“The rich really are different,” Masozi muttered as they came to stand before Tacos El Rey, which for all intents and purposes appeared to be closed.
“Not as much as you might think,” Schmidt said coolly as Masozi opened the door and the two women entered the cramped restaurant.
Behind the counter, precisely as he had been when Masozi had exited his establishment during her previous visit, was the bistro’s owner and operator, Edgar ‘Russo’ Barragan.
Seated with his back to the door was Mr. Newman, using the same stool he had sat on previously, and he turned to flash a serpentine smile in Masozi’s direction.
And, precisely where he had been during their last trip to the taco stand, was Jericho—though Shu was nowhere to be seen.
“Ms. Blanco,” Newman said with what could only be false warmth as he gestured to a stool near Jericho, “please sit.”
As Masozi moved to stand in the same spot where she had stood previously, Newman’s eyes landed on Schmidt and they narrowed briefly before resuming their unreadable, warm appearance.
“Ah, you brought legal counsel,” he said approvingly. “Good; I sincerely hope you will find yourself in a position to make use of it.”
Seconds after Masozi took up a position flanking Jericho, the door to the bistro opened and Lady Jessica entered. She wore a gaudy, silk hat with lace and feathers neatly arranged in a striking pattern, and once again had a skin-tight slip hugging every inch of her admittedly impressive physique.
“We’re all here?” Newman asked pointedly, looking around at the small assemblage. “Excellent,” he said with dramatic flair as he extended an open hand, “I will accept the Marks now.”
Without so much as a word, Jericho took out two Tyrannis Marks and slid them down the counter, causing Masozi’s heart to flutter briefly as she wondered if she had failed to correctly identify which Adjustments had been valid and which had not.
But, doing her best to keep a neutral expression, she produced the Carter Mark and placed it on the counter and slid it toward Jericho’s where it came to a stop with a soft clatter after striking one of his two Marks.
Newman picked up the first Mark and said, “Cox…why did you not Adjust him, Mr. Bronson?”
“He was an incompetent hebephile,” Jericho replied easily, but Masozi could see more than a little tension in his neck and shoulders as he continued, “but he wasn’t a tyrant. He tried to cut corners and improve his department’s budget by selling off older equipment instead of keeping a few units in reserve for specific scenarios. His shortsightedness, coupled with what seemed to be a genuine desire to serve his constituents, resulted in deaths that could have been prevented. But he wasn’t a tyrant.”
Newman’s eyes bored a hole into Jericho, and Masozi felt the collective tension in the room mount as she prepared to shift her weight over her left, cybernetic leg—which she would use to launch herself at Newman if things started to go against them. Masozi knew that each of these cases had precariously straddled the line between actionable and not, which made clear that the primary attribute being judged by the tribunal was not the ability to carry out an Adjustment, but the ability to properly recognize when not to carry one out. It seemed, after all of her examination, that the line was impossible to precisely determine. She had discussed this matter for dozens of hours with Schmidt and Eve, and they had concluded this was a built-in mechanism by which Adjusters who lived too close to the line could be identified and removed by their peers—likely in a tribunal similar to the one where she now found herself.
Infectus Adjustments were straightforward things, with clearly-defined thresholds and criteria for both ‘reasonable certainty’ and for the minimum number of lives to have been affected. But Tyrannis Adjustments had no such minimum number of lives threshold, which left the matter of ‘reasonable certainty’ as the sole determinant of whether or not an Adjustment was executed. Much as she still recoiled from several aspects of the Timent Electorum, Masozi grudgingly had to admit that forcing Adjusters to accumulate 100,000 RL prior to permitting them access to Tyrannis Adjustments was as good of a filtration mechanism as could realistically be established. Any Adjuster who strayed too far over the line during the Infectus phase of her career would be removed from the Timent Electorum—and that removal would likely be executed with extreme prejudice.
Masozi’s reverie was broken by Newman’s voice. “Lady Jessica,” Newman said casually without ever breaking eye contact with Jericho, “how do you find Mr. Bronson’s conclusion?”
The silence was deafening as Lady Jessica’s eyes flicked between Jericho and Masozi for several seconds, but eventually she said, “Satisfactory.”
“And how does our host find Mr. Bronson’s conclusion?” Newman asked, again without breaking eye contact with Jericho.
“Right as rain,” Russo replied before sniffling and wiping his nose on the hem of his shirt—reminding Masozi of the wisdom she had displayed in not eating the tacos he had previously sent as parting gifts, “but I would have killed the kiddie-fucker anyway.”
“I concur,” Newman said agreeably, taking the Mark into his hand and making several subtle manipulations of it before setting the star-shaped device on the counter a few inches from the others. No sooner had he put it down than the Mark began to hiss, and tiny wisps of smoke curled upward from the eye at the Mark’s center. “Ms. Blanco,” Newman said as the Cox Mark slowly disintegrated, during which time he picked up the Mark containing the findings for Mr. Carter’s canceled Adjustment, “tell us about Mr. Carter.”
Masozi, who had rehearsed this particular exchange at some length with Ms. Schmidt, took a quiet breath and said, “He was the Head Administrator of a large habitat station in the Medusa System, and his administration’s authority extended to twelve smaller hab modules in the area. Terrorists attacked his constituents and held several of the smaller modules and their inhabitants hostage. This happened near the end of his time as Head Administrator, and he failed to successfully negotiate a peaceful solution before his replacement became involved and the Station Security Council adopted the replacement’s policy. He was too weak to successfully navigate the situation, and that weakness cost many of his constituents their lives. There was no evidence that he abused his power, either during the negotiations or afterward, so he didn’t qualify for Adjustment.”
Newman’s eyes flicked over to Schmidt as Masozi finished her pre-rehearsed statement. “And yet,” he said with faux sympathy, “he was reportedly killed by a bomb in his apartment—a bomb which caused untold damage to the station where he and over one hundred thousand civilians lived—mere seconds after you left said apartment. How do you explain that?”
Masozi gestured to the Mark in Newman’s fingers, “It’s all there.”
“How about you give me your version?” he said flatly, his eyes flashing dangerously and causing an unexpected lump to form in her throat.
She took another short breath as she clenched her left hand into a fist while her right hand tapped the monocle, prompting Eve to bring a series of files to the fore of the monocle’s screen. “I interviewed him—” she said, causing Russo to chuckle darkly and briefly interrupt her flow. “I interviewed him,” she repeated forcefully, avoiding the initiation of eye contact with the bistro’s owner only through an immense exertion of willpower, “and after that interview, my operator and I verified that his story—which contained several relevant details not included in the public reports—checked out after comparing those details to the sealed station records.”
Newman cocked an eyebrow emphatically, “Your operator sounds most talented; the Medusa System employs some of the highest information security measures in the entire Sector.”
Masozi made no reply, and did her best not to give anything away with her body language as Newman’s eyes now bored into hers with what felt like the power of an orbital mining laser. Schmidt had been adamant that Eve’s existence must not be brought into the matter, as it would call several irr
elevant but almost certainly volatile factors into play which might well sway the tribunal to err on the side of caution—which meant summary execution for Jericho, Masozi, and anyone who stood with them.
“This is an interesting story,” Newman said, “however, I find myself unconvinced by it. Do you have any evidence which might corroborate your, forgive the expression, rather tall tale?”
“As I said,” Masozi repeated, steeling her nerves and keeping her eyes locked with Newman’s, “it’s all in the Mark.”
Newman’s eyes narrowed and he looked down to examine the Mark before producing a strange-looking interface device and attaching it to the Mark. A moment later he nodded slowly as a holographic scene of Carter’s apartment sprang into being. “If this evidence can be authenticated, it might alleviate some of the tribunal’s concerns,” he said as the hologram showed Masozi climbing into the Infiltrator suit moments before she exited Carter’s apartment, “though I fear we may not possess a mechanism at hand to verify it.”
“The data feed is uncorrupted,” Schmidt interrupted, causing Newman to slice a look her way, “the authenticity markers align perfectly with the unit’s encryption keys.”
“If you are required to contribute to this proceeding, madam,” Newman said in a low, cold voice, “I will ensure that you are apprised of that requirement in a timely fashion. Until then, you would be well-served to recuse yourself.”
Schmidt stood her ground, but spoke no more as Newman turned his gaze from her back to the Mark in his hand.
“So, as I was saying,” he continued with faux joviality, “without a mechanism by which this evidence can be verified, I fear we cannot take it into considerat—“
“I can verify it,” Lady Jessica interrupted in a crisp voice that somehow seemed to drown Newman’s, though she spoke at an even lower volume than he had done. Masozi had seen demonstrations of impressive vocalizers which could dampen another speaker’s words with precisely attenuated sound waves, but she had never until that moment seen such an impressive example of a trick generally employed only by street magicians.
Newman turned to face her to find her delicate-looking fingers were extended, and between them was held a data crystal.
“I see,” he said with false appreciation, but even Masozi could hear the surprise—and, dare she say it, disappointment—in his voice. He plucked the crystal from her fingers and slotted it into the same interface device that was still attached to the Mark. A few seconds later he schooled his features into a smile that sent chills down Masozi’s spine, “You are as resourceful as ever, Lady Jessica. This will indeed suffice as confirmation of the evidence presented by Ms. Blanco and her as-yet unnamed operator. Do you wish to review these findings?” he asked, turning to face Russo.
The taco stand’s proprietor shook his head wordlessly as he took a drink from a frosty bottle filled with some sort of neon green liquid.
“Very well,” Newman said, removing both the crystal and the Mark from his interface device and deftly pocketing the latter while holding the former out for Lady Jessica to retrieve, which she did as Newman initiated the same disintegration process on Carter’s Mark. “That leaves us with the unfortunate situation with Chief Investigator cum Vice Mayor, Adewale Afolabi,” he said as he reached for the final Mark, causing Masozi’s eyes to widen in angered surprise.
She had assumed that Jericho would be able to find evidence of Afolabi’s tyranny, but seeing his Tyrannis Mark sitting on the counter filled her with an angry fire she had not expected. Of all the possible outcomes—including Jericho failing to return for the tribunal—she had not considered it remotely possible that Jericho would return without having killed Afolabi.
“Walk us through this one, if you please, Mr. Bronson,” Newman said, rolling the Mark over in his fingers.
Jericho leaned forward, and Masozi only then noticed that the fingers of his surgically-reconstructed hand were curled into a gnarled claw that he did his best to conceal from Newman. “The former Chief Investigator’s Adjustment was an…interesting one,” he explained casually, deigning not to look at Masozi as he spoke—though she noticed a bead of sweat running down his suddenly pale cheek. “It seems he’d run afoul of several citizens on his way to the office of New Lincoln’s Chief Investigator. One of them took out expensive advertisements describing in some detail several of his abuses of power—some of which genuinely bordered on tyranny. Fortunately for Mr. Afolabi, I was unable to find sufficient evidence to satisfy our ‘reasonable certainty’ threshold for any of the possible abuses of power he might have made. However,” he continued as another bead of sweat ran down his temple, and now Masozi was beginning to worry for him as she saw his hand was still locked into a twisted, clearly painful claw, “there were also sufficient concerns regarding aspects of his finances to warrant a second investigation—this one on Infectus grounds, for which a Mark was requested and granted shortly after we touched down on Virgin Prime.”
Masozi felt her anger turn to hope mixed with vicious satisfaction. Maybe Jericho didn’t fail after all? she wondered.
“Unfortunately,” Jericho continued, dashing her hopes a second time and causing her to ball her right hand into a fist to match her left, “I couldn’t satisfy that one, either, given the available evidence and forgot to retrieve the Infectus Mark from his garage after conducting an interview.”
“And yet,” Newman said, tapping a ring on his left hand and causing an image to be projected on the wall against which the counter was set, “the Virgin newsfeeds can scarcely run for more than eight minutes between reminding their viewers of what looks, for all intents and purposes, like cold-blooded murder.”
Russo snorted from behind the counter as he took out a sandwich of some kind, spread some red sauce on it, and took a loud, crunchy bite.
Newman’s eyes snapped over to the bistro’s owner, but Edgar ‘Russo’ Barragan merely shook his head as he kept his eyes on the kitchen countertop. “What can you say on this matter, Mr. Bronson?” Newman asked without a trace of annoyance in his voice as he schooled his features into an unreadable mask.
“Well,” Jericho sighed, “the truth is I went to confront the Vice Mayor Elect at his house. I’d hoped he might trip himself up if I pressed him on certain details which I’d come to learn, but he proved to my satisfaction that he was innocent of the charges brought against him. I lit a cigar, made my way to my car, and before I reached the end of the driveway he produced a pistol and shot me.”
Masozi could barely contain her anger, but did her best to keep her cool while hearing his words repeated over and over in her mind, ‘he proved to my satisfaction that he was innocent of the charges…’ She briefly wondered what game Jericho was playing at, but before she could pursue the thought much further she heard Newman’s voice break the fog of her anger.
“Forgive me for saying so, but that is the second incredible story I have heard since sitting down,” the silver-tongued Adjuster said contemptuously. “Would you have me believe your companion acted in your defense?”
“I wouldn’t have you believe shit,” Jericho quipped, gesturing to the Mark in Newman’s hand. “Everything you need is contained on that Mark’s local recording unit. It clearly shows that he fired first and was taken down in a legal act of defense—Virgin’s ‘Return Fire’ laws are pretty clear on the matter of self-defensive acts extending to protect bystanders from prosecution, should they open fire in an effort to defend others from unsanctioned acts of violence.”
Newman looked down at the Mark and cocked his head slightly, but Masozi’s long-cultivated Investigatory skills told her that this was a wrinkle he had not expected during the tribunal—and Masozi felt her anger begin to slowly abate. She quickly realized just how precarious of a position they were in regarding Afolabi—who, it seemed, Jericho had managed to kill in spite of less-than-overwhelming evidence in support of the act. Only then did Masozi fully realize just how elaborate of a trap Afolabi had been; had Jericho Adjusted him without
cause, the tribunal would likely cancel his involvement in the Blanco Adjustment—a cancellation that would very likely include his life—and if he had not killed Afolabi, there would have been an enduring wedge driven between Jericho and Masozi.
In short, it was nothing short of a brilliant series of traps—and Jericho had neatly circumvented every obstacle in his path by having Shu act in his defense.
“Even if I accept your suggested premise for the circumstances surrounding Mr. Afolabi’s death,” Newman said dubiously, never even attempting to access the files contained on the Mark, “and even if the evidence on this Mark is proven to be valid, accurate, and corroborates your story…where is your companion and protector, Ms. Shu? And why did you not surrender yourselves to the local authorities in accordance with Virgin law? By fleeing the scene you have become guilty of failing to report your part—or parts—in the event to local authorities, which is felonious all on its own.”
Jericho looked pointedly over his shoulder to Russo, whose eyes were narrowed as he wiped the bread crumbs from his hands. Jericho then turned deliberately to face Lady Jessica, and her timelessly youthful features never once flinched from their unreadable, perfectly composed mask. He then settled his gaze on Newman and said, “Are you suggesting that I’ve somehow failed to submit myself to a proper authoritative body in this matter? I’m on a timetable, Mr. Newman, and I couldn’t let some beat cop sweat me for ninety two hours in a holding cell when there was real work to be done. Just by returning here,” he continued, and Masozi noticed that his fingers had finally stretched out to something resembling a normal posture for his reconstructed hand, “I’m submitting myself to the only authorities which really matter in this case. I, and my fellow Adjuster,” he said, tilting his head toward Masozi, “gladly accept the tribunal’s judgment—just so long as doing so doesn’t take too much time. As I said: we’re on a schedule.”
“You speak out of turn, Mr. Bronson,” Lady Jessica’s icy voice cut through the room. “We shall deliberate for however long is required to arrive at a decision…unless you wish to forgo those deliberations in favor of expediency at all costs?” she added dangerously.
Sic Semper Tyrannis: The Chimera Adjustment, Book Two (Imperium Cicernus 5) Page 32