As Carson, Thomas, and Peabody hoisted Gerber onto the gurney, Honda climbed into the delivery truck, checked the schedule in VR, and drove off.
Hard on the heels of the delivery truck’s departure, an ambulance pulled up. Thomas and Carson trundled the gurney – their ‘patient’ carefully covered with a blanket, tucked in well to ensure no one could identify him – out the door and loaded it into the back of the ambulance, climbed in behind it, and closed the doors behind themselves. The ambulance drove away...
...In the general direction of the Palace West entrance.
Moments later, Peabody eased out the deliveries entrance and down the alleyway.
He came out on the street, casually thrust his hands into his trousers pockets, and strolled nonchalantly toward the nearest people-mover station, whistling a jaunty tune.
At the next delivery stop – this time, it was a legitimate engineering firm, expecting parts for their newest project – Rick Honda pulled up, double-checked the delivery manifest in VR, then fetched the correct packages from the back of the truck and headed into the receiving office.
“Here you go,” he said to the clerk who awaited. “VR ID confirmation, please.”
“Right. Where’s Frank?” the clerk wondered, providing confirmation.
“Called in sick. On my day off, no less. Oh, well. I can use the overtime,” Honda replied.
“Yeah, a few extra credits never hurt anybody.”
“No shit,” Honda replied, and went back out to the delivery truck to continue Franz Gerber’s route.
When Gerber woke up, he found himself in a small room with a one-way window in one wall, and he was strapped firmly into a somewhat odd metal chair that was bolted to the floor. His legs were pressed against the front chair legs, his back was in firm, full contact with the chair’s back, and his forearms were strapped to the chair arms. His VR was completely blocked, and he was alone in the room.
“What the hell...?” he wondered. “Where the hell am I, and what the bloody blazes is going on here?”
Just then, a man came in wearing an Imperial Marines uniform, with some sort of braided decoration on his shoulder. Gerber had no idea what that meant, or who the man was, until he spoke.
“Hello. I am Captain David Black of the Imperial Guard. You have been taken into custody by the Imperial Police, and remanded into our custody. You are on trial in the High Court on charges of espionage, sedition, collusion in the attempted assassination of the Emperor Trajan, collusion in the attempted assassination of the Empress Amanda, collusion in the attempted assassination of Consul Geoffrey Saaret, and collusion in the attempted murder of at least forty-six thousand, two hundred and eighty-three persons, which includes everyone in the Imperial Palace proper, the Imperial Research building, and the Imperial Administration building, both of which are connected to the Imperial Palace via large walkways in the basements. You, sir, are charged as a foreign spy, an attempted mass murderer, assassin, and terrorist. Emperor Trajan himself will hear your case. And you will provide him with the information he wishes to know, or suffer the consequences.”
Gerber drew a deep breath. Well, he thought, at least I’ve had the training against torture. This won’t be fun, and I won’t be living through it. But they’re not getting anything out of me.
“Where’s my lawyer?” he asked.
“There will be none,” Black said. “You are in the High Court, judged by Trajan himself. You cooperate, or you are immediately convicted of treason and sentenced to death.”
“Which doesn’t exactly get you the information you want,” Gerber pointed out. His breath caught at the humorless grin that formed on Black’s face.
“Oh, I didn’t say you’d die immediately,” he replied.
“Torture won’t work on me,” Gerber said, remaining calm.
“We don’t use torture. We use pharmaceuticals.”
“That’s illegal.”
“Not for the Emperor. And we are under his direct instruction.”
Black silenced for a long moment, watching Gerber, apparently expecting him to consider the matter. Finally he asked, “Are you going to cooperate, Mr. Garb?”
“Sure,” Garb replied. “I’ll cooperate.”
“Very good. Shall we begin?”
“Sure.”
“What is your real name?”
“Francis Joseph Garb.”
“Where do you live?”
“Imperial City southwest, in Adonnaya Circle.”
“Where are you from?”
“Sintar, little city named Nantuck, about two hours east of Imp City.”
Black paused, his expression going distant. Moments later another man entered, wearing a suit and carrying a black bag.
“Nice try, Garb,” Black said then. “But we can tell you’re lying.”
“Oh really?” Gerber said, raising an eyebrow. “How can you do that? You have no lie detector on me, Captain.”
“You’re sitting in it, Garb,” Black replied with a smirk.
A startled Gerber glanced at the metal chair to which he was strapped. Oh shit, he thought. They gotta be joking. They’re trying to intimidate me. Well, it ain’t gonna work.
“With your permission, Captain?” the physician said, turning to Black.
“Absolutely, Dr. Withers.”
Withers pulled out a pulse injector and a yellow-labeled ampoule. He loaded the yellow ampoule into the injector and pressed it to Gerber’s arm. Gerber tried to fight, to squirm away, but he was fastened in place far too firmly, and the chair was evidently strapped to the floor. The drug went into his arm, and seconds later, he felt briefly woozy, then shook his head and threw it off.
“Let’s try again,” Black suggested. “What is your real name?”
“I already told you,” Gerber answered. “I’m Francis Joseph
