Prog 5 : Hand-Off

Anderson found Cornelius herding the last of the perps into the catch-wagon, slamming the door closed and banging on it to let the auxiliary know he should set off. He turned to face his commanding officer, automatically coming to attention and snapping a fast-but-respectful salute. "Twenty-three grabs, thirty-nine slabs including some of the hostages. Grabs interrogated, sentenced, en route to the 'cubes. Forensics are finishing up with the slabs – meat-wagons standing by to take them to resyk. Tiger and HOJ have a preliminary report, awaiting final. Big Tri Judiciary are on scene – we should be able to hand off within five," he reported crisply.

Anderson lifted a presspulp cup. "I got coffee," she said guilelessly.

His poise cracked and he smiled. "Good to be the boss," he remarked dryly.

She lifted a fiberpress nest with four more cups in it. "Better to be part of the team," she said. He took one and sipped at it. Anderson looked around; Quartermain was speaking with a heavyset Judge, one of the Big Tri Judiciary, and Brufen was waving citizens and auxiliaries away from a large open patch of highway. "He's gonna bring Manta down here?" she asked. Cornelius shrugged.

"You got a better idea how we can get back aboard Aegis?" he asked, not unreasonably. He looked at her with concern – there was an ugly bruise on her temple to go with the black eye. "How you doing?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Better than my helmet," she said. "That probably saved my life."

Cornelius nodded. "Yeah," he said. "You don't normally wear one."

She smiled. "Jackie told me I should – this time, at least," she said. Cornelius took a long, introspective pull at his coffee.

"She's going to take some getting used to," was all he said.

"Mmm-hmm," agreed Anderson, her nose in her own cup. They watched as Brufen snapped a flare and tore it into two burning sections. Holding one in each hand he walked backwards through the space he'd cleared, beckoning with the impromptu marshalling wands. From out of the starless, light-polluted night sky above, Manta descended on four columns of screaming exhaust, lowering itself with impossible slowness to come to rest on the highway. The blacktop softened under the fiery jets, molten tar oozing up as the heavy landing gear squished it. The deafening roar of the engines cycled to silence, the scorching hurricane of the jetwash dying. Cornelius and Anderson lowered their hands from shielding their faces. "So, how'd she do?"

"You asking as her commanding officer?" he asked. She shrugged.

"Do I have any other options?"

"I guess not," he admitted. He swallowed another mouthful of coffee – it wasn't good and he wasn't thirsty, nor did he need the diuretic of the caffeine after the dehydration of the desert and action, but it was an excuse to not speak for the second he needed to gather his thoughts. "Solid pass for her age," he said. "Textbook adherence to protocol, good adaptability, effective use of rhetoric and psychology. She's aware of her own weaknesses and took steps to mitigate them. Her marksmanship with the widowmaker was acceptable – a low pass, but a pass nevertheless. Can't grade her on the lawgiver – didn't see her use it."

"You saw her use it once," Anderson reminded him darkly.

He shrugged dismissively. "Can't give her a marksmanship grade on that, Cassie," he said, deliberately obtuse. "Any comments you want to make?" he asked meaningfully.

"Significant emotional attachment to other Judges," Anderson said crisply. "There's the potential for that to influence her judicial decisions."

"Always is," admitted Cornelius. "Didn't happen here, though – her sentencing was textbook, and she enforced and commuted with an excellent eye to deterrent through visibility. On that, at least, she rates a perfect grade. And sentencing is the most important thing we do – my report will reflect that."

Anderson narrowed her eyes and set her jaw. "You don't know if she executed that perp because it was the correct sentence or if she was angry he shot me," she said tightly.

"And, unless you were inside her head – which you might have been," Cornelius realized, "neither do you. My report will reflect what I saw. What she did. If you want to make a separate report, I can assure you her designated Tutor will pay attention to it and give it due weight. But, Judge Anderson," he said seriously, "I will remind you that reporting guidelines are very clear and they have not yet caught up with your Division. You report what you saw happen, not motivations, reasons or feelings – no matter how you might have learned them."

"Our Division," she said. She smiled at him. "Deputy Chief of Psi."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "Takes some getting used to," he admitted. He clinked his cup against the rim of hers and picked another out of the nest. "Jackie did good," he said. "And I mean that both ways. Besides," he added as a parting shot as he took the coffee over to her, "this team needs someone who cares."

Anderson watched him go, shaking her head. She turned as Brufen and Betancourt approached. The Tek was battered and bruised, his uniform jumpsuit torn with scrapes of blood visible beneath, but he was animated and excited – perhaps a little too-much as the backwash of adrenaline flowed through him. The pilot was flushed, his eyes bright, his movements on the verge of dancing. This had been, she realized, his first combat-mission in years – and it had all come flowing back to him as a welcome river of muscle-memory and instinct.

Something made her brush against him with her psynses – his mindscape was a verdant jungle, a flowing sea of undulating green canopy brightened here and there with a wild spray of tropical flowers. But there was something stirring in the shadows beneath the canopy, things done in the dark and best left there. The sun was bright on the leaves, but underneath them it did not reach. There were secrets there, and as the wind the return to arms had summoned blew over the branches it threatened to pull them back and let the sunlight reveal the dark secrets that lay hidden beneath.

She held out the coffees towards them. "What, no liquor?" Betancourt asked, spreading his hands. He turned to Brufen. "It's bad enough I can't have my victory cigar," he said. He was jokey enough, but it was clear it hid a delicate fragility. Anderson contrived to touch his hand when he took the coffee. Her psychic fingers brushed comfortingly over the meteorology of his mindscape, trying to calm the wind before it blew into a storm. Seen by her psynses, the movement of the canopy stilled.

Brufen had taken the other coffee, but he was far from drinking it. He made expansive gestures with his hands, scalding liquid splashing about. "Did you see?" he asked. "The platform functioned perfectly!"

Anderson smiled at his infectious enthusiasm. "I take it you're happy with the shakedown, Brufen?" she asked. His face demurred into serious annoyance.

"Well," he said, "I must repeat my objections concerning deployment, and I would like the official record to reflect them. This was hardly the controlled test the shakedown cruise presumed. But . . ." he allowed himself a thin smile. "I must admit events did provide – while not a thorough test – an unexpectedly vigorous one. The airframe retained stability even at the outer limits of the envelope and it was able to place ordinance on target in an actual live-fire engagement."

Betancourt sipped his coffee. "She's still yawing starboard, Brufy," he said. The Tek glared at him, but then lapsed into laughter as the pilot winked.

"Any comments to make regarding Quartermain?" Anderson asked casually. Brufen turned to her, his face quizzical. Anderson shrugged. "You might have seen something John or I missed." Brufen shook his head.

"I really don't think I would have done," he said. "She was placed in a very difficult situation, and performed admirably. I have no negative report to make."

"Her execution of the perp," Anderson said. "That troubled you – deeply."

He nodded. "It did," he admitted, "and for that I apologize, Judge Anderson. I, too, was placed in a difficult position, but that is no excuse. Although as a member of Tek Division I am not Street-rated and do not expect to engage and sentence, nevertheless I should have been more prepared for the exiges of adjudication."

"Wait . . ." began Anderson. Brufen continued as if she hadn't spoken.

"Cadet Quartermain's action was . . . quite correct," he said. "My response to it was not judicial, and for that I apologize."

Anderson eyed him carefully – she could psynse no deception from him, only genuine humble embarrassment. "We'll say no more of it, Judge Brufen," she said slowly. He smiled, grateful.

"With your permission, Ma'am," he said, "Betancourt and I need to analyze the data from the flight, as well as giving Manta the once-over before we lift off again."

Anderson nodded. "Granted," she said with a smile. Brufen snapped to smart attention for a second and he and Betancourt turned to go, but she called after them. "And make sure you make time to look at the cars, boys!" she ordered.

"Yes, Ma'am," Brufen assured her. "Thank you, Ma'am." They hurried towards the silver-gray shield of Manta as Cornelius and Quartermain approached, the heavyset Big Tri Judge with them. Anderson acknowledged them with an upward flick of her head.

"Judge Pletcher," she said politely. It was a simple enough gambit, and Anderson noted critically Pletcher looked at her blankly for a second before realizing she'd just read his badge. "Hope we didn't make too much of a mess." Her voice and eyes were cool – the fact a well-organized carjacking like this had occurred in an area at least nominally under J-Dept control was troubling. Of course, most of the law enforcement in the all-but-fully privately owned Big Tri 'dust zone was corporate security with Judges limited to mere oversight. There would be too-few Judges to effectively police the area. It would be tempting to let things slide, to give corporations wide latitude, especially given the pressures that could be brought to bear because of the wealth and power of the vital industries here. She suspected the Chief Judge would be chewing out Pletcher's chief come the morning – and perhaps receiving an education in realpolik herself from Cal after the fact.

A small cloud hung in her mind – why had she thought of the Deputy Chief Judge then? He was a good Judge – an astute political animal, of course, but it seemed unusual to think of him as someone even slightly open to that. Still, it made sense. She wondered why she'd never thought of it before.

"Who are you people?" Pletcher asked without preamble.

"Psi-Division," said Anderson with relish. She spread her hands as if unfurling a banner. "'It's the thought that counts.'" Pletcher didn't look impressed, but it was Cornelius who spoke.

"Big Tri doesn't particularly want to take over the scene," he explained. "Jackie asked nicely . . ."

"Damn smart-mouth Cadet, threatening to go over my head," muttered Pletcher.

". . . but he still said no," finished Cornelius. "I made it an order, but I don't think he understands. I thought maybe you could explain, Cassie. Delicate touch, and all that."

"I want to know what the drokk you were doing adjudicating in Big Tri," Pletcher snapped. "We had notice of an airframe test over Sinclair with clearance for Big Tri airspace, but no details. And then you people drop out of nowhere like the Screaming Eagles taking on Ho-Chi Kim in SoAz and tear up the Dream Cruise? My chief wants answers."

Anderson felt the canopy of Betancourt's jungle ripple, the wind blown by a sudden memory. She watched him carefully, but his face betrayed nothing. She turned back to Pletcher. "Then your chief can ask, Pletcher," she said coldly. "And my XO'll tell him he doesn't have clearance. Now," she continued into his gaping face, "I've got my report to make and as a DivChief it goes straight to the Council of Five. You want me to mention you ignored a direct order from a Deputy DivChief and refused to take charge of a crime scene in your jurisdiction? Seems to me your chief'll have more questions than what the drokk we're doing here if I do."

Pletcher winced, his face twisting with anger, but when he spoke it was in a more conciliatory tone. "Look," he said, "the Dream Cruise is a big deal here – important event. Lots of corporate sponsors, major media coverage, that kind of thing. We just don't want anything happening to jeopardize it – it brings a lot of money into Big Tri."

"It nearly took a lot out," said Quartermain. "About, what, a billion or two in jacked classic cars?" She ignored Pletcher glowering at her. "How did that happen? That's the question your chief should be asking."

"Listen, Cadet . . ." began Pletcher, pointing his finger in her face, but got no further before Cornelius caught his meaty wrist in one massive hand.

"No, you listen to her," he said meaningfully. "You dropped the ball, let corp security have too-much leash. There's gonna be an investigation, questions asked. I think your chief would be in a better position to answer them if you take over the crime scene and we call this your collar."

For a second, Pletcher looked like he might argue, but then he angrily nodded and jerked his arm free. He watched sullenly as Cornelius tapped a couple of controls on his lawscreen. Pletcher banged his forearm against Cornelius' with unnecessary force. Cornelius smiled and gave a laconic salute. "Thank you, Judge Pletcher," he said pleasantly.

Pletcher didn't say anything, but Anderson's eyebrows went scrambling up in surprise as he snarled at them with his expression and stalked away. "I'm guessing I should be glad I'm not a telepath," Quartermain murmured.

Anderson turned to her. "Did you really threaten to go over his head?" she asked. Quartermain looked offended.

"No, Ma'am!" she exclaimed. "I spugging well did it. I had a line into ExUrb – they were going to call Kerry at home." Each sector in Mega City One was part of a larger supersector, named after a cardinal compass direction. Territories outside the city's walls yet still under its jurisdiction were grouped together in an extra-urban 'zone'. Judge Kerry – a savvy diplomat and negotiator – handled the complexities of the disparate and scattered non-continuous territories, keeping multiple balls in the air with consummate skill. Quartermain folded her arms and looked after Pletcher with distaste. "Spugging idiot!" she muttered. "He should know regs – Judicial elements unrated as Asset hold a crime scene only until local Judiciary arrive, at which point unrated elements are required to hand over."

"Oh, he knows it," Cornelius assured her. "He was just hoping you didn't."

She grinned. "Good job I was studying that earlier," she remarked lightly. "I had a feeling it would be useful."

oOo

"How you doing?"

The night was moon-washed and cool, the crow's nest illuminated with silvery-blue light. Aegis was docked on the northern edge of Big Tri, tethered to a slender spike extending from a skyscraper's roof. Attitude-control fans hummed on station-keeping duties and the airship bobbed and swayed in the wind coming off Lake Wendat. Most of the buoyancy was provided by expanded cells, the lift fans spinning almost-lazily.

Quartermain raised her eye from the privateer's scope and looked up at Cornelius. It took her eyes a few seconds to adjust – one from the darkness of being closed, the other from the false-dawn of the blacksun filter on the scope. She gave a one-shouldered shrug. "You're spotting my targets, Sir," she said, "you tell me."

Cornelius shook his head. "I didn't mean with the rifle – we're done for tonight." He held his hand out and she – a little reluctantly – passed it to him. He shucked the magazine and cleared the chamber, holding it in his left hand so he could offer his right to help her up. She took it and stood easily, lifting her helmet from her head. The two of them looked at each other for a second – her waiting for him to say what she knew he would, but having the good-manners to not preempt him. "Your first live-fire engagement," he said eventually. He drew into himself in thought. "I'm sorry about that," he said. "You're young – too young. I shouldn't have done that."

Quartermain had twisted her hair into a simple bun on the crown of her head to cushion the weight of the helmet. She reached up and unpinned it, shaking it out. In the moonlight, it was glossy black, the wind making it writhe with red and copper like a live coal. "You want to know how I'm doing, Sir?" she asked, "or you want to tell me?" She didn't give Cornelius a chance to respond. "I'm doing fine – thank you. You put me in the game, you trusted me. So did Cassandra. That . . . that means a lot, Sir."

"You killed a man," said Cornelius. "That's . . ."

"Seven," she said precisely. "I killed seven men, one executed, and wounded three others. I do not believe I acted inappropriately, I consider all my sentences to have been correct and my use of force justifiable and within regs. Obviously, if . . ."

"That's not what I want to talk about," said Cornelius gently. "For the record, I have no problems with anything you did."

"Then neither do I, Sir," she said tightly.

She held his patient gaze for an endless second, watching the little golden motes in his dark eyes sparkle in the moonlight. "I'm here for you, Jackie," he reminded her, "and I've got all evening." She shook her head.

"No, Sir," she said. "Cassandra will be here in few minutes with take-out and beer. You two'll want to be alone, and I'll admit I'm tired."

He laughed. "Then if you want to talk," he said, "you should talk."

She was silent for a moment, and then sighed deeply, running her hand through her hair. "Alright," she said, surrendering. She was suddenly a little girl again, no longer the fearsome Judicial-Cadet with everything to prove on the street. "I don't know how I'm supposed to feel, Sir. I know how I do feel – but I don't know if that's right."

"How do you feel?" he asked.

"I don't," she said simply. "I killed seven men today. And I'm sure they had hopes and dreams and favorite drinks. I'll bet they followed sports teams and watched TV. They probably had girlfriends or wives, maybe kids. I'm sure they had reasons for doing what they did. And you know what, Sir?" she asked flatly. "I don't give a single spugging damn. I'll put my head down tonight and the only thing that'll keep me awake will be the engines. I didn't choose to be a Judge, Sir, J-Dept chose me. But if that's how it is, that's what I'll be. They were perps, in the very act of committing a felony. Whatever their reasons, they still chose that. They chose to take something that wasn't theirs. They shot at you and Cassandra. If you gave me it to do over again," she said firmly, "I'd do just what I did. So tell me, Sir," she asked, "what does that rate me?"

"Pass with distinction," said Cornelius. "It's what you're supposed to be, how you're supposed to act. We've all been there, where you are. You did the right thing, and you know it's the right thing – but you look at yourself and wonder, what am I that I could do that?"

"I'm a Judicial-Cadet," she told him in a tone that said the conversation was at an end. Slowly, he nodded.

"If you ever want to talk . . ." he said. She smiled.

"I know, Sir – thank you." She turned as the hatch opened behind her and Anderson climbed into the crow's nest. She had a brown paper-bag tucked under one arm, folded square around boxes inside, grease stains seeping through the corners, and a six-pack of beer in the other hand. "Are we off-duty now, Sir?" Quartermain asked. He nodded. She flung herself forward and wrapped her arms around him, pressing her cheek into his chest in a sudden hug. She jumped back before he could object, darting past Anderson to the hatch. "Thank you, Ma'am," she said, "and I don't know why either – it's not something I've heard of. I'm sure it'll be nice, though."

Anderson's mouth gaped for a second. "There's sushi in the fridge for you, and something they call a Boston cooler – the local ginger ale and ice-kreem," she said lamely. "I don't know why they call . . ." But Quartermain was already gone. Anderson looked at Cornelius, smirking at the way he was still standing awkwardly with his arms out to avoid touching the young woman. "I'd have thought she'd have had enough of brothers," she remarked.

"Just so long as that's all it is," said Cornelius darkly. Anderson laughed and held out the bag.

"Noodles?" she asked. "Decent-enough looking joint in the atrium of the tower. No Natty Boh, I'm afraid – but the guy in the liquor store said this was the same family."

Cornelius took the six-pack and pulled out two bottles. He twisted the caps off and handed one to her. "We're a long way from Baltimore," he remarked. They clinked the bottles' necks together. "Cheers."

"To a job well-done," agreed Anderson.

"And many more," said Cornelius.

They both drank and then Anderson looked around for a place to put the bag while Cornelius examined the beer label critically. "We need a table or something up here," she said eventually, giving up and putting the take-out on the deck. She lifted a white-and-red carton out of the bag and offered it to Cornelius with a paper-wrapped pair of chopsticks. "Maybe some chairs, a little heater or something. Make a bit of a patio of it."

"I say no," said Cornelius, digging into the noodles. They were curried, but not excessively so. He fumbled with the chopsticks, eating as delicately as he could. Anderson slurped and shoveled – he wasn't sure if that was the method, or she just had bad table manners.

"Why?" she asked, her mouth full and drips of sauce on her chin.

"Quartermain said you were going to," he explained. "I'd kind of like her to be wrong at least once."

A/n : Not many notes here – this is really just a wrap-up chapter. There are some character notes here, mostly with Quartermain but we see little of Brufen and Betancourt as well. Some dark suggestions of things that might happen in the future.

"Lake Wendat" is the name given to Lake Huron; "Huron" is the French pronunciation of Wyandot or Wendat, the native people of the region. There are a lot of things called Huron, Wyandot or Wendat in that part of the world.

A "Boston Cooler" is a Detroit drink – Vernors ginger ale and vanilla ice-cream. It is named not after the city in Massachusetts, but no-one really knows for sure why it is called that.

Anyway – the end of the story; what did you think? There is a review box right below – I see many people reading, including reading through the whole story, but few reviews! What gives? :( Just tell me what you thought – you don't even need to log in!