She grimaced involuntarily. “Then… with your permission, Your Majesty, I’ll present the Commander’s monthly report on the status of crime in the city.”
Arienrhod nodded, leaning out to lay a possessive hand on Star buck’s arm, as one might soothe a hackled dog. The nobles began to drift away, backing out of the Queen’s presence. Jerusha suppressed a smile of pained empathy. The report was no more significant than a hundred others before it, or any that would follow; she would sooner be elsewhere herself. She reached down and switched on the recorder at her belt, heard her commanding officer’s voice reciting the statistics on the number of assaults and robberies, arrests and convictions, off world or domestic crimes and victims. The words ran together into a meaningless singsong in her mind, raising all her familiar frustrations and regrets. Meaningless… it was all meaningless.
The Hegemonic Police were a paramilitary force stationed on all Hegemony worlds, to protect its interests and its citizens… which usually involved protecting the interests of the local on world power structures. Here on Tiamat, with its low technology and sparse population (half of which barely even entered into the Hegemony’s consideration) the police force was only a single regiment, confined to the star port and Carbuncle for the most part.
And its activities were confined, hamstrung, restricted: the breaking up of drunken fights, the arresting of petty thieves, an endless cycle of nose wiping and futile prosecutions, when right under their own noses some of the most blatant vice in the civilized galaxy went unchallenged, and some of the Hedge’s most vicious abusers of humanity met openly in the pleasure hells where they were so much at home.
The Prime Minister might symbolize the Hegemony, but he no longer controlled it, if he ever had. Economics controlled it; the merchants and traders had always been its real roots, and their only real lord was Profit. But there were many kinds of trade, and many kinds of traders… Jerusha looked up at Starbuck, slouching arrogantly at the Queen’s right: the living symbol of Arienrhod’s peculiar covenant with the powers of darkness and light, and her manipulation of them. He was all that was rotten, venal, and corrupt about humanity, and Carbuncle.
Crime and punishment on Tiamat — in effect, in Carbuncle — as on other Hegemonic worlds, had been split into the jurisdictions of two courts, one presided over by a local official chosen by the Winters and acting under local laws, and one by an off world Chief Justice, who passed judgment on off worlders under the laws of the Hegemony. The police provided the grist for both mills, and to Jerusha’s mind the harvest should have been bountiful. But Arienrhod tolerated and even encouraged the presence of the Hedge’s underworld, creating a kind of limbo, a neutral ground convenient to the Gates. And LiouxSked, that pompous, boot-licking imitation of a man and a commander, didn’t have the guts to stand up against it. If she only had the rank, and half an opportunity’ Do you have any comments to make about the report, Inspector?”
Jerusha started, feeling stupidly transparent. She switched off the recorder, an excuse to keep looking down. “None, Your Majesty.” None that you’d want to hear. None that would make the slightest difference.
“Unofficially, Geia Jerusha?” The Queen’s voice changed.
Jerusha looked up at Arienrhod’s face, open and compelling, the face of a real woman and not the mask of a queen.
She could almost trust that face… she could almost believe that there was a human being behind the ritual and deceit who could be reached… almost. Jerusha glanced back at Starbuck standing at the Queen’s side, her henchman, her lover.
Jerusha sighed. “I have no unofficial opinion, Your Majesty. I represent the Hegemony.”
Starbuck said something in the unknown language; she translated the crudeness of the insult from his tone.
The Queen laughed: high, incongruously innocent laughter. She gestured. “Well, then, you’re dismissed, Inspector. If I want to listen to a canned recitation of loyalty, I’ll import a coppok. At least their plumage is more imaginative.” The Elder Wayaways appeared, bowing, to lead them out of her presence.
Jerusha stood in the palace courtyard at last, staring fixedly at the patrol craft. A starburst of exploded cracks rayed out from the slagged impact point on the ruined windshield. So it’s come to this? “I’m sure there must be a lot of heavy remarks I could make about this.” Her hand jerked out at the vandalism, dropped away to the door latch instead. “But I’m goddamned if I’m going to put on a show here.” She slid into the bobbing seat as Gundhalinu got in on the driver’s side. “Besides—” she pulled down the door, “all I can think of to say is that I’m tired, and I feel like I’ve been spat on. Sometimes I wonder if we’re really in charge of anything on this world.” She dug into her pocket for the pack of iestas, tapped a couple into her palm. She put them into her mouth and bit down on the leathery-tough pods, felt the sour tang begin to ease her nerves. “Finally . Want some?” She held out the pack.
Gundhalinu sat rigidly behind the controls, staring out through the wild tendrils of destruction. He had been silent through their journey back, crossed the Hall of the Winds as though he were crossing an empty street. He began to punch in the ignition code, and didn’t answer.
She put the pack away. “Are you capable of driving, Sergeant, or shall I take the controls?” The sudden goad of officiousness in her voice made him flinch.
“Yes, Inspector! I’m capable.” He nodded, still looking straight ahead. She watched more words struggle in his throat; he swallowed hard, like an angry child. The craft began to nose slowly back and around, edging toward the city.
“What did Starbuck say just before the Queen sent us away?” She kept the tone impersonal. She could recognize some of the Kharemoughis’ ideo graphic writing — the operating instructions on most of their exported equipment — but she had never bothered to learn spoken Sandhi. The force used the speech of the place where they were stationed as a linguistic common ground.
Gundhalinu cleared his throat, swallowed again. “Begging your pardon, ma’am, the bastard said… “If you’re what the Hegemony sends to represent itself, it must be short on balls these days.”“
“Is that all?” Jerusha made a sound that was almost a laugh. “Hell, that’s a compliment… I’m surprised the Queen thought it was funny. Wonder if she really understood. Or maybe she understood that it only reflected on us.”
“Besides,” Gundhalinu mumbled viciously, “she’s got his.”
She did laugh this time. “Yeah. And welcome to them. So Star buck is from Kharemough.”
Another nod.
“What did he say to you?”
He shook his head.
“There’s nothing you could possibly say that I haven’t heard by now,
BZ.”
“I know, Inspector.” He looked back at her finally, away again with his freckles reddening. “That is, I can’t tell you. It wouldn’t mean anything, unless you’d been raised on Kharemough. A matter of Honor.”
“I see.” She had heard him speak of Honor before, heard the capital H, the peculiar emphasis.
“I — thank you for taking my part against Starbuck. I could not have responded on my own to his insults without further losing face.” The ceremony of the words and the sudden gratitude in his voice caught her by surprise.
She looked out at the nobility and servants gaping back at them through the shattered windshield as they drifted past the mansions of the upper city. “There’s no honor lost in being insulted by a man who never knew the meaning of the word.”
“Thank you.” He swerved upward to avoid a child floating golden hoops in their path. “But I brought it on myself; I know that. And I caused trouble for you, and embarrassment to the force. If you want to dismiss me as your assistant, I’ll understand.”