9,401, an SF thriller

[Agemegos]

Prelude

Exterior, false dawn

It is the hour between dawn and sunrise. About 1500 protestors in recipient blue are camped outside the north-east gate of the Imperial Residence on Cockaigne, with a gradually thinning wing stretched out along the perimeter fence to either side. About two kilometres west, where the Residence perimeter meets the spaceport perimeter, there is another small clot, of about two hundred. The night has been long and cool, and there has been, apparently, no-one to protest to. Moreover, the crushed security vegetation releases soporific fumes, and most of the protestors have been breathing them for eighteen hours or more. They are huddled miserably, and most of their slogan-daubed and scarlet banners are lying on the ground.

Without apparent stimulus, one figure separates itself from the group near the junction of the two fences. Pumping at the air with one fist, it runs to the Residence fence and shouts at the camera-post. After a pause of about ten seconds, the crowd take up the cry of "Justice! Justice!", and also rush the fence, shaking their fists in the air. A crush builds up against the fence, and the first figure starts to climb, boosted from below.

Then the fenceposts start glowing red, indicating a dangerous pressure. After a few seconds the fence gives way, so engineered as to prevent anyone being crushed to death. The screamers come on with a shriek like an ice-pick, and some of the mob start behaving erratically, tripping, falling, and staggering with their hands over their ears. But the ringleader picks himself up and starts running across the glacis of the Residence, picking his feet up high to avoid tripping in the tanglefoot weed. Over half the mob follow him.

Four minutes later, the ringleader arrives at the second fence, which is at the top of the counterscarp. Here he repeats his performance, shouting, inaudibly over the screamers, at the nearest camera. His movements are in this case noticably less vigorous, as though he were fatigued, or the soporific fumes of the vegetation were starting to have their effect. The mob join him in dribs and drabs, and again the fenceposts start glowing red to indicate a dangerous pressure. But this fence is not engineered to give way: the fall into the ditch might inflict severe and even fatal injuries. Instead, marines on the scarp open fire with heavy automatic stun-cannon. The protestors fall in a writhing, screaming heap.

Two fireteams of the marines guard cross the ditch and second fence on personal flyers, one east and one west of the protester. From each team, two marines go to ground outside the second fence, while two fly off to the north to patrol the glacis. After a minute or so protestors start struggling to their feet and running or hobbling away to the north. When almost all have started moving, four more marines cross the ditch and fence to the site of the incident. One is wearing the insignia of a sublieutenant, another those of sergeant. The four marines sweep the area, and the officer finds a figure prone in the tanglefoot weed. A call, a gesture. One marine is a medic, and starts applying rescusitation equipment.

An ambulance lands. Medics disembark. The corpse in the tanglefoot is pronounced dead.

The pumpkin-coloured sun, close and cool, begins a sluggish transit of the horizon. By the time it has dragged itself above the mountains the military police are there in force.

The Regimental Provost chases everyone off the scene, and sets two privates to surrounding it with poles and 'crime scene' tape. He takes out his datastick and, carefully photographing everything before he sets foot on it, makes his way to the body. The victim is lying on his back with his chin and palms up. His jacket and flies are open, his shoes are missing, and his undershirt has been cut open down the front. The whole face is covered by a bruise which is still darkening, two similar bruises, each as round as a breakfast plate and surrounded by a ring, discolour the front of his torso. The officer photographs the body in situ, then squats to examine it. He does not like what he finds behind the ear.

Lt. free Grail

****, damn, and blast!

(to his provost-sergeant)

Dammit, Staff, this is a murder.

(to the nearest MP corporal, who happens to be Mzilikaze)

Take three marines and tell Ath and her sergeant to confine themselves to their quarters and to speak to no-one until they are debriefed. Send your other fireteam to round up her medic and batman and the two marines off the wall, to be confined to quarters until debriefed.

(to the next-nearest MP corporal, Wang)

Send two marines to get a statement from each of those Home Office ambulance types. Don't forget to tell them that what they say will be recorded and used in evidence.

Lt. free Grail gazes off to the north, where marines are re-erecting the first fence. The protestor are long gone into colonial jurisdiction.

Lt. free Grail

Dammit!

He fires up his netlink and calls the Department of Justice office.

Lt. free Grail

Thórrson? Grail here, Regimental Provost. I've got a deader on the glacis, and all my suspects have vanished off the base. I'd like to hand the case over to you.

…

No, a protestor. They broke down the north fence, and got stunned by Guard at the top of the glacis. But they were out again before we found the body.

…

Possibly, but I don't think so. I'd need a pathologist to be sure. I think he was killed up close and personal.

…

I'll have you met at sally port number five.

He turns to his remaining corporal.

Lt. free Grail (to his Naiooka)

Naiooka, the Department of Justice are going to handle this one. Meet Inspector Thórrson at sally port number five and bring him and his people here.

Naiooka

Aye-aye, Lieutenant.