Read Online Marlowe and the Spacewoman by Ian M. Dudley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ian M. Dudley
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outside slopes, and at the entrance, a set of stairs ran up to the pinnacle. Not that anyone ever used the stairs. Well, occasionally prisoners were pushed down them, but no one ever used them in the other direction.
Jet black, unmarked police flitters with dark opaque windows zipped in and out of the complex, while in the parking lot that encircled the building like a calm, midnight sea of asphalt, a fleet of more waited to be boarded by jet black armor-clad drivers with jet black guns and jet black stun batons. Marlowe felt a rush of fear as the car continued closer. His hair stood on end, and his hands shook. Memories of his last ‘visit’ to the Ministry left the taste of bile in his mouth. The sudden spike in stress levels sent the nano probes surging out of their storage sack to the far corners of Marlowe’s circulatory system, sowing a freshly manufactured cocktail of Prozium, Valzac, and Nicodeine. It helped. Marlowe’s shaking stopped, and his sense of certain death faded into a mere apprehension of doom. But the hair stayed at attention.
A couple of flitters soared overhead as Marlowe approached the entrance to the visitor’s lot. They hung above him briefly as he turned into the lot, and the Studebaker’s passive sensors detected their probes sweeping over the car. It was a rare sight indeed for an unescorted visitor to arrive at the Ministry of Policing.
The complex’s security system overrode the Studebaker’s controls as soon as he crossed through the first perimeter fence. While Marlowe had never felt uncomfortable letting the car drive itself, he felt a distinct discomfort at having the Ministry of Policing behind the wheel. Still, there was nothing he could do. The security system guided the car to a dark, covered entrance not visible from the road. Marlowe climbed out when the door popped open and after a moment’s hesitation, headed towards the entry.
In the shadows of the entrance, something moved. Something large, something ominous. Marlowe kicked on the low light filter and found himself staring down the infrared-haloed form of the Chief Minister of Policing. Obedere. His past and present nemesis. CMP Obedere had a dark, malevolent glare emanating from deeply sunken eyes, the filter-enhanced green infrared reflections from his retinas only adding to the demonic aura that clung to him like stink to a bloated, overripe peach. Well, non-GM peach, since the genetically modified ones never spoiled.
Obedere was bald, the soft fuzzy pink flesh of his head bunching up in fatty layers that cascaded down to his cheeks, where they sagged into puffy jowls that swallowed up his neck. Beady eyes set into a sagging, rotting peach festering on the fruit cart of his shoulders. He wore the standard obsidian black City Constable’s uniform, but on the banded collar that rode up against his chin, jowls, and ears rested a small gold pin of a hammer pounded into an anvil, indicating his rank as Chief Minister of Policing.
Marlowe remembered the last time he was here. The BondoRestraints holding his hands together, the shock sticks prodding him forward into the darkness, Obedere grinning gleefully. Ministry of Policing Inquisitors had held him in a small room at first, glued to a Truth-Be-Told Table, asking him questions he couldn’t answer, urging him to confess to something he hadn’t done and knew nothing about. After hours of intense, violent questioning, he’d been willing to confess to anything, but the Truth-Be-Told Table prevented him from lying. Probably Obedere had expected such an outcome and had relished the irony. But that particular memory wasn’t what haunted Marlowe now as he stood staring once again at Obedere in that dark doorway.
The Inquisitors had stopped asking questions. They peeled him off the Truth-Be-Told Table, leaving a thick layer of his skin behind, and dragged him into the next circle of Hell. Down
Jet black, unmarked police flitters with dark opaque windows zipped in and out of the complex, while in the parking lot that encircled the building like a calm, midnight sea of asphalt, a fleet of more waited to be boarded by jet black armor-clad drivers with jet black guns and jet black stun batons. Marlowe felt a rush of fear as the car continued closer. His hair stood on end, and his hands shook. Memories of his last ‘visit’ to the Ministry left the taste of bile in his mouth. The sudden spike in stress levels sent the nano probes surging out of their storage sack to the far corners of Marlowe’s circulatory system, sowing a freshly manufactured cocktail of Prozium, Valzac, and Nicodeine. It helped. Marlowe’s shaking stopped, and his sense of certain death faded into a mere apprehension of doom. But the hair stayed at attention.
A couple of flitters soared overhead as Marlowe approached the entrance to the visitor’s lot. They hung above him briefly as he turned into the lot, and the Studebaker’s passive sensors detected their probes sweeping over the car. It was a rare sight indeed for an unescorted visitor to arrive at the Ministry of Policing.
The complex’s security system overrode the Studebaker’s controls as soon as he crossed through the first perimeter fence. While Marlowe had never felt uncomfortable letting the car drive itself, he felt a distinct discomfort at having the Ministry of Policing behind the wheel. Still, there was nothing he could do. The security system guided the car to a dark, covered entrance not visible from the road. Marlowe climbed out when the door popped open and after a moment’s hesitation, headed towards the entry.
In the shadows of the entrance, something moved. Something large, something ominous. Marlowe kicked on the low light filter and found himself staring down the infrared-haloed form of the Chief Minister of Policing. Obedere. His past and present nemesis. CMP Obedere had a dark, malevolent glare emanating from deeply sunken eyes, the filter-enhanced green infrared reflections from his retinas only adding to the demonic aura that clung to him like stink to a bloated, overripe peach. Well, non-GM peach, since the genetically modified ones never spoiled.
Obedere was bald, the soft fuzzy pink flesh of his head bunching up in fatty layers that cascaded down to his cheeks, where they sagged into puffy jowls that swallowed up his neck. Beady eyes set into a sagging, rotting peach festering on the fruit cart of his shoulders. He wore the standard obsidian black City Constable’s uniform, but on the banded collar that rode up against his chin, jowls, and ears rested a small gold pin of a hammer pounded into an anvil, indicating his rank as Chief Minister of Policing.
Marlowe remembered the last time he was here. The BondoRestraints holding his hands together, the shock sticks prodding him forward into the darkness, Obedere grinning gleefully. Ministry of Policing Inquisitors had held him in a small room at first, glued to a Truth-Be-Told Table, asking him questions he couldn’t answer, urging him to confess to something he hadn’t done and knew nothing about. After hours of intense, violent questioning, he’d been willing to confess to anything, but the Truth-Be-Told Table prevented him from lying. Probably Obedere had expected such an outcome and had relished the irony. But that particular memory wasn’t what haunted Marlowe now as he stood staring once again at Obedere in that dark doorway.
The Inquisitors had stopped asking questions. They peeled him off the Truth-Be-Told Table, leaving a thick layer of his skin behind, and dragged him into the next circle of Hell. Down
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