Part 2 (2/2)
”You can't even rez what Y.T. says,” Y.T. says.
”You have been identified as an Investigatory Focus of a Registered Criminal Event that is alleged to have taken place on another territory, namely, The Mews at Windsor Heights.”
”That's another country, man. This is White Columns!”
”Under provisions of the The Mews at Windsor Heights Code, we are authorized to enforce law, national security concerns, and societal harmony on said territory also. A treaty between The Mews at Windsor Heights and White Columns authorizes us to place you in temporary custody until your status as an Investigatory Focus has been resolved.”
”Your a.s.s is busted,” the second MetaCop says.
”As your demeanor has been nonaggressive and you carry no visible weapons, we are not authorized to employ heroic measures to ensure your cooperation,” the first MetaCop says.
”You stay cool and we'll stay cool,” the second MetaCop says.
”However, we are equipped with devices, including but not limited to projectile weapons, which, if used, may pose an extreme and immediate threat to your health and well-being.”
”Make one funny move and we'll blow your head off,” the second MetaCop says.
”Just unglom my f.u.c.kin' hand,” Y.T. says. She has heard all this a million times before.
White Columns, like most Burbclaves, has no jail, no police station. So unsightly. Property values. Think of the liability exposure. MetaCops has a franchise just down the road that serves as headquarters. As for a jail, some place to habeas the occasional stray corpus, any half-decent franchise strip has one.
They are cruising in the Mobile Unit. Y.T.'s hands are cuffed together in front of her. One hand is still half-encased in rubbery goo, smelling so intensely of vinyl fumes that both MetaCops have rolled down their windows. Six feet of loose fibers trail into her lap, across the floor of the Unit, out the door, and drag on the pavement The MetaCops are taking it easy, cruising down the middle lane, not above issuing a speeding ticket here and there as long as they're in their jurisdiction. Motorists around them drive slowly and sanely, appalled by the thought of having to pull over and listen to half an hour of disclaimers, advis.e.m.e.nts, and tangled justifications from the likes of these. The occasional CosaNostra delivery boy whips past them in the left lane, orange lights aflame, and they pretend not to notice.
”What's it gonna be, the Hoosegow or The Clink?” the first MetaCop says. From the way he is talking, he must be talking to the other MetaCop.
”The Hoosegow, please,” Y.T. says.
”The Clink!” the other MetaCop says, turning around, sneering at her through the antiballistic gla.s.s, wallowing in power.
The whole interior of the car lights up as they drive past a Buy 'n' Fly. Loiter in the parking lot of a Buy 'n' Fly and you'd get a suntan. Then WorldBeat Security would come and arrest you. All that security-inducing light makes the Visa and MasterCard stickers on the driver's-side window glow for a moment.
”Y.T. is card-carrying,” Y.T. says. ”What does it cost to get off?”
”How come you keep calling yourself Whitey?” the second MetaCop says. Like many people of color, he has misconstrued her name.
”Not whitey. Y.T.,” The first MetaCop says.
”That's what Y.T. is called,” Y.T. says.
”That's what I said,” the second MetaCop says. ”Whitey.”
”Y.T.,” the first one says, accenting the T so brutally that he throws a glittering burst of saliva against the winds.h.i.+eld. ”Let me guess-Yolanda Truman?”
”Yvonne Thomas?”
”What's it stand for?”
”Nothing?”
Actually, it stands for Yours Truly, but if they can't figure that out, f.u.c.k 'em.
”You can't afford it,” the first MetaCop says. ”You're going up against TMAWH here.”
”I don't have to officially get off. I could just escape.”
”This is a cla.s.s Unit. We don't support escapes,” the first MetaCop says.
”Tell you what,” the second one says. ”You pay us a trillion bucks and we'll take you to a Hoosegow. Then you can bargain with them.”
”Half a trillion,” Y.T. says.
”Seven hundred and fifty billion,” the MetaCop says. ”Final. s.h.i.+t, you're wearing cuffs, you can't be bargaining with us.”
Y.T. unzips a pocket on the thigh of her coverall, pulls out the card with her clean hand, runs it through a slot on the back of the front seat, puts it back in her pocket.
The Hoosegow looks like a nice new one. Y.T. has seen hotels that were worse places to sleep. Its logo sign, a saguaro cactus with a black cowboy hat resting on top of it at a jaunty angle, is brand-new and clean.
THE HOOSEGOW.
Premium incarceration and restraint services We welcome busloads!
There are a couple of other MetaCop cars in the lot, and an Enforcer paddybus parked across the back, taking up ten consecutive s.p.a.ces. This draws much attention from the MetaCops. The Enforcers are to the MetaCops what the Delta Force is to the Peace Corps.
”One to check in,” says the second MetaCop. They are standing in the reception area. The walls are lined with illuminated signs, each one bearing the image of some Old West desperado. Annie Oakley stares down blankly at Y.T., providing a role model. The check-in counter is faux rustic; the employees all wear cowboy hats and five-pointed stars with their names embossed on them. In back is a door made of hokey, old-fas.h.i.+oned iron bars. Once you got through there, it would look like an operating room. A whole line of little cells, curvy and white like prefab shower stalls-in fact, they double as shower stalls, you bathe in the middle of the room. Bright lights that turn themselves off at eleven o'clock. Coin-operated TV. Private phone line. Y.T. can hardly wait.
The cowboy behind the desk aims a scanner at Y.T., zaps her bar code. Hundreds of pages about Y.T.'s personal life zoom up on a graphics screen.
”Huh,” he says. ”Female.”
The two MetaCops look at each other like, what a genius-this guy could never be a MetaCop.
”Sorry, boys, we're full up. No s.p.a.ce for females tonight.”
”Aw, c'mon.”
”See that bus in back? There was a riot at Snooze 'n' Cruise. Some Narcolombians were selling a bad batch of Vertigo. Place went nuts. Enforcers sent in a half dozen squads, brought in about thirty. So we're full up. Try The Clink, down the street.”
Y.T. does not like the looks of this.
<script>