Rogue(32)

I placed my hands on the roof of the vehicle, and let him pat me down. I didn’t immobilize him. I wouldn’t have been able to. My hands cramped slightly as a neural field gripped them in place. I knew how to break from that, but that would be tantamount to violently resisting arrest, and this scene would not get smaller.

I did say, “Phone in the right front pocket, folding knife in left.”

He replied, “Thank you, sir.” He carefully relieved me of those.

Another vehicle rolled up, and two more constables got out. They were all rather polite, a bit aloof, and reasonably professional, other than the fact they didn’t treat me as a dangerous threat. Maybe I’m paranoid, or maybe it’s my experience. I was being courteous, so they were decent back to me. Well enough.

They went through my jacket and the pack, found technical tools and the pistol. That got their attention in a big way. They focused on it, rather than the intel cracking stuff, which should have been far more interesting under the circumstances. Or maybe they wanted to deal with easy charges first.

“So what is your purpose in being here with a pistol, sir?” he asked as he drew my arms down and cuffed them behind me.

“I should probably wait for an attorney to discuss that, sir,” I replied.

“Are you sure? That means a ride to Processin’.”

“I’m sure.”

“Very well. Sit down carefully on the curb here, please.”

I did so. It was chill, slightly damp and a bit gritty.

Nothing happened for several minutes, and I presumed Silver had gotten well clear. They chattered on comm, without mentioning her, or pursuit, or anything in the area. It was just me. So she could continue pursuit primarily, and work on release for me second.

Eventually, a van came. It was an unremarkable egg without insignia. It pulled up right in front of where I sat. The officer lifted me to my feet by one elbow and faced me against the back of the van. I kept spatial awareness up for threats, but didn’t try to glance around. As long as it was peaceful, I’d play by the rules.

The driver was my height, male, light brown hair. He slapped a pair of binders above the existing pair. The arresting constable thumbed his pair off.

The driver asked, “No statement?”

“None. Possessions here.”

“Understood.” He then patted me down himself. I approved. That was pretty good procedure.

He thumbed the door, it opened, and he assisted me up into one side of the rear.

“Watch your head on the roof,” he said.

Inside was a featureless metal block, with howling air conditioning and bright lights. A claustrophobe would turn into a gibbering nut in about ten seconds. The driver took an interminable time, and I couldn’t track direction or distance enough to matter. Believing that hands behind the back is a dangerous position should there be an accident or “accident,” I maneuvered my hands in front of me, by dint of athletic flexibility. I rolled, arched, got them past my buttocks and stepped through.

It’s a good thing I didn’t need to relieve myself. The vehicle looked designed to be sluiced out, but there was nothing one could use for facilities.

In the Freehold, if you actually commit an infraction worthy of response, City Safety will arrive with lots of weapons and escort you peacefully to Citizens’ Court. Put up a fight and you’re likely to be dead. They transport you in the back of a car, and very few people resist. The Citizen sorts things out and schedules hearing dates, etc., and you’re released. If you are really brained out or vicious, you could be detained with a shock collar. I’d studied detention on various planets and nations, so I found this entire industry of specially made vehicles, restraints, doc programs, all fascinating.

Twice we stopped, sat for several minutes, and then someone was shoved in alongside. One man in his fifties, then one in his twenties. We didn’t talk. I presumed there were others in the other half of the vehicle.

Believe it or not, one of the big things for me was trusting the driver. I’d frequently traveled in ships, aircraft, boats, locked in and having to rely on someone else for my life. It was always either by contracted choice or with a fellow soldier I had commonality of background in and could trust. This was merely a ground vehicle, but manual only and subject to collision. The odds were remote, but they bothered me.

When we arrived downtown, we were marched out into a stark, lit bay. I expected to be hassled about the cuffs, now in front of me, but no mention was made. So why the insistence that cuffs be behind your back? An elderly lady, presented as detained for domestic violence, was not cuffed due to her age, yet she obviously had been accused of violence, so why wasn’t she?