Chapter 17

           

           TheFellStreetstationwasanunassumingblockdoneoutinastyleIassumedmustbeMartianBaroque.Whetherithadbeenplannedthatway,asapolicestation,ortakenoverafterthefactwasdifficulttodecide.Theplacewas,potentially,afortress.Themock-erodedrubystonefacingsandhoodedbuttressesprovidedaseriesofnaturalnichesinwhichweresethigh,stainedglasswindowsedgedbytheunobtrusivenubsofshieldgenerators.Belowthewindows,theabrasiveredsurfaceofthestoneworkwassculptedintojaggedobstructionsthatcaughtthemorninglightandturneditbloody.Icouldn’ttellwhetherthestepsuptothearchedentranceweredeliberatelyunevenorjustwellworn.

           Inside,stainedlightfromawindowandapeculiarcalmfellonmesimultaneously.Subsonics,Iguessed,castingaglancearoundatthehumanflotsamwaitingsubmissivelyonthebenches.Ifthesewerearrestedsuspects,theyhadbeenrenderedremarkablyunconcernedbysomethingandIdoubteditwouldbetheZenPopulistmuralsthatsomeonehadcommissionedforthehall.Icrossedthepatchofcolouredlightcastbythewindow,pickedmywaythroughsmallknotsofpeopleconversinginloweredtonesmoreappropriatetoalibrarythanaholdingcentre,andfoundmyselfatareceptioncounter.Auniformedcop,presumablythedesksergeant,blinkedkindlybackatmethesubsonicswereobviouslygettingtohimaswell.

           "LieutenantOrtega,"Itoldhim."OrganicDamage.

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