Raphael Carter - The Fortunate Fall

“Maya Tatyanichna,” Good Cop said, “our records indicate that you did insert the courtesy plug.”

“Officer Pudding,” said the radio, “Officer Chocolate Pudding, please come to the front desk.”

I laughed and slouched back even further, tightening my grip on the cup. I would have to take the socket-cap off with one hand, and raise the cup with the other. The parietal socket, on top, would be best; to get the tea to run out again, they’d have to turn me upside-down, and by then it would be much too late—

I sat upright. Officer Pudding. The speaker trick. It was Keishi.

Or the Postcops trying to entrap me with hope. I had to be sure. “Yes,” I said carefully, “that’s true, I did put in the plug. She told me to put my Net chip in, so we could virtual conference. But I thought, ‘What would a person like Keishi Mirabara want with me?’”

“Officer Cavalry, Officer John Wayne Cavalry, please come to the station, you are needed.”

Bad Cop gave Good Cop a worried look and said, “Officers of French ethnicity are an asset to the Leningrad police force.”

I suppressed a smile. Somewhere deep in Bad Cop’s mind the words “goddamn frogs” had flared up and been quenched. Jean-Waine Chevalri. No allusion to the Ancient West could have come from these duraks. And no Weaver would have reason to play such games.

“What exactly did she say to you over the courtesy plug?” Good Cop asked.

“Oh, I hung up after a few words,” I said. “She was trying to tell me what to do. I hate it when people do that.”

“Officer Rune, Officer Net Rune, please return to your vehicle. Your headlights are on. Officer Net Rune.”

Bad Cop and Good Cop exchanged perplexed glances.

“She tried to tell me why, but by that time I’d hung up on her,” I said.

“Officer Pavlov, Officer Ivan Pavlov, please report to the front desk immediately. There is a camera here to interview you. Your tardiness in this significant public relations effort does not become the Leningrad Police Force. Officer Pavlov, come to the front desk now. ”

Of course.

I let the cup go, buried my head in my hands, and pretended to sob. “I’m sorry, officers. I’ve been trying to lie to you, but I see now that it’s fruitless. Can we start at the beginning again? Could you repeat the charges against me?”

“You are here for conspiring to remove a court-mandated suppressor chip, and for consorting with a known dissident, and for intent to commit affectional deviance.”

“And disturbing the peace,” Bad Cop added peevishly.

I knew my singing would be the death of me in the end. “I’m sorry,” I said, “I don’t know the jargon. What is ‘affectional deviance,’ please?”

“You deliberately set out to fall in love with a person of your own sex, in flagrant violation of the laws of the Fusion of Historical Nations as well as of the terms of your parole.”

“And did I succeed at this?”

“Not at the time at which you were arrested,” Good Cop said.

“And why not?”

“Because of the corrective device which we implanted twenty years ago, at the time of your first arrest.”

“Because of Postcop mind control.”

Bad Cop and Good Cop exchanged nervous glances. “The colloquialism is essentially accurate, yes.”

“And how did you find out about this intent? By monitoring private videophone conversations, yes? Through spy satellites? Through hidden cameras? By using the Net to spy on people’s minds?”

“She has no need to know that, Officer Rubatin,” said Bad Cop warily. “She is stalling for time.”

“Common courtesy demands that we answer all reasonable questions,” he said in a conciliatory tone. “There is nothing to fear; the information will go no further than this room.”

“No it won’t, will it?” I said. “Because I’ll leave this room a corpse. Have you already decided which one of you pulls the trigger, or do you flip a coin when it’s time?” I parted my fingers, as if accidentally, to let a little light from my Net-rune shine through. Bad Cop’s eyes widened.

“This information could only distress you—”

Bad Cop grabbed my hand away from my face, revealing the lit rune. “Shit!” she yelled. I longed for my imagination software, to draw a little puff of smoke above her Post chip.

“Smile, duraks, ” I said, “you’re on News One. Why don’t you tell the world why you wouldn’t let me go to the bathroom?”

“It’s a trick,” Good Cop said. “It has to be.”

“Of course it’s a trick,” I said sweetly. “Just go on as you were before. What difference will it make?” Then I widened my eyes and said in mock astonishment: “The Post police wouldn’t have anything to hide, would they?”

Bad Cop grabbed the radio. “Front desk, come in.”

“Front desk. This is Officer Miranda.” It was Keishi’s voice.

“Maybe I’ll just take a little warmup on this tea,” I said to no one in particular. “I think the world would like to know what Post-cop tea tastes like, don’t you?” I poured tea into the teapot, then back into the cup, and sipped with gusto.

“Is your Net link still out?” Bad Cop demanded.

“It’s just come on again,” Keishi informed her.

“Tune in News One and tell me what you see.”

There was a brief pause. Then the voice on the radio said, “Oh, gods. Don’t move. Don’t say a word. Just wait, and someone will be there right away.”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” I said, sipping my tea. “You swore on duty, and I’ve got every last phoneme on disk. What does the chief of police do in a case like this? Wash your mouth out with soap?”

Good Cop and Bad Cop sat frozen, as though they’d been switched off.

“Well, will you look at this? You give them a little media exposure and all of a sudden they’re so high and mighty they won’t even talk to you—”

“Maya Tatyanichna!” boomed the captain, bursting in. “Thank gods you’re all right. I came the minute I heard about this terrible misunderstanding. I’m sorry to prevail still further on your patience, but may I speak to my officers outside for a moment?”

“Sure, no problem. But I warn you, they’re really not much fun anymore.”

“Thank you,” he said, bowing slightly. “I will return shortly.” He escorted them out.

I did what any self-respecting camera would have done under the circumstances. I poured out my teacup, put it against the door, and listened.

The captain was saying: “… judged that you have erred so grievously that, in accordance with regulation 3708 stroke 25 paragraph c, I am removing my Emily Post chip in order to impress upon you the magnitude of your offense.”

“But… but…”

“You goddamn stupid whores!”

I had to bite down on my hand to keep from laughing. If only I’d really been recording. Of course I wasn’t; I’d had my Net-rune hot-wired years before, so I could turn it on and off as I pleased. It’s nice for letting people think that something’s off the record. But a Postcop captain swearing like a sailor all over the whole Net! If I had to choose between that and the whale, I might be tempted to give up the whale.

The whale. If I was going to live, then there was still a world outside the police station, and in it I had an interview to do. Not without regret, I abandoned my post for a moment to pick up the radio. “Hello, Officer Miranda?”

“I read you, Officer Pudding. Over.”

“Hey, front desk,” I said, “things are a little confused back here. Do you happen to know the time of day?”

“You’ve got around five minutes before someone figures out that everywhere but this building, News One is carrying a political debate in Otaku. Over.”