Free Conscience of the Beagle by Patricia Anthony Page A

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    “Goddamn it! I’ll make the decisions around here. I don’t give a running fuck how famous you are. Or how goddamned smart you are, either. I was made team leader. If you have a problem with that, tell me. If you want to requisition something, you go through me. Do you understand?”
    “Yes.” His gray eyes are as level, as emotionless, as his voice. “Yes. Thank you, Major. I quite understand.”
    “Good.” I turn. Szabo and Arne are staring. “Szabo. Get on the net. Find us a house. Do it now. I want an isolated place. And then I want everybody to pack. I want us out of here.” The words spill from my lips. Before I know it, I’ve said too much. The room is probably bugged.
    “Major? What’s wrong?” Beagle asks.
    I snatch the Sheet from the table and write: VANDERSLICE IS HEAD OF THE SECRET POLICE.
    Beagle rises. Takes the Sheet. He looks at the message and nods. No surprise in his expression. He suspected. Of course. He’s so fucking brilliant.
    “What?” Szabo is asking. “What’s going on here?”
    Beagle hands him the Sheet and Szabo, reading, pales. He puts the Sheet down and goes quietly to his own workstation.
    I tell Beagle, “I’m going to read the Hendrix files.”
    Not waiting for his protest, I go to his station and scroll. Issues of Godly Science. Editorials by Paulie Hendrix condemning Vanderslice for pandering to Marvin, for stupidity, for bad and incompetent science. Hendrix and Vanderslice weren’t best friends. They must have hated each other.
    So Beagle knew what Vanderslice was lying about. How long was he going to keep the information to himself? M-8. Thinks he’s better than me. Thinks he can sucker me like Vanderslice has.
    I raise my head, then notice the tension in the room. Everyone is pointedly ignoring me. Arne has his head lowered. Szabo is letting his station do the search. From a pile of debris he picks a brown wallet and turns it over and over in his hands. What message is he getting from it? There’s an unSzaboish glower on his bearded face.
    They’re all annoyed. What were they talking about before I got here?
    Beagle picks up the Sheet from the table and writes: VANDERSLICE PLANS TO KILL MARVIN.
    How does he know that? Did Vanderslice tell him?
    HE WANTS TO BE CHOSEN OF GOD. SOMETIME SOON NOW, MARV WILL DIE IN A BOMB BLAST.
    Oh. Yes. I understand. Clever. Hiding one murder in a forest of others. My eyes shift to Beagle’s brown sleeve and I remember the HF patch. The olive green cloth.
    I tear the Sheet from him and scrawl: COLONIAL SECURITY’S HERE.
    Finally some expression. A flicker of alarm passes over Beagle’s jowled face.
    I write: FIND OUT IF THE EXPLOSIVE MATERIAL COMES FROM TENNYSON OR EARTH. I climb to my feet. Give the Sheet to Arne. He flings it angrily back and the metal sheath hits my chest hard. I’m too surprised to react.
    “I’m getting sick and tired of your overbearing crap! Don’t think I haven’t figured it out, Major. You’re reporting on everything I do, and you’re sending it to that dyke bitch Hiko Black. Don’t treat me like I’m stupid.”
    A dark shape zips past me and smacks the wall. Szabo is on his feet. Lying against the opposite wall is the wallet.
    “Goddamn it!” Szabo screams. “Stop it! Will you all just shut up!”
    Arne’s lips purse. “Holloway’s a spy. That jealous bitch is after me. Busted me to M-3 just because I’m better than her.”
    What is he talking about?
    “Jesus Christ, Milos.” Szabo’s voice is ugly. It doesn’t sound like him at all. “Grow up. You’re not the center of the goddamned universe!”
    Arne is surprised. Confused. Maybe hurt. Oh. I see it now. Definitely hurt. “I wasn’t the one who moved back to Level 4. You couldn’t take it. Couldn’t give me a chance. Didn’t believe in me enough to —”
    “Believe in you? M-4 was as high as you’re ever going to get. It’s that attitude of yours. That’s what busted you. What drove me crazy. How do you think it