Ure Infectus (Imperium Cicernus Book 4) (15 page)

Conveyances bustled this way and that on the busy frontage
road, and Masozi knew that if she was to complete her assigned task she would need
to secure passage in one of them. A few moments after hailing such a vehicle,
one pulled to a stop before her and she stepped inside.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

She considered the query briefly. She knew that if she acted
immediately, there was a chance that whatever authorities she alerted to
Benton’s and Jericho’s presence at the harbor would be able to act in time to
arrest them—or at least to make the attempt. But that would require that she
proceed with all haste to the nearest Planetary law enforcement agency, and
that meant the Virgin Port Authority located just a few kilometers away.

She let out a short, bitter sigh and said, “Across town: the
financial district.”

“Thank you for your time,” Masozi said for the sixth time
that day as she collected the data pad from the Public Accountant’s desk, which
had been affixed with said Accountant’s notarial seal of approval.

“Of course,” the Accountant replied after Masozi had
transferred the correct number of credits from the chit Benton had supplied. It
was fairly unusual for a person to use a physical chit since most people’s
accounts were directly linked to their idents. But she had explained it away as
some sort of a glitch in the system—one she had supposedly been assured would
be corrected before the day’s end—which necessitated the use of the old-style
chit.

That falsehood had drawn more than one look of incredulity
from the various public notaries. But with each telling of the lie, Masozi felt
somehow more comfortable with it and, in the process, more proficient at its
delivery. It had gotten to the point that this latest official had barely given
her a second glance, and that thought disturbed her more than she had imagined
it would.

After leaving the Accountant’s office, Masozi checked the list
which Benton had generated for her and stored on a data pad prior to her
disembarking the
Esmerelda Empática
. She knew from her own work as an
Investigator that to constantly be accessing the same query—such as a repeated
one for ‘notaries public’ or similar variations—would make tracking her far too
easy for anyone inclined to do so.

She crossed off the most recent Accountant’s name from the
list and moved on to a seventh name, checking her chronometer as she did so. It
was nearing the end of business hours, so she selected a nearby paralegal whose
offices were just a block away.

Masozi made her way down the sidewalk toward the corner, and
when she arrived there waited patiently with the other pedestrians who wished to
cross the intersection. When the signal changed to indicate they should
proceed, she did so and was halfway across the intersection before stopping
cold at an image which flashed up on a nearby advertisement panel.

It was a digitally-rendered image of
her face
! Below
was a caption which read:
Terrorist killed in explosion at Aegis abandoned
warehouse—details to follow.

The image of her face—which had worn a decidedly unappealing
expression somewhere between a snarl and a grimace—was replaced with a large
fire burning out of control somewhere in an industrial center.

“It’s a good likeness but trust me, honey,” she heard an
elderly woman’s sarcastic voice say in a certain
tone,
“I’m deader than you are.” Masozi looked down at the woman and blinked several
times, her mind still reeling from the image for reasons she could not quite
understand. “But that could change if you don’t two-step off the road,” the
elderly woman chided as she walked past her, and Masozi did as she suggested.

It took her several minutes of walking before she realized
that the newsflash must have been Benton’s way of ‘clearing a path’ for her
through the city’s scanners.

After all, there would be no reason to scan for a dead
person.

Jericho raised his arms as the security guard outside the
establishment scanned him. The guard waved an expensive-looking device across
his body, and Jericho knew that it would find every single one of the literally
hundreds of weapons he had been tempted to bring with him to the meeting.

“You’re clean,” the guard said gruffly through its
surgically-implanted vocalizer, and Jericho took a moment to examine the
guard’s features more closely. It was an alien whose species was called
‘Klk’whrr’s—or, by those who wished to antagonize the six foot tall insectoid
creatures, ‘Click Whores.’

Their external carapaces were capable of resisting all but
the most powerful slug-throwers, and an un-augmented person could forget about
trying to puncture it with anything less than a monomolecular blade. They had
large, blue-green, multi-faceted eyes and a quartet of antennae protruding from
the tops of their heads which served as both auditory and olfactory organs.

“You’re looking good, Jesse,” Jericho said blithely as he
made his way past the guard.

“That’s ‘Mr. Holland’ to you,” the giant insect said amid a
chorus of clicks and clacks from its multiple mandibles as they struck against
each other in agitation. The Klk’whrr had been subjugated so many years before
the wormhole had collapsed that they had functionally been rendered into little
better than slaves.

The Sector government had been working to abolish slavery in
every form, but unfortunately things did not change overnight. Jericho still
held hope that, before he had breathed his last, aliens like the Klk’whrr—and
even the Poppers—might achieve rights in accordance to their contributions to
society.

Jericho opened the inner door leading into the establishment
and his senses were immediately assaulted by a riotous cacophony of sound,
light, smell, touch, and—improbably—taste.

It was one of several such locales, and while they were
legal under Virgin’s law, that didn’t make them any less offensive to Jericho.
Not far from the door was a trio of aliens—two of which looked vaguely like
slugs, while the third was decidedly avian and half the size of an adult
human—engaged in some sort of unspeakable act with a human couple. The
writhing, moaning mass of flesh was obviously in unified ecstasy.

Jericho averted his eyes and moved into the throbbing,
almost blindingly-bright room and saw hundreds of people crammed into the small
club. He scanned the room until his eyes fell on the person who had summoned
him to the seedy club. He made his way across the dance floor, which seemed to
writhe and pulsate with the mixture of humans and aliens who were indulging
their base instincts while being ‘bathed’ in the sensory-overloading
environment.

In just the fifteen steps it took him to cross the dance
floor, Jericho identified at least seven distinct flavors enter his mouth—only
one of which had been even remotely pleasant—and at least twice as many
overpowering smells.

Just before he reached his destination, a club employee—a
nearly naked young man who had every reason to be proud of his physical
endowments—offered him a small, necklace-shaped device which Jericho refused.
He knew that the device had plugs for his nose and ears, and small goggles for
his eyes, and that it was meant to provide a means to focus on the particular
senses one wished to indulge while in the club. But Jericho, even if he had
enjoyed such indulgence—which he did not—was there on business.

The boyish-looking man shrugged and snaked his way through
the crowd before Jericho sat at the lone, empty stool among dozens which were
clustered around tiny, circular tables. The man seated opposite that stool was
short, slight of stature, and almost completely bald. His name was Eugene
Roderick Obunda—and he was the closest thing that Jericho had to a boss.

“Good of you to make it,” Obunda said neutrally, looking over
the tops of his horn-rimmed glasses. “After your ship docked at the harbor and
you didn’t show, I was worried you’d hit a snag.”

Jericho suppressed a snicker, knowing he needed to stay
professional throughout the meeting. Obunda may have appeared small, but he had
undergone extensive genetic modifications and possessed one of the sharpest
minds in the Sector. Jericho could certainly handle him in a straight-up fight,
but men like Jericho and Obunda tended to deny potential adversaries
advantageous positions by using the most powerful lump of tissue in the human
body: the brain. “I need three Adjustments verified,” Jericho said as he
produced a trio of data crystals.

Obunda raised an eyebrow in surprise and, though he
appraised the other man’s expression longer than he should have, Jericho was
still unable to determine if that surprise was genuine. “I knew about the
mayor,” Obunda said slowly, his voice barely loud enough to be heard over the
violent, overpowering music. But Jericho had long since learned to read lips,
so he missed nothing of what was said, “And that bit with Angelo was
impressive, if perplexing.”

“Adjuster’s prerogative,” Jericho replied neutrally, knowing
that there was no way for Obunda to actually
know
which Adjustments he had
made. “The case was neck-deep in political hot buttons; I didn’t think the
public would benefit from an immediate exposure of his crimes.”

“The truth always comes out, Jericho,” Obunda chided. “Your
charity will be your undoing.”

Jericho slid the data crystals across the table and Obunda
accessed them via portable scanner one by one, stopping at the last entry with
a look of confusion on his face as he shook his head as he showed Jericho that
he had, indeed, verified the Adjustments as being authentic. When he had
finished, he returned the crystals to Jericho and the two sat in silence for
several minutes.

“You have something for me?” Jericho pressed after the
silence had lingered a bit too long for his liking.

“When were you going to tell me about the woman?” Obunda
asked mildly as his eyes swept the club like a hawk surveying a field.

Jericho had suspected that the subject of Masozi would come
up, but he was unwilling to discuss her in any way with Obunda—even if he was,
technically, Jericho’s superior. The T.E. had no dedicated hierarchy in the
traditional sense, but after an Adjuster acquired enough RL—Redeemed Lives, a
metric which showed how many lifetimes of productivity an Adjuster had ‘saved’
or ‘redeemed’ via his or her actions—he inherited several bureaucratic
responsibilities. Those responsibilities included verifying that Adjustments
had been properly carried out and, if they had not, the senior Adjuster was to
dispose of the junior Adjuster—personally.

Of course, there were several perks that came with the
territory as well…and Jericho was fast approaching the threshold which still
separated himself and Obunda.

“What I do with my pants down is none of your business,
Obunda,” Jericho said evenly, hoping to discourage further comment on the
matter.

Obunda let loose a harsh, barking laughter which was somehow
audible even over the din of the club’s absurd soundscape. “You don’t know what
you’re missing, old man,” he said before taking a sip of his drink. “I’ve
always got time for a potential convert and would happily show you a thing or
two if you’d like…who knows, you might even enjoy it?”

“Pass,” Jericho said levelly, fighting to keep the
irritation from his voice. “You have something for me so let’s stop wasting
each other’s time.”

“As you wish,” Obunda sighed before sliding a data crystal
across the table. “This one’s time-sensitive, and the former Adjuster’s
preparations look solid. All you have to do is show up, wait for an opening,
and make the Adjustment. It’ll be the easiest fifteen hundred RL you’ve ever
accrued.”

Jericho withdrew a data pad and slid the crystal into the
reading slot. Data began to flood the screen and he scanned its contents before
asking, “What happened to the former Adjuster?”

Obunda gently swirled his drink. “Her paperwork for a
previous Adjustment came up…lacking,” he said casually. “The window for this
one is closing and, as the senior Infectus-level Adjuster here on Virgin, the
burden of executing the contract falls to you. You make this Adjustment,” he
gestured to the data pad, “and you’ll pass the tribunal to get access to
Tyrannis contracts before year’s end without breaking a sweat.”

Obunda’s description of the expected risk was conservative
to the point of being ludicrous. The target was a recently-retired Planetary
Defense Force officer holding the rank of Lieutenant General, and his name was
Pemberton. Apparently he had been the Virgin Automated Defense Commander
assigned to deploy several orbital-and ground-based defensive assets in the
unlikely event of an invasion.

The System’s President, Han-Ramil Blanco, had issued an
executive order for a drone strike against a rural community comprised of
nearly four thousand that had set up on the frontier of Virgin’s eastern
continent. That community was later revealed to have harbored several dozen key
members of a Sector-wide terrorist organization, and much of the funding for
establishing the rural community had come from supposedly untraceable,
off-world sources. In general, the public had accepted the attack as
necessary—but the strike had not been approved by the Planetary Senate.

On the day of the drone strike, Pemberton had been charged
with defending the people of Virgin by deploying his automated defense assets
in defense of the planet against unlawful attacks—which, having failed to gain
Senatorial support prior to taking place, the drone strike was categorically
unlawful—but he had failed to do so. The result was three thousand two hundred
confirmed deaths when the assault drones vaporized the vast majority of the
community’s infrastructure with methodical, repeated strafing attacks.

Some speculated that PDF General Pemberton had sympathized
with the rationale for the drone strike, and had therefore essentially granted
President Blanco permission to slaughter the very people who Pemberton had
sworn to protect by accepting the post he had essentially abandoned.

But none of that explained how Pemberton’s Adjustment fell
under the Infectus branch of the Timent Electorum’s mandate. Brutally
suppressing civilians was an act of tyranny, and therefore Jericho should have
never been permitted to see such an Adjustment—let alone carry one out.

“I don’t see it,” he said, removing the data crystal and
sliding it across the table. “This doesn’t fall within the range of my
authority.”

“Read the last entry,” Obunda said all-too-patiently.

Jericho eyed the other man for several moments before doing
as he had suggested. After re-reading it and believing he understood the nature
of the Adjustment, he opened the attached files and confirmed their apparent
authenticity. “I can’t possibly verify all of this in two days,” Jericho said
coldly, despising the way that Obunda had managed to gain the upper hand but
working hard to keep that disappointment from his affect, “do you affirm that
these are as they say?”

“I do so affirm that the findings there are genuine,” Obunda
said laconically. “But General Pemberton’s admission of negligence is
well-documented in the public record; all you’ll need to do is have one of
your,” his lips twisted into a cruel smirk as he said, “talented operators confirm
the financial transfer to make the Adjustment legal.”

Jericho knew that it was an intentional slight which his
‘superior’ Adjuster was making. Jericho was absolutely terrible with data links
and other technological devices. Even as a child they had made little sense to
him, but over his life he had learned to incorporate them enough that his
techno-aversion was far from debilitating.

So by employing ‘operators’ like Benton, Shu, and the apparently
late Baxter, he had managed to overcome that particular limitation. But Obunda
required no such assistance.

Obunda had dabbled in tech crime since he was a youth, and
had managed several Adjustments via remote from the comfort of whatever place
it was he called ‘home’—including that of three Senators in one night, who had
conspired to manipulate the Sector’s currency value by shifting massive amounts
of labor from one pool to another over a period of five years. He had stopped
them during the first year of their plan, and had therefore accrued near the
theoretical maximum number of RL possible once the extent of their crime had
been confirmed.

Naturally, the prevention of a crime against the body
politic was worth more than simply punishing an official who managed to
complete such a crime. So, the more ‘lives’ which would be proven to have been
directly saved by an Adjuster’s actions, the higher the percentage of the
affected population’s lifetime productivity quotient that Adjuster was awarded
for acting in defense of the voters’ interests.

With that single Adjustment, Obunda had launched himself
into a position of authority and oversight over all Adjustments made in
Virgin’s assigned zone of control. He had also acquired Virgin-exclusive access
to Tyrannis Adjustments, which were usually of far higher value than their Infectus
counterparts—and required considerably less paperwork to execute.

“Fine,” Jericho said, swiping the data crystal from the
tabletop. “I’ll need it verified remotely after I’ve finished.” He then stood
from the table and opened his jaw wide in a vain effort to clear the horrific
music from his ears.

“Taking a trip, are we?” Obunda asked playfully.

“Not that I’m aware of,” Jericho lied, before adding more
truthfully, “I just can’t stand to set foot in this place again.”

With that, he turned and exited the den of indulgence as
quickly as he could without making a scene.