The screen was filled with a series of images taken by what looked to be the government building’s security cameras, and each of the images was centered on a tall, athletic, almost black-skinned woman likely in her early thirties. She was wearing a skin-tight bodyglove with the badge of an Investigator situated over her left breast.
There was an attached video file, and he opened it to see that same woman moving between a pair of forensic examiners who were collecting bits of shattered glass from the pavement where he had landed after executing his contract. His lip quirked in amusement as she took a forensics monocle from one of the examiners and knelt beside the very spot where he had landed after taking his very own leap of faith from the Mayor’s high-rise office. She looked intently at the patch of concrete before standing and returning the monocle to the examiner, and the video froze on a close-up image of the Investigator’s strong—yet surprisingly feminine—features.
The image minimized and a flood of text began to stream across the pad’s screen, including her name, birthdate, period of employment, civil record, legal record, and anything else a person might wish to know about another. Most of it was utterly uninteresting—until it came to the section regarding familial ties, where a particular name was highlighted which caught Jericho’s attention.
He considered the implications of that connection as the woman’s record disappeared and was replaced with a line of text, which read:
The info’s free, my main man. But if you be wantin’ a Guardian Angel package it’s gonna cost you standard. You want I should pop a halo up on her, just tack the cheddar onto my other order and she’ll be under Papa Benton’s wing before dinner—AJ
It really wasn’t a question in his mind of whether or not he should do as Benton suggested. Thankfully for Jericho, he had just enough money left in the contingency fund he had established for that night’s contract that he could cover a Guardian Angel package. That package included, among other things, full-time surveillance of her person, as well as a comprehensive analysis of each person within six degrees of separation from her. It was a resource-intensive and technically difficult thing to do without access to a whole team of operatives, but Wladimir ‘AJ’ Benton had never failed to deliver in the past, so Jericho knew it would be money well-spent.
Jericho called up the financial account containing the last of the operation’s budget and arranged to have it attached to the significantly larger sum of money he had already earmarked for the operator’s assistance to that point in the Cantwell Contract. After verifying the amounts and the destination account, he executed the transaction. When that was completed, he sighed and deactivated the handheld link.
“I hate these things,” he grumbled as he removed the battery and found a small wad of soft, rubbery material inside the link’s slender housing. He pressed his finger against the wad of chewing gum-like material until an acrid smell wafted up into his nostrils. He replaced the battery into the device, reassembled the two halves of the link, and tossed it out the window of the vehicle before settling back into his seat for a few moments of quiet contemplation.
It seemed that the universe had just presented him with a unique opportunity…and he would likely need to move quickly in order to prevent that opportunity from being eliminated.
Chapter IV: The Glass Ceiling
Several hours after finishing with what turned out to be an utterly routine, maddeningly frustrating examination of her recent caseload, Investigator Masozi sat down at her desk and activated her access terminal. She knew that with so much elapsed time there was no point in returning to the Mayor’s office to collect evidence. Anything of interest had either already been catalogued, or—in what was a more than slightly disturbing possibility she would have never considered possible prior to that night—removed from the scene in some unthinkable attempt at a cover-up.
Masozi flipped through the programs on her terminal and came to the local news feeds. She stopped at one when she recognized the government building housing the Mayor’s offices, where a short, entirely-too-pale-skinned man was reporting with the caption ‘Mayor, Father of Three, Murdered’ beneath him. After attuning her earpiece to the audio feed, she listened intently to the reporter.
“Precisely three hours and twenty six minutes ago,” the effeminate-looking man said in a shrill, accented voice as he fought desperately to speak through only one side of his mouth, “Mayor Thomas Cantwell was brutally murdered within his own office by an as-yet unidentified gunman. Details are still coming in, but authorities have ruled out nothing at this point. Chief Investigator Adewali Afolabi spoke with me just moments ago.”
The feed switched to a shot of Chief Afolabi standing outside the elevator, where the reporter asked, “Chief Investigator, there have been suggestions that this could have been an inside job, that perhaps there were elements within the administration with whom Mayor Cantwell had made unseen enemies. Can you give us an official comment at this time?”
Afolabi drew himself up slightly and Masozi felt her stomach churn at seeing the man giving what was, by all rights, her interview. “It’s still very early in the process, but we have received no indications to this point that what you describe may be the case,” the Chief Investigator replied promptly and professionally.
“We are nearing the end of this election campaign,” the reporter continued, switching gears easily, “and Mayor Cantwell looked to be a virtual lock for re-election in two weeks’ time. Does the New Lincoln Investigative Unit allow for the possibility that this brutal, cold-blooded act might have been authored by the Mayor’s chief opponent and Mayoral candidate in her own right, District Attorney Jennifer Zellweger?”
There was the barest hint of a pause, during which the Chief’s expression flinched almost imperceptibly before he replied, “I think it would be irresponsible to rule anything out at this point in the investigation.”
The feed switched back to the reporter standing on the sidewalk, and the caption switched to read, ‘Mayor Murdered by Rival?’
“There you have it; Chief Afolabi’s investigation thus far has clearly revealed some disturbing evidence. While this reporter cannot in good conscience make wild suppositions, what is clear is that the NLIU will be looking into all possibilities as this investigation extends into the night and, in all probability, far beyond. Bridget, back to you.”
Masozi cut the feed in stunned disbelief. Initially she had believed that Afolabi’s usurpation of her authority had been a simple attempt to steal the limelight—which she probably could have understood, at least on some level.
But after listening to the interview with her own ears, and not once hearing the Chief Investigator mentioned the presence of the Timent Electorum insignia which had been placed—with obvious deliberation on the killer’s part—in front of the Mayor’s body, her mind began to wander down a dangerous path.
She opened a new interface in her terminal and began to call up information on the Timent Electorum itself, since all she really remembered about it was what she had learned as a child. The ultra-secretive Timent Electorum agency only rarely made its actions public knowledge, and when it did so it was for a specific reason and done in accordance with the agency’s mandate.
Before her search could yield any fruit, a familiar window overrode her current one and required her to complete a questionnaire comprised of fifty questions. They were all multiple choice and they were simply a part of everyday life on Virgin; the government had decentralized all voting activity when the Chimera Sector had been cut off from the rest of the Imperium two hundred years earlier. That decentralization had been made in order to streamline the elective process, as well as remove the potential for harassment or intimidation during such activities.
She knew that most of the questions she was being asked were dummies, or blanks, since some of them required her to compare a handful of grocery products to each other and others asked her to comment on the supposed sexual preferences of various public figures. Some others req
uired her to rank various media personalities according to certain criteria. But there were a few which were quite possibly very real initiatives and statutes for which she was now presented the opportunity to cast her vote.
Working through the window’s fifty questions took only a few minutes, after which time her previous program returned to the fore of her terminal. Her search brought her to the foundational passage upon which the Timent Electorum had been formed, which every child of her world learned but most—by her age, at least—had forgotten:
The First Right of the Body Politic: Timent Electorum
The body politic may initiate inquest into, and punish by summary capital punishment without the privilege of a civilian trial: corruption, tyranny, and betrayal of the highest order by those officials who have been elected to public office, appointed by an elected official to public office, or have received a position of public office via heredity. Furthermore, all offices must be assigned locally, with direct responsibility assigned according to each Star System’s will. Official positions may only exist when the actions of the officials holding them can be directly measured by the impact those actions have on the citizens for whom the official was selected to represent.
Each sovereign Star System of the Chimera Sector may, during these foundational years of the Chimera Sector’s birth, determine for itself the thresholds to be met before an inquest is initiated, but once that inquest has begun the agent empowered by the community must carry it out without fail. This agent must never be funded by taxation, nor should the agent answer to any higher power once commissioned by the body politic, including the body politic itself.
A productive balance of power in a democracy, and the requisite degree of efficiency for sustainability, is only possible when the leaders fear the voters at least as much as the voters fear the leaders. This is the foundational principle which will guide our Sector to achieve a measure of harmony unseen in human history.
This, the First Right of our newly-established representative government, may not be removed or altered in any way, shape, or form; nor may it be amended, superseded, made dependent upon a subsequent Right or other measure, or overridden by any bill, law, or other form of mandate, either official or unofficial. Any attempt to impede the body politic’s ability to impose its will upon the officials chosen to represent their interests may be viewed as actionable under this First Right.
No other tenets regarding the upholding of this Right may be made public knowledge including, but not limited to, the mechanisms by which the body politic identifies corruption, tyranny, or betrayal.
The passage went on even further, but before Masozi could read any more she received an intra-office alert which directed her to report to the Chief Investigator’s office.
She was surprised that he had returned to the NLIU offices so quickly, but she was more than willing to report to her superior Investigator and get some answers.
The door to his office was already open when she arrived, and she stepped inside to see Chief Investigator Afolabi sitting behind his desk with a short stack of data pads in front of him. “Investigator, close the door,” he said in an unyielding voice, and she did as instructed. Afolabi gestured to the chair opposite his own, and she sat down while a dozen questions raced through her mind. But before the first one could escape her lips, the Chief picked up one of the data pads and said, “I have a new case for you.”
Masozi leaned forward and accepted the pad, quickly perused its contents and found it to be an altogether typical murder-suicide which had taken place an hour earlier on the other side of town. Even going by just what the uniforms had reported, it was an open-and-shut case that would require little more than the NLIU’s seal of approval before it was filed away. “Chief,” she said after looking up from the data pad, “any Junior Investigator could handle the case on this pad. What is going on?”
Afolabi’s eyes narrowed in silent calculation and he began to nod slowly, as though arriving at some important conclusion. “I’ve spoken with the Interplanetary Unit recently and, though I wanted to wait a little longer before telling you, they’ve got a position opening in at the end of the month and your name was at the top of their list for possible IIU candidates.”
Masozi’s eyes widened in surprise. She liked to think of herself as a dedicated public servant and better-than-average Investigator—one who might even make Chief in another decade or so—but the Interplanetary Unit generally required at least a half decade of additional service than what she had logged before an applicant would even be considered. And Chief Afolabi had just said that they requested her by name?!
It took her a moment before she realized that it was too good to be real, which meant it was almost certainly a bribe. When she understood the gesture for what it really was, her eyes narrowed. “Chief,” she said tightly, “I am a loyal servant of NLIU; I would never betray the people who have placed their faith in me. Frankly,” she continued through clenched teeth, “I’m surprised to hear such an offer come from you, of all people, sir.”
Afolabi’s eyes flared briefly before a smile broadened across his face and he began to clap deliberately. “Well done, Investigator; you’ve passed the test,” he said warmly before tilting his head toward the door.
Her entire body tensed up as she turned and saw a man wearing the all-black bodyglove of the Interplanetary Investigations Unit of the Chimera Sector. He was shorter than average, but judging by his movements and musculature he was a supreme physical specimen the likes of which generally found fame and fortune in high-profile athletics.
“Meet Special Agent Hugo Stiglitz, assigned to the IIU,” Afolabi explained as he stood from his chair, prompting Masozi to do likewise. “His direct jurisdiction includes New Lincoln and the nearest dozen spaceports, and he’s here in an…unofficial capacity.”
Masozi looked back and forth between the two men as Agent Stiglitz approached with a black-gloved hand extended. “Investigator Masozi,” he said in a perfectly pitched, tenor’s voice with an accent she could not quite place, “it’s a pleasure.”
“Agent Stiglitz,” she said guardedly after shaking his hand. The strength she felt in his fingers was incredible, and she was all-too-aware that he was letting her feel just how strong he was without going so far as to cause pain. “Would somebody mind explaining to me what is going on here?”
Stiglitz gave a quick look to Chief Afolabi, who gestured for the shorter man to commence. “My unit has been tracking a terrorist for several months now,” Agent Stiglitz explained. “He has eluded capture at several carefully-engineered traps—traps which only the members of my team were aware of prior to being sprung. Each time we have failed to capture him he has gone on to execute at least one high-value target within two days’ time.”
“A terrorist?” Masozi asked, intrigued despite the immense tension she felt in light of the night’s events.
“Yes,” Stiglitz replied as he clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace stiffly, “we do not know his true affiliations, but he has left a signature behind at each of the murder scenes. I believe you are familiar with it?”
She furrowed her brow momentarily before realizing what he meant. “Are you saying that the Mayor’s Adjustment isn’t a sanctioned reprisal?” she asked after rolling the thought around for a few moments and realizing what he meant. “He’s using the Timent Electorum as cover?”
“Precisely,” Chief Afolabi said with a curt nod, “which presents a few unique problems…”
“Indeed,” Agent Stiglitz agreed, “since the Timent Electorum is a decentralized organization, it is impossible to verify whether or not these murders are, in fact, community-sanctioned reprisals. They may be merely the wanton acts of terrorists who are bent on unbalancing our political system for some as-yet unknown purpose.”
“But the insignia,” she argued with a sharp look to Chief Afolabi, “isn’t that supposed to contain the evidence the T.E. agent was required to collect prior to executing the commis
sion?”
“It is,” Stiglitz said with a curt nod. “However, we have reason to believe that the insignia which was left at Mayor Cantwell’s murder scenes is not, in fact, authentic.”
“Which is why we couldn’t have it entered into the official evidence log,” Afolabi explained before producing the very insignia Masozi had seen on the Mayor’s desk. The three inch-wide, hexagonal piece of metal featured an open eye depicted at the center which was bordered by the Timent Electorum agency’s three mottos: Ure Infectus, Sic Semper Tyrannis, and Mors Prodetores. “For all we know, this terrorist’s primary goal is to blame these murders on the Timent Electorum in an effort to undermine our society’s most fundamental principle in the eyes of the public.”
“Why?” she asked after a brief pause to consider her superior’s words. “I mean if these aren’t sanctioned hits, wouldn’t the Timent Electorum condemn them as the murders they really are?”
The two men shared a brief look before Agent Stiglitz replied, “There is a very real possibility that the Timent Electorum itself has been infiltrated. But since we do not know the mechanisms which drive its continued operation, we cannot investigate to determine their responsibility.”
“You mean…no one has ever caught one of the agents before?” she asked disbelievingly.
“Caught?” Stiglitz repeated with a hard edge to his voice that gave her more than a hint of trepidation. The short, muscular man took a step forward and, in his perfectly pitched, razor-sharp voice said, “Yes, we have caught several of them…we’ve even interrogated them on occasion to verify they were who they claimed. But the Timent Electorum is unlike any other government agency, so we cannot audit it—nor can we interview its ‘leadership’ since it presumably has no formal hierarchy.” He turned his back and moved to the window, his hands still firmly clasped behind him as he added, “There is an increasingly popular opinion among modern social scholars that so-called 'Adjusters' are little better than state-funded terrorists born of an irrational fear aimed at the old, Imperial Aristocracy.”
Ure Infectus Page 3
