“It is,” Jessica nodded as she absently tested her exposed robotic fingers.
“You were there with us,” Jericho said after considering the matter for a few minutes while the shuttle continued its burn toward Far Point, “are you saying you recuse yourself from any indictment associated with Blanco’s Adjustment?”
“Certainly not,” she replied. “But I was acting as an auxiliary to the Adjusters of record—my complicity in any wrongdoing or malfeasance would be addressed in a separate tribunal after this one is adjourned.”
“And who would stand in judgment of you?” Jericho asked.
“In all likelihood—assuming you survive your own tribunal—you would find yourself assigned to it,” Jessica said casually. Before Jericho could inquire as to her meaning, she continued, “With the recent Sector-wide attacks against Adjusters, there is presently a dearth of Tyrannis Adjusters which, combined with a need for expediency, would necessitate your inclusion on any assemblage of qualified participants.”
“I’m glad you think of me as qualified,” Jericho said, confident he could guess at her retort but knowing that it would give him another sliver of insight into how her mind operated.
“The coda by which Tyrannis Adjusters operate—a coda with which you are yet to become thoroughly familiar,” she added icily, “makes abundantly clear that you are fit to serve as a member of a tribunal which would stand in judgment over me. My personal feelings, whatever they might be, are irrelevant.”
Knowing that her ‘personal feelings’ were likely very far from warm, Jericho decided to let the matter rest at that. A check of the ETA countdown showed they had just passed the Far Point sovereignty threshold and would arrive at the station in thirty minutes—
An alarm sounded on the console before him and Jericho sat upright as he examined it. “We’ve got incoming,” he said grimly, “a pair of fighters on intercept. If they’re carrying standard fighter weaponry then they’re six minutes from firing range.”
“They are stealth fighters,” Lady Jessica concluded, prompting Jericho to shoot her an angry glare. “I assure you, I knew nothing of them,” she said with a withering look, “this craft’s sensor suite is nearly the equal of my world’s most sensitive technology. If those sensors did not detect them earlier then the most likely conclusion is that they were hidden from view. Given the lack of nearby material which might have masked their presence, the only logical conclusion is that they were utilizing stealth systems.”
“We can’t outrun them,” Jericho grumbled as he ran calculations on their intercept time estimates, “we couldn’t even make it back to the warship if we came about.” He very carefully did not call Benton’s ship by either its real name or that of the Zhuge Liang, since he knew all too well that his voice stress patterns might give away the lie for what it was.
Benton had been adamant that the ship’s existence should remain a secret from anyone who had not already been brought aboard, and with Jericho’s cooperation they had spun a convincing tale regarding corporate security protocols—which actually did exist, and actually would prevent Lady Jessica from moving freely about the ship under certain classified circumstances—and confined her to heavily-secured quarters.
“Then it seems we will require the intervention of your Corporate Security Vessel,” Jessica said matter-of-factly, “or we will fail to report to the tribunal in time to formalize President Blanco’s Adjustment.”
“They can’t risk it,” Jericho said after a moment’s thought. “If a Hadden warship violates Far Point’s sovereignty—with thirty capital vessels representing over a dozen Star Systems watching—it might mean victory for Blanco’s people.”
“Those Star Systems which are as yet undecided on the matter of joining Blanco’s Union, or allying themselves with the Corporations and worlds like my own, would likely reconsider supporting our coalition’s cause if your vessel did indeed violate Far Point’s sovereignty,” Jessica agreed. “One must admit that it is an impressively effective trap in which we now find ourselves.”
“We could ask for help,” Jericho suggested, knowing it was a fool’s choice but there were precious few alternatives available to them.
“Only Far Point’s lawfully designated defensive militia is permitted to exercise military authority in the station’s sovereignty zone,” Jessica chided. “And unless there were elements of that militia already deployed in anticipation of this very scenario, we will come under fire long before any protection can be provided—assuming, of course, that Far Point’s fixed defensive grid remains offline. I see no reason to believe that our enemies would not have accounted for the station’s firepower; they will most likely have arranged, politically, for those weapons systems to remain offline throughout the engagement.”
Jericho could find no fault with her reasoning as the comm. panel chimed, indicating an incoming transmission. When Jericho activated it, he saw a leathery-skinned woman wearing the uniform of a Union officer. She was sitting in a fighter’s cockpit and sported a smug look on her face, “Mr. Jericho Winchester Bronson, Lady Jessica, this is Colonel Elizabeth Firestar. I am here to place you under arrest for suspicion of plotting to assassinate President Han-Ramil Blanco. Cut your engines, heave to, and prepare to be boarded by lawfully-appointed officers of the law. You will be taken into custody and granted a fair trial in accordance with the Chimera Sector Military Code of Conduct governing the treatment of enemy combatants.”
“Which one is it, Colonel?” Lady Jessica asked archly.
“Excuse me, ma’am?” Colonel Firestar demurred.
“Either we plotted to assassinate President Blanco, in which event our case will be overseen by a civilian court,” Jessica said coolly, “or we are enemy combatants to be dealt with according to the Sector Military Code, in which case assassination is an impossible charge to be brought against us. One cannot assassinate a member of an opposing faction’s military hierarchy under Sector law—only constituents and individuals whose governments, or corporations,” she tilted her head toward Jericho, “which are not presently engaged in an armed conflict with said faction can be charged with the crime of assassination. New Britain and Hadden Enterprises are both in open defiance of illegal Union authority, and therefore citizens or employees acting on behalf of those bodies cannot be legally charged with assassination of said Union’s leadership.”
“I’m not here to argue semantics, ma’am,” the Colonel said stiffly, and Jericho could see that Lady Jessica’s icy demeanor and razor sharp wit was just as effective—or perhaps more so—on their enemies than it had been on him. “I’ll let the courts sort this out.”
“If you do not have a coherent, legal framework for our arrest,” Jessica said with what seemed like forced disappointment, causing Jericho to actually smile as the continued, “then we are obliged to resist that arrest, which resistance is encouraged and supported by no fewer than six of the founding Rights of the Chimera Sector—to say nothing of essentially uncountable instances of legal precedent which, depending on jurisdiction, admittedly may or may not factor into the outcome of a trial on the matter.”
Colonel Firestar—looking thoroughly deflated—seethed, “I am under orders to fire on your vessel with deadly intent if you do not surrender yourselves. You have three minutes to comply.”
The link was severed and Jericho permitted himself a dark chuckle. “I’m going to admit, for the record, that I enjoyed watching you do that,” he said with an approving nod.
“I feel no shame in admitting that I enjoyed it as well,” she said, and even her frigid veneer cracked for a moment as her lip curled into a self-satisfied smile. “If one is to be executed, one should hold her head high so the executioner’s insult is clear to all.”
Jericho nodded, knowing that more than a few of his Adjustees had done precisely that in the moments before he had ended their lives. He had resolved himself many years earlier to die with as much dignity as they had done, and he was satisfied that Lady Jessica’s
verbal jousting had unseated their executioner from her high horse of self-righteousness far better than he could have ever done.
Grunting, Jericho produced a small container from beneath the pilot’s seat. It contained the second batch of tacos which Edgar Barragan had given him at the end of their second trip to the tribunal. “Care for a taco?” he asked as he cracked open the hermetically sealed container.
The container had been a high-grade cryogenics device which had preserved its contents perfectly, and Mr. Barragan had included a note on this second package’s exterior which told Jericho to have them ready to eat when they arrived in Far Point—which had required nothing but the press of a button prior to Jericho’s placing the platter beneath the pilot’s seat during the pre-flight routine.
The cryogenic device itself would cost more to purchase than Jericho cared to imagine, and when the lid lifted from the storage platter the overpowering smell of cilantro, peppers and pulled pork wafted into his nostrils.
He saw five tacos, arranged in a sort of pentagon around some sliced limes and radishes at the platter’s center. Jericho could think of fewer better meals to serve as his last, so he reached to the nearest taco before withdrawing his hand reflexively.
Burned into the corn tortilla’s outer edge was the name ‘Masozi’ on the taco he had reached for, and when he looked at the others he saw that each had a different name burned into it. The first was for Masozi, the second for Jericho, the third was for Lady Jessica, the fourth was for Edgar Barragan himself—though the name ‘Russo’ was burned on it, rather than Edgar Barragan—and the fifth had a series of question marks.
“A message to accompany our last meal?” Jessica asked. “It would seem that Mr. Barragan has thrown in with those who would prevent us from reaching Far Point.”
“You mean he’s thrown in with Newman,” Jericho said pointedly as he took the taco marked for him into his fingers.
“There is insufficient evidence to support that conclusion,” Jessica retorted as she, too, took her taco from the platter.
“Well,” Jericho grudged, “at least we won’t have to argue on that point for much longer.”
They each bit into their food just as the countdown to the fighters’ weapons range reached sixty seconds. Jericho would execute whatever evasive maneuvers the Tyson was capable of executing as soon as those fighters reached firing range, but first he wanted to enjoy the succulent taco.
As he took his second bite, another series of alarms sounded on the sensor panel. Jericho looked up after taking the last bite of his taco, seeing that only twenty seconds remained until they would come under fire, but a third icon had mysteriously appeared well within Far Point’s sovereignty zone—and it was on an intercept course with the oncoming fighters.
An incoming message on all hailing frequencies prompted the emergency communications screen to activate and show a close-up of a portly man with light brown skin. “This is Edgar Barragan of the Far Point defensive militia,” he said before yawning luxuriously and theatrically shaking his head, “if you Union fighter pilots want to die, keep doing like you are. If you want to live, come about and max-burn for Far Point’s sovereignty zone. Once you enter my firing range, my unusually generous diplomatic option is off the table.”
Colonel Firestar’s visage reappeared on the same screen where it had been prior to her severing the communication, “We are here on lawful orders; stand down or we will be forced—“
Her face disappeared as the tactical screen showed that Russo’s fighter had fired on the Colonel’s craft—and utterly destroyed it with the opening salvo.
“I prefer burritos to bloodshed,” Russo said disinterestedly, “but my guns recharge in six seconds. If Colonel Firestar’s wingman wants to survive, he should pull out before…good choice,” he harrumphed as the second Union fighter banked hard and altered its trajectory so that it would exit Far Point’s space as quickly as possible.
The screen which had shown Colonel Firestar was replaced with another fighter pilot in identical gear to the now-deceased woman’s. This one was a younger man, who seemed unfazed by his wingman’s death as he said, “You have fired on and destroyed a Union craft which was carrying out a lawful order. This is an act of war committed by a representative of Far Point Station against the Union of Stars.”
“Wrong,” Russo said flatly, “you entered our sovereignty zone unannounced and declared your violent intentions against our guests. Unless and until Far Point’s judiciary finds cause to emigrate its guests, they are protected under the Manticore System’s Sector-recognized sanctuary laws—laws for which Far Point has consistently waged victorious legal campaigns in vigorous support. And, as you can see,” he added with a smirk, “we’re more than capable of defending our rights.”
The Union officer deactivated the link and an incoming point-to-point comm. request appeared, which Jericho accepted. Russo’s transmission transferred from the hailing screen to the main comm. viewer, and Jericho gave a grateful nod, “Thank you, Mr. Barragan.”
“Please,” the man waved dismissively, “my friends call me Russo. I’ll slot into escort position on your ten o’clock and guide you into Far Point—sixty continuous hours in this damned cockpit waiting for you to show up has refreshed my appreciation for regular sonic showers.”
“Understood, Russo,” Jericho nodded as he drew a breath and retrieved a small, sublingual pill from his pocket and placed it beneath his tongue when Lady Jessica wasn’t looking, “we’ll follow you in.”
“You had no authority to fire on those Union fighters!” an obese administrator shrieked after Russo disembarked his fighter on the slot next to the Tyson.
“Re-read the second paragraph of the militia’s charter, Rezner,” Russo said shortly as he removed his pressure suit’s gloves. “’Any vessels opening fire within Far Point, without consent to do so having been granted by the Far Point Security Council, are to be considered hostile targets by any members of the militia.’ That’s one of the things I like about militia language,” Russo sneered, “it’s simple, straightforward, and impossible to misunderstand.”
“You can expect your residence to be revoked over this—pack your shit, Barragan!” the administrator, Rezner, howled as his third and fourth chins jiggled comically. “You’ll be evicted faster than you can—“
Russo cocked his right hand drove it into Rezner’s nose with a wet, cracking sound that sent the rotund administrator to the deck. “’An official threatening to use his or her authority to evict a resident of Far Point, or otherwise infringe said resident’s liberties, shall be considered to have made a physical threat against said resident’,” Russo growled as he stood over the administrator, whose pair of body guards looked nervously at each other rather than intervene. “’Physical threats against a resident of Far Point constitute an attack against that resident’s person, which may be redressed with fisticuffs as defined by the Stand Your Ground laws in section 44b of Far Point’s Personal Code of Conduct’.”
“You broke my nose!” Rezner blubbered.
“Have your men help you waddle back to your office, cabron,” Russo shook his head piteously. “Or do you really want to try stopping a Tyrannis Adjuster from attending a mandatory meeting of his peers?”
What little blood wasn’t oozing from Rezner’s nose seemed to drain from his face as he struggled to regain his feet before casting a hateful look at the trio of Tyrannis Adjusters and making his way to the station’s interior.
“Pinche puta,” Russo growled as the fat little man disappeared around the corner.
“Well done,” Lady Jessica said with a surprising note of approval.
“Thank you,” Russo said as he continued to break out of his restrictive pressure suit one laborious piece at a time.
“I’m sorry for any inconvenience—“ Jericho began, but Russo waved him off.
“Are you talking about that picado?” Russo interrupted, tilting his head toward the puddle of blood on the deck where Rezner ha
d recently been sprawled out. “I’ve wanted to kick him in the nose for years—I should be thanking you for giving me such an easy opportunity.”
“Don’t you mean ‘punch’ him in the nose,” Jessica quipped.
“Whatever,” Russo said dismissively before turning to Jericho, “where’s Masozi?”
“Alive, but wounded,” Jericho explained as he surreptitiously placed another sublingual tablet under his tongue.
“Alive is good, though having her here would have been better,” the brown-skinned man said somberly. “But I’m guessing we won’t need her to wrap things up here. Are you ready?” he asked intently.
“I am,” Jericho nodded as the tablet dissolved tastelessly in his mouth. Without another word, Russo led them through customs toward his bistro.
Chapter XXXIII: A Confession
“Mr. Bronson,” Newman greeted, standing from the same stool where he had previously sat and offering his hand as soon as the trio had entered the bistro, “I believe congratulations are in order.”
Jericho looked down at Newman’s proffered hand without clasping it and said, “Can we get this over with? I’ve got important things to do.”
Newman’s eyes veritably shone with confident energy and, if Jericho had not been mortally certain that the man was somehow behind the Union fighter attack near the edge of Far Point’s territory, Jericho might have actually been convinced of the other man’s genuine enthusiasm.
“Of course, of course,” Newman agreed before looking around expectantly. “But where is Ms. Blanco?”
“She’s still recovering from the Adjustment,” Jericho said flatly.
“We don’t need her anyway, Newman,” Russo said shortly as he, too, resumed his prior position behind the kitchen counter.
“Lady Jessica,” Newman said, ignoring their host’s urgency as he looked sympathetically at her crude-looking replacement arm, “are you well enough to attend these proceedings?”
Sic Semper Tyrannis: The Chimera Adjustment, Book Two (Imperium Cicernus 5) Page 48
