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

“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 commission?”

“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 Proditores.
“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 it or
allow 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 has no formal hierarchy of which we are aware.” 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
they are little better than state-funded terrorists born of an irrational fear
aimed at the old, Imperial Aristocracy.”

“They aren’t state-funded,” Masozi said pointedly, and again
Stiglitz and Afolabi shared a brief look that she didn’t quite understand.
“They have to operate purely on donations made by volunteers.”

“That is the official line, yes,” Agent Stiglitz said
tersely before making a short, chopping gesture, “but whatever role the T.E.
was once meant to serve, it has likely ceased to do so.”

Masozi considered the implications if the First Right, which
served as the most fundamental component of their society’s two hundred year
long history, had indeed been coopted for nefarious purposes. All across the
system—and likely beyond—there had been rumblings that such may have taken
place, but such murmurs had generally been dismissed as conspiracy theories
bandied about by the nutters of society.

“This is a lot for you to process, Investigator Masozi,”
Afolabi said levelly, interrupting her silent ruminations. “I suggest you take
the rest of the night off; take in a meal, rent a VR booth, or spend a few hours
at the gym before heading home so you can clear your head. Report to my office
at the start of your shift tomorrow and we can discuss your potential
involvement in this matter. Much may depend on your role in the next few days’
investigation.”

“Indeed,” Agent Stiglitz said, once again offering his hand,
“I look forward to working with you, Investigator.”

She was well and truly at a loss for words, so Masozi did
the only thing she could think of and accepted his hand. She then shook Chief
Afolabi’s hand and exited the Chief Investigator’s office, closing the door
behind her.

Her boss had been right: this would take a few hours to wrap
her head around.

Jericho finished fastening the full-body harness and then
proceeded to triple-check each of the clasps. When it was clear that everything
was in order, he attached the deceptively thin, metal wire which his life would
depend on for the next few minutes. He could have had the wire made of the same
carbon tubules as he had used at Cantwell’s Adjustment, but doing so would have
unnecessarily increased the cost of this, the Angelo Adjustment.

The wind whipped violently across his face as he lowered the
goggles over his eyes and tightened their strap behind his head until they were
snug. There were a hundred better, safer, or cleverer ways of doing what he was
about to do, but each of them cost several times more money to set up—and, as
always, Jericho prided himself for staying on budget.

He walked over to the edge of the building and looked down
to the street below. It was fully eight hundred feet down from where he stood
on the residential building’s flat rooftop, but he knew that altitude would be
the least of his problems on the relatively short, yet perilous descent.

Jericho activated the goggles’ infrared light filter and
immediately caught sight of the building’s security camera infrared beams as
they danced across the face of the building in a seemingly random pattern. The
night air was so thick with smog in New Lincoln that depending on the visible
spectrum of light was foolish, especially in matters of security, so all
mid-tier systems used infrared or better tech.

Since the wormhole had collapsed two centuries earlier, the
technology of the Chimera Sector had undergone a radical metamorphosis which
saw the blending of millennia-old technology with more modern examples of
humanity’s scientific achievements. As such, only the ultra-wealthy members of
a planet’s populace could surround themselves with exclusively high-end
devices—and Mr. Angelo, Jericho’s next Adjustment, was ostensibly
not
one of the ultra-wealthy of Virgin Prime.

The overlap of the low-tech, omni-directionally sweeping,
night
-vision security cameras created a nearly impenetrable
grid which would almost certainly catch anyone attempting what he was about to
attempt.

But Jericho had spent nearly two decades finding ways around
such security measures, and this particular security net could be defeated with
nothing but a well-timed flip of a switch.

He felt inside his pocket for the Timent Electorum insignia:
the symbol, if not badge, of his office. Once he had confirmed it was where it
should be he activated the tension brake on the wire and stepped out over the
edge, moving very carefully as he let out incrementally more line until he was
perpendicular to the building’s vertical surface.

He tapped the new earpiece with his free hand and said, “I’m
in position, Baxter.”

“Copy that,”
came
the older man’s
disinterested-sounding voice through the earpiece. “Initiating power spike in
ten…nine…eight…seven—”

When the countdown reached seven, Jericho gradually let out
the line as he began to run along the wall of the building. The tiny suction
cups built into his bodyglove’s footpads ensured that he never pushed too far
off from the building to maintain control of his descent.

“Six…five…four…” Baxter, his second-best operator, reported
in his droll, monotonous voice.

Jericho was running as fast as he could keep his legs
churning, which meant that he had let out all of the tension he could from the
braking mechanism on the miniature spool of wire.

“Three…two…one…”Baxter continued as though he was reciting
some particularly uninteresting bit of trivia.

Jericho had ‘run’ nearly twenty five stories down the side
of the building by then, and the fast-moving IR camera’s beam of invisible
light came sweeping toward his path. If the light touched his body he would be
unable to complete his mission—and would miss the opportunity of a lifetime in
the process.

“Zero: spike’s away,” his elderly operator reported dryly.
Just before Jericho’s body entered the beam of infrared light, the beam winked
out of existence for just a fraction of second.

But by the time that light had returned, Jericho’s body had
passed beyond its path and he knew he had just seven seconds before the next
beam would come into contact with him.

It was more than enough time.

He reengaged the tension brake gradually over the next four
seconds. A half-second before the brake locked down, he pushed off from the
building with every scrap of power his aging legs could generate. His body
reached the apex of its short-lived flight just as the tension brake clamped
down, snapping his body back with such violence that if he had not been
properly prepared, he was quite certain he would have broken a handful of ribs
and likely lost a few teeth.

But he tightened his body at the same moment the line
snagged, and the combination of forces caused him to swing back toward the
building with dangerous speed as he tucked his knees against his chest and
turned his body into a tight ball.

If he missed by even a foot, he would not only break more
than just a few ribs but the security cameras would lock onto him. Some forty seven
seconds after that, the building’s security force would apprehend him at
gunpoint and he would be unable to complete the most important, complex
assignment of his decades-long career.

He risked a glance toward his entry zone and winced as he
saw that he had slightly miscalculated his trajectory. As his rump entered the
open window, he tried desperately to twist his torso enough to avoid striking
his left arm against the window jamb, and thankfully he succeeded—rather, he
partially
succeeded. His arm struck the window
frame as the rest of his body sailed through the small opening, but his body’s
momentum continued on course in spite of the unwanted contact.

Having drilled this precise entry hundreds of times using
physical, scaled models, Jericho had even practiced for the eventuality of a
less-than-perfect entry and was able to bring himself to a stop against the
flat’s kitchen door without breaking through it.

He knew he had two seconds to remove the wire from its
perch, so in a fluid series of motions he unhooked the shackle from his harness
with one hand and, with the hand of his now-injured left arm, clicked the
remote spooling mechanism for the winch located on the roof of the building.
The shackle was whisked too quickly to see out of the kitchen window, and even
though he knew the math bore out that he had acted in time, he held his breath
for several extra seconds until he was convinced that no alarms had sounded
outside.

Exhaling evenly and quietly, he switched his goggles from
base infrared to thermal imaging and looked around the kitchen. Everything was
cold save for the small, faint glow of heat coming from the food refrigerator’s
compressor.

But Jericho had learned many years before to be cautious at
all times, so he pressed his ear against the kitchen door to listen for any
sounds on the other side. When he heard nothing, he opened the door and made
his way into the short hallway connecting the four rooms of the flat: kitchen,
main parlor, bedroom with adjoining toilet, and second bedroom which had been
converted into a small office.

All thermal readings showed that no one had been inside the
flat for at least ten hours, which was consistent with his next contracted
target’s routine. Jericho then performed
a routine weapons sweep of the bedroom—a room with a robust security door made
to appear as a regular door—and found nothing of consequence.

“I’m in,” he said sub-vocally, allowing the small, crude
patch he had stuck to his neck to transmit the sounds to his earpiece and, in
turn, to Baxter. He didn’t want to take the risk of the unit having been
bugged—either by Mr. Angelo or someone else—so he used the sub-vocal technique
to decrease the chance of detection.

“Very good, sir,” Baxter replied blandly. “I am showing the
target has just reached the lobby.”

“Good,” Jericho said as he moved to the main door of the
flat. The target would enter the room and be unable to see him until the door
had been closed, at which time it would be a small matter to execute him and
egress the premises.

“He would appear to have company, sir,” Baxter added, as
though it was barely worth mentioning.

“How many?”
Jericho asked as he
paused mid-stride.

“Two, sir: a man and a woman,” his operator replied in his
usual, drawl tone.

“Profiles?” he asked impatiently as he felt his pulse
quicken slightly.

“Accessing now,” Baxter said with a hint of irritation.
Several seconds passed, and Jericho ran through the possible scenarios in his
mind as he awaited the much-needed status update. “Here we are, sir,” his
operator continued almost lazily, “oh my…it would seem our good friend, Mr.
Angelo, has found some measure of affiliation with the Southern Bloc. The man’s
name is Ichiro Matsumoto—a former chess enthusiast of some interstellar
repute—and the woman is Noriko Sasaki, who formerly served on the personal
security detail of the late President Mido.”

Jericho’s throat tightened at hearing of the woman’s
paramilitary background. “Is Sasaki augmented?” he asked unwaveringly.

“I’m checking on that, sir,” Baxter replied irritably, and
Jericho couldn’t help but smirk. If anyone should have been irritated given the
circumstances it was
him
, not his operator. But Jericho knew that
everyone coped with stress in their own manner, and despite the fact that he
was inside the room and Baxter was on the other side of the city, they were
equally at risk while running an operation such as this one. So he did his best
to remain patient with his second-tier operator while Baxter continued, “It
would appear not, sir…but there
is
evidence which suggests a high
probability of extensive genetic modifications.”

“Any clues or do I just have to start guessing?” Jericho
asked dryly after the pause had grown to several seconds in length.

“Wait, sir,” Baxter said shortly, and the audio feed went
dead.

Jericho looked around the room as he ran through several
possible scenarios and saw a handful of interesting objects scattered
throughout the room: a four foot tall, antique, high-wattage lamp; a glass, not
plastic, aquarium with around five hundred liters of water housing an
assortment of uninteresting marine life forms; and a single, wood-framed chair
set near a glass-topped table which was surrounded by metal-framed seats of
various design. He considered the layout of the room before nodding to himself
in satisfaction and making his way to the kitchen.

The earpiece crackled back to life as Jericho retrieved a
pair of utensils from the kitchen and re-entered the parlor. “Apologies, sir; I
fear we were being monitored. Ms. Sasaki is a more than capable martial artist,
and what limited video I could find on her suggests an unusual tolerance for
pain in addition to a power-to-weight ratio of roughly two hundred percent her
frame’s suggested maximums.”

“Nothing else?”
Jericho asked as he
crouched down into position on the side of the aquarium opposite the door. The
lamp was nearby, so he positioned himself so he could reach both the aquarium
and the lamp when things inevitably went pear-shaped.

“Nothing, sir,” Baxter replied confidently, and Jericho was
more than slightly put off that his operator was so stressed he had abandoned
his carefully-crafted veneer of maddening serenity.

“Ok,” Jericho said, “we’ve got too much heat; clear my path
out of here and then bug out. I’ll contact you in two hours.”

“Very good, sir,” Baxter replied tensely, “their elevator
has reached your floor. I have just re-verified that your route is
clear—signing off now.”

“Good work, operator,” Jericho said evenly. He turned off
his earpiece and tested his left arm for a few seconds. He shook his head
bitterly when he reached the painfully obvious conclusion that the thumb-side
bone, the radius, was broken. That particular development was bound to make
things a bit more interesting than they might have otherwise been, but the
matter was likely to be settled in no more than ninety seconds.

The door’s locking bolts slid back and it swung open.
Jericho remained perfectly still as the three of them entered the flat. Had the
party included only the two unmodified men, he would have hidden in a closet and
waited for their business to conclude. But the presence of a gene-mod of Ms.
Sasaki’s apparent abilities made the likelihood of remaining undetected
somewhat less than likely.

The door shut, and thankfully none of them noticed him
before it had reengaged its locking mechanisms. They had apparently been
enjoying some sort of stimulant, likely alcohol, which moved the needle of
probability back in Jericho’s favor. Judging by their proximity and wandering
hands, it appeared they were intent on heading directly for the bedroom—or
wherever Angelo preferred to enjoy such carnal pleasures. Jericho hesitated for
a moment before committing and stepping out from behind the aquarium.

“I’m only here for Janus Angelo,” Jericho said in a clear
voice, causing the three of them to turn at once in alarm, “if the two of you
leave now then three of us will walk out of here. If not…it’ll be just one.”

Sasaki’s eyes narrowed and Jericho suspected that her body was
being flooded with a powerful wave of natural stimulants which would counteract
the effects of alcohol on her nervous system in a matter of seconds. It had
been a concession to warn them of his presence but Jericho was far from a
butcher; he never killed without cause—and preferably not without a public
mandate.

“I-I-I don’t understand,” Angelo stammered, his glassy
eyes looking stupidly at Jericho as the other two took up interdictory
positions. “Who…who are you?”