Free Conscience of the Beagle by Patricia Anthony

catch a glimpse of a red sun peeking over the horizon. Light turns the streets apricot and gold. Seven blocks.
    Vanderslice. That bastard. I should have known. Too easygoing, too affable. And what does he have on Marvin? Damn. What does he know about me?
    My steps become a painful hobble. There’s a burning ache in the back of my legs. How many blocks now? I’ve lost count.
    The buildings here are smaller. Nice eight-plexes and four-plexes. Some trees. Around the next corner I come across a man lurking near a clump of bushes.
    He hears my approach and turns. Young. Expensive suit. Expensive haircut. Expensive briefcase. He reminds me of Vanderslice.
    “Where’s the nearest cab call?” I ask.
    He backs up, not as if I frighten him, but as though he’s afraid of getting dirty. “Excuse me?”
    “A cab call. Where’s the nearest cab call?”
    “Four blocks west.”
    “Four blocks?” I’ll never make it. “Goddamn!”
    His guileless face tightens. Not used to the language. Not used to the anger.
    I ask, “What are you doing out here?” He’s on his way to the office. He’d have a clean office. With a window.
    Not used to being talked to like this. “What are you doing out here?”
    “I’m with Earth HF.”
    He doesn’t understand.
    Of course not. Ticks. To them we’re ticks. “I’m a police officer, and I just asked you a question. What are you doing out here?” If I had my weapon, I’d shove it under that clean-shaven chin just to wipe the superciliousness from his face.
    “I’m waiting for a friend to pick —”
    “Good. I need a ride downtown.”
    Cautiously: “Oh. Downtown? We’re going, uh . . . I don’t think we’re going that direction. Sorry.”
    He’s lying. And there’s nothing I can do about it. Nothing I can do about Vanderslice. Nothing. I lean close, face-to-face. “Fuck you.” Enough fricative in the word to mist him with spittle.
    His smile drops. When I walk away, his shocked gaze tracks me, and it feels good.
    Four blocks west, near the cab call, a woman is kneeling before a flower bed. Why is she weeding? Doesn’t she have a bot to do that for her? In the air, the heady scent of moist loam.
    She stops working. When I catch her eye she hurriedly looks away. Not frightened, but . . . what? Then I recognize that look. She’s not afraid for her life. She thinks I’m going to ask for money.
    I run my hand over my cheeks and feel the stubble. My eyes feel gritty and swollen. I probably stink. A cab’s waiting. I climb in and order it to the hotel. By the time I reach the Hebron Crossroads it’s already nine o’clock.
    I walk past a curious desk clerk and take the lift to the eighth floor. Beagle doesn’t answer my knock. Szabo and Arne don’t either.
    I’ve arrived too late. Vanderslice has picked them up.
    Wary, I walk to my own door, key in my hand. Someone’s probably waiting inside. A group of God’s Warriors. Smiling, because they won’t want to alarm me. They’ll have on immaculate uniforms. They’ll be clean-shaven—Not a hair out of place. They’ll smell of aftershave and they’ll be pleasant. So polite. Sorry to bother you, Major.
    There’s no other choice. No place to hide. I slide my key in the slot and open the door. The room’s empty. The Wall is blinking a non-emergency green-over-black message: ROOM 810.
    My vision blurs. I look at the message again, hoping that I’ll understand it. Finally I sigh and walk down the hall.
    Szabo opens the door to 810. There’s a half-eaten donut in his hand. “Oh. Major. We were worried about you.”
    I push past him, into a huge three-room suite. Arne sits at a table, drinking coffee and contemplating a Sheet. Beagle is crouched over his workstation.
    “Beagle! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I can hear the sound of my own voice. Too sharp. Too loud.
    “Did you order this? Did you?” I would have arranged for a work suite if I’d had the time. Why didn’t Beagle just give me the