“Are you loyal to the Democracy of Planets?”
“N-nuh... yes.”
“Do the plutocrats run the DP now?”
“Yes.”
“Did they want Emperor Trajan killed?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“Dunno.”
“Why not?”
“Urban didn’ say.”
“Who’s Urban?”
“Boss.”
“Spy boss?”
“Yes.”
“Do you run a spy ring for the DP here on Sintar?”
“Yes.”
“How many are in it besides you?”
“Twelve.”
“Who are the other members? Give me their full names as they are known on Sintar.”
“George Mackey, Peter Bruster, Daniel Kendig, Jane Seebring, Harvey Woods, Paul Williams, Chris Sparks, Michael Jameson, Scott Martin, Earl Evans, Beth Wagner, Karen Peters.”
“Are they all in Imperial City?”
“Y-yes.”
“Who is the farthest out?”
“Kendig.”
“Who is your superior?”
“Carol Urban.”
“Is that the name by which she is known on Sintar?”
“No-nobody knows her here but me.” Just then, Gerber managed to choke out, “Oh God!”
“Captain,” Withers contacted Black in a private VR call. “Please pay attention to his blood pressure levels. They are beginning to spike alarmingly.”
“What does that mean, Doctor?” Black wondered.
“It means he is continuing to fight the drug, quite hard, actually. He is failing, of course, but with blood pressure levels this high, something is going to give, sooner or later. If it is a cranial vessel that blows out, he will experience a hemorrhagic stroke of some severity, given the previous cocktail of drugs – taken together – tends to thin the blood significantly. If it is any part of the aorta – if there is a heretofore undetected weakness there, and at these pressures, it doesn’t have to be much – he will bleed out internally, and swiftly. And potentially unpleasantly. I suggest you get as much information as you can out of him, as fast as you can, because at this rate, he might not last long enough for me to give him the lethal injection.”
“Right.”
“Is she on Sintar?” Black continued questioning, ignoring the exclamation from Gerber. He did, however, ramp up the speed and intensity of his questions. “Carol Urban. Is she on Sintar?”
“N-no.”
“Where is she?”
“Um. Carolina.”
“The planet, or the sector?”
“Both.”
“Where on planet Carolina?”
“DP consulate.”
“What does she do there?”
“Consul’s personal secretary.”
“Does the consul know she works with you?”
“No.”
“Why not? Usually the ambassadors are at least in the know.”
“Consul’s an idiot, she says.”
“Does she work with any other spy rings?”
“Dunno. Don’ think so. ‘Portant stuff’s here.”
“How does she communicate with you?”
“VR. Dual-access workspace. ‘Nonymous.”
“An anonymous dual-access workspace in VR?”
“Yes.”
“Do you use pads?”
“One-time. Yeah.”
“What is it?”
“Third feature in Empire News Weekly. Each week, third feature.”
“How often did you communicate?”
“At least once a week. When things ‘re busy, ev’ry four t’ five days.”
“Each way?”
“Yeah.”
“So at least once each week, you used the new edition of the weekly?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Are things busy now?”
“Y-yes... y-yes, yes... Tra-Trajan… assassin…”
At that last, stammering answer, Gerber’s eyes, already wide with shock and horror at the loss of control – of his body, of his mind, of the situation – began to roll around.
Black shot a glance at Withers, who shook his head, then put a horizontal index finger against his own throat in a subtle warning. Black nodded slightly. Quickly, he continued.
“Have you contacted her this week?”
“Nuh-not... not yet. Tomorrow. God, oh God.”
“When is the last time you contacted her?”
“F-five... five days... ag-ago-agHHAAAAAIII!” he shrieked, as the psychotic break occurred.
Gerber’s body convulsed, and seconds later, his bowels and bladder released; a wave of sour, ammoniac stench filled the room. Seconds after that he choked badly, sounding like a drowning man, as, still screaming, he vomited.
Black swiftly leaped from his chair, dodging the vomitus as it splattered across the table; there was a loud clatter as his chair overturned. The blood vessels in Gerber’s face and neck visibly throbbed with the force and speed of his heartbeat, and moments later, his nose gushed blood. Then his eyes began to ooze blood. Then his ears. A trickle of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth.
“I think you’re done, Captain,” Withers said, his tone urgent. “May I have permission to administer the lethal injection, before something worse goes down?”
“Do it,” Black ordered.
Withers produced the black-labeled ampoule, swiftly set it into the injector, and pressed it to Gerber’s carotid artery.
Gerber let out one last, horrified shriek of agony, threw up blood mingled with bile, and went limp, as his eyes glazed.
Chasing the Threads
“Damn,” a subdued Carter said in the observation room, which had gone completely silent when Gerber began screaming. “I thought he was gonna explode.”
“I did, too,” Ashton admitted then.
“That makes three of us,” Daggert confessed.
“Four,” Mercer said.
“Eh. Make it five,” the technician agreed. “In a way, he kinda did.”
They all gaped.
“That bad?” Mercer wondered.
“Yeah,” the technician replied. “Right before his nose popped? I show a BP of three-fifty-four over three-twelve. Telemetry showed his heart was going wonky, and I think the vessels in his lungs were popping, too. Can’t say for sure about his brain. You’d have to ask Dr. Withers about all the details, here, but what was going on inside him sure wasn’t pretty.”
“I’m getting out of here,” Daggert decreed then. “Gentlemen, you’re welcome to come with me.”
“Done,” Carter agreed, and the four observers rose, leaving the technician to shut everything down.
They headed for the nearest visitor area, knowing there would be restrooms, water, and comfortable places to sit and unwind after what they’d just seen. Mercer and Ashton exchanged comprehending glances, and promptly got first Daggert, as the oldest, then Carter, seated. They fetched bottled water from a vending machine nearby, and gave Daggert and Carter bottles to sip, before opening bottles themselves. Nothing was said for long moments. Finally Daggert offered commentary.
“I’m
