Domus Publica
| Lost and Found: A Study in Corruption |
 |  |
The gentleman in question came out into the office hurriedly, slapping his briefcase down onto his desk and immediately moving to the filing
cabinet propped against the far wall. He fumbled with the lock and muttered a curse to himself in an obscure dialect of Palcraff, and then
wrenched the second drawer open with too much force. He was nervous. Given his situation, it was easy to see why that would be the case.
He began rifling through the contents of the drawer, muttering some sort of curious monologue to himself.
“Ah!” he said, finding one of the folders he’d been looking for. He pulled it loose and tossed it over to the desk, where it landed with a plop.
He turned back to the filing cabinet, continuing his search.
It sometimes comes as a surprise to people that, after nearly 30,000 years of the information age, most multistellar corporations and
governments still keep hard-copy records. Surely computerized storage is well-enough established that flimsi files are unnecessary? The
Grotean riots of the 2650s BrS were a bloody reminder that ‘puter systems aren’t infallible, and that hard-copy is a vital failsafe in many cases.
Unfortunately, in some cases, hard-copy can also be a liability, because it can’t be erased or altered with the stroke of a key.
The gentleman in question found the last of the folders he’d been looking for, and turned to the desk, probably to rifle through them and extract
the specific docs he wanted. It was then that he finally saw me.
“What the — ?!”
“The important thing is for you to not be alarmed, Doctor,” I said, lighting a cigarette. I never liked the flavor of most brands of cigarra, and
cigarettes are much cheaper, anyway. I’m not an epicure.
The gentleman in question was obviously not prepared for this sort of thing, because he was caught between wanting to demand to know who I
was and what I was doing in his office, and wanting to reach for the blaster he’d stuffed awkwardly into the waistband of his trousers. After a
moment’s hesitation he fumbled for the blaster. I hit him in the eye with my pyro. Not too much heft to it — smoking cigarettes doesn’t
require that much lighter fluid —but it caught him off guard and made my point. I was faster than he was, and unlike him I wasn’t a
theoretician in the use of forceful arguments. I was in the practical side of that discipline.
The gentleman in question rocked back slightly, surprised by the sudden blow to his eye. I took a step forward, grabbed him by the lapels of
his jacket, and yanked it down around his biceps, pinning his arms to his side. Not very good for keeping someone immobilized for very long,
but it works in a pinch. I relieved him of the unfamiliar burden of his blaster, and set it calmly against the desk.
“Now, like I said, Doctor, the important thing is for you to not be alarmed,” I said. I identified myself and showed him my credentials. “I’m
not after you, Doctor,” I said. “I’m not even here to recover the money you took. I’m here for the data tape, and that’s it. Just hand it over,
and I’ll be on my way. You can finish ransacking your office and you can high-tail it to whatever corner of the galaxy you think you’ll be safe
in. I just want the data tape, Doctor.”
He looked at me warily. “How did you know where to find me?”
“That’s a joke, right?” I gestured to the files on his desk. “I don’t have time to chat with you, Doctor, and you don’t have time to chat with
me. So let’s cut to the chase, all right? Just give me the data tape.”
He worked his arms out of the impromptu straightjacket I’d put him in, straightened himself out, and looked at me with an indignant
expression on his face. Probably thought he was too good to deal with me. Lots of people feel that way. I’m not in this business to make
friends.
“I don’t have it,” he said.
I demonstrated to him that I don’t have a very high tolerance for being lied to. He had nine lies left to tell me before I worked my way up from
his hands.
“It’s – It’s not with me, I mean!” he said, gripping at his left hand as though applying pressure would make it hurt less. “It’s back in the — ”
Eight lies left.
“Perhaps now you will give me the data tape,” I said.
“All right! All right!” he fumbled about his jacket pocket, and removed the item in question. He started to hand it over, then stopped and took
a few steps back. “How do I know you’ll keep your word? How do I know you’ll let me go?”
“You’re an intelligent man, Doctor,” I said, “but not very smart. If I’d wanted to kill you, I could’ve done it long before you even entered this
office. If I’d wanted to capture you, I could’ve done it when you first got here. I knew you had the data tape on you. If I were really after any
more than that, I wouldn’t have given you the courtesy of a chance to hand it over without any fuss. I’m not a bounty hunter, and I’m not an
assassin. I’m just losing my patience.”
He thought about that for a moment. He handed over the data tape. I thanked him and turned to leave. There was a pause, and then the damn
fool went for the blaster.
I hate it when they do that.
I am the possessor of an MI 330-712A Investigating Certificate. That means a lot of things, both legally and professionally. It means I’m
licensed directly by the Imperial State, not by any of the Dominion governments, and as such I’m exempt from a plethora of fees and
restrictions (even if I am subject to a hefty number of others). One of the most important benefits of the 330-712A is that it’s a Class I
certificate, like the more famous MI 603-730 Peace-Keeping Certificate and the rarely-seen MS 000-001 Assassin’s Accreditation. Possessing
a Class I certificate means that I am legally authorized to use deadly force in the course of lawfully-conducted professional activities. I also
possess an MI 225-621C permit, which specifies that I do not require any additional permits or licenses to operate anywhere in the Imperial
State’s immediate territories or in territories subject to the interposed jurisdiction of a Dominion government.
In short, that means my license to kill is good anywhere in the Empire.
It really annoys me, on a professional level, when some schmuck with a blaster and an overinflated sense of his own competence thinks he — a
small-time crook or a professional thief, maybe, or even a crooked businessman or an oversexed university professor – is going to get the drop
on me. Mininter isn’t run by idiots, despite what the holomedia would have people believe, and they don’t just hand out 225-621Cs.
So there I stood, the smoke of my cigarette mingling with the smoke of my blaster, the reek of burnt flesh thick in the room. A person gets used
to that smell eventually. I shook my head. I wasn’t lying when I said I’m not a bounty hunter or an assassin. I don’t like the Guilds that
dominate those businesses, and I don’t like killing when I don’t have to.
There’s too damned much paperwork.
cabinet propped against the far wall. He fumbled with the lock and muttered a curse to himself in an obscure dialect of Palcraff, and then
wrenched the second drawer open with too much force. He was nervous. Given his situation, it was easy to see why that would be the case.
He began rifling through the contents of the drawer, muttering some sort of curious monologue to himself.
“Ah!” he said, finding one of the folders he’d been looking for. He pulled it loose and tossed it over to the desk, where it landed with a plop.
He turned back to the filing cabinet, continuing his search.
It sometimes comes as a surprise to people that, after nearly 30,000 years of the information age, most multistellar corporations and
governments still keep hard-copy records. Surely computerized storage is well-enough established that flimsi files are unnecessary? The
Grotean riots of the 2650s BrS were a bloody reminder that ‘puter systems aren’t infallible, and that hard-copy is a vital failsafe in many cases.
Unfortunately, in some cases, hard-copy can also be a liability, because it can’t be erased or altered with the stroke of a key.
The gentleman in question found the last of the folders he’d been looking for, and turned to the desk, probably to rifle through them and extract
the specific docs he wanted. It was then that he finally saw me.
“What the — ?!”
“The important thing is for you to not be alarmed, Doctor,” I said, lighting a cigarette. I never liked the flavor of most brands of cigarra, and
cigarettes are much cheaper, anyway. I’m not an epicure.
The gentleman in question was obviously not prepared for this sort of thing, because he was caught between wanting to demand to know who I
was and what I was doing in his office, and wanting to reach for the blaster he’d stuffed awkwardly into the waistband of his trousers. After a
moment’s hesitation he fumbled for the blaster. I hit him in the eye with my pyro. Not too much heft to it — smoking cigarettes doesn’t
require that much lighter fluid —but it caught him off guard and made my point. I was faster than he was, and unlike him I wasn’t a
theoretician in the use of forceful arguments. I was in the practical side of that discipline.
The gentleman in question rocked back slightly, surprised by the sudden blow to his eye. I took a step forward, grabbed him by the lapels of
his jacket, and yanked it down around his biceps, pinning his arms to his side. Not very good for keeping someone immobilized for very long,
but it works in a pinch. I relieved him of the unfamiliar burden of his blaster, and set it calmly against the desk.
“Now, like I said, Doctor, the important thing is for you to not be alarmed,” I said. I identified myself and showed him my credentials. “I’m
not after you, Doctor,” I said. “I’m not even here to recover the money you took. I’m here for the data tape, and that’s it. Just hand it over,
and I’ll be on my way. You can finish ransacking your office and you can high-tail it to whatever corner of the galaxy you think you’ll be safe
in. I just want the data tape, Doctor.”
He looked at me warily. “How did you know where to find me?”
“That’s a joke, right?” I gestured to the files on his desk. “I don’t have time to chat with you, Doctor, and you don’t have time to chat with
me. So let’s cut to the chase, all right? Just give me the data tape.”
He worked his arms out of the impromptu straightjacket I’d put him in, straightened himself out, and looked at me with an indignant
expression on his face. Probably thought he was too good to deal with me. Lots of people feel that way. I’m not in this business to make
friends.
“I don’t have it,” he said.
I demonstrated to him that I don’t have a very high tolerance for being lied to. He had nine lies left to tell me before I worked my way up from
his hands.
“It’s – It’s not with me, I mean!” he said, gripping at his left hand as though applying pressure would make it hurt less. “It’s back in the — ”
Eight lies left.
“Perhaps now you will give me the data tape,” I said.
“All right! All right!” he fumbled about his jacket pocket, and removed the item in question. He started to hand it over, then stopped and took
a few steps back. “How do I know you’ll keep your word? How do I know you’ll let me go?”
“You’re an intelligent man, Doctor,” I said, “but not very smart. If I’d wanted to kill you, I could’ve done it long before you even entered this
office. If I’d wanted to capture you, I could’ve done it when you first got here. I knew you had the data tape on you. If I were really after any
more than that, I wouldn’t have given you the courtesy of a chance to hand it over without any fuss. I’m not a bounty hunter, and I’m not an
assassin. I’m just losing my patience.”
He thought about that for a moment. He handed over the data tape. I thanked him and turned to leave. There was a pause, and then the damn
fool went for the blaster.
I hate it when they do that.
I am the possessor of an MI 330-712A Investigating Certificate. That means a lot of things, both legally and professionally. It means I’m
licensed directly by the Imperial State, not by any of the Dominion governments, and as such I’m exempt from a plethora of fees and
restrictions (even if I am subject to a hefty number of others). One of the most important benefits of the 330-712A is that it’s a Class I
certificate, like the more famous MI 603-730 Peace-Keeping Certificate and the rarely-seen MS 000-001 Assassin’s Accreditation. Possessing
a Class I certificate means that I am legally authorized to use deadly force in the course of lawfully-conducted professional activities. I also
possess an MI 225-621C permit, which specifies that I do not require any additional permits or licenses to operate anywhere in the Imperial
State’s immediate territories or in territories subject to the interposed jurisdiction of a Dominion government.
In short, that means my license to kill is good anywhere in the Empire.
It really annoys me, on a professional level, when some schmuck with a blaster and an overinflated sense of his own competence thinks he — a
small-time crook or a professional thief, maybe, or even a crooked businessman or an oversexed university professor – is going to get the drop
on me. Mininter isn’t run by idiots, despite what the holomedia would have people believe, and they don’t just hand out 225-621Cs.
So there I stood, the smoke of my cigarette mingling with the smoke of my blaster, the reek of burnt flesh thick in the room. A person gets used
to that smell eventually. I shook my head. I wasn’t lying when I said I’m not a bounty hunter or an assassin. I don’t like the Guilds that
dominate those businesses, and I don’t like killing when I don’t have to.
There’s too damned much paperwork.
| I. |
This short story was originally published (under the title “Lost and Found: A Study in Noir”) on 23 September 2006 as a post on Mr.
Michael Wong’s StarDestroyer.Net (SD.N) forums. It was republished on 2 February 2007.
Michael Wong’s StarDestroyer.Net (SD.N) forums. It was republished on 2 February 2007.
| This site is for informational and entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement of any kind is intended. Star Wars and related materials are © Lucasfilm Ltd., which reserves all rights thereto. All original material is © Julius Sykes. Please do not use without permission. |