“Then go to Olympia,” Kendig growled.
“Very well. Dr. Withers, please continue.”
Withers nodded. Moments later, the contents of the yellow ampoule were injected into Kendig’s arm. Kendig shivered, squirmed a bit, then shook his head.
“Hah!” he laughed. “You damn buncha pathetic cocksuckers! You can’t even get this right! Losers! For all your drugs, I’m not tellin’ you jack shit!”
“No problem,” Black said, nonchalant. “Dr. Withers, let’s step up, please.”
Withers extracted an orange ampoule from his bag, as a surprised Kendig sat up straight; he had apparently not realized there were multiple levels available to them. “This should do it, Captain, based on what I’m seeing from the chair telemetry,” Withers told Black.
“Very good then. Let’s get this show on the road; we’re wasting the Emperor’s time.”
“It’s very late, Captain,” Withers said as he worked. “I expect the Emperor is resting peacefully in his own bed. He’ll probably look at this in the morning.”
“True, but he has many other things to do, too. No sense wasting his time with an uncooperative spy, first thing in the morning.”
The orange ampoule went into the pulse injector; this time the drug went into Kendig’s neck.
“Aggh. Aggh,” came from Kendig’s throat, sounding rather like he was choking. His eyes widened, and his pupils dilated in something that looked close to panic.
“There we go,” Black said. “Let’s get started, shall we? What is your real name?”
Kendig seemed to struggle briefly before answering.
“Guh. Guh tuh he...”
“What is your real name?”
“D-Daniel Patrick Kendig.”
“Have you ever used the alias, ‘Detective Gardenia’?”
“Y-yes.”
“Have you used it with any Palace staff?”
“Yes.”
“How many staffers?”
“Three.”
“Were any of those Timothy Pierce?”
“Yes.”
“What about the other two?”
“Never got back with me.”
“I see. Where were you born?”
“Joshua, on Sondheim.”
“And that is where?”
“Earth District.”
“In what polity?”
“The Democracy of Planets.”
“Are you loyal to Emperor Trajan?”
Kendig struggled, then finally forced out, “Yes.”
Black paused, checking the chair’s telemetry in VR, before getting the technician’s reaction. Coming back to reality, he glanced at Withers, who shook his head.
“You’re lying,” he told Kendig. “I’ll ask it again. Are you loyal to Emperor Trajan?”
“Yes.”
Black shook his head.
“No, it won’t do, Mr. Kendig. Doctor, if you please.”
“This is it, you know, Captain Black. There’s no antagonist for this one.”
“I know, but Mr. Kendig may not.”
Kendig scowled. “Bastards,” he spat.
The physician pulled out a red ampoule and loaded it into the pulse injector, then shot it into Kendig’s neck.
Seconds later, Kendig cried out in agony.
“NO!” he screamed. “No, no, no! What have you done to me?”
“Mr. Kendig, stop yelling.”
Kendig silenced immediately, but his eyes were wide in horror. He struggled against the drug initially, but soon lost the battle, settling into mostly monosyllables and simplistic, if ungrammatical, answers. His eyes still displayed his horror at his loss of control, however.
“Now, let’s try again,” Black tried. “Are you loyal to Emperor Trajan?”
“Ye- uhn. N-no.”
“Are you loyal to the Democracy of Planets?”
“Yes, w-what’s l-l-left of it.”
“What is left of it?”
“The p-plu... the plutoc-crats.”
“The wealthy businessmen?”
“Yes.”
“Were they the power behind the government, then?”
“Yes.”
“Do they run the DP now?”
“Yes.”
“Did they want Emperor Trajan killed?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“Dunno.”
“Why not?”
“Gerber didn’ say.”
“Did you emigrate from the DP because you wanted to?”
“No.”
“Were you sent here?”
“Yes.”
“Were you sent here to perform espionage?”
“Yes.”
“Were you specially trained to perform espionage?”
“Yes.”
“Were you hired by the DP government?”
“Yes.”
“The elected government, or the plutocrats?”
“Elected.”
“Did you also work for the plutocrats?”
“Yes. Side jobs. Careful the right ones, though.”
“So you didn’t take just any side job?”
“No. Had to pay ‘tention back home. Pol’tics.”
“So if a given plutocrat wasn’t on the correct side of the politics, you didn’t take his job?”
“Yes.”
“Was there good money in it?”
“Yes.”
“Who is your handler?”
“Which one?”
“There’s more than one?”
“Not now.”
“You’ve had others in the past?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“Um...” Kendig waggled his fingers – which were about the only parts of his arms that weren’t firmly strapped to the chair – then came up with, “Four? No, three. Wait. Five? Lessee. Joe, Greg, Pete... Franz. No, just four.”
“Who is your current handler?”
“Franz.”
“What is Franz’ full name?”
“Franz Gerber.”
“Does he go by an alias?”
“Yes.”
“What is that alias?”
“Frank Garb.”
“What is his cover?”
“Delivery man with Imperial City Messenger.”
“What happened to your other handlers?”
“Back home.”
“To the DP?”
“Yes.”
“Were they summoned back?”
“Yes. Well, two. One retired.”
“Who else does Franz Gerber handle?”
“Dunno.”
“Why not?”
“Never talks ‘bout it.”
“Who is his point of contact?”
“Dunno.”
“Why not?”
“Never talks ‘bout it.”
“Who is running the intelligence operations now?”
“Corporate.”
“The corporate plutocrats we talked about before?”
“Yeah.”
“How did you get the Imperial Police credential?”
“The light-up badge?”
“Yes.”
“Carr.”
“What?”
“Bill Carr.”
“Lieutenant Bill Carr gave it to you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Wanted t’ hire me.”
“For what?”
“Enforcer, he called it.”
“Well, that confirmed Peabody’s digging,” Carter decided, watching from the observation room.
“Yeah, it did,” Ashton agreed. “Makes me feel a little better. At least we know the moles are dead and gone.”
“Yup. And Win’s digging probably indicates there aren’t any more where that came from – at least, by the time he and Pete Stone are done with it.”
“Yeah. Thank the Big Guy Upstairs for that.”
“Amen.”
“How were you trained
