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Tribune Dobbs Kobick was smug.  His infuriatingly correct and clever subordinate was standing at attention in front of his desk, and he wouldn’t release her until he had sprung his trap.

“Centurion,” he began, “as I am sure you saw from the report forwarded to you this morning, an unauthorized egress has been discovered in the Oakland warren.  There is reason to believe persons outside the warren may have been involved either in establishing this egress or engaging in illegal traffic via it.  I am directing you to coordinate with the investigating elements of the warren police and follow all possible leads.”

Priyanka allowed a short pause before responding to Kobick.  “With respect, Tribune, Warren Administration has a janitorial section to handle just such incidents.  If an investigation external to the warren is warranted, it would properly be the jurisdiction of the Oakland PD.”

Kobick was expecting this.  “Centurion, your reputation for knowledge of and respect for protocol is well-deserved.  Accordingly, you must also be aware that the Federal Cohort reserves the right to pre-empt local authorities at the discretion of the local commander.  I am exercising that discretion.  I understand you have already been in contact with the lead investigator in the warren, a Detective Guzman.”

“That contact was unauthorized and I reported it to Warren Administration immediately.”

“Of course you acted properly.  No one is suggesting otherwise.  Nevertheless, Detective Guzman raises some serious allegations involving a prominent local taxpayer, and it is vital that such a delicate matter be handled by someone with sound judgment.  As you already have a . . . rapport with Detective Guzman, you are ideally situated to resolve this matter with the diligence it deserves.”

Priyanka knew she was being set up.  Twice in the past year she had embarrassed Kobick by pursuing matters he had deemed beneath the Cohort that resulted in multiple convictions of Federal crimes.  The irony of his sudden interest in local violations would be admirable if it weren’t also potentially fatal to her career.

“Tribune, I am grateful for the trust you have reposed in me.  I shall give this matter my full attention.”

“Centurion, please report to the Oakland warren at 08h00 tomorrow.  Detective Guzman will be in your custody while he conducts his investigation outside the warren.  Warren Administration will send a kit over to your residence for Detective Guzman’s accommodations.”

“Tribune, am I to understand that Detective Guzman will not be restored for his stay outside the warren?”

“Centurion, that is correct.  While serious, this matter does not as yet justify the costs of a restoration of Detective Guzman.  His safety will be your responsibility.”

“Tribune, I understand.”

“Centurion, you are dismissed.”

Kobick was no fool.  While he didn’t know anything specific about Chadwell, he knew that taxpayers of his stratum were accustomed to receiving lenience from the Federal Cohort, more lenience than of which he imagined Centurion Mukhopadhyay was capable.

 


 

It had been years since Marco last visited Immigration.  Back when he had been more idealistic (or naïve, as Marco would say now), he would scan the Arrivals bulletin for immigrants with notable histories and personally welcome them to his precinct.  This is how he met Cowan, a rare investment that paid off.  Marco, had never, however, been to the much-less-used Emigration office.

With the cost of restoration so prohibitive, the vast majority of warren residents that passed through Emigration were guest workers on temporary assignment.  Instead of being restored, such workers were fitted with an ankle bracelet GPS transponder and issued a backpack containing survival gear.  Marco was no exception this regime.

After checking Marco’s chip twice, the Warren Administration kapo buzzed Marco through a pair of doors into the cavernous transfer bay.

The morning shift had gone through Emigration over an hour ago, so Marco was surprised to find a woman waiting on a bench at the near end of the bay, opposite a window from which the WA goons could survey the entire bay.  The space was well lit and unsparingly white.  Halfway down the bay an enormous transparent plexiglass wall formed the final border of the warren, with another secure door at its base.  At the far end of the bay, emigrants were received by their custodians outside the warren.

The woman had blond hair and wore what in the warren passed for expensive business attire.  She didn’t seem to be wearing a transponder, and instead of a survival pack an unfamiliar cylindrical box rested on the bench next to her.  She looked him up and down as he approached, then she broke into a wide smile.

“Hi!” she gushed.  “Are you being restored too?”

By way of response, Marco sat down and lifted a pant leg to reveal his transponder.  Her mouth compacted to an expression of condescending pity.

“Don’t worry, hon,” she said, “You’ll make it someday.”

Marco had never known anyone who had been restored, and he had no small talk.

“What’s in the box?” he asked.

“Well, they said we could bring one suitcase, but I didn’t want to keep anything from this place, except for this.”

She opened the box and took out a striking wide-brim red hat.  Marco had never seen anything like it outside of the movies.

“Very nice.”

“Thank you,” she said, returning the hat to its protective case.  “It was my mother’s.”

A series of dull booms echoed through the bay, and the woman glanced at her watch before looking up through the plexiglass wall.

“I think this is my ride,” she said.

The man from the restoration clinic arrived at the far end of the transfer bay and, as gently as he could, pulled up a chair and sat down.  His efforts were likely unappreciated by the woman and Marco, who felt the tremors through the floor as if a small mountain had shambled into the room.  Even seated, the clinician towered over them, but this was unsurprising, as Marco and everyone else exposed to the J-K effect only averaged about three inches in height.

 


 

Marco was still craning his neck to stare at the giant when he was startled by the woman speaking through an intercom on that amplified her voice at the far end of the transfer bay.

“Good morning, I’m so glad to see you!” she crooned.  “Did they notify you of my preference not to be handled?”

The clinician’s voice required no amplification.  Marco’s viscera flinched reflexively at the thunderous voice.

“Yes, ma’am.  I’ll be transporting you in this.”  He lifted an object that to him was probably the size of a shoe box but that to Marco seemed as big as a railway car.  He set it down next to him on the bay floor, which from his seated position was at the height of a table top.  The object had a large grip projecting from the top, and large foam cushions at each corner.  The sides appeared to be some sort of polarized glass or plastic.

“The hatch is keyed to your warren ID, ma’am,” roared the clinician’s voice, “and once you’re strapped in you can speak me via the onboard phone.”  He tapped his earpiece.

The woman stood and collected her hat box, then paused to compose herself.  She let out a deep sigh, then remembered Marco still sitting on the bench.

“Good luck!” she said, then turned on her heel and marched toward the plexiglass wall.  When she reached the door, she waved at the WA goons, who unlocked it.  Somehow she kept from staring up at the giant clinician and headed directly for the transport carry, swiped her ID and disappeared through the hatch.

The clinician made no less racket rising from his chair than he did sitting down.  He gingerly lifted the transport carry out of sight, leaving Marco to await his own custodian.

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