if you can.”

“Three destroyers,” Cynthia said.  “All Falcone-class, I think, but one of them has been heavily modified.  The other two are light cruisers, probably Peacock-class.  They appear to be standard specification, sir.”

“From a self-defence force, then,” Kevin said.  That proved nothing.  A number of star systems possessed semi-independent self-defence forces.  The Grand Senate had regularly considered bills to disarm them, only to run into the threat of outright rebellion.  “There aren't any Peacocks left in the Imperial Navy.”

“Ship-spotter,” Cynthia accused.  On the display, the small flotilla moved into orbit, scanning aggressively.  “What are they doing here?”

“Good question,” Kevin said.  “I have a feeling we’re not going to like the answer.”

The unknowns, whoever they were, were thorough.  It was nearly forty minutes of constant scanning before they decided, apparently, that the planet was abandoned.  Kevin wouldn't have taken that for granted, not with the Slaughterhouse; he’d seen entire army divisions carefully camouflaged against orbital observation.  There were no shortage of places where the Marines could have hidden their personnel, if they’d remained on the planet.  Planets were big, after all.  Spacers had a nasty habit of forgetting just how difficult it could be to move from one place to another.

Particularly if there’s an enemy force trying to stop you, Kevin thought, with grim amusement.  It can take days to move from one system to another, but it can take weeks to move a hundred kilometres if the enemy is willing to do whatever it takes to slow you down.

Cynthia tapped his shoulder.  “What are they doing?”

“I don’t know,” Kevin said, shortly.  “I ...”

An alarm sounded.  “Missile separation,” Cynthia said, swinging her chair back to her console.  “Multiple missile separations ... sir, they’re firing on the planet!”

Kevin swore.  The Slaughterhouse was living history.  Hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, of Marines had emerged from the Slaughterhouse to fight for the Empire.  The structures on the surface contained histories and relics the rest of the Empire, even the military, had chosen to forget.  And it was part of a tradition he’d embraced with all his heart, long ago.  To be forced to watch it die ...

“Airburst detonations,” Cynthia said.  “Sir ... I don’t understand.”

“Radioactive poison,” Kevin said.  Planet-killing weapons were forbidden, full stop.  Bombarding a planet was one thing, but actively rendering it uninhabitable ... the entire galaxy would rise up in horror.  “I ...”

He gritted his teeth in bitter frustration as lethal radiation spread through the planet’s atmosphere.  Within days, there would be nothing left alive on the surface, unless it was very well protected.  Even combat suits would be hard-pressed to shield their users against such levels of radiation.  It would be years before radiation levels dropped to the point that anything could be recovered from the surface, then it would need intensive decontamination before it could be touched safely.  He sought, frantically, for options, but found nothing.

There was nothing he could do but watch, helplessly, as the Slaughterhouse died.

Chapter One

The law, as the old saying goes, is the true embodiment of society.  One can tell a great deal about a society by what it chooses to forbid and what it chooses to permit – and, perhaps more importantly, how it handles crimes.
- Professor Leo Caesius.  The Decline of Law and Order and the Rise of Anarchy.

Earth was gone.

Marshall (Detective Inspector) Glen Cheal shook his head bitterly as the unmarked van made its way through Terra Nova’s darkened streets.  The sun was setting in the sky, the remaining shoppers hurrying home for fear of being caught outside after curfew.  Everywhere he looked he could see the signs of decay and despair; closed shops, abandoned vehicles and armed guards everywhere.  It wouldn't be long, he thought as they drove past a soup kitchen, before Terra Nova followed Earth into the fire.

He caught sight of his own reflection in the wing mirror and shivered.  His brown hair was turning grey, his skin leathered and lined after too many stressful years as an Imperial Marshal.  It was impossible to escape the feeling that he was old, old and tired.  After Hazel had died, after his unborn daughter had died with her, part of him had just wanted to give up on life.  Or maybe it was just a reflection of the lost Earth.  What was humanity without its homeworld?

“Sandy’s been volunteering at her local kitchen,” Marshall (Detective) Isabel Freeman said, softly.  “She says it’s getting harder to find anything, even processed algae.”

Glen nodded, unsurprised.  The soup kitchens were the only places still feeding vast numbers of people who had been rendered suddenly destitute by the economic crash, when they’d discovered that all the money they’d invested in the imperial banking system had suddenly evaporated.  But with funds drying up everywhere, it was getting harder to ship food from the farms and growth facilities into the cities.  It would definitely not be long before the first food riots started, even without the Nihilists pouring fuel on the flames.

“Tell her to stay indoors in future,” Glen said.  He rather envied Isabel her skill at managing her work along with a personal life, but right now it just gave her hostages to fortune.  His daughter would have been fifteen two days ago, if she had lived.  “The shit is heading towards the fan.”

He rubbed his eyes as they passed a school, now shuttered and dark.  In his early years as a Marshal, he'd been called to deal with one riot or another on school grounds when the permissiveness of Imperial society finally led to its logical conclusion.  Now, the children were either on the streets or cowering at home, mesmerised by the thought of the onrushing tidal wave of destruction.  Earth was gone.  There were no longer any certainties in the universe.

Isabel nodded.  She was tough, Glen had to admit, certainly tougher than she looked.  He’d been astonished when she’d been presented to him as a new graduate, one of the last before the Marshal Academy had been closed for the duration of the emergency.  At the time, he’d looked her up and down and concluded she’d slept with one or more of the examiners.  Now, he knew better.  Isabel was tough enough to survive anything.  And warm enough to join a group marriage and become a part of something greater than herself.

Something else greater than herself, Glen thought, tiredly.  It was late; he would have preferred to go back to his apartment and sleep until his next shift was about to begin.  But the tip-off had been urgent, urgent enough for him to forget the idea of going home and arrange for a raid without waiting for clearance.  The Nihilists, God damn their black little souls, had a nasty habit of moving around at short notice before popping up to cause chaos.

The handful of people on the streets faded away completely as they drove into the tangled network of warehouses surrounding the nearest spaceport.  Most of the warehouses were completely empty, he knew from the reports.  Anyone with access to a starship had boarded it and set out for somewhere safer, somewhere isolated from the coming storm.  He didn't blame them, any more than he blamed the endless lines of civilians waiting to book starship tickets, or even taking short hops to asteroid settlements.  Terra Nova, Earth’s oldest colony world, was less densely populated than Earth – than Earth had been, he reminded himself sharply – but it couldn't support itself indefinitely.  Law and order were teetering on the brink of falling into absolute chaos.

“I hope your informant was right, Glen,” Isabel said quietly, as they reached the RV point and parked the van.  “The boss isn't going to be very happy if this is a fuck-up.”

“There’s no point in taking chances,” Glen said.  The tip-off had been too good to ignore – and besides, part of him would be grateful if he was suspended or fired.  He could have left the star system with a clear conscience.  “And besides, if we’d waited for approval from our superiors, someone might have tipped off the bastards.”

He gritted his teeth as he checked his pistol, then carefully stashed it beneath his trenchcoat and opened the door.  It was an open secret that criminal gangs had made connections to senior officers within the Civil Guard, paying them for everything from advance warnings of any raids to military-grade supplies.  And the criminals often had their own links with the Nihilists.  The terrorists wouldn't give a damn about crime, regarding it as yet another manifestation of the hopelessness of existence, but they’d be happy to trade with the crime lords.  If someone had advance notice of an attack, they could use it to hide something while the law enforcement forces were distracted.

Outside, the air smelt faintly of oil and burning hydrocarbons.  Glen glanced around, spotted the other vehicle some distance from the target warehouse, then made a hand signal inviting Isabel to join him outside the van.  Surprisingly, the Civil Guardsmen had actually managed to be discrete when they moved their SWAT team into position.  Normally, there was nothing so conspicuous as a Civil Guard force trying to hide.  Glen smiled to himself, then led the way to the other vehicle.  Inside, it was a mobile command and control centre.

“Marshal Cheal,” a tough-looking man said.  “I’m Major Daniel Dempsey, local CO.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Glen said.  “Status report?”

He allowed himself a moment of hope.  Dempsey looked surprisingly competent for a Civil Guard officer and, more reassuringly, he was wearing nothing more than a basic uniform.  The only trace of vanity was a hint that the uniform was tight enough to show off his muscles.  Compared to the lines of fruit salad many officers wore, Glen was quite prepared to excuse it.  

“Stealth drones reveal the existence of a low-power scrambler field within the warehouse,” Dempsey said, tapping the console.  “Passive scans have turned up nothing. Marshal, but the mere presence of a scrambler field is justifiable cause for a raid.”

Glen nodded, shortly.  A scrambler field would make it impossible to slip nanotech bugs inside the warehouse – and, unsurprisingly, civilian ownership was thoroughly illegal.  The citizens of the Empire had nothing to fear as long as the Empire was allowed to spy on them at will, Glen had been told.  But he'd also been a Marshal long enough to know just how easy it was to take something innocent, something that certainly shouldn't be a criminal offense, and use it as evidence to get someone condemned.  

And merely using the field suggests they have something to hide, he thought.  But are they really terrorists ... or just smugglers trying to get their goods off-planet?

“I will be sending in two teams,” Dempsey said.  “And I will assume tactical command.”

“I want prisoners,” Glen said.  “Tell your men to stun without hesitation, Major.  The Nihilists are rarely taken alive.”

“And one of them might trigger a bomb,” Dempsey agreed.  He picked up a helmet, then placed it on his head.  “I would prefer it if you two remained here while we carried out the operation ...”

Glen made a face.  The Civil Guardsmen had made a good showing so far, but the real test would begin when the raid started.  He wanted to be on the spot, yet he knew he hadn't trained beside the Civil Guardsmen.  It was quite possible he’d be shot by accident if he inserted himself into the scene before the bullets stopped flying.  The Civil Guardsmen were low on enthusiasm and even lower on training.

“Very well,” he said.  He took one of the chairs and began studying the views from microscopic cameras inserted around the warehouse.  If everything had gone according to plan, the Nihilists had no idea a SWAT team had surrounded them and taken up positions to launch a raid.  “Good luck.”

Isabel elbowed him as soon as Dempsey had made his way out of the command vehicle.  “You don’t want to take command for yourself?”

“He’s the guy on the spot,” Glen said.  In theory, Imperial Marshals had supreme authority to take the lead on any investigation, if they felt like it.  But, in practice, it was normally better to let the locals handle it unless there was strong evidence the locals were likely to screw up, deliberately or otherwise.  “And his men know him.”

He settled back in his chair and forced himself to watch as the display updated, rapidly.  The team had done a good job of surveying their environment, he noted, as well as obtaining the warehouse’s plans from the rental authority.  There was only one way into the warehouse, a large pair of double doors on the north side of the building.  But, as the Nihilists would almost certainly have the entrance rigged to blow if the wrong people came through, Major Dempsey intended to assault from the rear and blow his way through the walls.  Glen rather doubted there was any better options, given the short time they had to mount the raid.  God alone knew when the Nihilists would try to move to another location.

And we could try to grab them when they moved, he thought.  But that would be too risky.

“They’re moving,” Isabel said.  “Team One is assaulting the wall; Team Two is moving to seal the doors.”

Glen took a breath as explosive charges blew holes in the walls.  Moments later, armoured troopers ran forward, spraying stun bursts ahead of them.  It ran the risk of stunning their own people, Glen knew, but it was the quickest way to clear the building.  The prisoners would be moved to the cells, where they could be searched and then woken safely.  They would have no opportunity to present a threat to their enemies.

He swore as he heard the sound of gunfire echoing out from the warehouse.  Caught by surprise or not, the Nihilists had clearly been prepared – and ready to fight back.  He wondered, absently, if someone had tipped them off despite the speed the raid had been organised, then decided it wasn’t likely.  The Nihilists were mad, but they weren’t stupid.  If they’d expected the raid, they would have rigged the warehouse to blow or cleared out before the shit hit the fan.  They had to know that not everyone was as fanatically committed to destroying everything, purely for the sake of destruction, as their leadership.

“Two men down,” Isabel said.  “One more injured, but still fighting.”

Glen ground his teeth, helplessly.  He hated the waiting, hated having to watch helplessly as other men fought and died.  If he’d had a choice, he would have taken a weapon himself and gone into the building, rather than watch the Guardsmen die.  But all he could do was wait ...

The sound of shooting grew louder.  Pushing his thoughts aside, Glen reached for his terminal and began to type out an emergency update.  The shooting would attract attention, even now.  No one in their right mind wanted to run the risk of one group of Civil Guardsmen turning up to engage another group of Civil Guardsmen.  Besides, he had to explain himself to his superiors when they demanded answers.  He’d lost quite a bit the moment they opened fire.

“Take the com, tell them to send reinforcements, forensic teams and ambulances,” Glen ordered, as the shooting finally came to an end.  One way or another, he was definitely committed now.  He would have to pray that the raid had been a success or that his boss was feeling merciful.  “I’ll be out there on the spot.”

He jumped out of the command vehicle and strode towards the warehouse, stripping off his trenchcoat to reveal a glowing yellow jacket.  No one liked them, particularly the Marshals who had seen military service before making the jump to law enforcement, because they attracted attention, but the risk of being shot by one of his own snipers was far too high without some clear means of identification.  He paused long enough to allow the snipers to eyeball him, then walked towards the hole in the wall.  Dempsey met him as he reached the gap into the warehouse.

“It's a mess, sir,” Dempsey said.  “Four of my men are dead, two more badly injured.”

Glen made a face as the Civil Guardsmen carried their dead comrades out of the building and laid them, as respectfully as possible, on the roadside.  The two wounded were escorted out next, their wounds already being tended by their fellows.  In the distance, Glen could hear the sound of sirens as the emergency services converged on the warehouse.  He sighed, then followed Dempsey into the building.  Inside, it was definitely a mess.

There were hundreds of shipping pallets everywhere, some already broken open and spilling their contents on the ground.  One of them was crammed with rifles, a knock-off of a design that was older than the Empire itself, another held SAM missile launchers, although there didn't seem to be any missiles.  That was odd, Glen noted, as he walked deeper into the building.  Normally, the missile launchers were single-use fire and forget weapons.  But their mere presence boded ill for the future.

“There are over a hundred crates in the warehouse,” Dempsey said, as several dead bodies were carried past them and out into the open air.  “If they’re all crammed with weapons ...”

“We might have had a serious problem,” Glen finished.  Terra Nova was, in theory, a gun-free zone.  In practice, the planet was awash with illegal weapons, mostly bought or stolen from the Civil Guard.  But the stockpile before him was enough for a major war and it had all been in the hands of the Nihilists.  What had they intended to do with it?  “Where did they get them from?”

“This is a transhipment warehouse,” Dempsey said, dryly.  “Someone must have shipped the weapons in from out-system, then smuggled them past the security guards.”

Glen shook his head in disbelief.  Every year, more and more security precautions were added to sweep everything and everyone heading down to the surface.  Every year, more and more visitors were irritated or outraged by body-scans and even close-contact searches.  Every year, the number of tourists visiting Terra Nova declined still further, damaging the planet's economy ... and yet, the Nihilists were able to smuggle hundreds, perhaps thousands, of dangerous weapons though security without setting off any alarms.

But we caught them, he told himself.  There was no way his boss could refuse to say the raid wasn't justified, not now.  We caught the bastards before they could start distributing the weapons.

He turned to look at Dempsey.  “How many did we take alive?”

“None, so far,” Dempsey said.  He didn't seem flustered by Glen’s accusing look.  It was far from uncommon for terrorists who had killed policemen or Civil Guardsmen not to make it to the station after being taken into custody.  “They all had suicide implants, sir.  They died moments after they were stunned.”

“Make sure the place is secured, then have the forensic team go through every last inch of the building,” Glen ordered.  “I want every one of them identified, I want to know just who let them through security and why ...”

“If we have the manpower,” Dempsey cut him off.  “Will your boss authorise such an effort?”

Glen swore.  With the threat of food riots, nearly every law-enforcement official on the planet had been diverted to patrolling the cities.  Even the backroom experts who made the service work had been forced to remember their basic training as they donned armour and set out to try to make the streets a little safer.  It was a recipe for disaster, everyone knew, but there was no alternative.  They just didn't have the manpower to flood the streets with officers, let alone Civil Guardsmen.

His terminal bleeped, loudly.  It was Isabel’s ringtone.  “Excuse me,” he said, removing the terminal from his belt.  “Glen here.”

“Glen, I just got called by the boss,” Isabel said.  “She’s sending a team of experts over here, but she wants you to report back to the station at once.  I think you're in the shit.”

“Come back this evening ... tomorrow morning and dig me out,” Glen said.  He wasn't surprised.  The raid had been a great success, but he would still have to answer a great many hard questions.  “And bring coffee.”

“Will do,” Isabel said.  “What would you like me to write on your gravestone before I dig you up and put you back to work?”

Glen laughed, tiredly.  “Something witty,” he said.  “Take over here; let me know if we took anyone captive.  We need answers from them.”

He stepped back out of the warehouse and walked over towards the line of vehicles screeching to a halt.  One of them would take him back to the station, probably far too quickly for his peace of mind.  He needed coffee and a rest, not a lecture from the boss.

But an Imperial Marshal’s work was never done.

Chapter Two

The definition of crime is, of course, part of society.  Throughout history, there have been no shortage of acts that we would unhesitatingly deem as criminal, yet were not considered crimes at the time.
- Professor Leo Caesius.  The Decline of Law and Order and the Rise of Anarchy.

Belinda closed her eyes.  When she opened them, she saw the city.

It was an ugly sight.  Dozens of gray cookie-cutter houses, each one completely unremarkable, completely indistinguishable from the others.  There was nothing to separate each of them from their partners, no trace at all of individuality.  Whoever had designed this suburb, she decided as she started to walk, had no intention of allowing human sentimentality to affect their design work.  There were no shops, no schools ... nothing, but endless rows of houses ...

... And there were no traces of any living beings, none at all.

Alarm bells rang in her mind as she started to run.  The mission was simple enough, which meant, in her experience, that there was a nasty sting in the tail.  All she had to do was get from one end of the city to the other, without allowing anything to impede her path.  She’d run countless such missions before, when she’d been nothing more than a Marine Rifleman, but then she’d been surrounded by the rest of the company.  Now, she was alone.

Her enhanced senses, such as they were, probed the darkness as she ran faster, keeping to the shadows as best as she could.  If someone was setting an ambush ahead of her, she was reasonably sure she could hear them lying in wait before they realised she was there, unless they knew what she was.  Or they were just being paranoid.  Even the most enhanced humanoids known to exist couldn't hear something if it wasn't making a sound, even breathing.  Belinda had set enough ambushes in her time to know how the ambushers were thinking.  They’d try to lure her into a killing zone and do whatever it took to stop her.

She darted down an alleyway, then out into the next street, ducking into the shadows long enough to scan for anything out of place.  The soulless buildings seemed to mock her, casting dark shadows that were almost completely shrouded, even to her enhanced senses.  She hesitated, then ran onwards, trying to keep the sound of her footsteps to the bare minimum.  And yet, she knew she was making noise, too much noise.  If someone was lying in wait ...

I should have asked for more time, she thought, as she entered another alleyway and jumped over a set of garbage cans.  Enough time to run around the city, rather than through the buildings ...

A sound caught her attention and she froze, listening carefully.  It sounded like someone was crying, very softly, and trying not to be heard.  Belinda turned, using her enhanced senses to triangulate the source of the sound, then crept forward.  It was coming from a nearby alleyway ...

It’s a trap, part of her mind yammered.  The rest of her told that part of her mind to shut up.  She couldn't leave someone in pain, all alone in the dark, not if she wanted to live up to the Marine ideal.  And besides, she knew – all too well – what it was like to be alone.  She peered into the alleyway and frowned as she saw the girl lying on the ground, her arms and legs akimbo.  Belinda’s eyes narrowed as she moved closer.  She’d seen too many horrors wrought by mankind on its fellows, but this was odd.  There had been no sign that anyone lived within the city ...

A sudden motion flickered behind her.  Belinda ducked instinctively as something flashed overhead, through where her head had been seconds ago, then swung around to see a gangbanger standing there.  She didn’t hesitate.  Before he could take another swing at her, she lashed out herself and slammed a punch into his chest.  She felt his bones breaking under the impact, but he staggered forward, his arms flailing rapidly.  Belinda darted back, then watched dispassionately as he fell to the ground.  And then she sensed the others shimmering into view.

Personal cloaks?  She thought, surprised.  Where did a bunch of gangsters get their hands on personnel cloaking devices?

There was no time to consider the mystery, not when she was surrounded by at least five gangsters.  None of them seemed to be carrying projectile weapons, which surprised her, but they all moved as if they had some degree of martial arts training.  Belinda considered trying to negotiate, then dismissed the thought impatiently.  Falling into their hands would be a fate worse than death, even if they merely took her captive and traded her to their backers for additional weapons and supplies.  And besides, she had no intention of surrendering – ever.  

The first gangbanger lunged forward.  Belinda triggered her enhancements, then leapt up and over his head.  He didn't seem surprised as she landed behind him and started to run, rather than stopping to fight.  Instead, he barked a command and three of his men started to follow her, back out onto the street.  Belinda ran faster, calling on her enhancements, then swore mentally as she realised they were keeping up with her.  It should have been impossible ...

And then one of them threw himself forward and slammed into her back.

Belinda fell, twisting around to land on her back and bring her legs up to kick out at her captor.  Her boot caught him in the head, which snapped backwards with a satisfying cracking sound.  There was no time to be pleased with her success.  Belinda jumped back to her feet as the other gangsters advanced towards her, their hands suddenly sprouting a mixture of knives, clubs and steel bars.  Belinda smiled, feeling truly alive for the first time in far too long, then allowed them to close before she started to fight with enhanced strength and determination.  Two of the gangsters fell before her fists, then the leader slammed something into her back.  There was a sudden shock that send her falling to her knees, as if she’d been struck with an weakened stun beam.

A neural whip, the analytical part of her mind pointed out.  You’ve had your nerves jangled ...

She gritted her teeth and started to force herself to her feet, but it was too late.  One of the gangbangers caught her arms and yanked her back to the ground, while two more caught her legs and wrenched them apart.  Belinda struggled, feeling panic bubbling at the corner of her mind, as the leader produced a sharp knife and went to work on her trousers.  He wasn't fool enough to have his men let her loose, she realised numbly.  It was clear he had a good idea of just who and what she was.  And then she felt cold air on her exposed skin ...

“Lie still,” the gangbanger ordered, as he started to undo his trousers.  “This will be ...”

“End program,” another voice said.

Belinda cursed under her breath as the droids holding her went limp, then looked up.  Major General Jeremy Damiani, Commandant of the Terran Marine Corps, was standing to one side, looking disapproving.  His bulldog-like face was twisted into a scowl that left her feeling as though she’d disappointed him, which she probably had.  At the peak of her prowess, before the Fall of Earth, she could have cut her way through any number of gangbangers without a second thought.  But a great deal had changed since then.

“Well,” the Commandant said.  “I’ve never seen anyone almost raped by the simulators before.”

“No, sir,” Belinda said.  She stumbled to her feet, ignoring the remains of her trousers as they fell off her legs.  Dignity wasn't something permitted to Pathfinder Marines.  She'd carried out missions buck naked, once upon a time.  Maybe she would again, one day.  If she managed to recover from the Fall of Earth.  “I wanted to test myself.”

“You set the simulator to extreme levels,” the Commandant said.  “I believe the medical corpsmen will want a few words with you.”

Belinda shrugged, refusing to show any of the bitter despondency that threatened to overwhelm her as she turned and started towards the hatch.  Her emotions had once been tightly controlled, but no longer.  She’d lost count of just how many times she'd found herself in tears since Earth had died, since Prince Roland had been sent to the Safehouse.  It was almost a relief that he was no longer with her, even though she missed him more than she cared to admit.  At least he wouldn't have to see how far she’d fallen from the dispassionate Marine he’d met on Earth.

The Commandant cleared his throat.  Loudly.

“You were badly injured on Earth,” he said, following her through the hatch.  “I don’t expect you to regain your health so quickly.”

“I was always an overachiever,” Belinda said.  She started to strip off her uniform jacket, boots and panties, heedless of his presence.  The Chesty Puller’s simulator had left her sweaty and uncomfortable.  It had really been too real for comfort.  “And I will not surrender to despair.”

“Good,” the Commandant said.  His tone was artfully flat, so carefully controlled she knew it had to be an act.  “But you are also pushing yourself too hard.”

“I don’t think so,” Belinda said.  “The medics have always erred on the side of caution.”

She finished undressing, then stood naked in front of the mirror.  Physically, she looked normal; a blonde-haired young woman with a heart-shaped face and a body that was healthy and fit without seeming unnaturally muscular.  Her long blonde hair alone would have made it hard for anyone to believe she was a Marine, not when almost every Marine in the Corps shaved their hair to keep it from getting in their way.  But Pathfinders had always been allowed a certain level of latitude, particularly when they were operating undercover.  They couldn't afford to look like Marines ...

But her blue eyes were haunted and her skin was unnaturally pale ...

“The medics are trying to keep you alive,” the Commandant said.  “We don’t want to lose you because you pushed yourself too hard.”

“I have to know,” Belinda said.  Giving up wasn't in her nature.  Her family had seen to that a long time before she’d ever heard of the Terran Marine Corps.  But, at the same time, she’d never been so weepy and upset over nothing before.  It was hard to escape the sense that something was badly wrong with her mind.  “Earth is gone.  Is there any point in further struggle?”

“The human race lives on,” the Commandant said.  There was something in his voice that caught her attention.  “Although not for much longer, perhaps.”

Belinda looked up, surprised.  “Sir?”

“Someone attacked the Slaughterhouse,” the Commandant informed her.  “The entire planet is dead.”

Belinda recoiled in horror – and disbelief.  The Slaughterhouse was more than just another badly-terraformed planet, she knew.  It was the heart and soul of the Terran Marine Corps, the place where Marines were created, sent out to fight on behalf of the Empire and laid to rest when they died.  If, the cynical side of her mind reminded her, there was enough of their bodies left to be buried.  The Corps would do everything in its power to recover bodies, even trading with the enemy if necessary, but it sometimes wasn't possible to bring the dead home and lay them to rest properly.

It couldn't be gone.  Centuries of tradition, of iron discipline and loyalty to the ideal of Empire, couldn't be gone.  But she knew the Commandant wouldn't lie to her.

“Shit,” she said, finally.

“Yes,” the Commandant agreed.  

Belinda looked down at her unmarked hands.  She'd seen them bleeding and broken on the Slaughterhouse, when she’d forced herself to go on and on until she’d found herself unable to even think about quitting.  Others had taken far worse injuries and kept going, daring the universe to try to stop them.  And even those who had failed the final hurdle had found a home with the Corps.  The Corps couldn't function without the auxiliaries in the background, the men and women who were still devoted to the Corps, even if they couldn't wear the Rifleman’s Tab.  It was hard to escape the impression that the Slaughterhouse was irreplaceable.

She looked up at the Commandant, feeling cold anger blossoming to life within her breast and turning to rage.

“Who did it?”

“We don’t know,” the Commandant said.  “There’s no shortage of suspects.”

Belinda nodded, ruefully.  The Grand Senate had feared the Marines, knowing the Corps couldn't be controlled as easily as the Imperial Army and Navy.  They’d done their level best to weaken the Corps long before the Fall of Earth and, she had to admit, they’d done a very good job.  And then there were the countless secessionists, terrorists and other rebel factions that had good reason to want to cripple or destroy the Marine Corps.  The Nihilists, in particular, would seek to take advantage of the chaos caused by the Fall of Earth.

She took a breath.  “Survivors?”

“The planet was evacuated as soon as I sent word of the Fall of Earth,” the Commandant said, shortly.  “Everyone on the planet was moved to escape ships and transported to the Safehouse, which is in another system entirely.  The only people left in the system were a handful of observation staff, watching from a safe distance.  They could do nothing as the planet was rendered uninhabitable.”

Belinda swore.  “Uninhabitable?”

“They used planet-scaled enhanced radiation weapons,” the Commandant said.  “It will be hundreds of years, perhaps longer, before the planet can be considered habitable once again.”

“If ever,” Belinda said.  The Slaughterhouse had started its existence as a terraforming mistake, after all.  Whatever polity replaced the Empire, if any such polity came into existence, would have to invest vast resources in restoring the planet.  “What about the records?  And the Crypt?”

“We have copies of the former,” the Commandant said.  “The latter ... is lost to us, for now.”

Belinda gritted her teeth in bitter rage.  She’d spent time at the Crypt, when she’d been a recruit, learning about the Marines who had given their lives in service to the Empire.  She’d wondered, at the time, if there was anything she could learn from men and women who had died in the course of their duties, and it had taken her some time to realise that was the lesson, that there were people who had made the ultimate sacrifice for the Corps.  They hadn't fought for the Empire, in the end, but for their buddies, for the Marines on either side of them when they’d gone to war.  And now their legacy was lost forever.

“Fuck,” she said, finally.  She wanted to hit something.  But there was nothing to hit.  “Just ... fuck!”

“Quite,” the Commandant agreed.

He looked her up and down, his gaze contemplative rather than unpleasant.  “I may have a mission for you,” he said.  “It isn't one I am comfortable assigning to you.  Quite frankly” – his voice hardened – “you are in no state to do anything, beyond slowly recuperating to the point you can be assigned to a line company or redirected to the auxiliaries.  Under the circumstances, we would even accept your resignation.”

Belinda eyed him, fighting down a surge of hope within her heart.  “I can do it, sir,” she said, quickly.  “Whatever you want me to do ...”

The Commandant met her eyes.  “Last time I assigned you to a mission, I told you that I had doubts,” he said.  “Do you remember?”

“Yes, sir,” Belinda said.  “I remember.”

She winced in memory.  She’d been the lone survivor of an operation that had gone badly wrong from the start, thanks to Admiral Valentine and his cronies.  The medics had told her she was suffering from Survivor’s Guilt and had urged her to take a long rest.  Instead, she’d been given a mission that should have been a milk run.  And it had almost killed her.

And it did kill eighty billion people on Earth, a voice reminded her.  You watched helplessly as the planet died.

“This time, I have more doubts,” the Commandant said.  “If I had another Pathfinder available, I would send him instead and keep you here, where you can recover safely.  But I don’t and so I have to rely on you.  If you feel you cannot complete the mission, after I brief you, I expect you to tell me so.”

“Yes, sir,” Belinda said, already knowing she wouldn't.  She didn’t know how to quit – or how to rest.  “What do you want me to do?”

“Get dressed, then report to Briefing Room A,” the Commandant said.  “I’ll brief you there.”

He paused.  “And you might want to consider writing a new will afterwards,” he added.  “I do worry about you.”

Belinda kept her face expressionless with an effort.  The Commandant wouldn’t normally have expressed concern about any of his Marines.  For him to do so, openly, suggested that he felt he had good reason to worry, over and beyond the normal call of duty.  Her medical records were sealed, but she’d had a look at them once her neural link had been repaired, allowing her to hack into the computer networks.  She’d come far too close to death on Earth, they’d stated, and she would never be a fully-functional Pathfinder again.  There was no way to replace some of her burned-out implants without risking brain damage.

Or more brain damage, she thought.  She hadn't told anyone she sometimes heard the voices of her dead teammates.  Perhaps the Commandant did have good reason to worry.  But I won’t give up now.

Sighing, she reached for her uniform as he walked out of the hatch, leaving her alone.  She'd get dressed, then hear the briefing.  But she already knew she wouldn't refuse the mission, even if it was certain death.  She just didn't know any other way to live.

Chapter Three

One particularly shocking example might be ‘bride rape.’  Put simply, courting in those unenlightened times consisted of a man snatching the woman from her male relatives, then carting her off somewhere and having sex with her (presumably against her will).  Once deflowered, the woman would be considered married and everything would be settled.
- Professor Leo Caesius.  The Decline of Law and Order and the Rise of Anarchy.

“They’re waiting for you in the conference room,” Sergeant Chou said, as Glen strode through the heavy blast doors that separated the public parts of the Marshal Station from the private sections.  “I thought you’d need this first.”

He shoved a plastic mug towards Glen, who took it absently and took a swig.  The coffee was strong enough to wake the dead, blended with a unique cocktail of drugs intended to keep Imperial Marshals and Police Officers awake and functional for several additional hours.  It wasn't something Glen cared to use, but he suspected he had no choice.  The inquest into his decision to launch a raid without consulting his superiors would need him at the top of his game.

“The Boss wanted to give you some more time, but she was overruled,” Chou added, as he escorted Glen through the waiting room.  A number of civilians, some in handcuffs, looked up at them as they passed, their faces bleak with misery.  The really dangerous suspects would be held in the cells and only brought up when it was their turn to face the desk officers.  “General Ramsey insisted, you see.”

Glen sighed.  General Ramsey was the Civil Guard CO for the entire planet, a man on such a rarefied level that he normally wouldn't have anything to do with Glen – or even his immediate superior.  But using the Civil Guard’s assets to mount a raid had clearly been reported up the chain and their commander was not happy.  Four of his men were dead and two more were badly injured.  Heads were likely to roll.  

“I see,” he said, feeling a sudden burst of energy as the cocktail did its work.  “Shall we go into the lion’s den?”

The conference room was guarded by a pair of armed Civil Guardsmen, who scowled at Glen and waved scanners over his body before grudgingly allowing him to enter the compartment.  Glen kept his thoughts off his face – there was no reason for General Ramsey to bring bodyguards into the station with him – and forced himself to remain calm.  Inside, General Ramsey, Marshall (Superintendent) Patty McMahon and two people he didn't know were waiting for him.  He saluted, then took the chair positioned in front of the table.

“Marshal Cheal,” General Ramsey said.  He was a heavyset man, his muscles slowly turning to fat, with red hair and a beard that was largely against regulations.  “We have called you here to demand answers.  Why – exactly – did you launch a raid without requesting permission from your superiors?”

Glen met his eyes, evenly.  “The tip-off we received suggested that time was not on our side,” he said, reaching for his terminal.  “I was led to believe that the stored weapons would be moved at any moment, which would make it difficult to track them further, particularly once they were distributed.  Therefore, sir, I decided that an immediate raid was the best possible solution.”

The General scowled at him.  “You put a lot of faith on your source, Marshal?”

“This source, General, has been hidden within the Nihilists for several years,” Patty McMahon said.  She gave Glen an encouraging smile.  “We had no reason to doubt his word.”

“We still don’t,” Glen said.  He had no idea what game General Ramsey was playing – Glen had done nothing outside his authority and they both knew it – but he was too tired for any form of verbal sparring.  “The raid netted hundreds of weapons, General, including some rather more dangerous than simple projectile weapons.  In the wrong hands I believe they could have been used to put together a serious challenge to the military.”

“I doubt it,” the General snorted.  “We still control the high orbitals, don’t we?”

“You would have had to fire on our own cities, causing massive civilian casualties,” Patty said.  Her voice was very droll.  “I think the evidence suggests that Marshal Cheal acted in the best traditions of the Imperial Marshals.”

“The fact remains that we should have been consulted,” General Ramsey said.  His piggish eyes fixed on Glen.  “I shouldn't have to remind you, Marshal, that we are in dangerously uncharted waters.  The merest spark could set off a bloodbath.  This should have been put before the Emergency Council.”

Glen took a breath.  “And how many people would have known something was up before we even had a chance to launch a raid?”

“The Emergency Council is above suspicion,” General Ramsey snapped.

“Are all their aides above suspicion?”  Glen countered.  “Their advisers?  Their speechwriters?  Their mistresses?  The more people who knew, the greater the chance that something would have leaked out onto the datanets.  And one of them could easily be a Nihilist operative.”

The General snorted again, but didn't argue.

“I believed that speed was our only hope of capturing the terrorists and seizing their weapons,” Glen said, pressing his advantage.  “And we successfully captured a vast amount of weapons that could do real damage in the wrong hands.”

“I still have to write letters to the families of those who died on the operation,” the General said.  “And I would like to tell them something about how their loved ones died.”

If you are actually going to write the letters, Glen thought, sardonically.  It was Major Dempsey who would have the task, if any of the dead had friends or family outside the Civil Guard.  There were some guardsmen who lived up to the propaganda, but too many others were nothing more than thugs in uniform.  And why are you even holding this meeting?

“They did their duty,” Patty said.  She gave the General an understanding smile.  “I think you have good reason to be proud of your men.”

The General tossed her a sharp look, then looked back at Glen.  “You will answer a barrage of questions from the staff,” he said.  “And then I would suggest a few days on leave.”

Glen opened his mouth to protest, but Patty got there first.

“I believe that would be wise,” she said, standing.  “Glen, you’re with me.”

She led the way out of the chamber and down the corridor towards her office.  Glen wanted to demand answers, but he forced himself to keep his mouth shut until they were safely inside her chamber, which was swept for bugs on a daily basis.  Competition between the various law enforcement agencies had always been intense, even before Earth had died and waves of chaos had started to spread across the Core Worlds.  Now ... there were times when Glen found himself seriously considering trying to get on one of the colony ships that were still departing Terra Nova.  A world on the Rim would be safer than anywhere else.

“You did well today,” she said, as soon as the door was shut.  “Don’t let Brian Ramsey tell you any differently.”

“I won’t,” Glen said.  Patty had always been a good boss to her Marshals, standing up for them when necessary.  “But why was he so determined to demand answers so fast?”

“Someone managed to get a report off to higher authority,” Patty said.  She sat down behind her desk and motioned for Glen to take the chair facing her.  “The General was caught by surprise and ended up looking incompetent in front of the Governor.  And so he came here to look as though he was Doing Something.  Politics.”

“Politics,” Glen repeated, treating the word as though it was the vilest of obscenities.  “And you let him do it?”

“I had no choice,” Patty said.  She shook her head, sadly.  “The Civil Guard has been agitating to take over the Imperial Marshals for years, Glen, and now, with Earth gone, some of them think they have a chance to make it work.  And our superiors are gone.”

Glen winced.  The Civil Guard had offices on each and every planet with a population large enough to support a Civil Guard force.  They tended to develop local allegiances fairly quickly, no matter how often their superior officers were rotated in and out to break up the corrupt networks that seemed to spring up in their wake.  Either they found themselves more concerned with the planet than the Empire, which happened when the planet’s local government was paying the bills, or they became the enforcers of the local rulers.  

But the Marshals had always been an interstellar force, intended to serve the interests of the Grand Senate and the Emperor, right across the Empire.  It hadn't made them popular, Glen knew, even with the general public.  There was so much corruption in the Empire’s law enforcement systems that the Marshals were tainted with the same brush, even though they had a better record of dealing with corruption than any of the other agencies.  And now Earth was gone.  The Civil Guard on Terra Nova had their chance to take over the Marshals for themselves.

“I see,” he said, tiredly.  “Did I make a mistake?”

“I think not,” Patty said.  She rubbed her tired eyes with her hands.  “I am so sick of all the damn politics, Glen.”

She sighed.  “Go see the debriefing officers,” she said.  “Get everything recorded, then go home and snatch a few hours of sleep.  I’ll try and do something about the suspension, because you damn well don’t deserve it, but I think Brian will insist you go through with it to salvage something of his pride.  The man can be quite petty on occasion.”

Glen took a breath.  “We still don’t know how they got those weapons down to the surface,” he objected.  “And we have to find out where they were going ...”

Patty held up a hand.  “You have a partner, who is perfectly competent, and dozens of supporting officers who will do the legwork,” she said.  “The case won’t be lost because you took a few days off work.”

“I suppose,” Glen said, sourly.  He hated leaving an investigation in someone else’s hands, even Isabel’s.  For one thing, it had been his decision to launch an immediate raid.  It had been the right choice – he would have believed it was the right choice even if they’d found nothing, but an empty warehouse – and he should bear the blame for anything that went wrong.  “You’ll keep me informed?”

“Of course,” Patty said.  She pointed at the door.  “Go.”

Glen obeyed.  He liked Patty, even though she’d spent much of the last five years playing politics rather than running investigations, arresting suspects and everything else the Imperial Marshals were expected to do.  But politics, he knew, were important, even though most of the politicians he’d met had been self-indulgent assholes.  Patty had a harder task now that Earth was gone, taking with it the Marshal Headquarters and her direct superiors.  It was easy to believe, no matter how hard he tried to think otherwise, that the Marshals on Terra Nova were completely alone.

How long would it take, he asked himself, to establish contact with other Marshals?

As promised, the debriefing officers were waiting for him in their compartments, ready to hear his story from his own lips.  Glen had always hated sitting down with them – it took time away from everything else, from policing the streets to following up leads – but it was a vital part of police work.  There were entire armies of lawyers ready to represent anyone who had the money to hire them and, given half a chance, they could destroy a case if there was the slightest hint of misconduct.  Glen had lost count of how many major villains had been allowed to return to the streets after their lawyers had gone to work, even though the cases against them had been largely solid.  The smaller fry had been sent to jail, or simply deported to colonies along the Rim, but it hadn't mattered.  Their masters had simply hired new footsoldiers and gone back to work.

“And that’s a wrap,” Officer Reynolds, when Glen had finally finished.  “Thank you!”

“Just don’t leak it,” Glen advised, tiredly.  The cocktail of drugs was starting to wear off, leaving him with a pounding headache and a sense that it was time he headed to bed.  “And make sure everything remains sealed.”

“We know our jobs,” Officer Reynolds assured him.  “The file will be added to the evidence locker, sealed from all tampering.”

Glen shrugged.  Marshals were selected for incorruptibility, but their support staff was sometimes a different matter.  They weren't paid very well and they tended to get the shit duties, which bred either desperation or resentment.  And, as much as he hated to admit it, there were a few Marshals who had gone off the rails in a big way.  One of them had been running a criminal network through an entire CityBlock on Earth when he’d finally been discovered and sentenced to permanent exile.  And two more had been responsible for the largest slavery ring to be uncovered for years.  No, he knew better than to assume that everyone was honest, utterly without a price.  Given the right incentive, anyone might break and join the dark side.

He turned and walked back through the network of unmarked corridors – anyone who had a right to be there knew the way without having to refer to maps – and entered the common room in search of coffee and a place to lay his head.  It wasn't quite going home, as Patty had ordered, but a few hours of sleep before he made his way back to his apartment seemed a very good idea.  But Sergeant Chou intercepted him before he could lie down on one of the beds and close his eyes.

“The Boss wants to see you,” he said.  “Now.”

Glen blinked in surprise.  “Did she say why?”

“No,” Chou said.  “But she did say it was important.”

Glen sighed and made his way back to Patty’s office.  Inside, Patty was seated at her desk, reading through a stack of paperwork.  Glen felt a flicker of sympathy and tapped on the door, alerting her to his presence.  She looked up, then nodded towards the chair and turned back to her paperwork.  Glen sat down, fighting the urge to close his eyes.  He had no idea if anyone had dozed off in Patty’s office before, but he didn’t want to be the first.  She would be far from pleased.

“There’s been a development,” Patty said.  “We found something unusual in the warehouse.”

We, Glen thought, nastily.  Patty wasn’t normally given to stealing credit from her subordinates ... although, to be fair, she wasn't given to hanging them out to dry either.  She did look after her subordinates, after all.  No one could get to them without going through her first.

“We found enough weapons to fight a minor war,” Glen said.  Terra Nova was brutally hoplophobic, with the private possession of weapons completely banned.  The Nihilists would be able to do real damage before the military responded with crushing firepower, which would cause as many civilian casualties as the terrorists themselves.  “Define unusual.”

“We found a young girl,” Patty said.  “Around thirteen years old, according to the medics, and seemingly a prisoner.”

Glen winced.  The Nihilists had absolutely no regard for social norms, but it wasn't like them to hold young children prisoner.  They merely wanted to kill as many people as possible before they were killed themselves.  Indeed, given that they believed that death freed them from a pointless existence, it was rare for them to take prisoners.  Their insane creed urged them to kill prisoners, rather than try to use them as hostages.  The fact they’d kept a prisoner ... it didn't look good.  He didn't want to think about what kind of abuse might have been heaped on her before she'd been freed.

“There was no signs of abuse, as far as we can tell,” Patty said, as if she’d been reading his thoughts.  “But there was no time to do more than a basic scan.”

“I see,” Glen said.  He met his superior’s eyes.  “I thought I was suspended.”

There was a flash of annoyance in Patty’s eyes.  “I’d like you to take the girl with you,” she said.  “Someone needs to look after her – and make sure she doesn't go anywhere once she recovers from the shock of being held captive.”

Glen blinked.  “I’m not a bloody nursemaid ...”

“Right now,” Patty snapped, effortlessly overriding him, “the poor girl is in custody.  We can't hold her here indefinitely.  By law, if we can't make other arrangements, she would have to go to Kiddie Hall” – juvenile detention – “or the Civil Guard.  Given her age and relative health, you know what would happen to her there.”

“I know,” Glen said, sourly.  “She’d be sold to the highest bidder.”

The thought was bitterly unpleasant.  Prisoners – particularly young and fertile women – were in high demand along the Rim.  They had no rights, after all, and couldn't complain if they were sold into servitude as mail order brides ... if they were lucky.  There were brothels for the unfortunate ones, places where horny minors or contract workers could slake their lusts outside working hours.  He’d shut down several himself, during his first assignment out on the Rim, but he knew others would have already sprung up to replace them.  

He sighed.  The last thing he wanted was a child underfoot, particularly one the same age as his daughter, if she had lived.  But he couldn't leave her in custody either.

“You’re the only Marshal with an apartment to himself,” Patty added.  “Anyone else would have to explain her presence to their partner.  It could be awkward.”

“Yes, it could,” Glen agreed.  He was too tired to argue further.  “I’ll take her.”

“Good,” Patty said.  “You’ll find her in the waiting room.”

Chapter Four

This is horrifying, of course, to modern readers.  But to the locals of that time, the woman’s opinion was largely irrelevant.  Indeed, when a woman saw a man she liked, she often had to resort to allowing herself to be kidnapped and raped, in the hopes everything would fall the way she wanted it.  The concept of allowing men and women to meet on friendly terms would have been alien to them.
- Professor Leo Caesius.  The Decline of Law and Order and the Rise of Anarchy.

It felt like years since Belinda had entered a briefing compartment on a starship.  None of her Pathfinder missions had required a full brief; she’d taken her orders from her superior in the team, rather than the overall commander on the ground.  And, as a Marine Rifleman, she’d spent most of her time on the ground, rather than in space.  Her unit had never been deployed onboard a battleship.  

But then, she thought, as she took her seat, they were removing the Marines from the ships long before the shit hit the fan on Earth.

“The current situation is dire,” the Commandant said, shortly.  “Right now, the Core Worlds are teetering on the brink of anarchy.  The interstellar economy has crashed along with Earth, the various military and political officers are considering independent action and it won’t be long before one or more of them makes a grab for outright power.  And when they do, Belinda, we will have an all-out civil war on our hands.”

Belinda nodded.  She’d met enough politicians – and senior military officers – to know that most of them put their careers first and foremost.  Given the sudden disappearance of Earth, and the Grand Senate, they’d certainly consider trying to take supreme power for themselves – and the sooner, the better.  The ties that bound the Empire together were snapping, one by one.  It wouldn't be long before the full effects of the economic shockwave were felt right across the Empire.  And who knew what would happen then?

“We’ve already seen some major riots on various planets,” the Commandant continued, darkly.  “Normally, the riots have specific grievances – or are organised by one political faction or another.  This time, the riots appear to be largely spontaneous, directed against the remaining elements of the power structure. I imagine they will get worse as the news heads out beyond the Core Worlds.”

“And planets start rebelling against corporate authority,” Belinda said.  She’d seen enough planets that had tried to rebel to know that hundreds of millions of colonists bitterly resented the corporations that milked their worlds for all they were worth.  Most of their rebellions had been brutally put down.  Now, without Earth or a unified military command, the next wave of rebellions might just succeed.  “And what will that do to the economy?”

The Commandant laughed, harshly.  “There isn't an economy any longer,” he said.  “It will take years, perhaps, to build something new.  Right now, I suspect that a number of planets are planning to simply seize the Earth-held property in their systems.  They’ll have to become part of the local economy.”

Belinda considered the implications as best as she could.  The Empire had done its best to ensure that each and every Earth-like world was capable of feeding its population, but it hadn't tried to ensure an equable distribution of factories, orbital industrial nodes or cloudscoops.  There would be a colossal shortage of fuel for everything from starships to planet-side fusion plants, spare parts would suddenly become rarer than gold and anyone who had control over any production plant would suddenly be in a position to dictate terms to everyone who didn’t.  The Empire’s collapse would lead straight to civil war.

And how could anyone, even the Marines, hope to stop it?

“Are you intending to present Roland to them as the next Emperor?”  She asked.  “I don’t think he’d want the job.”

“Even if he did, I doubt it would be enough to stop the collapse,” the Commandant pointed out, dryly.  “Legally, he might be the Emperor; practically, he controls nothing, not even his own life.  At best, one of the warlords would use him as a puppet; at worst, he’d be killed out of hand by whoever got their hands on him first.”

“Then what can we do?”  Belinda asked.  She had never despaired in her life, but thinking about the sheer scale of the coming disaster – the disaster that was already upon them, no matter how much they might wish to deny it – was terrifying.  It was almost completely beyond her comprehension.  “We’re staring at a war that will make the Unification Wars look like a genteel disagreement.”

“That is unfortunately true,” the Commandant said.  He took a breath.  “We are not the only ones to realise this, Belinda.  Governor Theodore Onge has also recognised the problem.”

Belinda’s eyes narrowed.  “Is he related to Grand Senator Onge?”

“They’re related, yes,” the Commandant said.  “It would probably not be politic for you to tell the Governor that you killed his family’s patriarch.”

“Oh,” Belinda said.  “And would it be politic for me to tell him that his ... patriarch did more than anyone else to start the crisis that led to disaster on Earth?”

“Probably not,” the Commandant said.  He tapped a switch and a holographic starchart appeared in front of them.  Tiny icons beside each star marked the location of military, industrial and political nodes.  An alarming number seemed to be marked STATUS UNKNOWN.  “The Governor has been spending the last two weeks trying to organise a conference of the surviving civil and military authorities within the Core Worlds.”

“A conference,” Belinda repeated.

“A conference,” the Commandant said.  “I believe he intends to convince them that they can gain more by sharing their resources and dividing up the bounty than by fighting.  It may not be a laudable goal, from our point of view, but it might prevent further chaos for a number of years.”

Belinda had her doubts.  Trust was something in short supply in the highest ranks of the Empire, not without reason.  There was no way an Imperial Governor would risk exposing his back so overtly, not when one of his rivals might take it as an opportunity to stick a knife in him.  And even if Onge was being honest – and everything Belinda had seen and heard about that family suggested they were incapable of seeing anything, but opportunity for themselves – there was no guarantee that all of the other governors and military leaders would act in good faith.  Indeed, Belinda would bet half her salary that at least five of them would be plotting ways to turn the conference into a bloodbath.

“It seems absurd,” she said.  “Do you really think it can work?”

“I think we have no alternative,” the Commandant admitted.  For a moment, he suddenly seemed very old.  “If the Core Worlds start fighting amongst themselves, Belinda, we can say goodbye to any hope of restoring humanity’s unity.”

Belinda studied him for a long moment.  “Would that be a bad thing?”

“Explain,” the Commandant ordered, a sharp edge in his voice.

“The Empire, in the name of unity, stifled development,” Belinda said.  “And it provoked hatred across a third of the galaxy.  If the Empire were to vanish, sir, would it not be better for the rest of the human race?”

She sighed.  The Empire was supposed to unite humanity – and, if that were the case, why were there so many rebellions against the Empire?  She’d lost count of planets that had had uprisings, from tiny affairs that were quickly squashed to outright rebellions that consumed vital resources and invariably cost more to crush than was gained in the aftermath of war.  And then there were the countless resistance groups that sprung up, sharing information and thoughts on how to make the next uprising far more costly for the Imperials ...

“The problem, Belinda, is that every war we have fought over the last thousand years has been relatively restrained,” the Commandant pointed out.  “If the Empire vanishes completely, we will see warfare on a previously unknown scale.  There will be planetary bombardments, mass slaughter of civilians and far worse.  Billions upon billions will die, either in the wars themselves or as the remains of the infrastructure breaks down.  The conference may be our only hope of salvaging something from the wreckage.”

He sighed.  “I understand your feelings,” he admitted.  “But we have no choice.”

“Yes, sir,” Belinda said.  “What do you want me to do?”

“The Conference is due to be held on Terra Nova, three weeks from today,” the Commandant said.  He sounded irked, unsurprisingly.  Travel times between star systems were far too slow for any form of centralised decision-making.  The Empire had never quite learned that lesson, which partly explained why so many minor riots had become major rebellions by the time the military hastened to pour water on the flames.  “I want you to go there and ... do your best to ensure the conference takes place – and succeeds.”

Belinda winced.  She was used to vague orders – standard practice in the Marines was to give someone an objective, then let them get on with it – but the Commandant wasn't being even remotely specific.  What did he actually want her to do?

“I’ve attempted to convince the Governor to accept a Marine Security Team, but he refused,” the Commandant explained.  “I want you to go in under cover, make your way to the conference location and then do whatever you have to do to keep it secure.”

“I see,” Belinda said.  She didn’t.  “Will you be attending the conference?”

“I was told that my presence would be a distraction,” the Commandant said.  “And the Governor might well be right.”

“If they’re taking precautions,” Belinda said slowly, “I may not be able to get anywhere near the conference.”

“Which will prove they’re on the ball,” the Commandant said.  He looked up at her.  “I have never liked issuing instructions that were so incomplete, Belinda.  And there is very little I can tell you about the situation on the ground – or even the security precautions the Governor is taking to safeguard his brainchild.  All I can do is send you in and pray for a miracle.”

“Yes, sir,” Belinda said.  “Why me?”

“Because you're used to fitting in,” the Commandant said.  “If I had another Pathfinder on hand, you would remain in the medical bay until you were fit to return to duty.  As it is, I have no choice, but to use you.  You’re the only person qualified for the mission.”

And the only expendable person, Belinda thought, without rage or hatred.  A single Pathfinder cost millions of credits to train and equip with their implants; even if the Commandant had had another to hand, he would have good reason to consider ordering Belinda to go anyway.  She was damaged goods.  But what does it matter?

The Commandant met her eyes.  “Do you have any doubts about your ability to complete this mission?”

No, because the mission is so vague I don’t really know what I’ll have to do, Belinda thought.

“No, sir,” she said, out loud.  “If worst comes to worst, I’ll improvise.”

“It worked last time,” the Commandant said.  He reached out and clapped her on the shoulder.  “Good luck, Operative.”

“Thank you, sir,” Belinda said.  She felt a strange queasy excitement, a sensation she hadn’t felt since her first combat mission.  It had long since become routine to go to war and place herself in dreadful danger.  But now ... she felt excited and nervous, determined to prove herself and yet terrified to screwing up.  

And there’s one definite advantage to going in alone, her thoughts reminded her.  There’s no one else to be put at risk by your failures.

She was still mulling over her thoughts when she was shown into Major Quincy’s cabin.  The Marine Intelligence officer nodded to her, then reached for a terminal and clicked a switch, activating a holographic display.  This time, instead of a star chart, it showed a biography.

“We went backwards and forwards on what kind of cover to give you,” Quincy said, cheerfully.  He had a zest for life that Belinda had once shared, before the disastrous mission on Earth.  “It was deemed inappropriate for you to have anything linking you to the Corps, not when it might earn you more attention than you might wish.  Instead, we decided to give you a very loose profile, but one with military ties.”

He tapped a switch.  “Lieutenant Belinda Lawson,” he said.  “Native to New Washington, but joined the Imperial Army instead of the local self-defence force.  You spent seven years as a military policewoman, then you had an ... accident and retired, choosing to seek employment on tramp freighters rather than returning home.  One of our covert operations starships will drop you off on Terra Nova, adding to your cover story.”

Belinda frowned as she took the datapad and read the cover story.  It was as complete as it was likely to be, without inserting details directly into local databases.  Sending an inquiry to New Washington would probably raise red flags, but it was unlikely anyone would dig that far into her cover.  If they did, she’d have to leave the planet before they zeroed in on her and started asking awkward questions.

“There should be a copy of the Imperial Army’s records on Terra Nova,” she said, slowly.  “What happens if they check these records against my cover story?”

“That’s the beauty of it,” Quincy assured her.  “The ... details of your accident are classified, so the records won’t be copied to Terra Nova.  They were on Earth when the planet died, so they can ask questions all they like and ... well, there will be no answers.  Unless they hire a medium, I suppose.”

“Very funny,” Belinda said, crossly.  “And what sort of accident am I supposed to have had?”

“I was going to suggest that you claimed to have been molested or raped by someone with powerful connections,” Quincy said.  “It would explain why the records are sealed – we can probably add a record hinting that you received a colossal payoff for keeping your mouth shut.”

Belinda grimaced.  It was vanishingly rare for female marines to be sexually harassed, certainly not by their male comrades.  The men knew that the women had been through the same Slaughterhouse as themselves, without any allowances made for their gender.  But it was far from uncommon for female soldiers outside the Marines to be harassed, not least because the Imperial Army did reduce the training program for them.  And rapes were not unknown.  The Civil Guard had no female soldiers at all.  

“It will do,” she said.  On Greenland, her homeworld, there had been one way of dealing with rapists.  The bastards were shot – and if the would-be victim shot him herself, before he could knock her down, she would receive a medal for improving the human gene pool.  But it wasn't a standard of justice known in the Core Worlds, where defending oneself could lead to criminal charges.  “I don’t suppose you could add something about me defending myself?”

“Not really,” Quincy said.  “It would attract attention.”

“Then leave it as it is,” Belinda said.  She sighed.  “What can you give me to take down to the surface?”

“You have a gun permit issued by the Spacer’s Guild,” Quincy said.  “We have quite a number of blank permits, so it’s only a matter of adding your name and ID number into the blanks and tagging it to the weapon.  I doubt you’ll be allowed to bring it down to the surface, but they’d be more surprised if you didn't have one.  But we can't give you any overt weapons.”

Belinda nodded, unsurprised.  It wouldn't be a problem.  No matter the law, there was no shortage of illicit weapons in the Core Worlds.  A few days on the surface, with access to local records, and she would be able to obtain any number of weapons.  The trick would be doing it without being detected or identified.

And besides, she still had some of her implanted weapons.  It would be enough to give her an advantage if the shit hit the fan.

“We can give you several different kinds of money, as would be expected of a spacer,” Quincy continued.  “The problem, however, is that they may be worth less than nothing on Terra Nova.  I suspect the value of the Imperial Credit is still plummeting and ... bearer bonds from a different world may be useless if there is no overall backer of debts.  I’ve taken the liberty, therefore, of giving you copies of some of the latest music and entertainment flicks from several different worlds.  You may be able to trade unsecured copies for cash.  I’ve also given you some rare metal chips, but they may take them off you when you pass through customs.”

“Understood,” Belinda said.  If worst came to worst, she could break into an unsecured apartment and rob it, or even pick up a man for a night.  She'd done both before, during her first missions as a Pathfinder.  It wasn't something she cared to do, but it was part of her job if necessary.  “What other equipment can you give me?”

“A modified multitool, for a start,” Quincy said.  He held up the pencil-like device and demonstrated one of its hidden functions.  “You can use this as more than just a lockpick, with a little effort.  And it passes for a standard multitool unless someone takes it completely to pieces.”

Belinda leaned forward, interested.  She loved her rifle, even if she hadn't carried it since Han, but she enjoyed hearing about spy technology.  It never failed to amuse her, particularly when Quincy demonstrated how a sex toy could become a useful tool with a little manipulation.

She was almost disappointed when the call came for her to board her starship and leave the Chesty Puller far behind.  

Chapter Five

This may make more sense when you realise that a woman’s virginity was vitally important to the locals.  The parentage of her children could not be called into question.  Even if it became clear within a few months that she was not with child, she could never give up her virginity again.  
- Professor Leo Caesius.  The Decline of Law and Order and the Rise of Anarchy.

The waiting room had, if anything, grown fuller since Glen had entered the station and made his way to the conference room.  Dozens of men and a relative handful of women sat on the hard chairs, some watched carefully by the security staff.  Quite a few of them looked dangerous, which suggested the holding cells were already full.  Glen sighed, remembering a handful of riots that had started in the waiting rooms, then started to look for the girl.  She wasn't hard to spot.

He felt a flicker of rage as soon as he realised how she’d been treated.  She was tiny, very obviously not a threat to a grown man, yet someone had cuffed her hands behind her back and shackled her legs together, before sitting her down on a hard metal chair.  It was nothing more than an attempt to make it clear how helpless she was, that her fate was completely in the hands of her captors.  Glen knew, all too well, that the Civil Guard considered it standard procedure.  Helpless captives were safe captives.  

Up close, it was clear she was alarmingly thin, so slight she barely came up to his shoulders.  Her face was thin and pinched, her long brown hair was tied in a single ponytail that hung down over her shoulder and past her breasts.  Her eyes were bleak and hopeless, suggesting depression and tiredness.  Glen looked at her and felt nothing, but pity.  She was very definitely not a suspect who needed to be chained up to prevent movement.  

Damn you, he thought, looking towards the security staff.  Procedures were procedures and no one, it seemed, had seen fit to apply some common sense.  He wished he was surprised, but it was a common problem in the Empire.  Someone could avoid punishment, even after a complete disaster, if they could prove they had followed procedures and stuck firmly to the letter of regulations.  The morality of keeping a young girl in chains took second place to keeping one’s job.  But then, it wasn't really a surprise.  These days, being unemployed meant the kiss of death.

He stopped in front of the girl and knelt down to face her.  “Hi,” he said.  “My name is Glen, Glen Cheal.  What’s yours?”

“Helen,” the girl said.  Her voice was accented, suggesting she hadn't been born on Terra Nova.  “I ...”

She shuddered, her wrists flexing against the cuffs.  Glen winced in sympathy, realising that she was on the edge of shock.  Being a prisoner couldn't have been much fun, even if she hadn't been abused by her captors.  And then she’d moved from one prison to another.  Hell, it was quite possible the Civil Guardsmen who’d captured her had taken advantage of the situation to cop a feel.  Glen considered making a full report and demanding satisfaction, but he knew it would be futile.  The Civil Guardsmen regarded molesting captives as one of the perks of their underpaid job.

“It’s alright,” Glen said, patting her shoulder.  She flinched away from his touch.  “I have to take you out of here, really.”

“They said I had to stay here and wear these,” Helen said.  She kicked her legs, rattling the chains.  “And they told me I wouldn't be going anywhere.”

Glen listened, but couldn't place her accent.  There was something oddly formal about it, suggesting that Helen had grown up largely isolated from planetary society.  Given her pale skin, he was fairly sure she’d lived on a spaceship rather than a planet, which might explain her build as well.  It was quite possible that she’d been exposed to a low-gravity environment from a very early age, which would have left marks on her body even if she’d had treatments to prevent muscular decay.  She'd just have to be given proper treatment before she went anywhere else.

“I think they were lying to you,” Glen said.  He winked at her.  “And since my boss outranks their boss, what she says goes.”

He reached into his belt and produced a handcuff key, which he pressed against her cuffs.  They clicked free, allowing her to start rubbing her hands.  Glen cursed under his breath when he saw the bruises – the cuffs had really been on too tight – then released her legs as well.  It was against regulations, but if he couldn't catch Helen if she started to run he’d be well advised to hand in his resignation on the spot.  And besides, where would she go?

“Come on,” he said, holding out a hand to help her to her feet.  “You need to go somewhere else.”

Helen ignored his hand, but rose slowly to her feet under her own power.  “They said I was a flight risk,” she said, stumbling over the unfamiliar words.  “Why ...?”

“Well, I’ll leave your hands free if you promise not to try to run,” Glen said, turning to escort her down the corridor.  “There’s always someone who wants to show how badass he is by slapping cuffs on everyone in sight.  I think they’re compensating for something.”

Helen giggled.

Glen smiled, then led the way through a pair of metal doors, into the examination chamber.  A harassed-looking medic glanced up at him, then gave Helen a sharp look.  Glen motioned for Helen to stand in front of the scanner, then turned to face the medic.  The medic – her nametag read LAURA - looked as tired as Glen felt.

“I don’t have time to do anything more than a basic examination,” she said.  “I’ve got thirty prisoners to process before the end of the day.”

“That’s fine,” Glen said.  He looked over at Helen.  “Do as the nice medic says, will you?”

Helen said nothing as the medic poked and prodded at her, then took her fingerprints and ran them against the planetary database.  Glen wasn't too surprised when the scan came back negative; in theory, every civilian on Terra Nova was supposed to be listed, but in practice there were plenty of people who had escaped the registration program.  Helen’s blood didn't produce any matches either, although there were definite traces of genetic modification, suggesting that she did come from a spaceship.  It looked as though she’d been starved too badly for the modifications to do their work.

“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.

Chapter Six

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 ...”

She took a sip of her hot chocolate, then looked up at him.  “Is that normal?”

“I used to dream of worse,” Glen said.  Dreams could be significant, he knew, but they could also be randomised nonsense.  He’d watched entertainment flicks as a child, only to dream about them in later years.  “Having nightmares after a traumatic experience isn't really uncommon.”

He smiled at her, trying to be reassuring.  “I find that talking about it can help,” he added, softly.  “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I don’t know,” Helen said.  “They said ...”

She broke off, her face twisting into a bitter grimace.  “They said they’d kill my parents,” she added, after a moment.  “But they’re already dead, aren't they?”

“The people in the warehouse are dead,” Glen said.  He was privately surprised that Helen had survived.  The Nihilists had never been reluctant to kill children, let alone teenagers, in the past.  They wanted to kill as many people as possible before they died themselves.  “And we can try and help your parents, if you help us to find them.”

Helen eyed him, trying to keep her face blank.  Glen could read her, though; she simply didn't have any real experience in trying to lie to a law enforcement officers.  She’d probably been taught not to trust officers, or anyone connected to the Empire’s authorities, something that wasn't entirely uncommon for spacers.  Independent spacers, in particular, dreaded attracting official attention, with good reason.  Helen’s parents wouldn't want to risk being charged with negligence on flimsy evidence and having their daughter taken away.

Glen cursed, inwardly.  It was hard enough to enforce the law without the vast majority of the Empire’s population regarding the bureaucrats – and the police officers who enforced their will – as implacable enemies.  And it was impossible to placate the bureaucrats.  They were happy to do whatever it took to ensure that everyone toed the line, or upheld standards that simply didn't apply to everyone.  Spacers, in particular, often ensured that their children had a better – or a more practical – education than planet-born children.  But the bureaucrats regarded trying to keep children out of the educational system as a form of defiance, one to be stamped on as quickly as possible.

“I don’t know what’s happened to your parents,” he said, carefully.  “But if they’re in trouble, they won’t be found unless you help us to find them.”

Helen looked down at the table, obviously torn between keeping her mouth shut and her fear for her parents’ safety.  Glen watched, hoping the Civil Guard never got it into their head that Helen could be a valuable source.  They were authorised to use everything from starving a suspect to outright torture to extract information, if they felt the need.  And Glen knew he couldn't protect Helen from them, not if they had good cause to suggest that he wasn't doing his job.  They’d insist that Helen be turned over to them and Patty would be unable to object.

But all he could do was wait and see what she said.

“My parents command a freighter,” Helen said, finally.  “They were talking about going out beyond the Rim, now their contract with the shipping firm has expired.  And then they took a contract to ship items to Terra Nova.”

Glen frowned.  The weapons?

“We had to take some staff onboard too,” Helen said.  “I don’t think they liked me very much, because they kept glowering at me whenever they saw my face.  But then they insisted I went down to the planet with them and they kept me in the warehouse and ...”

She started to cry.  Glen silently filled in the gaps as he stood and walked around to give her what comfort he could.  Helen’s parents had picked up the weapons, probably from one of the less-controlled worlds on the edge of the Core Worlds, and transported them to Terra Nova, accompanied by a team of Nihilist commandos.  And then, to make sure that her parents kept their mouths firmly shut, the Nihilists had taken Helen as a hostage and transported her down to the planet.  Somehow, Glen rather doubted she would have remained alive for long after the Nihilists had finished with her.  Helen’s value as a hostage had been shrinking rapidly ever since the weapons had been moved to the surface.

But it still didn't explain how they’d managed to get the weapons down without being detected.

Someone must have been slipped a very considerable bribe, Glen thought, although he knew the answer had to be more complex.  He doubted there were more than a handful of officers on the orbital towers or spaceports who could have made sure the weapons slipped through without being inspected.  Or did they manage to subvert an entire team of inspectors?

He sighed, then put the thought aside.  The investigators would have to do the legwork, tracing the weapons back through the system until they uncovered the people responsible for letting them through the security screening and down to the planet.  And then they could be interrogated thoroughly until they spilled their secrets, one by one.  But it was unlikely they knew very much.  They probably had gambling debts or other weaknesses the Nihilists had used to subvert them.

“You’re not to blame,” he said, looking back at Helen.  “You didn't know what they were going to do.”

Helen met his eyes.  “So why am I here?”

“Because there is nowhere else for you to go,” Glen said.  He took a long breath.  “We can't leave you in the cells or hand you over to the Civil Guard.  If you have to stay here more than a week or so, we can probably find you a foster family ...”

“On the surface?”  Helen asked.  Her face twisted in disgust.  “I’d rather die.”

“I understand,” Glen said.  

He did, although he didn't want to say why out loud.  Most children on Terra Nova were insufferable brats who, if they were half as smart as they thought they were, would be rated as super-geniuses who could devise the next generation of phase drives or starship weapons systems.  Most of them would spend fifteen years of their lives in the educational system, then graduate ... and discover they were utterly unsuited to any form of proper employment.  It was no surprise to him that they tended to either fall back on the Basic Living Stipend, and spend their time turning out the next generation of useless civilians, or turn to crime.  What else could they do with their lives?

And Helen wouldn't have fitted in at any of the local schools.  As someone from a spacer background, she would be too smart, too independent-minded, for her teachers.  She’d be held back, then probably marked down as a trouble-maker before she finished her first week in a planetary school.  And she would probably be bullied, or worse.  Glen wouldn't have dreamed of sending his children to a public school.  He knew them too well.

But it was harder and harder to find a private school that was actually affordable ...

“I want my parents,” Helen said.  Tears appeared at the corner of her eyes.  “I want to go back to the ship and forget everything.  I want ...”

“I know,” Glen said.  He helped her to her feet, then half-carried her back to the bedroom.  “I don’t know what will happen to you, but I will do my best to ensure you don’t have to stay on the planet.”

Helen looked up at him as he placed her on the bed.  “Promise?”

“I promise,” Glen said.  “Now ... do you want something to help you sleep?”

“No, thank you,” Helen said.  “But please stay here for a while.”

Glen hesitated, then sat down beside the bed and turned off the light.  “I’ll be here,” he said, as she pulled the covers over her head.  “You go to sleep.”

He thought, rapidly, as she tried to go to sleep.  What would happen to her?  If her parents were tried and convicted of shipping illegal weapons to a planet where weapons were banned, they’d be lucky not to be transported to a penal world and dumped there without any way to escape.  Their daughter would either be taken into care – which would mean a foster family, eventually – or exiled herself, sold to a planetary development corporation as an involuntary colonist.  Neither one would end well for Helen, unless she was very lucky.  Few of the indents had decent lives, even on well-developed colony worlds.  They were always called upon to do the shit work.

Or have as many babies as possible, Glen thought, bitterly.  

He felt an odd surge of protectiveness that surprised him.  It wouldn’t be impossible for him to apply for her guardianship himself, although it was unlikely the Child Support Services would give her to him without a fight.  They’d think that an Imperial Marshal wouldn't make a good father, even though he made a good salary and had an apartment of his own in a reputable part of town.  He had no wife, after all, despite the fact that children and teenagers were expected to spend at least fourteen hours a day at school, then afterschool care.  

You’re being silly, he told himself, as he heard the sound of snores from under the sheets.  You don’t know the girl, not really.  You just feel protective because you saw her treated like a suspect by the Civil Guard.  Patty won’t go to bat for you if you want to take her into your home – and even if she did, would Helen want you if she blamed you for what happened to her parents?

He stood, as quietly as he could, and crept out of the room, leaving the door half-open behind him.  There was little point in going back to sleep, so he found his terminal and sat down in the kitchen, then accessed the private government communications network.  The forensic teams had worked throughout the night, struggling to pull as much evidence as they could from the warehouse before they were redirected to yet another crime scene.  Despite their haste, they had done a fairly good job.  Most of the dead Nihilists had been identified, much to his surprise.  But the Nihilists had probably classed the warehouse staff as more expendable than usual.

All former students, he thought, as he scanned the files.  That wasn't a surprise.  The students had spent years in education, gaining their degrees, only to discover that they were worthless pieces of paper.  The Nihilists had plenty of experience in spotting people who might join their crusade and kill as many people as possible, everyone from the sexually-frustrated to the emotionally deprived who thought nothing of going out with a bang.  But why were they at the warehouse in the first place?

The handful of unidentified bodies were more interesting.  They’d been killed by the Civil Guard, according to the brief autopsies, but they’d also been carrying suicide implants that had flashed their brains to ash, as well as destroying the implants themselves.  That was odd, for the Nihilists, suggesting their leadership had been more interested in protecting their secrets than normal.  Who had the unidentified men been?

They’re probably trained men, Glen thought.  The reports made it clear that they had been at the peak of physical fitness, something unusual for the Nihilists.  Another oddity to add to a series of odd points that didn't quite make sense.  Were they mercenaries to train the terrorists in using their weapons or were they just there to safeguard the consignment?

He shook his head.  The investigators would be heading to the homes and families of the identified Nihilists already, hoping to use them to track down their contacts.  Glen knew the families had to be investigated, but he had a feeling that they would be useless.  The Nihilists weren’t known for urging their members to keep their families informed, not when the families might have other ideas.  Instead, it was far more likely that the families would either be abandoned or quietly killed.  The Nihilists were a jealous faction.  Besides, killing one’s own family ensured that one had nowhere to go.

Bastards, he thought.

He poured himself a mug of coffee, then settled back to start pulling information from the datanet.  Hardly anything moved on Terra Nova without leaving an electronic trail, although spotting the correct trail could be quite difficult.  Glen would normally have left the task to the data-crunchers on the support staff, but if he was technically suspended from duty he might as well have a look and see if anything jumped out at him.  The person who had rented out the warehouse, for example, might have left an electronic trail for the investigators to follow.  Or Helen's parents might have left a trail of their own.

Should have asked her for the name of the ship, his thoughts mocked him.  Some investigator you are.

He shook his head, then buried himself in the data, only surfacing when it became clear that he was overloading his mind.  To relax, he forced himself to access the local news instead, although it was far from relaxing.  The news was heavily censored – the Governor had slapped strict controls on the media as soon as the Fall of Earth had been confirmed – but what little had gone through was a constant liturgy of horror.  Terra Nova was slowly breaking down into anarchy ...

... And all hell was on the verge of breaking loose.

And you’re stuck on the planet’s surface, he thought, coldly.  It might be time to leave.

Chapter Seven

And there are also acts that are now considered permissible where they were once forbidden.  In the past, homosexual sex was often forbidden – and sometimes punished by death.  Now, homosexuality is recognised as yet another kind of sexuality, no more or less deviant than heterosexuality.  
- Professor Leo Caesius.  The Decline of Law and Order and the Rise of Anarchy.

“We’re crossing the Phase Limit now,” Captain Rogers said.  “I thought you might want to be on the bridge.”

Belinda nodded, then sat upright and swung her legs over the side of the bed.  The flight to Terra Nova hadn't taken more than a day – the Happy Wanderer had a stardrive that was practically military-grade – giving her barely enough time to sleep and read through the endless series of updates from Marine Intelligence.  She’d never visited Terra Nova – the files stated that no Marines were currently based there – but the briefings didn't paint a pretty picture.  Terra Nova was threatening to go the same way as Earth.

Officially, Terra Nova had been humanity’s first major settlement outside the Solar System, back when the Phase Drive had been first developed.  It’s development had been oddly-patterned, for reasons that the files didn't state, but by the time of the Unification Wars it had become one of the most heavily-populated colony worlds and a firm supporter of the First Emperor and his bid to unify the human race.  Or, she noted cynically, the history books claimed it had been a firm supporter.  It was astonishing how easily history could be rewritten to suit the victors.

She stood and made her way out of the cabin and up into the bridge.  Happy Wanderer was a small freighter, with a five-man crew, all Marine Auxiliaries.  On the face of it, she’d been told, there was nothing to set her apart from the thousands of other independent freighters in the galaxy, apart from her drive.  And even that was explained, if inspectors bothered to demand answers.  Standard procedure was to pay little attention to starships unless they intended to offload cargo or take it onboard.  

And even if they do, she thought, as she stepped through the hatch, manifests and papers can be faked.

The bridge was dreadfully cramped, somewhat to her surprise.  She found a chair and sat down, watching the main display as Happy Wanderer made her way into the system, heading directly towards Terra Nova.  The system was heavily industrialised, with cloudscoops supplying a network of industrial plants second only to Earth’s, but even her inexperienced eye recognised that the number of starships and spacecraft making their way through the system had fallen sharply, practically overnight.  The cluster of warships orbiting Terra Nova itself looked isolated, while the Naval Base seemed half-empty.  Or maybe she was just imagining it.  She’d never set eyes on the system before the Fall of Earth.

“The traffic has definitely fallen sharply,” Captain Rogers confirmed.  “They might have started heading out to greener pastures.”

Belinda couldn't have faulted the starship crews for wanting to run, even though their absence was damaging what remained of the galactic economy.  The Core Worlds were on the brink of anarchy, with suddenly-independent governors and admirals considering private bids for power.  It was no place to try to make a living when one’s ship might be snatched without warning by a private navy and pressed into government service.  Hell, it was quite possible that Happy Wanderer wouldn't be permitted to leave Terra Nova.

“We won’t be going too far,” he added, “but we won’t have the ability to intervene openly.”

“I understand,” Belinda said.  She would be on her own.  If there were any retired Marines down on the surface, they weren't registered with the Corps.  But she rather doubted there would be any, not when military veterans were poorly regarded in the Core Worlds.  They tended to prefer heading out to the Rim, where their training and experience brought high salaries and genuinely satisfying work.  “Just stay within communications range and I’ll call you if I need you.”

Hours passed slowly as the starship made its way into orbit and headed towards the nearest orbital tower.  Belinda spent the time silently analysing the reports from the sensors and accessing news broadcasts from the planet itself.  Most of them were so bland she knew they were censored, but what little slipped through the censors was alarming.  Terra Nova was definitely on the verge of social collapse.  The planet might not be quite as vulnerable as Earth – there was no planet-wide network of megacities and cityblocks – yet it was definitely at risk.  And there were twenty billion people on the planet’s surface ...

“We’ve been offered a dozen charters already,” Captain Rogers said, when she commented on that.  “I think everyone with a lick of sense is trying to get the hell off the surface before the shit hits the fan.”

Belinda shrugged.  The entire Imperial Navy, at the height of its strength, would be hard-pressed to evacuate an entire planet in less than a decade.  Terra Nova had far too many civilians for any uplift, even if they could be relied upon to cooperate without panicking or demanding that they were left alone on the planet’s surface.  The vast majority of the planet’s population were doomed, unless their Governor actually did manage to save part of the Empire.  Belinda distrusted the Onge Family through bitter experience, but the Commandant had been right.  There was no other option.

“Just keep telling them that you’re already chartered,” she said.  The last thing she needed was to have the Happy Wanderer sent off to a different star system.  “And remind them that you won’t be staying long enough to take up a new charter.”

She returned to her quarters to collect her gear as the freighter slowed, then docked at the orbital tower with a faint bump.  Belinda smiled to herself, knowing that the mission was about to begin, then glanced at herself in the mirror.  The shipsuit clung to her curves in all the right places, leaving little to the imagination even though she was completely covered below the neck.  It would suffice, she was sure, to distract attention from her.  She checked her belt one final time, feeling naked without her pistol, then started the walk back through the ship to the personnel airlock.  Captain Rogers was waiting for her there.

“Good luck,” he said.

“Thank you,” Belinda answered.

Captain Rogers saluted her, despite his sloppy uniform and generally unmilitary appearance, then opened the hatch for her.  Belinda stepped through and took a breath, tasting the unique smell of Terra Nova as the hatch closed behind her.  She couldn't help thinking that it smelled of fear.

“Please proceed to security gate five,” an automated voice said.  “Please be advised that objects on the list of forbidden contraband will be confiscated without warning or compensation if found in your baggage.  Possession of any such items may also result in criminal charges, with a maximum penalty of permanent indenture or exile.”

Belinda snorted and made her way down the stairs and into the security compartment.  Like Earth’s orbital towers, the security gates were set below the docking ports, but above the elevators that would take passengers and crew down to the surface.  The complex was surprisingly deserted, at least of passengers.  There were more armed security guards, fingering their weapons noticeably, than there were people passing through the gates.  It was unlikely, she decided, as she removed her bag from her shoulder and placed it into the scanner, that anyone could slip any weapons through the barricade.  But then, she wasn't planning to try.

The security guard studied her, his eyes hidden behind sunshades.  Belinda didn’t – quite – roll her eyes.  The trick of hiding one’s eyes to make oneself more intimidating was an old one, probably predating the human race’s first fumbling steps into interstellar space.  She surrendered her ID papers upon request, then settled back to watch how carefully he went through them.  The documents should pass any level of inspection, she was sure, but she would learn a great deal by just how thoroughly they were inspected.  It was barely five minutes before he looked up at her again.

“You’re not staying on your starship?”

“No, sir,” Belinda said, trying to look irritated at the question.  It was the normal response, even though the question was actually surprisingly reasonable.  What sort of idiot would want to go down to the planet’s surface when chaos was threatening to sweep over the entire world?  “I’m taking a few days leave and trying to look up a few of my old comrades.”

“You might find that difficult,” the guard observed.  “Anyone with any valid military experience is being conscripted into the SDF.  You might find yourself co-opted too.”

“I’ll take that chance,” Belinda said.  Was he actually trying to do her a favour?  Or merely urge her to return to the ship instead of forcing him to process her paperwork?  “It’s been far too long since I’ve seen them.”

The guard passed her the folder of documents, then smiled.  “You have permission to spend up to four weeks on the planetary surface,” he said.  His voice became bored as he rattled off a well-practiced speech.  “Should you wish to remain longer, without employment, you will have to apply to immigration officers down below.  If you take up any form of employment, bear in mind that you will become liable for planetary tax as well as imperial tax.  You will not be permitted to access any form of public funds and any attempt to do so will be considered a criminal offence.  Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” Belinda said.

“Good,” the guard said.  “Money?”

“I have enough,” Belinda said, shortly.  She didn't want to show what she'd brought, if it could be avoided.  They might start slapping extra charges on her if they thought she could pay.  “And I will return to the ship long before I run out of cash.”

“Glad to hear it,” the guard said.  He waved a hand towards the scanner.  “If you’ll step into the unit ...”

Belinda made a face, as any passenger would, as she stepped into the scanner.  Warning messages popped up in front of her eyes as the scanner went to work, her implants hastily accessing the control processors and feeding back false responses.  The system wasn’t advanced enough to detect some of her implanted weaponry, she noted, but it would certainly detect her other enhancements.  And if they had a reason to think she merited further investigation, they would definitely discover her true nature.  That would be inconvenient.

She glanced over towards the guard and saw him staring down at the display, a faint leer on his face.  He was studying the curves of her body, she realised, rather than her innards.  It was annoying, but it was a relief.  She just hoped he didn't plan a strip-search as well, even though it would be technically legal.  The last time she’d undergone the dreaded Conduct After Capture course, she'd been stripped and then poked and prodded in places she hadn't known she’d had.  It wasn't an experience she cared to repeat.

“You seem to be clean,” the guard said, finally.  He waved for her to step out of the scanner.  “Follow the red line down to the elevator, Miss Lawson.  The next one departs in thirty minutes.”

Belinda thanked him, then took her bag and walked down the corridor, uneasily aware of his eyes following her until she turned the corner.  She’d expected the inspection – it was standard procedure whenever someone wanted to pass through security and go down to a planet – but she couldn't help feeling slightly defiled.  Once, she knew, she would have taken it in stride, endured whatever she had to endure to get close to her target.  Now, she felt ... uneasy, or worse.  

Mary O’Donnell would be shocked, she thought morbidly, remembering a legend among the Pathfinders.  She’d endured far worse than a brief grope to get close to her target – and then she’d killed him and ripped his gang apart from the inside.  They’d never known what sort of viper was crawling closer and closer to them until it was far too late.  Look how far you’ve fallen.

She forced the thought aside as she stepped through the sealed hatch and into the elevator cabin.  Unlike the shipboard elevators, it was large enough to pass as a lounge, complete with comfortable chairs, a small bar and a large viewscreen showing the outside universe.  It was also almost completely deserted, apart from a handful of spacers and businessmen who eyed her carefully, then looked away when they decided she was harmless.  One of the businessmen rose to his feet as she stepped up to the bar and made his way towards her, his eyes following the curve of her bottom.  Belinda sighed and braced herself for a chat-up line she knew would be awful.

“Let me buy that for you,” he said.  He gave her a smile that was probably meant to be seductive, but looked rather like he was too pleased with himself to care about her feelings.  “I can afford it.”

“I’m sure you can,” Belinda said.  She was tempted to hit him – in her experience, businessmen were rarely interesting – but resisted the temptation.  Instead, she took a measure of sadistic delight in ordering the most expensive drink on the menu and signalling the bartender to prepare it before her unwanted admirer had even managed to check the price.  “I’m sure this drink will get you whatever you want.”

The businessman smiled at her.  No doubt he felt the same way.

“I’ve just signed a contract to produce material for a massive expansion of our shipbuilding program,” he said, as they sat down at a table.  He sat too close to her, although not close enough she could legitimately call foul.  Somewhat to her disappointment, he hadn't blinked at the steep price tag for her drink.  Instead, he’d bought the entire bottle.  “Would you care to join me for a celebration?”

“It could be done,” Belinda said, with the private thought that if he kept gulping expensive liquor like it was water he wouldn't have any money left soon enough.  “But what sort of contract have you signed?”

The businessman – his name turned out to be Thomas Augustus – was quite happy to chat, a trait made more pronounced by his rapid descent into intoxication.  Belinda sipped her drink and listened, carefully, as he boasted of his successes, starting with his ownership of a private manufacturing concern.  Most of his boasting seemed to be nothing more than empty bragging, but – reading between the lines – Belinda started to realise that Augustus might own an industrial node that had no connections to anyone outside the Terra Nova System.  It was, as strange as it might seem, the easiest one to repurpose for local purposes.  The contact code he’d given her certainly indicated that he was a wealthy and well-connected man.

She made a mental note to look into it as Augustus sagged against her, then collapsed into a drunken stupor.  Belinda briefly considered placing him in an embarrassing position, then thought better of it and arranged his body so he was lying on the seat instead.  Once he was comfortable, she leaned backwards and closed her eyes, then started to use her implants to access the planetary database.  It was a disappointing experience.  The datanet was heavily censored, with all of the interesting files behind heavy protections she couldn't break without careful preparations.  And she certainly couldn't risk attempting to do so while she was on an elevator.  It would be far too easy for counter-hackers to trace the attempt back to her.

Augustus didn't wake up for hours, almost until the elevator had finally reached the ground station.  He looked too woozy to do anything, but go home and sleep, so Belinda left him a copy of her contact code and walked out of the elevator before he could say a word.  The security on the ground-side was noticeably thinner than it was in orbit, but she couldn't help noticing that there were hundreds of armed guards and soldiers on the streets.  It looked as though the Governor was trying to make a show of force, using the appearance of strength to try to keep the civilians under control.  But how quickly, Belinda asked himself, could be regroup his forces if the shit hit the fan?

And, she wondered, does he even have anything left in reserve?

She pushed the thought aside as she strode through the complex and found a datanet terminal, already keyed to show the addresses and booking details for the most expensive hotels in Landing City.  Belinda rolled her eyes, then opened the selection criteria and altered it to ensure that it showed all the hotels, then searched for one that was reasonably cheap and yet moderately private.  There seemed to be a shortage of hotel space, as far as she could tell; in the end, she had to pick one that looked suspiciously cheap.  Shaking her head, she stood up and walked over to the taxi rack, firing queries into the local datanet as she walked.  There would be time to decide her next move once she’d settled into her apartment and accessed the local situation.  

The hotel, according to the map, wasn't that far from the orbital tower.  She considered, briefly, walking, then dismissed the thought.  There was too great a chance of being mugged and, while she was confident she could beat any muggers on the streets, it would be far too revealing.  The alternative would be to surrender the bag, along with her tools.  That would be far too inconvenient to be tolerated.

Sighing, she climbed into the first taxi and paid the driver, then settled back to watch as the taxi powered its way out of the orbital tower.  If nothing else, she knew, she could spend the time studying the people on the streets.  And then, she told herself firmly, she could decide what to do next.

Chapter Eight

In sum, there is no ironclad rule of law enforced by an outside force.  Humans, fallible humans, are forced to devise their own laws, their own codes of conduct.  
- Professor Leo Caesius.  The Decline of Law and Order and the Rise of Anarchy.

“Who is that person?”

Glen looked up.  He had been so engrossed in his work that he hadn't heard Helen rising from her bed and sneaking out into the hallway.  She was looking at the viewer, which he’d left on, but muted.  The screen would flash a red light if the regular news was interrupted by an emergency bulletin.  

“That’s the Governor,” Glen said, as he waved Helen to a seat.  He knew he sounded irritated and he didn't quite care.  “He’s making yet another broadcast asking people to remain calm and have faith in the government.”

Helen looked down at the table.  “And do they?”

“Not really,” Glen said.  He shrugged, then rose to his feet.  “I think the Governor would be better off keeping the broadcasts for when he knows something genuinely new.”

He walked around the table, found a large packet of cereal and placed it in front of Helen.  A quick check of the food preserver revealed that he was almost out of milk, as well as juice and pre-prepared meals.  He hadn't really bothered to cook for himself since his wife had died, knowing that she would have done a far better job.  The mere act of putting a meal together reminded him more of her than he cared to admit.  But if Helen was going to be his guest for the next few days, he couldn't really feed her nothing more than packaged algae bars and water.

“Pour yourself some of that, then add milk,” he said, as he passed her a bowl.  “We’ll have to do some shopping today, I’m afraid.”

“Oh,” Helen said.  “I don’t have any money.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Glen said, with the private thought that even having money might not be enough to buy more than the basics.  The government had started trying to ration food, which might have worked if the black market hadn't been so active before the Fall of Earth.  Right now, it was the only truly effective part of the economy, largely because it existed outside the control of the bureaucrats.  But it also drained the planet’s resources.

“I should worry about it,” Helen said.  She looked up at him, mournfully.  “How should I pay for all this?”

“You don’t have to worry about it,” Glen reassured her, fighting down the impulse to tousle her hair.  “I have enough saved to pay for your care and feeding for a few months.  You won’t have to repay it in future.”

Helen didn't look happy, but she stopped arguing and poured herself some breakfast.  Glen wasn't too surprised by her reluctance to accept charity, let alone a debt she didn't want to assume.  It proved, in a way, that she had grown up on a trader ship.  A child born on Terra Nova would be much less hesitant about accepting free food, or even something with a deferred payment scheme.  The students who joined the Nihilists had so much debt that they couldn't hope to pay it off, no matter how hard they worked.  It was part of the reason the economy had snarled up long before the Fall of Earth.

And if everyone owes money, he thought sourly, how long will it be before we’re all slaves?

The thought was a worrying one.  There was no such thing as debt relief in the Empire – unless, of course, there was a very real possibility that someone could pay their debts in the non-too-distant future.  In theory, anyone who fell into debt could be forced to repay it in any manner the lending corporation chose.  Hell, it was how some of the mining colonies kept their workers in bondage, through manipulating the prices until the miners were loaded with so much debt they could never hope to escape.  And who knew what would happen if someone tried to enslave the entire population of Terra Nova?

He pushed the thought aside, then reached for a bowl of his own and took a large helping of cereal.  Helen ate slowly, savouring the unfamiliar taste; Glen watched, with some amusement, as she took a second helping for herself.  He’d definitely have to purchase more food if she stayed with him for more than a day or two, he told himself, despite the bureaucratic hassles.  And she would start putting on more weight if she ate properly, given the genetic engineering worked into her DNA.  A shortage of food hadn’t been very good for her.

But when is it ever?  He asked himself, as he finished his breakfast and placed the bowl in the sink.  Helen eyed it with some puzzlement, clearly expecting the sink to start cleaning the dirty washing automatically, as it would on a starship.  Glen smiled, then started to wash the bowl, before taking hers and washing it too.  

“Get your clothes on,” he said.  Helen’s shirt and trousers hadn't been washed, he knew, but there was nothing else for her to wear.  He’d thrown out his wife’s clothes after her death, unable to handle looking at them without her.  “We’ll go get you something more to wear.”

He checked his message buffer – there was nothing, apart from a handful of low-priority updates – and then dressed himself.  When he was finished, Helen was already waiting at the door, looking oddly nervous.  It took him a moment to realise that she was probably agoraphobic to some degree, like most children who were born on starships.  They had no real conception of the sheer size of a planet and found the open skies and landscapes terrifying.   But then, planet-dwellers had the same feelings about being cooped up on starships for the rest of their lives.

“Don't worry,” he said, as he opened the door.  “The world won’t kill you.”

Helen tossed him an odd look as she walked outside, then waited for him to lock the door before leading the way down to the elevator.  Glen briefly considered several separate choices of shopping mall, then decided to take her to the mall closest to his apartment block.  It wasn't the largest in the city, let alone on the planet, but it should suffice for the basic essentials – and, as it was inside a giant building, should be less of a problem for Helen.  Or so he hoped.

Helen blinked as they reached the lobby and walked out towards the underpass.  “We’re not taking the car?”

“It’s only a few metres away,” Glen said.  “There’s no point.”

The air smelt vaguely unpleasant as he stepped through the door, a whiff of burning that bothered him more than he cared to admit.  A dozen armed guards, wearing bright green uniforms, eyed them carefully as they walked into the sunlight, then ignored the newcomers completely.  Their uniforms, Glen knew, marked them as private security guards, rather than any police or military officials.  They tended to be poorly trained and alarmingly trigger-happy, even on Terra Nova.  But then, the companies that hired them could afford to pay the fines for unauthorised discharge and cover up any unfortunate accidents.  And anyone who happened to be hurt by accident would find it impossible to seek any recourse.

Helen clung to his hand as they made their way through the underpass, trying to ignore the dozens of homeless people leaning against the walls, trying to sleep or beg for money.  Glen remembered watching helplessly as people were evicted from their homes, after losing their jobs, and told to sleep on the streets.  Or die.  Every day, bodies were found lying where they’d fallen, having died of exposure or starvation or simply giving up and sitting down to die.  The social network that should have helped them had failed completely.

“You don’t see people like that on space stations,” Helen murmured.  “Why are they here?”

“Space stations can afford to feed everyone, even if it’s just algae,” Glen muttered back.  It was rare for anyone to actually starve on a space station, though they might wish to starve rather than force more tasteless ration bars down their throats.  “Here, it’s not so easy to keep people fed.”

“It’s awful,” Helen said, out loud.

Glen nodded in agreement as they reached the entrance to the mall.  The door remained firmly closed until he pressed his credit chip against the scanner, confirming that he could afford to buy something.  The Civil Guard had arrested too many people sneaking into the mall in hopes of shoplifting or pick-pocketing; now, the only way to enter was to prove that one could afford to pay.  Glen had a feeling the security measures wouldn't last for long, not when there were more and more desperate people on the streets.  There had already been rioting and looting at some of the smaller shopping districts.

They passed through the doors, then headed for the clothing stores.  Glen had always hated shopping for clothes, so it was a relief to turn Helen over to one of the shopping assistants, with orders to purchase a basic wardrobe suitable for a young girl.  Once Helen was chatting happily to the assistant, Glen walked down to the food stores and winced when he realised that prices had gone upwards, again.  He took a cart, picked up everything he and Helen would need for several weeks, then pushed it back towards the counter.  The till-keeper eyed the small pile of food with some concern.

“You don’t have a need for half of this,” he said, once he’d run Glen’s ID through the datanet.  “Some of it should be returned ...”

Glen ground his teeth.  A person’s shopping was carefully monitored, either to supervise their health or to watch for anyone purchasing more food and supplies than they should have needed.  It had never failed to annoy him; hell, as a junior officer, he’d been called out to hundreds of fights when someone had objected to being told they weren't being allowed to purchase something they thought they needed.  And to think there wasn't anything dangerous in what he’d chosen.

“I have a need for it,” he snapped, angrily.  His patience failed completely and he produced his Marshal ID from his pocket.  “I suggest you hit the override and process the purchases.”

The till-keeper looked dubious.  “I should ask my supervisor ...”

“I think you can make a decision for yourself,” Glen snarled, although he knew the till-keeper would be blamed for anything that went wrong.  There were times when he felt that half the Empire’s problems stemmed from a simple lack of willingness to make decisions.  But when it was safer to pass the buck up the chain to higher authority, few people could be expected to put their necks on the block.  “Or would you like to explain to my superiors why you are delaying my shopping trip?”

He watched, unsurprised, as the till-keeper hastily scanned the purchases, then dropped them into small plastic bags.  There’d probably be a notation made in the system that he’d purchased more than he should have needed, he knew, and there would probably be someone sent out to ask a few pointed questions.  It was incredible, he thought, as he paid for his purchases.  The Empire was strangling itself to death with red tape and a bureaucratic attitude that assumed everyone had to be guilty of something.  But there was no point in trying to fight.  Civilians without connections were helpless against the full weight of the bureaucrats.

“I’ll send back the trolley later,” he said, once everything was bagged up.  “And thank you.”

The till-keeper said nothing as Glen took his trolley and pushed it away, back down to the clothes store.  He heard someone arguing with the security guards in the distance, and briefly wondered if he should intervene, then realised there was no need as the guards led a pair of tough-looking young men out of the store.  They’d probably be pushed in front of a judge’s assistant, then sentenced to involuntary colonisation within a day, he knew.  It was unlikely they’d ever have a chance to contact their parents before they were banished from their homeworld forever.

They might be the lucky ones, he thought.  Terra Nova might not remain very civilised for much longer.

Helen was waiting for him at the entrance to the clothing store, looking overwhelmed.  Her assistant waved to Glen, then showed him a dozen separate outfits and pieces of underwear, several too frilly for Glen’s peace of mind.  He vetoed two of the outfits – he wouldn't have willingly allowed any girl to wear something that barely covered her private parts, even if she had been old enough to live on her own – and shook his head at a third.  Helen looked oddly relieved, but the shop assistant looked furious.  Glen wondered, absently, if she or her managers had an arrangement with the company that manufactured the outfits.

“She has a human right to wear what she likes,” the assistant said.  “And this will suit her ...”

“If she happened to be working in the red light district,” Glen snapped, placing the rejected outfits on the desk.  “I wouldn't have any daughter of mine wearing these pieces of overpriced crap anywhere.”

The assistant looked as if she wanted to argue further, but clearly thought better of it.  Glen wondered what she was thinking, then decided it didn't matter.  Maybe she could make a complaint against him – it was a common tactic for kids who had parents who were unwilling to let them run rampant – but it wouldn't get her very far.  Helen wasn't Glen’s daughter, after all, and he had no obligation to do anything for her.

“Wrap the remainder up, then charge them to my card,” he said.  He turned to face Helen as the assistant leapt to obey.  “Did you chose several practical outfits?”

“You saw them,” Helen said.  She pointed to two outfits that resembled loose shipsuits.  “I can wear those anywhere.”

“But they’ll look so basic, so cheap,” the assistant said.  “She has to look fashionable.”

“No, she doesn’t,” Glen said.  He didn't follow fashion, but there was something wrong about a society that thought young girls should walk around nearly naked.  Besides, Helen wouldn’t be going outside his apartment, at least until Patty made a final decision about her future.  She certainly wouldn't be going to any clubs or schools – and besides, she didn't know anyone on Terra Nova besides Glen himself.  “Now, bag them up and we can go back home.”

As soon as they were out of the shop, Helen gave him a sudden hug.

“She just kept insisting I take more and more,” she said, softly.  “I thought you were going to be mad.  My parents would have been furious if I’d brought so much back to the ship.”

“I wouldn't blame them,” Glen said.  He looked down at the bags, then smiled.  “She’s paid a commission for every outfit she sells, I think.  Don’t let her bully you into buying anything you don’t want.”

Helen looked upset.  “But she kept saying I would have to wear stuff if I didn't want to look like an outsider.”

Glen winced.  It was perfectly true that wearing the wrong clothes could mark someone as an outcast, certainly in the more unpleasant schools on Terra Nova.  He’d arrested too many kids trying to steal clothes their parents couldn't or wouldn't buy for them, just because they were bullied if they didn't wear the right clothes.  But when they did, their clothes were often stolen by the school bullies.  It just wasn't fair.

“I think you should always ask yourself why you’re being told something,” he said, dryly.  “I think she wanted you to buy as much as possible, so she would hardly try to talk you out of buying lots of crap.”

Helen giggled.

On impulse, Glen took her to the nearest entertainment shop, found her a datachip and allowed her to purchase a number of movies and flicks for her to watch while he was at work.  Helen seemed more interested in movies meant for older teens, he noted, rather than anything intended specifically for children ... although there were times when the lines were hard to determine.  As an afterthought, he bought her a few days worth of access to the online gaming network, then added a handful of educational programs.  There had been no time to assess just where she was, academically, but he was pretty sure she’d be ahead of planet-side students in the same age group.  

“Thank you,” Helen said, when they were done.  “But how will I ever repay you?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Glen said, again.  He could ask Patty for compensation, if he kept receipts and submitted them to her, or he could simply pay himself.  “It’s not as if I have much else to spend money on, these days.”

He took her to a small eatery and bought her a buffet lunch, then watched with some amusement as she tasted everything on the menu.  Glen had never been really impressed with buffets – they were often heavily flavoured to disguise the fact the cooks used very poor meat – but Helen seemed to like it.  And she ate enough to ensure she would start to recover from her imprisonment.

“We’d better go home,” he said, once she’d stuffed herself.  “And you can watch your new shows, if you like.”

“Thank you,” Helen said, rising.  “And what will you do?”

“My work is never done,” Glen said.  Actually, he’d reached the limits of what he could do without returning to the office.  All he could do now was watch the progress of the investigation from a distance and make suggestions.  “Or I could watch with you.”

“Please,” Helen said.

After a moment, Glen nodded.

Chapter Nine

This is not an easy task.  Many of the examples I outlined above consist of flawed humanity responding to problems they faced at the time, which then became enshrined in law.  The legal hatred of homosexuality might well date from a time when breeders were of vital importance and, thus, homosexuality could not be tolerated.
- Professor Leo Caesius.  The Decline of Law and Order and the Rise of Anarchy.

“This is your room,” the hotel bellhop said.  “I trust it is to your liking?”

Belinda peered past him into the small room.  It was simpler than she’d expected, with a large bed, a small table and a small washroom, complete with shower and wash basin.  The room wasn't really big enough for more than one or two people, but she’d had worse.  She’d had to share a barracks with nine men back when she’d been a Rifleman, years ago.  Compared to that, the hotel room was almost luxurious.

“It is satisfactory,” she said, flatly.  She turned to look at the bellhop, absently noting how he tried hard not to look at her chest.  “Do you offer room service?”

“The menu is in the desk,” the bellhop said.  He gave her a smile that was probably intended to be seductive, but he wasn't old enough to pull it off.  “My name is James, My Lady.  If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call me.”

Belinda smiled back, then strode into the room and placed her bag on the desk.  She’d once spent a week working in a hotel along the Rim and it was astonishing what some guests asked for – and got, if they paid enough money.  James might just get lucky with an older female guest, if she wanted some company for the night.  His superiors would turn a blind eye as long as his duties were completed to their satisfaction.  But she knew he wouldn't be getting lucky with her.

“Thank you,” she said, instead.  “And goodbye.”

He closed the door, which clicked to indicate it was locked.  Belinda wasn't impressed.  If she couldn't pick the lock with a hairpin, or a standard terminal rigged to serve as a hacker system, she would be very disappointed in herself.  The door wasn't meant to be completely secure, anyway.  All it was meant to do was deter thieves who had slipped past the guards on the ground floor and made their way up to the guestrooms.

She opened her bag, then carefully checked the room for bugs.  There were two, an audio pickup hidden within the light over her back and a visual pickup in the doorframe, ready to record pictures of her undressing.  She wasn't unduly surprised; these days, there was no real expectation of privacy anywhere, unless one paid enough money to guarantee it.  The recordings could be accessed by local law enforcement, if they requested them, or anyone else, if they supplied a sufficient bribe.  She studied the location of the bug for a long moment, then carefully plotted out ways to block its vision if necessary.  For the moment, she would just have to endure knowing that the hotel staff could peek in on her whenever they felt like it.

Idiots, she thought, as she unpacked her bag, then lay down on the bed.  A quick check revealed that the hotel was using a very basic datanet monitoring system, intended to record everything the guests did online.  There was no warning notice barring them from any particular parts of the datanet, she noted, which struck her as ominous.  It seemed the hotel either didn't care to make legal warnings or threats ... or that the staff were watching for opportunities to blackmail their guests, later.  Somehow, she wasn't too surprised.

She opened her implants and activated a handful of hacking programs designed by the finest WebHeads in the Marine Corps.  The hotel’s system barely even spluttered as she inserted her commands into the system, then took over, ordering it to ignore everything she did through the network.  A handful of minor changes would make it harder for anyone to zero in on her particular access, although she knew there were limits to how far she could go without being caught.  It wouldn't be hard for investigators to deduce the use of a neural link and a simple scan of her brain would reveal the link – and much more besides.  

Closing her eyes, she drew on the vast tidal wave of data and started to try to search for additional pieces of information.  But there was very little, beyond censored news bulletins and reassuring broadcasts from the government that didn't seem very reassuring at all.  There was no barrier to accessing the entertainment networks – pop-ups in her head invited her to download the latest pornographic videos, or view endless bland crap from Earth before the Fall – but there was very little hard data on the datanet.  Even the omnipresent datanet forums seemed to have been closed down.

They’re trying to make it harder for panic to spread, she thought.  It was standard procedure if the shit was threatening to hit the fan, but she couldn't help thinking that it was a mistake.  Rumours would spread faster than anyone realised, rumours which would be impossible to counter before they had already reached far too many people.  But the people can still talk face-to-face, spreading the word from person to person.

She poked through the datanet, looking for the links she knew had to exist, the links that would allow her to access the government’s datanet.  But, no matter how she tried, she couldn't break into the network through her implants.  The system looked to have been altered to the point where standard access codes, even hacker tools, wouldn't work properly.  It was an impressive achievement, she had to admit, but it was also worrying.  What was the government trying to hide?

Opening her eyes, she undressed and climbed into the shower, careful to keep the links to the datanet open.  If she couldn’t get into the government’s files, she could pull more out of the civilian datanet than they might have realised, including the names and details of government officials.  But there were just too many for her to process properly, she realised, numbly.  The Governor seemed to be assembling his own private army.  Everyone with military experience was being called up to serve at the Governor’s pleasure.  Was it a sensible precaution in the face of chaos, she asked herself, or a sign of something more sinister?

And there was nothing on the planned conference at all.

Belinda finished washing herself, then strode back into the main room, disconnecting the links.  There was no point in trying to hack the system further, not now.  She would need to be in close proximity to a government-owned node without access codes of her own, she suspected, and she’d have to find a node first.  It would be tricky, unless she got very lucky; she knew, all too well, that most such nodes were concealed within military bases.  But there were other ways to get access to government codes.

She dressed – a shirt that was just tight enough to draw attention to her breasts and a skirt that hung down to her knees – and then picked up the information brochure the hotel had supplied for its guests.  One page detailed all the various pubs and nightclubs around the centre of Landing City, including one that largely catered to government employees having a drink after a hard day at work.  Belinda rather doubted they knew what a hard day really was – she’d spent weeks on campaign before she’d submitted her name for Pathfinder Selection – but it hardly mattered.  The pub would be a good place to start trolling for potential sources.

Picking up a small handbag, she carefully noted where she’d left everything and then walked out the door, taking care to lock it behind her.  It was possible that someone would search her bags while she was out, although she had nothing to hide.  She walked down to the elevator, then rode down to the ground floor and made her way out onto the streets, aware of eyes following her as she left the building.  She’d dressed, after all, to attract attention.

Night was slowly falling over Landing City as she walked towards the pub, but despite the threat of the imminent curfew people were thronging around, eating, drinking and trying to enjoy themselves.  And yet, Belinda could sense a tension in the air that reminded her of countless worlds about to undergo a massive social upheaval.  The population wouldn't be partying so hard if they hadn't been trying to convince themselves that everything was normal.  Most of the younger people – including some barely entering their teens – had eyes that revealed their desperation.   They knew, even if they didn't want to admit it to themselves, that their time was running out.

She sucked in her breath as she saw the pub.  It was larger than she’d expected, with hundreds of men and women inside, drinking beer and chatting to their friends and workmates.  They had the same attitude as the people outside, she noted, but there was a nastier edge to it, one that worried her more than she cared to admit.  These people were prepared to be nasty because they still had jobs, yet they were also unwillingly aware that they could lose their jobs very quickly.  The world had turned upside down.

Switching her audio-discrimination programs into primary mode, she scanned the crowds for a likely target.  Seduction had been one of the classes for Pathfinders – it wasn't part of the normal Slaughterhouse training – but it had also been largely intuitive.  There were men who would think it was normal to have a beautiful woman chatting them up and men who would find it instantly suspicious.  The trick, she’d been taught, was deducing the method most likely to work for one’s prey and using it ruthlessly.  It was only five minutes before she spotted a suitable candidate sitting at the edge of the room.

A wallflower, she thought, as she made her way towards him without being obvious about it.  He was in his early thirties, if she guessed right, but he had a haggard expression on his face that made him look older.  It was obvious he wanted to join in the conversation, in the mindless drinking and women-chasing his peers engaged in after work, but it was also clear that he simply didn't have the nerve.  Belinda concealed her amusement as she sat down facing him.  Unless she was completely wrong, this was going to be easy.

“I don’t like the crowds here,” she said, by way of introduction.  “How about yourself?”

“I don’t like them either,” he said.  He looked up at her, allowing her to see his face clearly.  It would have been handsome if he’d taken proper care of himself.  “But ...”

He looked back down at the table, trying to avoid staring at Belinda’s chest.  She could practically read his thoughts; lust, a desire for her, and yet a fear that she would reject him in a manner so crushing that it would destroy whatever was left of his pride.  Such a man feared humiliation because he’d been humiliated so often.  Belinda had a feeling that he wouldn't advance in the Civil Service, if only because he couldn't make the connections his fellows could by chatting to their superiors.  But at least he wouldn’t be kissing their buttocks in public.

“My name is Benny,” Belinda said.  It was close to her real name without being too close for comfort.  Her target wouldn't have any clear memories of her after she was done, but there was no point in taking chances.  “I’m new here.”

“Welcome to Terra Nova,” the man said.  “My name is Julius.  Julius Stevenson.”

Belinda smiled at him, then ran his name and face through the datanet, wondering what it would turn up.  Moments later, she had her answer.  Julius Stevenson was listed as a low-level Civil Service official, a data-entry officer.  He was a suitable target for a first attempt at gaining government-issue codes, she decided.  At the very least, he might be able to tell her who to target next.

She chatted about nothing for long moments, wondering absently when he would find the nerve to buy her a drink.  It was nearly ten minutes before Julius offered, so quietly that it was clear that he expected rejection.  Belinda smiled, accepted the offer, then kept chatting to him as he drank several more glasses in quick succession.  She had a feeling he was nerving himself up to ask her if she wanted to go somewhere more private.

“This place is getting too loud,” Julius said, as someone turned on a jukebox and heavy metal music started to play.  “Do you want to go elsewhere?”

“Yes, please,” Belinda said.  She took his hand, noting with some amusement that he was swaying slightly on his feet.  This was not a man who drank heavily, she deduced, from how quickly the alcohol had affected him.  Her presence had affected him more than he’d realised.  “I’d like to go elsewhere.”

His nerves clearly grew worse the further they moved from the pub.  Belinda, feeling an odd moment of sympathy, made it easier for him by kissing him as soon as they were alone, then smiled inwardly as he tried to kiss her back.  He was either out of practice, part of her mind noted, or he had never been in practice.  Moments later, his hand was groping her bottom through the skirt.  Belinda pushed herself against him, then pulled back.  He made no attempt to keep her close to him.

“Not here,” she said.  “How close is your apartment?”

Julius’s apartment turned out to be a single-room compartment in a towering block that looked like a smaller version of Earth’s cityblocks.  Belinda allowed him to lead her inside, his hands roaming her body as though he had never touched a woman before, then pushed her fingertips against the back of his neck.  The hidden injector didn't even hiss as it shot a light sedative into his body, sending him staggering to his knees.  He was out before his body hit the ground.  Belinda picked him up effortlessly, then carried him to his bed and laid him out on the sheets.  There was a grin on his sleeping face that seemed remarkably out of place.

She smiled back, then started to search the apartment for anything useful.  Julius, like most civil servants, had kept copies of all of his personal documents, stashing them in a hidden safe behind a painting on the wall.  Belinda snorted to herself – hiding a safe behind a painting was so old that it was the first place anyone would look – then started to work on the combination lock.  It clicked open within seconds, allowing her to open the metal hatch and bring out the paperwork.  A glance at each page, using her implants, allowed her to record what she saw for later study.  And then she found the access datachip.

“Twit,” she said, out loud.  Julius would be in deep trouble if his superior found out just how easily she’d stolen his access codes.  “You’re lucky I’m going to blur your memory.”

She used her implants to access the chip, then copied the codes over into her neural link.  It was easy enough to test them, although she was careful not to try to actually hack into the sections outside Julius’s authorisations.  That would have to wait until later, once she’d parsed out enough of the system to be fairly sure she could hack into it without immediate repercussions.  If she had been designing the system, she would have made sure it was capable of tracking any access, even if it seemed to have the right codes.  Hell, she would have ensured the system was inaccessible outside heavily guarded and secure locations.  

Julius moaned in his sleep.  Belinda looked up from where she was carefully replacing everything where she’d found it, then frowned.  She knew what she had to do, now; she had to inject him with something to blur his memories, then walk away and leave him alone.  His imagination would give him an encounter that had ended well for both of them.  She'd seen it done before.  And yet ... part of her didn't want to simply walk away.  She felt a strange pity for Julius, someone so out of place and yet trying to do his job.  

And someone who will be blamed for giving me the codes if I’m caught, Belinda thought, as she rose to her feet.  He won’t have a chance.

She looked down at him, torn between two conflicting emotions.  The cold dispassion she’d been taught to embrace told her to drug him, then go; the other feelings she’d felt welling up inside her said otherwise.  She could have stayed with him, reassured him that she was real, even made love to him.  But she knew she couldn't risk it.  Julius wouldn't be content with a one-night stand, not really.  He’d want to see her again and again until he saw through her cover or she had to do something more drastic to cover her tracks.

“I’m sorry,” she muttered, as she pressed her fingertips against him for the second time.  His body twitched against hers, then subsided.  “But I don’t have a choice.”

Julius moaned, again.  Belinda watched him fall into deeper slumber, then kissed his forehead and turned to walk out the door, feeling oddly unclean.  She’d done worse than drug someone for information before, ever since she’d become a Pathfinder.  But why did she feel remorse now?

You’re not quite a Pathfinder any longer, a voice said, and you’re no longer stable.  How long will it be before you go completely mad – and rogue?

“Shut up, Doug,” she growled, as she closed the door behind her.  “You’re dead.”

Chapter Ten

Furthermore, prejudice will have its say when laws are written.  There are no shortages of past legal structures that denied women equal rights to men (or vice versa), gave rights to parents denied to their children or made judgements based on such oddities as skin colour or age.
- Professor Leo Caesius.  The Decline of Law and Order and the Rise of Anarchy.

“You know, you should get yourself a head-com,” Patty said, as soon as Glen answered the call.  “You’d be woken in a flash.”

“I always thought they were sinister,” Glen said.  He glanced at his watch, then swore under his breath.  It was five o’clock in the morning, an hour before curfew was due to be lifted.  “And I didn't want more voices in my head.”

“How very reassuring,” Patty said.  His boss snorted, rudely.  She’d called him out of the blue, which meant trouble.  Unlike some of his superiors in the past, she’d been a Marshal and understood the value of a good night’s sleep for her men. “I’m afraid your suspension has been suspended.  I need you back at the station.”

“Wonderful,” Glen said, dryly.  He would have been more enthusiastic if he hadn't been woken far too early in the morning.  Spending time watching movies with Helen had been curiously enjoyable, to the point they’d both stayed up too late.  “And my charge?”

“Leave her in your apartment,” Patty said.  “Does she have enough sense to stay there?”

“I think so,” Glen said.  He hastily ran through a mental checklist of everything that would have to be locked away, out of reach.  “I can lock the door, if necessary, but if there was a fire ...”

“Take the risk,” Patty said.  “Unless you’d like to bring her to the station for the day?”

“I think that would bring bad memories back to her,” Glen admitted.  “She’s told me a few things, but I’ve been reluctant to press her too far.”

“Then leave her at your apartment,” Patty ordered.  “I’m sending Isabel to pick you up, so I’ll expect the both of you here in sixty minutes.”

The connection broke.  Glen swore to himself, then climbed out of bed and hastily jumped into the shower.  The cold water snapped him awake, but he still felt too tired for comfort as he returned to his room and dressed, then pulled his pistol and terminal onto his belt.  He’d made enough notes from what Helen had said over the last couple of days to help push the investigation forward, if he had time.  He had a feeling that Patty wouldn't have called him back into work, risking the wrath of the Civil Guard, if she hadn't thought she needed him.  It didn't bode well.

As soon as he was ready, he tapped on Helen’s door and waited for her to call out.  He opened the door and smiled at her, noting that she was wearing the new nightgown he’d purchased her.  She looked adorable and terrifyingly young, far too young for the outfits she'd been offered at the shop.  The surge of protectiveness he felt at the thought was terrifyingly strong.  He'd only known Helen for a couple of days and he was already prepared to walk through fire for her.

“I have to go into work,” he said, when she was awake.  “Stay in the apartment, ok?  Don’t try to leave.”

Helen nodded, wordlessly.  Glen gave her a reassuring smile, then walked out of her room.  Helen wouldn't be bored – she had flicks and games and even the educational programs – but he knew how tempted he would have been to explore the apartment block on his own, once his parents had gone out for the day.  He hoped she wouldn't try the door, no matter what else she did.  She might not respond well to being locked in like a prisoner.

Which she is, a voice at the back of his head reminded him.  To all intents and purposes, she is a prisoner.  And you have no idea what will happen to her in the future.

His wristcom buzzed.  Pushing the disturbing thought aside, he stepped through the door, checked the lock, then took the elevator down to the garage.  Isabel had already parked the cruiser near the elevator doors, blatantly ignoring the signs ordering guests not to park anywhere near the spaces reserved for the wealthiest residents.  Glen doubted anyone would complain, not when they saw the cruiser.  The Marshals might be a shadow of the force they’d been in the glory days of the Empire, but they could still cause trouble for anyone who got in their way.

“I hear you’ve become a dad,” Isabel said, as he clambered into the cruiser and closed the door.  “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Glen said, sourly.  “What progress has been made on the investigation?”

“We spoke to the families of the dead terrorists,” Isabel said, as she guided the cruiser back onto the exit ramp.  “None of them knew a thing, of course.  They’re shocked and outraged that anyone could believe their little darlings capable of such a shitty act.  It won’t be long before they start calling for an independent investigation.”

Glen nodded, ruefully.  It was unlikely the families would get anywhere, but there were always ambitious populist politicians  who might take their grief and turn it into a weapon for their campaigns.  He couldn't blame the families for wanting to think the best of the dead, yet it was hard to give anyone the benefit of the doubt when he’d seen the aftermath of too many Nihilist attacks.  

“They all fit the standard patterns,” Isabel added.  “Had poor grades and big debts – a couple actually had debts to loan sharks as well as the standard loan companies.  I’ve had teams going through their possessions, but unless we get very lucky we won’t find any leads there.  The data-crunching might turn up a more promising angle of attack.”

“True,” Glen agreed.  The electronic trails of the dead terrorists would converge, he was sure, if they’d been fool enough to leave a trail.  And where they’d been together, they might well have been planning their operations.  “What else did they have in common?”

“They took a number of classes,” Isabel said.  “The only one they had in common was Ethical Treatment of Minority Communities.”

Glen snorted in amused disbelief.  He had never been opposed to allowing people to find their own ways to live, no matter how crazy they sounded to his ears, but he had never believed that such independent communities were exempt from the law.  If a religion happened to demand something from its believers that was against Imperial Law, that religion couldn't be used as a shield for the believers to hide behind.  It wasn’t an attitude that was shared by idealistic students, who thought that minorities were picked on simply for being minorities.  They never seemed to realise that some minorities included a number of very unpleasant human beings.

“That class is probably worth investigating,” he said, instead.  “Do we have anything on the staff?”

“A few minor citations for being public nuisances,” Isabel said.  She turned the cruiser, then headed into the underground garage below the station.  “One of them was arrested at a demonstration twenty years ago and managed to parley it into a successful academic career.  I think she was actually accused of plagiarising at some point, but it was settled in-house, with no need for police involvement.”

“Lucky for us,” Glen muttered.  The various law enforcement agencies had quite enough problems without trying to tackle academic plagiarism as well.  “What’s got the boss so steamed up?”

“There have been attacks,” Isabel said, as she parked the cruiser.  “But you’ll hear about them at the briefing.”

The station didn't seem any less busy, Glen discovered, although it was the early hours of the morning.  Crime never slept, he had been told when he joined the service, and the Marshals couldn't really sleep either.  He yawned openly as he followed Isabel into the briefing room, then poured himself a mug of black coffee and took a seat at the front of the rows.  Behind him, a number of other Marshals and Civil Guard personnel filled the remaining seats.  Glen drank his coffee and waited, impatiently, for Patty to appear.  It was nearly ten minutes before she hurried in and took her place in front of the podium.  

“I’m sorry for the delay,” she said.  “I had an urgent call from the Governor’s Office and it turned out to be someone complaining about the paperclip allocation.  Again.”

Glen joined in the polite chuckles, although he knew it might not have been a joke.  It wouldn't be the first time someone with more power than sense had demanded answers on an utterly pointless topic.  Did it really matter, he asked himself, just how many paperclips had been used over the past couple of weeks?  The world wouldn't come to an end if each paperclip wasn't accounted for, would it?

“At least they’re not asking about arrest statistics,” Marshal Brant called, from the back row.  “That would be awkward.”

“How true,” Patty agreed.  “And that’s enough of that, you lot.”

Definitely, Glen thought.  Arrest statistics might seem a good idea for monitoring how well the law enforcement agencies were performing, but they didn't tell the complete story.  How many crimes were prevented through aggressive patrolling?  There was no way to know, so some of the departments had been arresting more people in the hopes of boosting their ratings.  It had worked, to some extent, but it hadn't been particularly just.  

“Right,” Patty said, slapping the podium for attention.  “Those of you who have been sleeping the sleep of the terminally lazy won’t have heard that there were a series of minor attacks on planetary infrastructure last night.  We assume” – she nodded towards Glen – “that the weapons and explosives in the captured warehouse were intended to make the attacks more unpleasant than they actually were.  As it was, we’ve lost a handful of power transfer nodes and a couple of datanet routers, but the other attacks did minimal damage.”

Marshal Cho lifted her hand.  “These attacks were coordinated?”

“It would seem so,” Patty said.  “However, the attacks were also largely ineffective.”

Glen felt his eyes narrowing in suspicion.  The best time to disrupt a terrorist attack was before it had actually begun, but once the terrorists were committed.  It made securing evidence and convictions a great deal easier.  However, there hadn't been any warning before the targets had come under attack – and the attacks had largely been useless.  The handful of destroyed targets hardly made up for revealing the existence of a terrorist network capable of carrying out attacks on such a scale.

Isabel put his thoughts into words.  “They seem to have screwed up beyond the bounds of probability, boss,” she said.  “And yet it seems too big an attack to be a diversion.”

“It does,” Patty agreed.  “They might have been intending to use those attacks to divert us from other possible targets, but nothing else has materialised.”

“They might have thought the warehouse terrorists were also going to go into the fray,” Glen offered.  “The rest of their cells might not have picked up a stand-down order.”

“It’s possible,” Patty agreed.  She took a breath.  “I should note that we didn't manage to take any survivors from the attacks.  That’s par for the course, I know, but it’s still a problem.  We have to track down the command network before they do something more dangerous.”

Glen nodded.  He wasn't the only one.

“The Civil Guard has secured the targeted sites,” Patty told them.  “I’m dividing you between the various targets; I want you to investigate, find out what happened and see if you can locate anything that leads back to their base.  It is of the upmost importance that we shut this band of terrorists down before they manage to get their act together and do something worse.”

She glared around the room, threateningly.  “So far, the general public hasn't realised how close we came to disaster last night,” she added.  “The Governor wants it to stay that way, so anyone who leaks will be skinned alive and then fed to the pigs.  And I am not joking.”

There was a long pause.  “Glen, remain behind,” she added.  “The rest of you, collect your assignments from the desk and get on with them.  And good luck.”

Glen waited until the room was empty – he knew from experience that Isabel would wait for him – and then stood up.

“Patty?”

“I need you to continue looking into the warehouse,” Patty said.  “I’ve been ordered – ordered – to redirect all available manpower to the latest terrorist attacks, but I’m not expecting to find much.  The attacks were somewhat amateurish, quite pathetic compared to the usual bloody slaughters.  They may have been expending useless assets to try to force us to abandon the warehouse investigation.”

Glen looked down at the scruffy floor.  “Just me?”

“You’ll be the prime investigator,” Patty confirmed.  “You can call on the support staff, as usual, but I need every available Marshal out on the streets.  Try not to fuck up.”

“I’ll do my best,” Glen said.  He shook his head in disbelief.  An entire investigation in one pair of hands!  He hadn't heard of anything like it outside bad fiction and worse flicks.  “And what about Helen?”

“Keep her under your wing, for now,” Patty said.  She reached out and touched his shoulder.  “I know it won’t be easy, Glen, but I have upmost confidence in you.”

Glen nodded, knowing there was no point in protesting.  Patty literally couldn't give him any support.  But even with the clues he’d gleaned from Helen, handling everything on his own would be an absolute nightmare.

“You can tell the bureaucrats that I have her when they start whining about purchasing too much food,” he said, instead.  “Do you know what’s going to happen to her?”

“It depends,” Patty said.  She shook her head.  “Once we have the full story, Glen, we can start making some proper decisions.”

She frowned, then smiled at him.  “Are you starting to like her?”

“Yes,” Glen admitted.

“It's always easier to like kids who aren't actually yours,” Patty said.  “But remember, she may not be a suspect, yet she is definitely involved.”

Glen had always supposed it was the other way round, but he kept that thought to himself.

“Good luck,” Patty added.  “And bring me something I can show the Governor when he comes knocking – again.”

Glen saluted, then walked out of the briefing room.  Isabel was waiting outside, as he’d expected, reading her terminal with an expression of disbelief.  She gave him a sharp look as he closed the door, then motioned for him to walk with her towards the garage.

“She wants me to go to the Southside Power Distribution Centre,” she said, dryly.  “And I’m not the only one going out alone.”

“Call for support if you need it,” Glen urged.  “But I’m stuck here until I turn up a lead.”

He filled her in, quickly.  “Sounds tough,” she said, when he’d finished.  “But the best of luck to you.”

Glen sighed, then bade her farewell and walked back to his cubicle.  His computer was already online, just waiting for his access codes.  He poured himself a new cup of coffee, then sat down and started inputting the data from Helen into the growing matrix.  Added to the legwork Isabel and the support crews had already done, it painted a worrying picture.  The warehouse had been hired by a local shipping firm, which had largely taken over a chunk of the spaceport after gaining approval for purchasing shares in the installation.  Reading between the lines, Glen suspected that someone had been paid a considerable bribe to make it happen.  But it had also allowed the weapons crates to be unloaded and shipped to the warehouse without an inspection.

The Humming Bee was Helen’s ship, he mused.  It had entered orbit a week before the warehouse had been raided, then left orbit two days later, after transhipping a considerable amount of cargo to the surface.  There was no mention of Helen or her parents – a quick check revealed that Helen hadn’t passed through immigration, either on the orbital tower or any of the spaceports.  Glen rather suspected that she’d been sedated, then loaded into one of the crates and transported down without passing through any security screening.  Even now, there was still so much cargo being transhipped that it would be difficult to inspect it all.

He scowled down at the display, then rose to his feet.  The shipping firm needed to be investigated, at the very least.  They’d cleared the consignment, after all, which meant they were either dupes or actively involved with the terrorists.  He suspected the former, if only because crashing shuttles could have done real damage and the Nihilists, so far, hadn't shown any signs of possessing shuttles.

As soon as he’d donned his coat, he knocked on Patty’s door.

“I’m going to visit the shipping firm,” he said, and outlined his reasoning.  “If I don’t check in within the hour, feel free to send the SWAT team.”

“Don’t even joke about it,” Patty said.  “Right now, the SWAT team is on the other side of the city, watching a gang clash that might turn into outright warfare.  They can’t be called out for anything other than a major disaster.”

Glen nodded.  “We should just squash the gangs,” he said.  “Why don’t we kick the shit out of them and send the survivors to a penal world?”

“They have connections,” Patty said.  She looked down at the table, then up at Glen.  The frustration in her voice was almost palatable.   “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we didn't have to deal with corrupt officials all the time?”

“Yes,” Glen agreed, “it would.  But what can we do about it?  Even if we took the bastards into custody, they'd be out within hours.”

“True,” Patty said.  She sighed, then returned her attention to her paperwork.  “Good luck with the shipping firm.  Don’t fuck up.”