Rogue-ARC (13 page)

I slipped out through bushes and was behind this entire row of buildings, on the broad verge to a main road. I kept the growth as visual blocks. I shifted around and zigged back north, slipped aside, then again. It was something I’d learned early in my training, and it was fun as well as useful, the tension adding spice. I dropped down, duckwalked around one, and kept easing back, watching the arc in front and periodically behind.

In a couple of minutes I was free, crouching through a shallow drain cut on the east side, just a landscaping feature, not really a ditch. Once on the sidewalk I stood and walked as if I belonged. I clicked my phone and called Silver.

“East side, bushes, heading north on walk. Come get me.”

“Rog.”

Pedestrians weren’t common in this area, but I was dressed like a laborer returning from work, and believable in context. Ordinarily, no one would have given me a glance. With the heightened security, though, I got tagged.

I saw the lights shift in the mist, knew it was a car, and clicked the phone again.

“Yes?”

“Hey, lovey, I’m on my way home now. It was a long night, eh? Lots of customers.” I kept an eye on the lights’ approach, and knew the car was stopping.

She said, “How long are you going to be? Any stops?”

“No, I should be home on the bus.” I heard the door, turned slowly enough to not be any kind of threat, and said, “Oh, wait, there’s a connie needs to talk about summin. Lemme call back, okay, lovey?”

“Okay,” she said, and we cut.

That should give her enough lead to come bail me.

The cop kept fair distance. While he wasn’t handling his stunner, he looked very ready.

He said, “Good evenin’, sir. May I see your ID, please?”

“Surely,” I agreed, and slid it out of my pocket. “Is summin up?”

“Nothin’ serious,” he lied, “I just need to verify people in the area due to an investigation.”

“Oh, right, then,” I agreed. My accent wasn’t perfect, so I kept my answers short.

Of course the card was fake, and made so it scanned FAULT. The question was, would he accept that? Laborer with a work pack, not the suspect. I shouldn’t look a lot like the me they wanted, given what they had. I didn’t fit Randall’s assumed description.

Then he said, “Sir, I’m reading a fault on this ID. You are also in an investigation area, and it’s quite late. Where are you coming from?”

“Work,” I said.

“Work where?”

I hadn’t had time to develop a cover, of course, so I had to bluff. “Garden Estates. I just hired on in the kitchen.”

Of course he pinged that, queried the employee list, and found no one matching both my name and description.

“Sir, please step over and place your hands on the hood of my car.”

I could take him easily, but it would be more discreet to go along. Their lockup couldn’t be that bad, and it would hide my motives behind something less obvious, perhaps petty theft.

I placed my hands on the roof of the vehicle, and let him pat me down. I didn’t immobilize him. I wouldn’t have been able to. My hands cramped slightly as a neural field gripped them in place. I knew how to break from that, but that would be tantamount to violently resisting arrest, and this scene would not get smaller.

I did say, “Phone in the right front pocket, folding knife in left.”

He replied, “Thank you, sir.” He carefully relieved me of those.

Another vehicle rolled up, and two more constables got out. They were all rather polite, a bit aloof, and reasonably professional, other than the fact they didn’t treat me as a dangerous threat. Maybe I’m paranoid, or maybe it’s my experience. I was being courteous, so they were decent back to me. Well enough.

They went through my jacket and the pack, found technical tools and the pistol. That got their attention in a big way. They focused on it, rather than the intel cracking stuff, which should have been far more interesting under the circumstances. Or maybe they wanted to deal with easy charges first.

“So what is your purpose in being here with a pistol, sir?” he asked as he drew my arms down and cuffed them behind me.

“I should probably wait for an attorney to discuss that, sir,” I replied.

“Are you sure? That means a ride to Processin’.”

“I’m sure.”

“Very well. Sit down carefully on the kerb here, please.”

I did so. It was chill, slightly damp and a bit gritty.

Nothing happened for several minutes, and I presumed Silver had gotten well clear. They chattered on comm, without mentioning her, or pursuit, or anything in the area. It was just me. So she could continue pursuit primarily, and work on release for me second.

Eventually, a van came. It was an unremarkable egg without insignia. It pulled up right in front of where I sat. The officer lifted me to my feet by one elbow and faced me against the back of the van. I kept spatial awareness up for threats, but didn’t try to glance around. As long as it was peaceful, I’d play by the rules.

The driver was my height, male, light brown hair. He slapped a pair of binders above the existing pair. The arresting constable thumbed his pair off.

The driver asked, “No statement?”

“None. Possessions here.”

“Understood.” He then patted me down himself. I approved. That was pretty good procedure.

He thumbed the door, it opened, and he assisted me up into one side of the rear.

“Watch your head on the roof,” he said.

Inside was a featureless metal block, with howling air conditioning and bright lights. A claustrophobe would turn into a gibbering nut in about ten seconds. The driver took an interminable time, and I couldn’t track direction or distance enough to matter. Believing that hands behind the back is a dangerous position should there be an accident or “accident,” I maneuvered my hands in front of me, by dint of athletic flexibility. I rolled, arched, got them past my buttocks and stepped through.

It’s a good thing I didn’t need to relieve myself. The vehicle looked designed to be sluiced out, but there was nothing one could use for facilities.

In the Freehold, if you actually commit an infraction worthy of response, City Safety will arrive with lots of weapons and escort you peacefully to Citizens’ Court. Put up a fight and you’re likely to be dead. They transport you in the back of a car, and very few people resist. The Citizen sorts things out and schedules hearing dates, etc, and you’re released. If you are really brained out or vicious, you could be detained with a shock collar. I’d studied detention on various planets and nations, so I found this entire industry of specially-made vehicles, restraints, doc programs, all fascinating.

Twice we stopped, sat for several minutes, and then someone was shoved in alongside. One man in his fifties, then one in his twenties. We didn’t talk. I presumed there were others in the other half of the vehicle.

Believe it or not, one of the big things for me was trusting the driver. I’d frequently traveled in ships, aircraft, boats, locked in and having to rely on someone else for my life. It was always either by contracted choice or with a fellow soldier I had commonality of background in and could trust. This was merely a ground vehicle, but manual only and subject to collision. The odds were remote, but they bothered me.

When we arrived downtown, we were marched out into a stark, lit bay. I expected to be hassled about the cuffs, now in front of me, but no mention was made. So why the insistence that cuffs be behind your back? An elderly lady there was presented as detained for domestic violence was not cuffed due to her age, yet she obviously had been accused of violence, so why wasn’t she?

What a bizarre proceeding was to follow. These constables and officers were theoretically part of the same organization, but seemed to follow some strange, Kafka-esque plan detached from reality.

We were slowly processed in, thoroughly and not uncomfortably searched, and stuffed into a holding tank. The only toilet was in clear view of everyone, male, female, prisoner, employee, whatever. My experience made this no issue, but I’m sure for many it would be demeaning and embarrassing. I couldn’t decide if that was its purpose, or if it was just lack of concern.

After being biometrically IDed, we were led to another holding cell. I asked about contact and was told, “You won’t see a phone for the next four to six hours.”

That was interesting. They had mine, and complete control of me. It still didn’t seem repressive or dangerous, but what harm is there in allowing someone to communicate? Presumably the idea is to process them into either detention or release, allow the legal process to commence. All this takes time and money, and I can’t figure out how further communication is bad for that.

This was an experience few tourists get. I kept notes. No, I don’t recommend it.

My guess is the toilets in the holding cell have never been cleaned. I doubt they can be—when is the cell empty? There was no furniture, just concrete and block walls and shelves. It was crowded at 2300; it was elbow to nose by 0600. It was cold. It stank.

Leftover food sacks littered the place. This was good, as the brown paper could be used as insulation to stop one from freezing to the floor. Ones with sandwiches still in and mashed flat could be used as pillows. The leftover sandwich bags made handy cups to get drinking water from the sinks over the toilets, centimeters thick in grey slime mold. I recalled tricks from my military survival training, which I never thought I’d use domestically. If you pull your arms inside your shirt, you maintain body heat. Sleep as much as possible. Save small things like toilet paper for later use. Talk little, and try to help others. I gave some of my hoarded brown paper to a man with no shirt who had to be suffering from hypothermia on that floor.

No one seemed disposed to trouble. In fact, everyone in the cell was very polite. Those who had to sit on top of the wall over the toilets because of lack of space would courteously look away while you used them. I could handle that, but I imagine most of the locals would not find it at all pleasant, being more body shy than Freeholders, and no one likes to be watched eliminating. It’s instinctive. One is rather helpless at that moment.

At 0600 local they brought us breakfast. The guards handed it out personally to ensure that every prisoner had a meal. This must be procedure, as they clearly didn’t care. Breakfast was fake ham on soggy bread with stale cheese, and a cut up apple, with a bag of sterilized, sour-tasting milk. To drink the milk, you had to chew off the corner of the bag. I saw one poor derelict, filthy and hungry, eating leftover food that had fallen around the toilets. Clearly, this man needed a hospital, not a cell. Some few had sketchy bandages from fights. One man who kept demanding his medication had apparently been there for eight hours already. He was obnoxious, either from desperation, or from needing help. Still, if he had medication, he should have been taken elsewhere. He wasn’t exactly built like a boxer.

I was finally taken upstairs to the regular cellblock. It had steel bunks, and we each took a thin but functional mattress with us. I actually had no idea what time it was. There were no clocks anywhere and the guards literally would not give us the time of day.

No sooner had we got in there, however, a curse-screaming, obnoxious woman guard told us she was turning the phones off until we cleaned up the mess left by the last occupants, of whom only three were still present. I resented being held incommunicado, I resented not being asked first, before being given an ultimatum—I’d be glad to clean it for the sake of cleaning it, and to have anything to do for a little while. Most of the rest of my cellmates felt the same way, the sole exception being a screaming, cursing twenty-two-year-old admitted drug dealer.

We picked up the trash and swept and mopped in short order, and I recognized other military veterans from their cleaning style. The drug dealer spent the time calling the guard every unimaginative name in the book, while boasting of his prowess in acquiring stolen property. In response, the guard shouted that she was leaving the phone off to teach us a lesson. What lesson? That this punk was an idiot? We all knew that. Was she hoping we’d attack him so she could gas a few of us? We offered no hassle or resistance at any point. She initiated hostilities.

We all took care of the man with the artificial leg. Everyone was careful of the toilets and toilet paper, as we all knew we’d have to use them eventually. Leftover food was shared with new arrivals. The prisoners, with perhaps two exceptions of sixty, were polite, courteous, and addressed all guards as “Sir” and “Ma’am.”

The guards ignored every request, either without comment, with “I’ll see,” or with, “that’s not my job.” Taking care of prisoners? Not their job. Just signing papers. We were all there for a reason, right?

At noon, they brought lunch. Fake ham on soggy bread with corn chips and nasty chocolate chip cookies. Some analog of fruit punch in a bag, chew off the corner to drink, just like last time. That’s two sandwiches, an apple, two ounces of corn chips and twelve ounces of liquid in twelve hours. Barely enough to keep someone from curling up with pangs, especially in the cold. One experienced inmate offered to swap his sandwich for another drink. He got no takers. The sandwiches were that bad. I choked it down in small nibbles and made it last. This was literally a low-grade version of the capture training I’d had, and would have bordered on war crimes if done against POWs.

At 1330 there was a court call. My name was called, last on the list, while I was using the toilet. I finished, ran to get my mattress (it has to leave the cell with you) while my cellmates yelled at the guard, “Sir, there’s one more bloke coming, please wait a moment.”

He slammed the gate in my face.

I said, “Sir, I’m your last person.”

“I’ll come back for you,” he said, back to me. He didn’t even have the guts to look me in the face while lying to me. He lied to me, in uniform, wearing a badge that he’d taken an oath for. As a veteran, I downgraded this guy to “scum” in my rating.

Every time the guard came back for someone, I’d politely ask him, “Sir, I missed my thirteen-thirty call. When is the next one?”