“We need to go,” Jericho said, standing from the stool and adding, “but I’d love another batch of those tacos if you’ve got some handy.”
Russo grinned and produced a pair of even larger storage containers than the ones he had sent previously. “Sorry I can’t help any more than this,” he said as Jericho accepted the box with a gracious nod.
“We owe you our lives,” Jericho said as though it was a small matter, “the food, while great, is just gravy.”
Russo nodded appreciatively. “Do you have a plan?”
For the first time since Schmidt had engaged in her legal battle with Lady Jessica—who stood as silent and unmoving as a statue among them—Jericho’s eyes met Masozi’s and he flashed a grim smile, “I always have a plan.”
“Would you care for my assistance with your great task?” Lady Jessica asked, causing all four of the others in the bistro to shoot her incredulous looks. “I can think of no greater undertaking in the Sector’s history,” she continued blithely, ignoring their unifying incredulity, “and would be remiss if I did not contribute to its success however I am best able.”
The only person not stunned into silence was Jericho, who stood from the stool and offered his hand, “Welcome aboard, Lady Jessica.”
She looked with muted disdain at his proffered hand for a moment before removing her long, skin-tight glove and accepting his hand, “I will subordinate myself to your cause, and forego any and all other duties until the Adjustment has been made.” With her free hand, she produced a tiny cylinder two inches long and a quarter inch in diameter, which she handed to Jericho, “The citizens of my world installed a kill switch in my cerebral cortex when they released me from prison, and this is the manual activator for it. I can think of no better way to convince you of the sincerity of my offer, and will gladly subject myself to examination by your medical personnel so they might verify the existence and viability of the kill switch.”
Jericho hesitated before accepting the device, which he carefully held between his fingers and bluntly asked, “How do I activate it?”
“Simply break the outer housing and destroy the sensitive transmitter within,” she explained. “If I am within ten kilometers it will take immediate effect, and if I am without that distance for greater than twelve hours it will automatically trigger.”
“Thank you,” Jericho said as he placed it in his pocket, “you can have it back once my people verify that it’s real; I have no use for someone I can’t trust, and I never mistrust someone I can use.”
“Wise words,” Lady Jessica nodded deferentially, “but an even wiser sentiment.”
Jericho nodded and turned to Schmidt, “That was good work, Schmidt.”
“I know,” she replied simply, but the thin sheen of sweat at her brow told that she had shared some significant measure of their anxiety in the previous four hours.
Jericho chuckled before exhaling loudly, looking at Schmidt, then Lady Jessica, and finally Masozi. “Now, to borrow another’s words…” he said as a wolfish grin spread across his features, “let’s go kill that smug son of a bitch.”
“About fucking time,” Eve said into Masozi’s earpiece, and Masozi couldn’t help an eager laugh from escaping her mouth at the sentiment—one which she wholeheartedly shared—which Eve had apparently expressed solely for her benefit.
Chapter XXII: The Talking Head
“I think I’m ready,” Eve declared when the group was fully assembled in the Zhuge Liang’s sickbay, and the pair of heads—one badly mutilated, the other completely intact—was prepared for the interrogation.
“Good,” Jericho said, glad to finally be able to interrogate Agent Stiglitz. Eve had spent the past several days working on developing an algorithm which would, in theory, permit them to conduct an interrogation directly on Stiglitz’ nervous system if he proved reticent to cooperate.
Frankly, Jericho was a little bitter about not being able to revisit the torture he’d endured at Stiglitz’ hands on the now body-less agent, but Eve had assured him that direct extraction of information from what remained of his organic central nervous system would be unpleasant in the extreme. It wasn’t much, but it was apparently all he could hope for in the revenge department.
“Not to be blunt,” Masozi said with a pointed look at Lady Jessica, “but I don’t trust her, and I think I’m going to exercise my veto powers to keep her from attending this little…interview.”
Masozi had made clear her objection to what they were about to do, but she had also agreed—after significant deliberation and debate—that it was the only way they could possibly extract whatever information Stiglitz had in his mostly-mechanical brain.
“I’m through arguing about it,” Jericho said with a sigh, “I’m not entirely sure that’s what Stephen had in mind when he gave you veto power over what goes on in this ship, but if you’re firm on the position then that’s how it will be.”
“I am,” Masozi said with a sharp nod.
“Your mistrust is understandable,” Lady Jessica said, bowing graciously as she turned toward the door and began walking, “I will be in my berth.”
After she had left, Jericho turned back to the first subject they would use Eve’s new technique on.
“I’m not going to stand by for this,” Dr. Kowalski said as she, too, made for the door. “I won’t be party to this kind of torture.”
“Understood, Doctor,” Jericho nodded before the woman left the sickbay. Dr. Maturin, however, remained and while he had argued against what they were about to do, he did not appear ready to leave sickbay just yet. “What about you?” Jericho asked pointedly. “I won’t be interrupted once we begin, so if you’re squeamish—“
“These people have slaughtered hundreds of thousands of innocent civilians just to turn public sentiment in favor of their masters, and would have killed even more if you hadn’t stopped them,” Maturin interrupted severely. “If we don’t root this evil out, more innocent life will be lost.” His countenance darkened as he looked down at the mangled, cybernetic head Masozi had brought back from the site of Carter’s non-Adjustment. “There’s actually a very good reason I don’t have a government-issued medical license any more, Mr. Bronson, and it’s the same reason why I’m willing to assist you with this interrogation by keeping the subjects alive as long as possible to extract whatever information we can. I have a firm grip on my principles and my nerves.”
Jericho nodded slowly, having read the man’s file several times and believing him to be genuinely possessed of the opinion he just articulated. “All right,” he said, turning to Eve’s digital avatar on a nearby screen, “run your program.”
The fiber-optic lines connected to the various points of the crushed, metal head lit up and Eve’s screen was filled with a flood of data.
There was a small progress bar, or something like it, on the bottom of the screen which began to slowly fill from left to right as Eve’s avatar stood motionless. For several seconds her virtual eyes glowed with a sickly, green light.
Masozi had explained that the progress bar would indicate when Eve needed to stop the procedure. Jericho had asked why she would need to stop if the bar reached full, but Masozi had been reluctant to explain further on the matter so he decided to go with her judgment.
Before that progress bar made it past the one fourth mark, the stream of data surrounding Eve’s avatar disappeared and her eyes resumed their almost cartoonish shape and color, “Looks like that’s as much as I’m going to get out of him. Soze curb-stomped him pretty good back there, but I did get a few common reference points that match data I extracted from his cybernetic data buffers.”
“Is there anything of use?” Jericho asked.
“There’s really no way to know,” Eve said with a shake of her head, “at least, not until I compare it to what we get from Stiglitz. Either way, though, I’ve learned quite a bit about human neurophysiology and should be able to conduct the next one a bit less traumatically.”
�
�That’s a shame,” Masozi quipped before Jericho could do likewise, “this bastard killed dozens of my neighbors just to make it look like I was a terrorist. He deserves as much pain as we can give him.” Then Masozi took a step forward as a concerned look came over her face, “How are you doing, Eve?”
Eve snapped off a salute, causing her virtual breasts to jiggle more than Jericho thought was physically possible, “Good to go, boss!”
“You know what I mean,” Masozi said under her breath. “You tell us if we need to stop. We can pick this up later.”
“Actually,” Eve said with a skeptical look, “I don’t think we can. Once I begin with Stiglitz, assuming he doesn’t just tell Jericho what he wants to know, irreversible neuronal degradation will begin and it’s possible that a cascade effect—sort of a built-in self-destruct system which is part of his augmentation—will take place. Once that happens, we’ll only have a few minutes to extract as much as we can before his brain turns into a puddle of raspberry tapioca pudding—only it probably won’t taste as good…” she added with a thoughtful tap of her chin. “In any case, I’ll do what I can to keep that cascade from happening, but it probably won’t buy us much time.”
“Then we should take a break. You and I can go do a round of maintenance and we’ll come back when your error log is empty,” Masozi said forcefully, and Jericho found himself listening in on the conversation with surprised interest.
“Nah,” Eve said with a dismissive gesture, “it’s going to be better if I don’t corrupt the raw data I just got from toaster boy over here before comparing it to Stiglitz’. Once I’ve compiled the data, we’ll do a round of maintenance,” she promised, “but we need to get this ball rolling.”
“I only want you doing this if you think it’s safe, Eve,” Jericho said, remembering how Eve had…well, how she had died after helping him deal with Obunda. He had been more emotionally involved with that event in the weeks that followed than he had ever thought possible, and he had no intention of repeating the situation if he could help it.
Besides, the line between sentience and a programmed facsimile of such had become far blurrier than he had ever expected it to be when it came to Eve.
“I am happy to be of service,” Eve said exuberantly with another cringe-worthy salute. But there was an earnestness in her affect that suggested to Jericho she had gained significant emotional depth in recent weeks.
“Ok,” he said, reaching for the control panel which would flood Stiglitz’ nervous system with the stimulant and anti-neuroleptics which had kept him in a comatose state following his removal from cryo-storage, “here we go.”
Pressing the button caused an almost immediate response from Stiglitz’ disembodied head, and as his eyes snapped open he looked around to take in his surroundings. His eyes briefly caught on the crushed metal skull which Eve had just ‘processed,’ if the word applied, but then they moved to Jericho.
“So,” Stiglitz said in his unique accent, which must have been the product of extensive manipulation in his speech centers, since it didn’t correspond to any known accent, “here we are.”
“Here we are,” Jericho agreed, leaning forward and fixing the agent with a hard look. “What are the odds that you’ll cooperate with us under extreme chemical interrogation methods?”
“Remote,” Stiglitz replied pleasantly, “but you are, of course, encouraged to try if you deem it the best course of action available to you.”
“You wish,” Jericho snorted, tilting his head to Dr. Maturin, “he’s had weeks to go over your neurologic modifications. He suggests that, while your pain centers were functionally removed at some point during your extensive series of…modifications,” he gestured to the crushed, metal skull beside Stiglitz, “he’s managed to rig up a system that can approximate those signals. Would testing it at this point contribute to a more productive dialog between us?” he asked levelly.
Stiglitz’ eyes shifted to Maturin, who stood with his arms folded several feet behind Jericho. A small remote was firmly gripped in the doctor’s left hand, and he looked at Stiglitz intently as the agent seemed to process the question. “Almost certainly,” Stiglitz said casually, “please, Doctor; demonstrate this system.”
Jericho had expected as much, so he stood and nodded in Maturin’s direction. No sooner had he done so than Stiglitz’ cheeks contorted grotesquely and his eyes wavered rapidly from side to side. After only a few seconds, Dr. Maturin deactivated the device and Stiglitz quickly cleared the pain from his expression.
“Thank you, Doctor,” Stiglitz said after regaining his composure, “that was most effective.”
“That was the first setting,” Jericho said calmly, “he tells me there are seven others which would be unlikely to cause neurological damage, and three more that he has yet to test on a living subject for fear of legal reprisals.”
“Your reputation precedes you, Doctor Maturin,” Stiglitz said with overt approval. “You know your craft well; I commend you.”
“How are those odds doing now?” Jericho asked as the hint of a sneer crept across his face. The truth was that Dr. Maturin had lost his medical license amid suspicion of conducting tests on human neurological durability, but Hadden’s investigators had concluded he was guilty of no more than refusing to prescribe narcotics to habitual drug-seekers. Being less than a capable politician, he had been caught in the gears of a medical system which demanded a certain number of license revocations in order to retain its public confidence index at an acceptable level.
But, as with any good lie, the kernel of truth could be predicted to have a multiplicative effect on those hearing it. Jericho knew he would need every possible advantage to extract the information from Stiglitz’ mind, and Dr. Maturin was willing to play along by using his expertise to stimulate Stiglitz’ motor cortex to approximate pain. Contrary to what he had just said, there was only one other setting on the device and it would very likely cause severe neurologic degradation if employed.
Stiglitz seemed to ponder his reply before saying, “The odds of my compliance have been upgraded from ‘remote’ to ‘unlikely’.”
“I think we should make this easy—or, at the very least, somewhat cordial,” Jericho said, pulling a chair beside the bench on which Stiglitz’ head sat and spinning it around before sitting on it. “How about a game?”
Stiglitz cocked an eyebrow, “A game?”
“Sure,” Jericho said agreeably, “I make statements and you tell me if I’m wrong.”
“Why would I agree to that?” Stiglitz asked with what seemed to be genuine interest.
“I’ll limit my total misses to five,” Jericho explained with a shrug. “As soon as we hit five, I’ll pull the plug on your life support and spare you the unpleasantness which the good doctor is so eager to inflict.”
Stiglitz’ eyes narrowed, but it was clear to Jericho that their little demonstration had indeed gotten his attention. If Stiglitz hadn’t felt any pain for years—or perhaps even decades—then that little jolt was probably enough to fill him with the most primal emotion of all: fear. “How do I know you will actually keep to this?” Stiglitz asked.
“How do I know you’ll answer me truthfully?” Jericho riposted. “Think of it this way: you already accomplished your assignment by unleashing the bioweapon on Philippa, thereby securing Virgin’s popular and congressional support for Blanco’s unlawful military action. I can tell you, much to our collective disappointment,” he said, looking over his shoulder at his companions, “that from your perspective it was a categorical success. So, really, what do you have to lose?”
“My dignity,” Stiglitz replied before scoffing as his eyes looked down to where his body should have been, which was now replaced by a metal sickbay bench. “Your point is well taken. You may commence with your statements.”
“Your birth name was Pennington,” Jericho said, having read through the entirety of Ms. St. Murray’s findings on Agent Stiglitz, “Arturo Pennington.”
“That wou
ld not be difficult to ascertain,” Stiglitz scoffed, “given your impressive—if low-tech—information network, coupled with significant time to compare my neuronal DNA to the various public databases.”
“I’m old,” Jericho said with a withering look, “bear with me while I build up some steam.”
Stiglitz actually chuckled, which was as much indication that Jericho had unnerved him as he was likely to get. Unnerved meant emotional, and emotional subjects were easier to trip up.
“You were initially assigned to Rationem black ops,” Jericho continued, having pieced together Stiglitz’ early career with St. Murray’s help, “but were captured during an operation on Philippa. Instead of summary execution, you were granted a chance to enter a new program which offered several…” he looked pointedly at the crushed metal skull beside Stiglitz, “upgrades. They knew before they even asked you, based on your personality profile, that you’d jump at the chance—and that same profile is why I knew you’d agree to answer my questions. You don’t have loyalty to anything but the job, and now that yours is done you’re looking out for yourself.”
“Not bad,” Stiglitz allowed, “but far from impressive.”
“I told you,” Jericho said, producing a cigar from his pocket and lighting it before continuing, “I’m old; give me a little time to get going.”
He took a long, deep draw from the cigar and felt the familiar warmth permeate his torso and slowly spread throughout his body. After exhaling, he silently offered the cigar to Stiglitz. The agent scowled but made no other reply, so Jericho continued.
“A few years into your new career, and after most of these,” he gestured disdainfully to the crushed skull, “so-called upgrades had been made, you came in contact with then-Senator Han-Ramil Blanco. He enlisted you for a side mission, which you accepted since doing so would land you in a favorable position with a rising political star—“
“Wrong,” Stiglitz interrupted. “I have never met President Blanco or, to my knowledge, any of his people.”
Sic Semper Tyrannis: The Chimera Adjustment, Book Two (Imperium Cicernus 5) Page 34