The Snow Queen by Joan D. Vinge Page A

manipulation of them.
He was all that was rotten, venal, and corrupt about humanity, and Carbuncle.
    Crime and
punishment on Tiamat—in effect, in Carbuncle—as on other Hegemonic worlds, had
been split into the jurisdictions of two courts, one presided over by a local
official chosen by the Winters and acting under local laws, and one by an off
world Chief Justice, who passed judgment on off worlders under the laws of the
Hegemony. The police provided the grist for both mills, and to Jerusha’s mind
the harvest should have been bountiful. But Arienrhod tolerated and even
encouraged the presence of the Hedge’s underworld, creating a kind of limbo, a
neutral ground convenient to the Gates. And LiouxSked, that pompous,
boot-licking imitation of a man and a commander, didn’t have the guts to stand
up against it. If she only had the rank, and half an opportunity’ Do you have
any comments to make about the report, Inspector?”
    Jerusha
started, feeling stupidly transparent. She switched off the recorder, an excuse
to keep looking down. “None, Your Majesty.” None
that you’d want to hear. None that would make the slightest
difference.
    “Unofficially, Geia Jerusha?” The Queen’s voice changed.
    Jerusha looked
up at Arienrhod’s face, open and compelling, the face of a real woman and not
the mask of a queen.
    She could
almost trust that face ... she could almost believe that there was a human
being behind the ritual and deceit who could be reached ... almost . Jerusha glanced back at Starbuck
standing at the Queen’s side, her henchman, her lover.
    Jerusha
sighed. “I have no unofficial opinion, Your Majesty. I represent the Hegemony.”
    Starbuck
said something in the unknown language; she translated the crudeness of the
insult from his tone.
    The Queen
laughed: high, incongruously innocent laughter. She gestured. “Well, then,
you’re dismissed, Inspector. If I want to listen to a canned recitation of
loyalty, I’ll import a coppok. At least their plumage is more imaginative.” The
Elder Wayaways appeared, bowing, to lead them out of her presence.
     
    Jerusha
stood in the palace courtyard at last, staring fixedly at the patrol craft A starburst of exploded cracks rayed out from the slagged
impact point on the ruined windshield. So
it’s come to this? “I’m sure there must be a lot of heavy remarks I could
make about this.” Her hand jerked out at the vandalism, dropped away to the
door latch instead. “But I’m goddamned if I’m going to put on a show here.” She
slid into the bobbing seat as Gundhalinu got in on the driver’s side.
“Besides—” she pulled down the door, “all I can think of to say is that I’m
tired, and I feel like I’ve been spat on. Sometimes I wonder if we’re really in
charge of anything on this world.” She dug into her pocket for the pack of
iestas, tapped a couple into her palm. She put them into her mouth and bit down
on the leathery-tough pods, felt the sour tang begin to ease her nerves.
“Finally . Want some?” She held out the pack.
    Gundhalinu
sat rigidly behind the controls, staring out through the wild tendrils of
destruction. He had been silent through their journey back, crossed the Hall of
the Winds as though he were crossing an empty street. He began to punch in the
ignition code, and didn’t answer.
    She put the
pack away. “Are you capable of driving, Sergeant, or shall I take the
controls?” The sudden goad of officiousness in her voice made him flinch.
    “Yes,
Inspector! I’m capable.” He nodded, still looking straight ahead. She watched
more words struggle in his throat; he swallowed hard, like an angry child. The
craft began to nose slowly back and around, edging toward the city.
    “What did
Starbuck say just before the Queen sent us away?” She kept the tone impersonal.
She could recognize some of the Kharemoughis’ ideo graphic writing—the
operating instructions on most of their exported equipment—but she had never
bothered