Six
Dawn on the streets of Tressia was calm and greased with the oil smoke from a half-million chimneys. Polian walked, hands in civilian coat pockets, eyes cast down at the cobbles, and frowned. Not at the feel of the coat. Tressen textiles had a hand-woven texture that he enjoyed. But the day ahead was the first of the thirty-one since he had returned from the Arctic that worried him.
He passed through a manned security checkpoint, a vestige of the day when rebel sabotage was a real threat and not just an excuse for the Interior Police to search the citizenry.
Then Polian was within the Government Quarter of Tressen’s capital. Polian frowned again because the sterile, boxy Tressen government buildings were set back thirty yards on both sides of a boulevard that was fifteen yards wide itself. Worse, the capitol city of Tressen, in fact the entire nation, was open to the sky. Polian had grown up like every legal Yavi, beneath the levels’ comforting ceilings.
He swore as he walked. Trueborn psychologists called the Yavi discomfort with open spaces agoraphobic. Yavi psychologists called it normal. Leave it to the Trueborns to define any behavior except theirs as aberrant. The polite term for Trueborn self-absorption was “Terracentrism.” Polian preferred to call it arrogance.
He rounded the last corner and let his eyes rest on the clinic. Its architecture was pleasantly different from the sterile Tressen boxes that it predated. Neo-Iridian, it was all white marble with arched doors and windows, crenulated parapets, for this world a regular castle. But in front of the castle squatted a long-hooded Tressen automobile, so black and anonymous that it could only be Interior Police. It was parked at the curb in front of the clinic’s arched entrance. Behind the car squatted a swollen-tired Tressen ambulance, rear doors swung open, exposing an empty interior waiting to be filled. Because half the clinic had been cleared, and now housed only one patient, that meant Polian’s worry about day thirty-one was justified.
Polian ran the remaining distance and reached the clinic’s front doors just as a patient-loaded gurney’s end bumped them open in front of him. Polian planted a hand on the rolling bed’s foot rail and stopped it.
He shouted, “What do you think you’re doing?”
The two trench-coated men pushing the gurney looked up at Polian. The one on the left peered from beneath the brim of his slouch hat with eyes as black and cold as marbles. “Custody transfer, Mr. Polian. The IP has humored you for a month.”
The man, an Interior Police chief inspector by his lapel badge, shifted his weight and shoved the gurney toward the waiting ambulance. Polian planted his feet, shoved back until the gurney quivered, and stared at the cop. Every member of the Interior Police that Polian had encountered had the same attitude and dead eyes.
The locals called the IP “ferrents,” after an indigenous species of anvil-headed, rat-sized amphibians. Partly because the IP wore ferrent-colored brown leather trench coats and slouch hats. Mostly because ferrents—the four footed kind—had a singularly disgusting habit of nosing around in other creatures’ dung.
Polian looked down at the bandaged, unconscious figure strapped to the gurney. “Thirty days was a reevaluation date, not a turnover deadline.” He peered over the ferrent’s shoulder at the lab-coated physician who stood behind them in the corridor. “Doctor, what’ll happen if she’s moved?”
The physician glanced sideways at the ferrent, around spectacles fashioned from bent wire. “As I explained to the chief inspector, each surgery has improved her chance of regaining consciousness. I think that in a few more days—”
The ferrent rolled his eyes. “More days? She was unconscious when she got here. After a month of your coddling, she’s the same. Our methods have gotten the attention of subjects less lively than she is.”
Ferrent “methods” would only kill her. That she die, and painfully, suited Polian fine. But not until she talked.
The doctor and this idiot ferrent knew only that the woman on the gurney was a high-value detainee and that Polian was a civilian with an odd accent and too much stroke. And that was all they needed to know.
So Polian simply sighed and exercised his stroke. He stared at the ferrent. “Would you care to see my papers?”
The man scowled and stared at Polian’s chest.
In a leather wallet in his breast pocket, Polian carried a simple letter on the personal letterhead of, and signed and sealed by, the chairman of the Republican Socialist Party and chancellor-for-life of the Tressen Republic. It advised the reader to render all assistance to the bearer that he might request. It encouraged the reader to contact the Chancellery directly if further clarification was required.
So far, further clarification had never, ever been required by anyone who saw the letter.
Undoubtedly, the ferrent’s predecessor had told this new ferrent about the fiat letter, if the doctor hadn’t. Polian cursed himself silently for keeping a predictable schedule. The ferrents had expected to steal the woman before he arrived, then fumble and shuffle about her whereabouts while they worked her over. They had nearly succeeded. The Trueborns had a saying that possession was nine points of the law. Evidently the Tressens did, too.
The doctor laid a hand on the ferrent’s coat sleeve and shook his head. The gesture measured the power of a simple Chancellery fiat letter. Just as no sane civilian Yavi back home laid hands on a government representative, no sane Tressen laid hands on a ferrent, unless the consequences of holding back were worse.
The ferrent glanced down at the hand quivering on his sleeve, then up at Polian. After two breaths, the ferrent nodded to his trench-coated companion, and the two relaxed their grips on the gurney rails. The senior ferrent narrowed his eyes at Polian and pointed. “I don’t know who you are, but I know you’ll regret this. This woman is trouble.”
Polian warmed to his role and mocked a pout. “Ah, women! How many years have the Interior Police been chasing Celline? Or does she chase you?” To the remaining Iridians, and the Tressens who covertly sympathized with them, Celline was hope. To the ferrents, her rebellion was an infuriating symbol of their impotence. To Polian, she was irrelevant. But she was a momentarily amusing pin with which to prick this ferrent’s ass.
The ferrent’s pointing finger shook. “We don’t chase myths. The last Iridian royal was hanged years ago.”
Polian smiled again. “Then why is her wanted poster still hanging in the employee lounge? Just an oversight, I’m sure. A rebellion could never survive for thirty years. Not against you ferrents.”
The doctor coughed a laugh into his hand. He had probably never heard anyone call a chief inspector of the Interior Police “ferrent” to his face.
The ferrent folded his pointed finger into a fist, shook it, then waved his subordinate to follow him as he stalked out the doors.
Twenty minutes later, in the windowless hospital room to which the anonymous patient had been returned, Polian stood alongside the unconscious woman while she breathed.
He stared down at her. With the bruising faded from her cheeks, she was a beautiful woman, but somehow not a regal one.
Polian stroked his chin and thought out loud. “Well, whoever you are, you’re no more an Iridian than I’m a Tressen. You’re a Trueborn from your toes to your eyeballs. You’ve got an athlete’s body. Or a soldier’s.” He ran a finger along the intravenous feeding tube taped to the woman’s emaciated arm. “Well, you did have a month ago.”
Her wounds had been so massive that her stable survival was, considering the primitive state of Tressen medical practice, miraculous. Back home, Yavi medical technology could have healed her to interrogatable condition long ago. And Yavi interrogation methods would then have wrung her dry within days. For now, all Polian could do was wonder. “How much do you know? How much does your partner know? How much of what you know have you passed on to your masters?”
Wonder, and wait on the next damn Trueborn cruiser to bring the next Yavi “humanitarian” delegation to Tressen.
He sighed at the serene, silent spy. “Well, once we succeed here, nothing the Trueborns know will help them.”