On The Imperium’s Secret Service (Imperium Cicernus) (29 page)

“He told me that if I didn’t do as he said, copies of the pictures would be sent to my superiors, my family and even my few friends at work,” he added.  “And what he wanted me to do at first was so harmless.  He only wanted data on starship flight paths, something anyone could have put together with access to the OTC feed.”

Fitz and Mariko exchanged glances.  Having a vague idea of a starship’s flight path wasn’t good enough to intercept the starship, but having a precise flight path was more than good enough.  It would be simple to intercept the starship in question, which might be an ordinary merchant ship, or a passenger liner with thousands of wealthy passengers who could be picked up for ransom.  There was no way that sort of data could be described as
harmless
.

“And then he wanted more data on shuttles and shuttle accidents, and then he wanted me to start adding details to the databanks,” Richardson continued, bitterly.  “I wanted to protest, but he just kept reminding me that my career was doomed – and that I would be charged with espionage if anyone found out the truth.  There was nothing I could do about the trap I was in – he even enjoyed reminding me that I was in his power.  By the end of the year, I was just giving him everything he asked for.”

Mariko frowned.  “And what did he ask for?”

“All sorts of things,” Richardson said.  “Imperial Navy files on personnel recruitment, classified intelligence files...everything I could access, he wanted.”

Fitz leaned forward.  “You shouldn't have been able to access classified intelligence files,” he said, sharply.  “How did you get into them?”

“They’re all on the same computer network,” Richardson confessed.  “I managed to hack into part of the intelligence network and write myself admin rights.  All of the signs of my intrusion were erased long before anyone from intelligence could possibly see them.”

Fitz said a word under his breath.  “Those damned fools,” he said.  “Didn’t it
occur
to any of them that someone could crack their goddamned files?”

Fortunately, Richardson paid no attention to this.  Instead, he looked directly at Mariko. 

“I want to deal,” he said.  “I have information that you need and I will give it to you if you make a deal with me.”

Mariko scowled.  They’d given him too long, allowing him a chance to gather himself. 

“I could take you to an interrogation chamber instead,” she pointed out, untruthfully.  “You have no augments that might interfere with probing your mind.  We would have everything we needed, and you would be nothing more than a vegetable.”

“You need to deal,” Richardson said, desperately.  “I have vital information that you need!”

“I’m sure you do,” Mariko said.  “But if you want us to deal, you have to give us some reason to convince our bosses that we gain more by making a deal than by handing you over to the interrogators.  A few minutes under the probe, and most people want to confess to crimes they committed in a past life.”

Richardson stared at her, wildly. 

“I kept copies,” he admitted.  “Everything I sent to him, everything I did for him, I kept copies of it all.  I can give them to you if you’ll make a deal with me.”

Mariko looked over at Fitz, who raised one hand in a pre-arranged signal. 
Deal
.

“It sounds very tempting,” Mariko said, after a long moment.  “But I am afraid that we are going to have to verify the information before committing ourselves to anything.”

“But then I would have nothing to bargain with,” Richardson pointed out.  “Deal, or don’t deal.”

“Very well,” Mariko said.  They’d discussed the outlines of any deal while they’d been planning on the
Bruce Wayne
.  “You give us what you’ve got and assist us in the future if we deem it necessary.  In exchange, we will see to it that you get a safe place to live to spend the rest of your life.  It won't be on a resort world, but it will be somewhere where you can make a new start.”

Richardson stared up at her.  “But how do I know that you will keep your word?”

Mariko made a show of being tired of the game. 

“You don't,” she told him.  “What you
do
have is the certainty of public naming and shaming, followed with a trial for treason and a certain death penalty.  Your only hope is to cooperate fully with us, which will hopefully allow us to round up the Secessionists on this planet before they do something we can't handle.  The choice is yours.”

She stepped back and watched him, aware that Fitz was watching him through implants that could measure his body temperature, heartbeat and even the electricity running through his brain.  He could practically read his thoughts; he could certainly tell if Richardson intended to lie to them.  Mariko felt a hot flash of envy as Fitz winked at her.  She would have sold her soul for a similar pair of augments.  Perhaps, if they stayed with Fitz after this crisis was solved, they would get such augments for themselves.  Or maybe they were only given to agents who had proved themselves to be paragons of trustworthiness and honesty. 

“I’ll show you what I have,” Richardson said, finally.  He stumbled to his feet and staggered over towards the safe, and then reversed course.  “I...”

“We already know the safe’s there,” Fitz said, dryly.  “You’re wasting your time trying to hide it.”

Richardson flushed and turned back to the painting, moving it aside with a delicacy born of long practice.  The safe clicked open after it scanned his hand, noted that his DNA matched a permitted pattern and he was still alive.  A second layer, below the first one, demanded a numerical code.  Fitz would have memorised it, Mariko was sure, but she did her best to remember it as well.  Anyone who killed Richardson and used his still-warm body to break into the safe would find themselves stymied when they reached the second layer.  Putting in the wrong code would probably have explosive consequences.

Inside, there were several high-capacity datachips and a handful of devices she didn't recognise until Richardson brought one of them out into the light.  The glass-like wafer was actually a section of internal memory from a standard computer, something that could be removed and replaced easily, if necessary.  They could carry thousands of terabytes worth of data and were only usable if reconnected to the right computer.  It was a neat way to confuse searchers right from the start.

Behind the chips, there were a small bundle of papers tied up with a bow and a single outdated projectile weapon, of a design Mariko didn't recognise.  Richardson picked it up, looked at it thoughtfully and then put it back in the safe, moments before Fitz could take the weapon from him with augmented strength.  The papers turned out to be printed copies of the blackmail material and a sealed letter addressed to the head of his division.  Suicide had clearly been much on his mind.

“Give me the chips,” Fitz ordered, flatly.  “And then tell me which computer you used to read the internal wafers.”

“The standard one, over there,” Richardson said, pointing to the computer they’d seen earlier.  “It’s possible to partition their network drives to keep out watching snoops – it’s one of the secrets we share amongst ourselves.  And it’s not something obvious unless you take the computer to pieces and discover what’s no longer there.”

He shook his head at Fitz’s expression.  “Now, about my deal...?”

“That will depend on how fully you cooperate,” Fitz informed him.  He was studying one of the chips thoughtfully, turning it from side to side in his hand.  “Are there any unpleasant surprises on these chips?”

“No,” Richardson said.  “I wanted them to be visible to everyone if...”  He didn't finish his sentence. 

“You were caught,” Fitz said, flatly.  “Or when you finally decided you couldn't live a lie and killed yourself.  Why didn't you bring it to Imperial Intelligence right from the start?”

Richardson looked at him as though he was insane.  “And ruin my entire life?  No one would ever trust me again!”

“I suppose someone who saw you fucking a Pixie would have
real
problems trusting you again,” Fitz said, tightly.  “You know what they say about Pixie-fuckers?”

Mariko didn’t, but suspected that she didn't want to know.

“That’s why I couldn't go to them,” Richardson insisted.  “They would have condemned me for doing something lawful, but...”

“Frowned upon?”  Fitz offered.  “Why didn't you just use a VR package?  You could have enjoyed yourself for hours without opening yourself to blackmail.”

“But that wouldn’t have been
real
,” Richardson protested.  “I mean...”

“I know what you mean,” Fitz said.  “But I’m afraid that my boss and I” – he nodded towards Mariko, who had forgotten that she was meant to be in charge – “now have to clean up the mess you have created.  When is your next meeting with the person who contacts you?”

“I don’t know until I get an email from a junk mail service,” Richardson said.  “Whenever I get it, I have to go down to Undercity and make contact with the bastard.  He takes what I have to give him and issues new orders.  And I...”

He stopped, as if something had just occurred to him.  “You intend to snatch him, don’t you?”  He asked.  “Let me help.”

“Oh, you’re going to help,” Fitz assured him.  He smiled, rather unpleasantly.  “How often do these meetings occur?”

Mariko listened to the interrogation, shaking her head in awe as Fitz went over the same points time and time again, changing tack slightly on every question.  Keeping a set of lies straight was difficult when the liar was being harassed by a trained interrogator, but the truth had the advantage of being true and didn't have to be made up.  Richardson had met his contact in the lounge below the brothel he favoured, a lounge where humans and aliens met in near-equality.  There was little difference in the treatment of lower-class humans and aliens, at least not on Sumter.  Other worlds held out the promise of lasting cooperation if the Imperium didn't manage to ruin it.

The contact was a human male, with a face so bland that Fitz suggested that it had been cosmetically reshaped – or was really nothing more than a simple mask made from living flesh.  It did suggest that the contact might not be human, but Richardson was adamant that the contact was definitely as human as he was.  There were subtle clues suggesting an alien nature from even the most human-like alien.  Their gait might not be quite right, their proportions might be badly wrong...and they might have problems with their senses of smell and taste.  Some human foods couldn't be eaten by other humanoid races, which had their own foodstuffs and mostly refused to allow humans to eat them.  Besides, a Secessionist agent who was human might be able to call upon human justice long enough to escape, rather than face immediate punishment as an alien rebel.

And if the meetings did take place every two weeks, as Richardson suggested, they were approaching the deadline for another one.

“All right,” Fitz said.  “This is what I want you to do.”

He looked down at Richardson, who quailed under his gaze.  “You will continue your life as normal, but you will use a communicator I will give you” – he put one down on the table – “to inform me the moment you receive a request for another meeting.  When you go to that meeting, you will not go alone – but you will appear to be alone.  If possible, we will give you something you can wear to report on your location and relay what you are saying to us; if not, we will just follow you from a distance.  Once you have concluded the meeting, you will go home by the quickest route and wait for us to contact you.”

Richardson swallowed hard.  “What happens if you don’t contact me?”

“I will leave instructions for your pardon and exile to a less...sensitive…world with the officers on this planet,” Fitz assured him.  “Should we come to grief, other agents will pick up the case and run with it.  I assure you that they
will
find out if you helped contribute to our deaths and that would mean the end of any deal.  Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” Richardson said.