The Thin Blue Line (The Empire's Corps Book 9) (v5.1) by Christopher Nuttall Page B

Helen if she started to run he’d be well advised to hand in his resignation on the spot. And besides, where would she go?
    “Come on,” he said, holding out a hand to help her to her feet. “You need to go somewhere else.”
    Helen ignored his hand, but rose slowly to her feet under her own power. “They said I was a flight risk,” she said, stumbling over the unfamiliar words. “Why ...?”
    “Well, I’ll leave your hands free if you promise not to try to run,” Glen said, turning to escort her down the corridor. “There’s always someone who wants to show how badass he is by slapping cuffs on everyone in sight. I think they’re compensating for something.”
    Helen giggled.
    Glen smiled, then led the way through a pair of metal doors, into the examination chamber. A harassed-looking medic glanced up at him, then gave Helen a sharp look. Glen motioned for Helen to stand in front of the scanner, then turned to face the medic. The medic – her nametag read LAURA - looked as tired as Glen felt.
    “I don’t have time to do anything more than a basic examination,” she said. “I’ve got thirty prisoners to process before the end of the day.”
    “That’s fine,” Glen said. He looked over at Helen. “Do as the nice medic says, will you?”
    Helen said nothing as the medic poked and prodded at her, then took her fingerprints and ran them against the planetary database. Glen wasn't too surprised when the scan came back negative; in theory, every civilian on Terra Nova was supposed to be listed, but in practice there were plenty of people who had escaped the registration program. Helen’s blood didn't produce any matches either, although there were definite traces of genetic modification, suggesting that she did come from a spaceship. It looked as though she’d been starved too badly for the modifications to do their work.
    “She’s underweight, probably hasn't been fed properly, and in mild shock,” Laura said. “Be nice to her. I’d write a prescription for her wrists, but it would be quicker if I gave her the ointment now. There’s no guarantee you’d be able to find it outside the station.”
    Glen nodded. There were shortages of everything now, from medicines to spare parts and weapons systems. The average citizen was entitled to free prescriptions, in theory, but the Marshals had busted a dozen criminal rings involved in producing fake medicines that, at best, would have been completely useless. At worst, they would have killed their victims or crippled them for life. Only the very rich or the well-connected could hope to find what they needed at once, rather than queuing for hours and taking their chances.
    “Make sure you give her plenty of food too,” Laura added. “She really needs supplements as well as proper meals, but I don’t have any on hand. I’ll put a request in through the system and you should get them within the next two weeks. No promises, though.”
    “I understand,” Glen said.
    Laura checked Helen’s wrists again, then found her a small bottle of ointment. Glen took it – one of the security officers would probably object to a prisoner carrying anything through the station – stowed it in his pocket and motioned for Helen to follow him. She obeyed, walking beside him as they made their way through the corridors. Oddly, he noted that she didn't show any real interest in her surroundings. The last time he’d escorted a group of students through the station, they’d asked questions about everything until he’d been on the verge of tossing them all into the drunk tank for the night.
    Maybe it’s just an act, he reminded himself, and she’s just biding her time until she can make a break for it .
    He sighed, inwardly, as he pushed open the doors to the canteen. It was half-full, with officers and guardsmen sitting at various metal tables and stuffing their faces with half-edible food from the cooking staff, all of whom acted as though they’d been dragged out of the