Sic Semper Tyrannis: The Chimera Adjustment, Book Two (Imperium Cicernus 5)
Page 49
“I am,” Jessica replied with a courteous inclination of her head.
Newman gave her a respectful nod and turned expectantly toward Jericho, “Official word of your success has yet to reach Far Point.”
“You’ve been here the entire time?” Jericho asked mildly.
“Indeed,” he replied as dangerous warmth suffused his visage, making his eyes seem to dance, “as our host can attest, I have not left Far Point Station since your last departure.”
Jericho looked pointedly to Russo, who nodded once from behind the counter. “Have you taken a liking to the scenery?” Jericho asked evenly.
“I will be happy to answer your questions,” Newman said in that insufferably agreeable tone—one which Jericho had come to associate with salesmen and politicians, “but first you must answer mine.”
“Don’t you mean the tribunal’s questions?” Jericho countered, hoping to put the other man off-balance.
Newman’s constantly shifting smile froze for an instant, and then he held out a hand expectantly, “Did you bring the Mark?”
“I didn’t,” Jericho answered.
Newman’s smile turned to a mild frown—one which looked like it had been practiced for hours in front of a mirror in order to perfect—and he said, “I trust you brought another device bearing the record of the Adjustment itself?”
Jericho produced his wrist-link—the same one he had used during the Blanco Adjustment—and slid it carefully down the countertop. “There are backup copies on my ship,” he said after Newman picked it up and prepared to connect it to his own, hyper-advanced data processing unit. “You can do whatever you want with that one.”
“Naturally,” Newman said as he activated his own device. After just a few seconds he found the video file depicting the final moments of Blanco’s life. He increased the size of the holographic projection which showed Jericho standing in front of Blanco with his pistol aimed between the Virgin President’s eyes, and allowed the recording to play at normal speed with the audio stream loud enough to fill the room.
“I am not your priest, Mr. Bronson,” Blanco spat defiantly as he sat with a stately veneer of dignity which still elicited grudging respect from Jericho, “so spare me your attempt to attain absolution for the murder you are about to commit.”
“There’s no absolution for people like us, Mr. President,” he heard his recorded image say grimly.
“If not for absolution,” Blanco growled as the climactic moment approached, “then what possible purpose could be served by—“
The pistol bucked in the hand of Jericho’s hologram and Newman somehow paused the recording at the precise instant that the bullets fragments exited the back of Blanco’s head, taking the first of his cranial cavity’s contents with them.
The bullet had been a true work of macabre art, and Jericho had crafted it himself. It had been composed of a loosely bonded iron powder, built around a core which contained a capsule containing the virus which they had crafted using Masozi’s DNA as a template.
Even if by some great miracle of medical science the Union doctors had been able to bring Blanco back to something resembling life, the virus’s presence had guaranteed that after less than an hour it would have infiltrated every single nerve cell in Blanco’s body.
The bullet’s design had been specifically crafted to maximize the damage of a point blank shot and, as Newman moved the recording forward at a mesmerizingly slow pace, the image of Blanco’s head deformed more with each passing frame until essentially nothing remained above his upper jaw.
“An impressive achievement,” Newman said approvingly after replaying the bullet’s entry and exit sequence a dozen times, stopping periodically to examine a particular moment in greater detail and from different perspectives. He then accessed some of the attached files and nodded slowly, “The DNA is a match down to the last known mutations…the target’s voice patterns align perfectly with those of President Blanco…and, unless his central nervous system was kept somewhere other than his cranium, the wound was clearly a fatal one.” Newman turned to Lady Jessica with an expectant look and asked, “Have you reviewed this information to the point of satisfaction regarding its alleged authenticity?”
“I have,” Lady Jessica affirmed.
“And what is our host’s opinion?” Newman asked, turning to Russo.
“Looks good to me,” Russo nodded as he cracked open a quartet of frosty, multi-colored bottles bearing a sombrero emblem at the center.
Jericho tensed in preparation for the inevitable argument, but to his surprise Newman nodded, “And to me as well. Barring significant evidence to the contrary, it is my opinion that we can officially authenticate the Adjustment of President Han-Ramil Blanco and celebrate one of the Sector’s greatest victories against tyranny—and we can also celebrate the induction of the Sector’s newest Tyrannis Adjuster.”
“Adjusters, plural,” Jericho corrected, still more than a little wary about what was happening. It can’t be this easy…can it? he wondered, refusing to let his guard down.
“Of course, of course,” Newman chuckled. “Perhaps now is a good time for those drinks?” he asked, prompting Russo to bring the quartet of bottles out from behind the kitchen counter as a broad smile spread across the bistro owner’s face.
When each of them had accepted an ice-cold bottle, Jericho gave a brief look to his wrist-link—which was still attached to Newman’s data device. There was a tiny, blue light on the edge of the link which was flashing at regular intervals, indicating that his lone source of backup was ready to act if he should give the word.
He hoped it didn’t come to calling in that backup but, if it did, it wouldn’t have been the first time a backup plan to a backup plan had saved his life.
After swigging the carbonated soda, Jericho looked down at it with muted surprise. It tasted like at least four distinct fruits, one of which he could not immediately place, and the flavors somehow remained distinctive and separate as they bubbled against his tongue.
“Well done, Mr. Bronson,” Newman congratulated. “There is, however, a rather curious matter which I was hoping you might clarify,” he said, and Jericho felt every hair on the back of his neck stand up.
“What?” Jericho asked flatly.
“During my stay here, I came into possession of a disturbing report regarding a former Adjustment in which you were involved,” Newman said, and Jericho knew that whatever he was about to ask, it was the reason for the confident affect the other man had exuded since Jericho had entered the bistro for this third—and likely final, one way or another—time.
Newman disconnected Jericho’s wrist-link from his own, sleeker version and called up a file and projected its contents into the center of the room. Jericho immediately recognized the man depicted by the file, and in that moment he realized Newman’s end-game scenario.
“Do you recognize this man?” Newman asked lightly, drawing another sip from his soda bottle.
“Of course,” Jericho nodded, “his name was Pemberton. I Adjusted him back on Virgin Prime before the Keno Adjustment.”
“So you admit to killing him?” Newman pressed.
Lady Jessica appeared to take great interest in the hologram’s information, and quickly read the text detailing Pemberton’s Infectus Adjustment case.
“I do,” Jericho nodded.
“Lady Jessica,” Newman said casually, “would you please review the details of this case?”
Jessica, having already done so, stepped back and narrowed her eyes slightly, “General Pemberton was Adjusted in accordance with Infectus protocols.”
“That was my impression as well,” Newman nodded as he indicated the date stamp, “this file was created and verified while Mr. Bronson was still operating strictly within the confines of Infectus authority, was it not?”
Jessica nodded shortly, “It was.”
Newman sighed and Jericho took another swig of his soda as he prepared to defend his Adjustment of Pemberton.
“It was duly logged as an Infectus Adjustment, and was even a task given by Obunda,” Jericho said, knowing that this first objection would be quickly overruled but he needed to buy some time. “Obunda had previously verified the contents of the Adjustment’s attendant evidence and instructed me to carry out the Adjustment itself since the previously assigned Adjuster had disappeared—under mysterious circumstances,” he added with heavy emphasis.
“And yet,” Newman continued as he called up another holographic recording—this one of Pemberton’s last minutes, which made Jericho’s blood run cold, “I have come into possession of evidence which suggests that General Pemberton was not, in fact, guilty of the crimes for which you purported to Adjust him.”
Jericho knew where this was headed, and frankly he had hoped the Pemberton might escape notice. He briefly wondered if Tera St. Murray had been involved in Newman having ‘come into possession’ of the evidence he began to present.
“It seems that General Pemberton’s grandchildren were being held hostage,” Newman explained, “and that their abduction was the root cause of his failure to discharge the duty he accepted as a key controller of Virgin Prime’s orbital defensive platforms. The evidence, so-called,” he continued as the hologram was populated with additional evidence which was arranged in a strikingly similar fashion to how Jericho would arrange the evidence against an Adjustee, “which you claim to have vetted by submitting it after executing the Pemberton Adjustment, was fabricated to provide the illusion of corruption when, in reality, General Pemberton’s crime was not one of corruption but of tyranny.”
The triumphant look on Newman’s face was insufferable, and Jericho felt even Russo tense beside him as the bistro’s owner examined the evidence.
“Allow me to play a video recording General Pemberton’s last moments,” Newman said in a faux helpful tone, and the scene replayed precisely as it had done in Jericho’s memory.
“Die with some dignity, General,” Jericho saw himself growl after administering a sharp slap to the man’s face. “Why didn’t you open fire on the drones? Answer quickly.”
Pemberton nodded as he focused on Jericho. “They…the SDF Admirals…they had my granddaughters,” he replied remorsefully. “They…they were going to destroy them…do you understand? They were going to hurt them, and only if they were lucky would they be allowed to die afterward!” The physically detained man began to sob, but Jericho saw his image interrupt him.
“You accepted the credit transfer to your off-world account so that you would take the fall—better you be Adjusted than your grandchildren be…harmed,” Jericho’s image said before shaking his head and making to leave the room as he said, “I can’t Adjust you.”
“No, please!” Pemberton blurted, and the faint sound of an alarm could be heard via the recording’s speakers. “You have to kill me now—it’s the only way my little girls will be spared!”
“I’m sorry,” Jericho saw himself shake his head. “You failed nearly four thousand people by tacitly approving President Blanco’s illegal order—you don’t deserve my sympathy.”
“You’re right,” Pemberton stammered desperately, “but I have information!”
“Speak,” Jericho snapped as searchlights began to stream through the windows and briefly illuminate the hologram of the two men.
“Your word first,” Pemberton retorted resolutely. “Promise you’ll file my Adjustment as properly done…and I’ll give you enough information to put that tyrant behind bars for good.”
“Not good enough,” Jericho’s image quipped—and Jericho found himself whispering his words in synchronization with the recording. Then the searchlights unexpectedly went dark and, just as he remembered them doing, Jericho felt his hackles rise as the image replayed before him.
“They’re clearing out, which means you have forty seconds before the area is pulverized by the attack drones lifting off from Fort Sumter this very second,” the General explained. “You can’t escape without my help. Even if you get past the perimeter guards, the drones will cut you down in seconds.”
As he watched, Jericho became increasingly convinced that the Pemberton Adjustment had been a far more intricate trap than he had ever suspected. It was possible that it had merely been St. Murray’s betrayal which had brought this evidence into Newman’s hands, but the more he thought about it the more he suspected that somehow Newman had been involved with Obunda. Even if they hadn’t been working together directly, Newman must have had intimate knowledge of Obunda’s schedule and activities. It was an idea which deserved significant contemplation—should he survive the tribunal.
“Fine,” Jericho’s recorded image growled as it stomped over to Pemberton’s chair, “I’ll do it—where’s your evidence?”
“Thank you—thank you,” Pemberton stammered through tears.
“The evidence, General!” Jericho barked in perfect timing with his recorded image, mildly surprised at how vivid his memory was of the scene. He had apparently devoted more thought to it than he remembered doing.
Pemberton nodded and said, “On South Virginia there is a woman named Tera St. Murray—first name: T-E-R-A—tell her I sent you and repeat the phrase ‘The good of us all.’ She will give you what you need.” He tilted his head in the direction of the stairs, “Below the staircase is a trap door which leads to a tunnel. You still have time to use it for escape—go!”
Jericho watched his image reach down and snapped Lieutenant General Pemberton’s neck, after which he left the holographic room and Newman paused the recording with that same look of triumph plastered on his face.
“It seems that this additional matter has come to light, my fellow Tyrannis Adjusters,” Newman said without the slightest pretense of solemnity. “And since it goes to the root of Mr. Bronson’s authority to execute Tyrannis Adjustments, this tribunal’s members are now personally invested in whatever fallout might accompany his having exercised the most sacred authority known to the Chimera Sector.”
“Pemberton was bad shit,” Russo spat. “He did accept the money, and he did harm the people who depended on him. When in doubt,” Russo shrugged lightly, but the tension in his shoulders would have been visible from a mile away, “I err on the side of killing scumbags like him and sorting the rest out later.”
“That is precisely what we are attempting to do, Mr. Barragan,” Newman assured him cordially. “I take it that your vote is to ignore this infraction?”
“Si,” Russo said shortly, and from his tone Jericho felt reasonably certain that this latest issue would not sway Far Point’s lone Tyrannis Adjuster from tendering his future support.
“And how do you see the matter, Lady Jessica?” Newman asked patiently.
Lady Jessica turned her eyes from the holographic list of information which hung in the air between them. She first looked to Jericho, then to Newman, then back to Jericho before saying measuredly, “The evidence here is insufficient to satisfy reasonable certainty that a punishable infraction has been committed…but it is dangerously close to satisfying that threshold.”
Jericho knew all too well that the only punishment which Adjusters were permitted to carry out was the ultimate one: execution. He held back a sigh of relief as Newman’s affect darkened and the fork-tongued Adjuster gritted his teeth. “Would you consent that this issue does, however, paint a disturbing picture which will require further scrutiny?”
Lady Jessica shook her head slowly as she considered the query. “The evidence here has been properly collected, authenticated, and presented, but there is a considerable degree of culpability on Mr. Obunda’s part.”
“How convenient for Mr. Bronson that the previously ranking Adjuster of the Virgin System is no longer able to explain his side of the situat
ion,” Newman said heavily, and it was in that moment that Jericho knew this particular charade was far from over. But for the life of him, he could not predict what else Newman had up his sleeve.
“Indeed,” Jessica said with narrowed eyes, “that would appear to be more than a mere coincidence, but it does not satisfy reasonable certainty.”
Newman sighed, “I suppose I must concur with your reasoning, Lady Jessica—which, as usual, is impeccable. I vote to re-examine the issue at a later time when more evidence might be available. Do you second this vote?”
Lady Jessica nodded stiffly as she met Newman’s eyes, “I do.”
“Then the matter remains open but, until at least two members of this tribunal are satisfied that meaningful evidence has been discovered, Mr. Bronson can consider his—and Ms. Blanco’s,” he added with a feigned look of appreciation toward Jericho, “status as confirmed Tyrannis Adjusters, and should be afforded all privileges afforded Adjusters of our station.”
“Thank you,” Jericho said flatly, knowing this particular affair was far from over.
“You have earned it,” Newman said with thinly-veiled contempt, “and is it not our duty as Adjusters to repay the acts of those we encounter in a manner consistent with the will of the body politic?”
And there it was. With that rhetorical question, Jericho realized with absolute certainty that Newman was going to kill him before he left Far Point—and that he was going to do it using the Adjuster’s framework.
Which meant that very, very soon there would be a revelation which would cause Lady Jessica to review Jericho’s involvement in the Pemberton Adjustment—and that, whatever that revelation happened to be, it would be enough to draw her into Newman’s camp.
No sooner had that thought crystallized in Jericho’s mind than the screen above the kitchen counter sprang to life and a youthful-looking woman appeared on it. She seemed to be seated behind a news counter of some kind, and the image in the upper right corner of the screen made Jericho set his jaw.