Read Online Conscience of the Beagle by Patricia Anthony - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Patricia Anthony
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Don’t be naive, Major.”
She’s looking at my insignia. I remember the HF patch in the drunk’s hand. A captain. The drunk tore the patch from a Colonial Security captain. Where had the drunk found the money to travel to Earth? How could he have taken that patch through the Jump without somebody questioning him about it?
I ask, “Are you a programmer? What makes you think an outside agency got into his DEEP?”
“I know because I know what was in there.”
“You want me to believe that when the God’s Warriors searched your house one of them planted that evidence.”
“I don’t want you to believe anything.”
Mrs. Hendrix finishes her coffee and begins tearing flower-petal strips down the cup. She must not have been hungry. Or memory has upset her. Did she love him? The sandwich lies untouched.
I’m suddenly furious with Vanderslice. How could he forget her? How could he leave her to this? Her head is tilted now, but tilted down. She looks so sad, I think. “Mrs. Hendrix,” I say gently. “After the bombing, who was in your sperm?”
Her expression freezes. I feel my own sag. The word hangs in the air between us. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “Sorry.” I clear my throat. “Did anyone ever come into your home?”
She laughs. She has a merry, gut-loud laugh. A woman’s version of Szabo’s. “What a delightful Freudian slip. God, Major. Don’t look at me like that. We use a heating coil, lubricant and Smart Plastic. I put the device over the man and let it go. Oral sex is a misdemeanor here. The average Tennysonian male has no idea how it feels. The only customer who’s ever seen through the ruse was a miner from Jones’ Paradise. Although I have no doubt you would have caught on quickly. My job bothers you for some reason, doesn’t it? Odd. Your being from Earth. Being a cop.”
She wants me to laugh with her. I don’t. What she’s told me should make me feel better. Why doesn’t it? “Mrs. Hendrix, please: Did anyone ever get in your house?”
“They wouldn’t have to. Whatever anyone wants you to believe, you can access DEEP files through the net. But the only people with that type of programming sophistication are in the Tennyson government.”
Four forty-five and morning is coming on. The sky, the street, turn milky gray. Buildings emerge from the shadows. The kiosk, with a trickling sound and rich warm scent, begins perking a new batch of coffee.
I close my eyes.
“You’re tired,” she says.
I open them again. Color from the kiosk’s sign bleeds on the street. I yawn. “Just a little.” My eyelids droop. But that’s all right. It’s all right to be sleepy. Everything’s safe now. I sit and watch morning chase the shadows. “John Vanderslice. How close was he to your husband?”
“Oh, yes. John.” Her face is droll. “When Paulie was younger they were friends. John was Paulie’s student, you know. Then things changed. They drifted apart.”
“Vanderslice is convinced that your husband is innocent.”
Strong emotion pulls her lips down. I wonder if it’s fury or grief. “He should know.”
“You mean they kept in touch?”
“I mean that if anyone could get into Paulie’s DEEP files and put something there, it had to have been John Vanderslice.”
“It was Vanderslice who told me DEEPs are inaccessible.”
“Well, disinformation is his job.”
The sky above is pearl. Pinkish gray at the horizon. Tennyson’s sun hangs in wait just below the terminator.
“But I thought Vanderslice was the Minister of Science.”
“Yes. The Science Ministry controls surveillance,” Mrs. Hendrix says.
“I’m sorry? I don’t understand.”
She laughs. A bitter one this time. “John Vanderslice is head of the secret police.”
NO CAB CALLS on the south side. That’s what she tells me. I don’t want to leave her, but I take off at a run. Four blocks. Easier now. Five. Just a memory. Until a stitch in my side slows me down.
Through gaps in the buildings I
She’s looking at my insignia. I remember the HF patch in the drunk’s hand. A captain. The drunk tore the patch from a Colonial Security captain. Where had the drunk found the money to travel to Earth? How could he have taken that patch through the Jump without somebody questioning him about it?
I ask, “Are you a programmer? What makes you think an outside agency got into his DEEP?”
“I know because I know what was in there.”
“You want me to believe that when the God’s Warriors searched your house one of them planted that evidence.”
“I don’t want you to believe anything.”
Mrs. Hendrix finishes her coffee and begins tearing flower-petal strips down the cup. She must not have been hungry. Or memory has upset her. Did she love him? The sandwich lies untouched.
I’m suddenly furious with Vanderslice. How could he forget her? How could he leave her to this? Her head is tilted now, but tilted down. She looks so sad, I think. “Mrs. Hendrix,” I say gently. “After the bombing, who was in your sperm?”
Her expression freezes. I feel my own sag. The word hangs in the air between us. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “Sorry.” I clear my throat. “Did anyone ever come into your home?”
She laughs. She has a merry, gut-loud laugh. A woman’s version of Szabo’s. “What a delightful Freudian slip. God, Major. Don’t look at me like that. We use a heating coil, lubricant and Smart Plastic. I put the device over the man and let it go. Oral sex is a misdemeanor here. The average Tennysonian male has no idea how it feels. The only customer who’s ever seen through the ruse was a miner from Jones’ Paradise. Although I have no doubt you would have caught on quickly. My job bothers you for some reason, doesn’t it? Odd. Your being from Earth. Being a cop.”
She wants me to laugh with her. I don’t. What she’s told me should make me feel better. Why doesn’t it? “Mrs. Hendrix, please: Did anyone ever get in your house?”
“They wouldn’t have to. Whatever anyone wants you to believe, you can access DEEP files through the net. But the only people with that type of programming sophistication are in the Tennyson government.”
Four forty-five and morning is coming on. The sky, the street, turn milky gray. Buildings emerge from the shadows. The kiosk, with a trickling sound and rich warm scent, begins perking a new batch of coffee.
I close my eyes.
“You’re tired,” she says.
I open them again. Color from the kiosk’s sign bleeds on the street. I yawn. “Just a little.” My eyelids droop. But that’s all right. It’s all right to be sleepy. Everything’s safe now. I sit and watch morning chase the shadows. “John Vanderslice. How close was he to your husband?”
“Oh, yes. John.” Her face is droll. “When Paulie was younger they were friends. John was Paulie’s student, you know. Then things changed. They drifted apart.”
“Vanderslice is convinced that your husband is innocent.”
Strong emotion pulls her lips down. I wonder if it’s fury or grief. “He should know.”
“You mean they kept in touch?”
“I mean that if anyone could get into Paulie’s DEEP files and put something there, it had to have been John Vanderslice.”
“It was Vanderslice who told me DEEPs are inaccessible.”
“Well, disinformation is his job.”
The sky above is pearl. Pinkish gray at the horizon. Tennyson’s sun hangs in wait just below the terminator.
“But I thought Vanderslice was the Minister of Science.”
“Yes. The Science Ministry controls surveillance,” Mrs. Hendrix says.
“I’m sorry? I don’t understand.”
She laughs. A bitter one this time. “John Vanderslice is head of the secret police.”
NO CAB CALLS on the south side. That’s what she tells me. I don’t want to leave her, but I take off at a run. Four blocks. Easier now. Five. Just a memory. Until a stitch in my side slows me down.
Through gaps in the buildings I
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