It was part of the ethos, an adjudicator's loyalties should remain with the order, with justice, not be misdirected into the transient and illusionary lusts of the body. Marriage was allowed, providing that the potential spouse was vetted by the order first, but the rate of suicide and divorce was high. Some people seemed to manage it though: seven generations of Cwejs, every single one producing its crop of adjudicators, proved that not everyone was an emotional cripple. Not that Roz hadn't fooled around in her youth; she'd done her fair share of waking up in strange beds with a hangover and a man whose name she couldn't remember. It was just that after a while sex had lost most of its charm, had begun to seem too messy, too sticky and biological, too uncertain a process to be bothered with. It didn't give her anything she couldn't get from a three-pack of Martian ale and a long shower.
When going over the side , adjudicator slang for sleeping with a colleague, there were rules but they got broken all the time. Who else but another adjudicator could possibly understand what the life was like, the bodies, the aliens, the stupid vacant venality in the eyes of the suspects, the numbing day by day routine horrors.
She remembered struggling in Martle's arms as he led her back to the flitter after she'd shot the shapeshifter – a gap – then she was in the shower with him, the water soaking their undertunics. She was shaking, the worst shakes of her career; he'd put his arms around her and she'd hit him, hard enough to leave a bruise on his shoulder. Martle kept hold of her, stroking her back, her hair and face. Pain and fear became something else. Something long and slow and comforting. It had none of the alcoholic desperation of her earlier encounters, not lust but need drew them into the tangled covers of the bed. Afterwards she held Martle tight, feeling the beating of his heart between her breasts. In the morning Martle brought her breakfast in bed and the early morning edition of the newsfax. They joked about the fact that the incident with the shapeshifter hadn't even made the back page. It put it in some kind of context. Just another day in the life.
One month later Roz discovered Martle taking bribes and opened up his throat with a vibroknife. She didn't have any choice; it was him or her.
A door at the base of the external staircase banged open and a knot of partygoers lurched out of the building. From her perch halfway up the metal stairs Roz got a glimpse of glitter off their costumes as they crossed the lighted stretch of flagstones below. Their voices sounded shrill and hollow in her ears, as incomprehensible and as mindless as birdsong.
'They can't help it,' said a voice behind her, 'they've never suffered.'
It was a man, or at least a close approximation of one. He must have walked down the stairs while she was distracted. Roz snorted in disgust; it seemed just about anyone could sneak up behind her these days.
'You must be Roz,' said the man. 'My name is feLixi. May I join you?'
'I wouldn't advise it,' said Roz. 'I'm not very good company.'
'I'lll take my chances,' said feLixi, and sat down on the step beside her. 'Don't worry about throwing up on diClark; worse things happen at these parties.'
'Not to me,' said Roz. 'It must have been something I drank.'
'Someone once ate someone at one of saRa!qava's parties,' said feLixi. He was smaller than the other people Roz had met so far; his face had a reassuringly human aspect and his eyes were an ordinary muddy brown. 'I told them that it was a mistake dressing up as a roasted animal carcass but would they listen to me?'
'That's sick.'
'It is, isn't it?' said feLixi.
Roz nodded. It was really sick but she had to ask – 'How did it taste?'
'Not bad actually.'
'I take it they didn't die.'
'Who?'
'The somebody who got eaten.'
'Oh no, nothing that a couple of hours of regen couldn't fix,' said feLixi. 'Around here, you have to work much harder than
When going over the side , adjudicator slang for sleeping with a colleague, there were rules but they got broken all the time. Who else but another adjudicator could possibly understand what the life was like, the bodies, the aliens, the stupid vacant venality in the eyes of the suspects, the numbing day by day routine horrors.
She remembered struggling in Martle's arms as he led her back to the flitter after she'd shot the shapeshifter – a gap – then she was in the shower with him, the water soaking their undertunics. She was shaking, the worst shakes of her career; he'd put his arms around her and she'd hit him, hard enough to leave a bruise on his shoulder. Martle kept hold of her, stroking her back, her hair and face. Pain and fear became something else. Something long and slow and comforting. It had none of the alcoholic desperation of her earlier encounters, not lust but need drew them into the tangled covers of the bed. Afterwards she held Martle tight, feeling the beating of his heart between her breasts. In the morning Martle brought her breakfast in bed and the early morning edition of the newsfax. They joked about the fact that the incident with the shapeshifter hadn't even made the back page. It put it in some kind of context. Just another day in the life.
One month later Roz discovered Martle taking bribes and opened up his throat with a vibroknife. She didn't have any choice; it was him or her.
A door at the base of the external staircase banged open and a knot of partygoers lurched out of the building. From her perch halfway up the metal stairs Roz got a glimpse of glitter off their costumes as they crossed the lighted stretch of flagstones below. Their voices sounded shrill and hollow in her ears, as incomprehensible and as mindless as birdsong.
'They can't help it,' said a voice behind her, 'they've never suffered.'
It was a man, or at least a close approximation of one. He must have walked down the stairs while she was distracted. Roz snorted in disgust; it seemed just about anyone could sneak up behind her these days.
'You must be Roz,' said the man. 'My name is feLixi. May I join you?'
'I wouldn't advise it,' said Roz. 'I'm not very good company.'
'I'lll take my chances,' said feLixi, and sat down on the step beside her. 'Don't worry about throwing up on diClark; worse things happen at these parties.'
'Not to me,' said Roz. 'It must have been something I drank.'
'Someone once ate someone at one of saRa!qava's parties,' said feLixi. He was smaller than the other people Roz had met so far; his face had a reassuringly human aspect and his eyes were an ordinary muddy brown. 'I told them that it was a mistake dressing up as a roasted animal carcass but would they listen to me?'
'That's sick.'
'It is, isn't it?' said feLixi.
Roz nodded. It was really sick but she had to ask – 'How did it taste?'
'Not bad actually.'
'I take it they didn't die.'
'Who?'
'The somebody who got eaten.'
'Oh no, nothing that a couple of hours of regen couldn't fix,' said feLixi. 'Around here, you have to work much harder than
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