Domus Publica
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| The Silver Fox |
A ghost haunts the Cingetorix Sector.
Nobody has seen it, of course. It doesn’t want to be seen. But they know it’s there, just out of sight, just out of
earshot. It lurks just out of reach, in the shadows, taunting the Imperial overlords of the Sector. Mocking them.
The Empire likes to pretend it doesn’t exist. Not that it succeeds at this, of course; the ghost’s unbridled audacity and
boundless cunning, its genius for rescuing the Empire’s latest Enemies of the State – Enemies of the People, Enemies
of the Empire – are so exasperating that even the Empire cannot ignore it for long.
Perhaps the most irritating thing about it is the ghost’s sense of humor. The taunting poems found on the prefect’s
desk, the sarcastic notes left in the hapless prison warden’s coat pocket. To be outwitted and mocked at one and the
same time is something that nobody relishes. Even the Moff Governor has learned to hate the sight of the ghost’s
signature. Always the flourish, the Silver Fox.
The days come and the days go, and the Secretary of State for Justice is bamboozled again and again. Dangerous
political reactionaries, counterrevolutionaries, ideological malefactors, and all their ilk are saved from the disintegration
booth again and again, escaping the punishment duly meted out to them as if by miracle. Moff Powellyne grinds his
teeth and Secretary Dvoryin pulls his hair. They are the laughingstock of the Imperial elite.
Powellyne’s superior, Grand Moff Selit, laughs in Powellyne’s face when he complains of a lack of resources to catch
this ghost. He calls Powellyne a dupe, the victim of an amateurish prankster.
Selit stops laughing when he finds a note in his coat pocket explaining in considerable detail the flaws in his palace’s
security system. Signed – as always – with the infernal device of the Silver Fox.
So the Empire shows itself in force in the Cingetorix Sector. The great Star Destroyers and heavy cruisers and ships
of the line fill the heavens, crisscrossing space tirelessly in vain hopes of stopping the mysterious Silver Fox as he
escapes the scene of his latest outrage. Stormtroopers and soldiers fill the streets of the major megalopolises,
endlessly patrolling and inspecting and searching and guarding, doing everything imaginable to keep the Enemies in
their cells, where they fearfully await their execution.
And the Silver Fox laughs.
Sergeant Ambiorix, a veteran of the Aachen Police and Constabulary Force, stands guard at the barricades surrounding
the great city. His men are alert, prepared for any trick, any ruse, anything at all that might be tried. The Empire
plans to execute a number of its Enemies today, and Ambiorix is confident that the Silver Fox will make his
appearance. Well, let him; Ambiorix will show him what it’s like to tangle with a professional.
He follows the regulations to the letter. He stops everyone, demands to see their identification, their records, their
passports, their permits, their proofs of citizenship. He examines everything in minute detail, determined that none
shall pass that ought not pass. He did not achieve his rank of sergeant by sloppy work, no, sir.
The Empire has zero tolerance for incompetence. Laziness and stupidity are the surest ways to a court martial and
the booth – as one way a trip as there’s ever been. The booth was always hungry for Enemies of the Empire, always
ready to put an end to treachery, to treason, to crimes of all sorts. She’s an impartial mistress, the booth is; she cares
not if the crime is one of commission or omission, action or inaction, thought or deed.
But Ambiorix is smart. The only relationship he has with the booth is keeping her guests in and uninvited
gatecrashers out. He serves his Imperial masters well, and he’s been well rewarded. There’s even talk he might be in
line for an officer’s commission in the P & C Force. Better than that: Might not he be offered employment with the
Sector Rangers, or the Imperial Office of Criminal Investigations? Would it not be sweet to stop working for the
Imperials and become an Imperial himself?
Ambiorix likes the thought of drawing his paychit from the Imperial State and not the City of Aachen. So he works
extra hard, checks every detail, examines every passerby with excruciating scrutiny.
A speeder draws up to the barricade, and slows to a halt. Ambiorix moves to the cockpit and the driver hands him the
identification and registration. Ambiorix thanks him – the Empire likes politeness: subjugation with a smile – and
returns to his post, where be begins scrutinizing the documents.
“Sergeant,” one of his men calls to him, pointing inconspicuously at a pedestrian approaching the barricade. Ambiorix
obligingly looks and feels his heart skip a beat. The man wears black trousers and a black cloth cap, with a white tunic.
The unmistakable dress of a special agent of the Imperial Security Bureau.
Ambiorix smiles to himself. ISB whiteshirts have a lot of influence with review boards; in fact, Ambiorix made
sergeant based on a glowing letter of commendation from a whiteshirt a few years ago. If he plays his cards right, he
can impress this one, too; a good word from a whiteshirt might make a job with the IOCI a good deal closer in the
near future.
The whiteshirt walks up to the pillbox, and nods curtly in reply to Ambiorix’s greeting. He watches silently as
Ambiorix processes the speeder’s information, while other sentries examine the speeder itself, scanning it, probing it,
making sure its cargo is in fact what its manifest says it is. The whiteshirt nods and says something complementary
about the efficiency and competence of Ambiorix’s crew. The sergeant is pleased: he trained these men.
“Sir,” Ambiorix says to the whiteshirt. “I’ve examined this speeder’s documents, and everything checks out. Would
you like to check them yourself, sir?”
The whiteshirt considers this for a minute or two, then nods. Yes, he’d be happy to have a look at the documents.
The speeder driver gets noticeably more nervous. Extra scrutiny is never a good thing, especially not when the person
doing it works for the Empire’s thinkpol.
But the whiteshirt confirms Ambiorix’s conclusions, and nods to the sergeant to proceed. The sergeant waves to the
sentries; the barricade is opened; the speeder is allowed to pass. The whiteshirt shakes Ambiorix’s hand, tells him he’
s doing a good job, and proceeds on his way. Ambiorix sighs happily, and thinks about the IOCI. To have an office in
that proud building at 1030 Glitannai Esplanade, Imperial City, Imperial Center.... Yes. He sighs.
The familiar hum of a repulsorlift fills the air, and Sergeant Ambiorix looks up to see an open-air Imperial Chariot
LAV tearing toward his gate at pursuit speed, a pair of speeder bikes riding escort. The LAV comes to a sudden stop
in front of the gate, and the squad of white-armored stormtroopers immediately begins looking around from the bay
of the speeder.
One of the stormtroopers points at Ambiorix. This stormtrooper is wearing that distinctive orange shoulder piece, the
mark of a commissioned officer. The platoon commander, maybe? Without even thinking, Ambiorix snaps to
attention and presents arms to the officer. He’s more than a little surprised when the officer starts shouting at him.
“You!” he shouts. “Did you allow a speeder to pass through this gate a few minutes ago?”
“Yessir!” Ambiorix is surprised. “But you don’t have to worry, sir, I checked it thoroughly and – ”
“Damn your eyes!” the officer roars. “Open this gate at once! After them! After them!”
Ambiorix is more than surprised now. Even if he is P & C, the Empire’s authority supersedes his. So he orders the
gates open, and watches as the stormtroopers race off after that speeder, desperate to know what he’s done wrong,
whom he’s allowed past his watch.
Maybe five minutes pass before the second group of stormtroopers arrives, again with an officer at their head. The
officer points at Ambiorix and begins shouting.
“You!” he shouts. “Did you allow a speeder to pass through this gate a few minutes ago?”
“Yessir!” Ambiorix says. “One of your teams is already after them, sir!”
There is a deadly silence.
“What did you just say?”
“I said one of your teams is already after them, sir!”
“You allowed a team of stormtroopers to pass through this gate, is that correct?”
“Yes, sir! They were chasing after another speeder that’d already passed – ”
“Shut up! Their IDs! Did you check their IDs?”
“Yes, sir, of course, sir!” Ambiorix is puzzled. “But then your team came through – ”
“No, you idiot! Did you check the stormtroopers’ IDs?”
“Uh,” Ambiorix stutters. “Well, no, sir. They were chasing after that speeder and – ”
“Damn your eyes! Arrest these men!” The officer roars in outrage.
“Me? What for?” Ambiorix manages to say just a heartbeat before the stormtroopers shoot him.
He wakes up hours later with the headache usually associated with having been stunned by stormtroopers’ rifles. He
is in a cold, austere room with harsh light, sitting in an uncomfortable metal chair at a metal table, his ankles and
wrists shackled to the chair by binders.
Two men are sitting at the other end of the table. One of them is the Commissioner of the P & C Force; the other is
the Imperial Deputy Sub-Prefect for District Security. There is a woman standing in the corner; she would probably
be breathtakingly beautiful if not for the cold glare of her eyes, the look of a fanatic. She has a slender build and
average height, with her blonde hair pulled back into a regulation bun beneath her black cloth cap. If her eyes make her
unattractive, her white tunic makes her downright intimidating.
“This is Special Agent (Colonel) Tallisibeth Chambertin,” the Commissioner says. “She’s here to observe your
interrogation. I believe you know Deputy Sub-Prefect Dupont?”
“State your name, rank, and current billet,” Dupont says.
Ambiorix is dazed and confused. He does as he is told. “Ambiorix, Martyl, sergeant of the Aachen P & C Force,
overseer of Gate Beta Four, Northwest Blockade.”
And so his interrogation begins. He is questioned for hours, answering question after question, many of them the
same question phrased differently. He is thirsty and tired; his disorientation increases and he ends up losing track of
what he’s telling them.
“Hmph,” the Commissioner says finally, looking at Dupont. “We can charge him with failure to obey a lawful order
or regulation, malicious disregard for public order, and wilful impediment of an Imperial investigation.”
“That sounds a little mild, Jorj,” the Deputy Sub-Prefect says. “The Secretary is furious about this one. He wants
somebody’s hide for this foul-up.”
Neither one of them seems to notice that Ambiorix can still hear them.
“Oh, I don’t know,” the Commissioner says. “They’re all felonies, and the Assembly just made wilful impediment a
Class One offense under the Imperial Penal References.”
Ambiorix nearly faints again. Class One? The booth? Him? He looks pleadingly at the Commissioner. “Please, sir...! I
don’t understand! What happened? Was the speeder’s driver the Silver Fox?”
“You idiot,” Chambertin says coldly. It was the first time she’d spoken. “You still don’t realize what you’ve done,
do you?”
Ambiorix is exhausted, and it takes all his energy not to hyperventilate. “I – I don’t understand... How did I miss it? I
checked the speeder completely, and – ”
“The speeder driver was not the Silver Fox!” she hissed. “You idiot! The stormtrooper officer was the Silver Fox, and
every one of his troopers an Enemy of the Empire!”
Nobody has seen it, of course. It doesn’t want to be seen. But they know it’s there, just out of sight, just out of
earshot. It lurks just out of reach, in the shadows, taunting the Imperial overlords of the Sector. Mocking them.
The Empire likes to pretend it doesn’t exist. Not that it succeeds at this, of course; the ghost’s unbridled audacity and
boundless cunning, its genius for rescuing the Empire’s latest Enemies of the State – Enemies of the People, Enemies
of the Empire – are so exasperating that even the Empire cannot ignore it for long.
Perhaps the most irritating thing about it is the ghost’s sense of humor. The taunting poems found on the prefect’s
desk, the sarcastic notes left in the hapless prison warden’s coat pocket. To be outwitted and mocked at one and the
same time is something that nobody relishes. Even the Moff Governor has learned to hate the sight of the ghost’s
signature. Always the flourish, the Silver Fox.
The days come and the days go, and the Secretary of State for Justice is bamboozled again and again. Dangerous
political reactionaries, counterrevolutionaries, ideological malefactors, and all their ilk are saved from the disintegration
booth again and again, escaping the punishment duly meted out to them as if by miracle. Moff Powellyne grinds his
teeth and Secretary Dvoryin pulls his hair. They are the laughingstock of the Imperial elite.
Powellyne’s superior, Grand Moff Selit, laughs in Powellyne’s face when he complains of a lack of resources to catch
this ghost. He calls Powellyne a dupe, the victim of an amateurish prankster.
Selit stops laughing when he finds a note in his coat pocket explaining in considerable detail the flaws in his palace’s
security system. Signed – as always – with the infernal device of the Silver Fox.
So the Empire shows itself in force in the Cingetorix Sector. The great Star Destroyers and heavy cruisers and ships
of the line fill the heavens, crisscrossing space tirelessly in vain hopes of stopping the mysterious Silver Fox as he
escapes the scene of his latest outrage. Stormtroopers and soldiers fill the streets of the major megalopolises,
endlessly patrolling and inspecting and searching and guarding, doing everything imaginable to keep the Enemies in
their cells, where they fearfully await their execution.
And the Silver Fox laughs.
Sergeant Ambiorix, a veteran of the Aachen Police and Constabulary Force, stands guard at the barricades surrounding
the great city. His men are alert, prepared for any trick, any ruse, anything at all that might be tried. The Empire
plans to execute a number of its Enemies today, and Ambiorix is confident that the Silver Fox will make his
appearance. Well, let him; Ambiorix will show him what it’s like to tangle with a professional.
He follows the regulations to the letter. He stops everyone, demands to see their identification, their records, their
passports, their permits, their proofs of citizenship. He examines everything in minute detail, determined that none
shall pass that ought not pass. He did not achieve his rank of sergeant by sloppy work, no, sir.
The Empire has zero tolerance for incompetence. Laziness and stupidity are the surest ways to a court martial and
the booth – as one way a trip as there’s ever been. The booth was always hungry for Enemies of the Empire, always
ready to put an end to treachery, to treason, to crimes of all sorts. She’s an impartial mistress, the booth is; she cares
not if the crime is one of commission or omission, action or inaction, thought or deed.
But Ambiorix is smart. The only relationship he has with the booth is keeping her guests in and uninvited
gatecrashers out. He serves his Imperial masters well, and he’s been well rewarded. There’s even talk he might be in
line for an officer’s commission in the P & C Force. Better than that: Might not he be offered employment with the
Sector Rangers, or the Imperial Office of Criminal Investigations? Would it not be sweet to stop working for the
Imperials and become an Imperial himself?
Ambiorix likes the thought of drawing his paychit from the Imperial State and not the City of Aachen. So he works
extra hard, checks every detail, examines every passerby with excruciating scrutiny.
A speeder draws up to the barricade, and slows to a halt. Ambiorix moves to the cockpit and the driver hands him the
identification and registration. Ambiorix thanks him – the Empire likes politeness: subjugation with a smile – and
returns to his post, where be begins scrutinizing the documents.
“Sergeant,” one of his men calls to him, pointing inconspicuously at a pedestrian approaching the barricade. Ambiorix
obligingly looks and feels his heart skip a beat. The man wears black trousers and a black cloth cap, with a white tunic.
The unmistakable dress of a special agent of the Imperial Security Bureau.
Ambiorix smiles to himself. ISB whiteshirts have a lot of influence with review boards; in fact, Ambiorix made
sergeant based on a glowing letter of commendation from a whiteshirt a few years ago. If he plays his cards right, he
can impress this one, too; a good word from a whiteshirt might make a job with the IOCI a good deal closer in the
near future.
The whiteshirt walks up to the pillbox, and nods curtly in reply to Ambiorix’s greeting. He watches silently as
Ambiorix processes the speeder’s information, while other sentries examine the speeder itself, scanning it, probing it,
making sure its cargo is in fact what its manifest says it is. The whiteshirt nods and says something complementary
about the efficiency and competence of Ambiorix’s crew. The sergeant is pleased: he trained these men.
“Sir,” Ambiorix says to the whiteshirt. “I’ve examined this speeder’s documents, and everything checks out. Would
you like to check them yourself, sir?”
The whiteshirt considers this for a minute or two, then nods. Yes, he’d be happy to have a look at the documents.
The speeder driver gets noticeably more nervous. Extra scrutiny is never a good thing, especially not when the person
doing it works for the Empire’s thinkpol.
But the whiteshirt confirms Ambiorix’s conclusions, and nods to the sergeant to proceed. The sergeant waves to the
sentries; the barricade is opened; the speeder is allowed to pass. The whiteshirt shakes Ambiorix’s hand, tells him he’
s doing a good job, and proceeds on his way. Ambiorix sighs happily, and thinks about the IOCI. To have an office in
that proud building at 1030 Glitannai Esplanade, Imperial City, Imperial Center.... Yes. He sighs.
The familiar hum of a repulsorlift fills the air, and Sergeant Ambiorix looks up to see an open-air Imperial Chariot
LAV tearing toward his gate at pursuit speed, a pair of speeder bikes riding escort. The LAV comes to a sudden stop
in front of the gate, and the squad of white-armored stormtroopers immediately begins looking around from the bay
of the speeder.
One of the stormtroopers points at Ambiorix. This stormtrooper is wearing that distinctive orange shoulder piece, the
mark of a commissioned officer. The platoon commander, maybe? Without even thinking, Ambiorix snaps to
attention and presents arms to the officer. He’s more than a little surprised when the officer starts shouting at him.
“You!” he shouts. “Did you allow a speeder to pass through this gate a few minutes ago?”
“Yessir!” Ambiorix is surprised. “But you don’t have to worry, sir, I checked it thoroughly and – ”
“Damn your eyes!” the officer roars. “Open this gate at once! After them! After them!”
Ambiorix is more than surprised now. Even if he is P & C, the Empire’s authority supersedes his. So he orders the
gates open, and watches as the stormtroopers race off after that speeder, desperate to know what he’s done wrong,
whom he’s allowed past his watch.
Maybe five minutes pass before the second group of stormtroopers arrives, again with an officer at their head. The
officer points at Ambiorix and begins shouting.
“You!” he shouts. “Did you allow a speeder to pass through this gate a few minutes ago?”
“Yessir!” Ambiorix says. “One of your teams is already after them, sir!”
There is a deadly silence.
“What did you just say?”
“I said one of your teams is already after them, sir!”
“You allowed a team of stormtroopers to pass through this gate, is that correct?”
“Yes, sir! They were chasing after another speeder that’d already passed – ”
“Shut up! Their IDs! Did you check their IDs?”
“Yes, sir, of course, sir!” Ambiorix is puzzled. “But then your team came through – ”
“No, you idiot! Did you check the stormtroopers’ IDs?”
“Uh,” Ambiorix stutters. “Well, no, sir. They were chasing after that speeder and – ”
“Damn your eyes! Arrest these men!” The officer roars in outrage.
“Me? What for?” Ambiorix manages to say just a heartbeat before the stormtroopers shoot him.
He wakes up hours later with the headache usually associated with having been stunned by stormtroopers’ rifles. He
is in a cold, austere room with harsh light, sitting in an uncomfortable metal chair at a metal table, his ankles and
wrists shackled to the chair by binders.
Two men are sitting at the other end of the table. One of them is the Commissioner of the P & C Force; the other is
the Imperial Deputy Sub-Prefect for District Security. There is a woman standing in the corner; she would probably
be breathtakingly beautiful if not for the cold glare of her eyes, the look of a fanatic. She has a slender build and
average height, with her blonde hair pulled back into a regulation bun beneath her black cloth cap. If her eyes make her
unattractive, her white tunic makes her downright intimidating.
“This is Special Agent (Colonel) Tallisibeth Chambertin,” the Commissioner says. “She’s here to observe your
interrogation. I believe you know Deputy Sub-Prefect Dupont?”
“State your name, rank, and current billet,” Dupont says.
Ambiorix is dazed and confused. He does as he is told. “Ambiorix, Martyl, sergeant of the Aachen P & C Force,
overseer of Gate Beta Four, Northwest Blockade.”
And so his interrogation begins. He is questioned for hours, answering question after question, many of them the
same question phrased differently. He is thirsty and tired; his disorientation increases and he ends up losing track of
what he’s telling them.
“Hmph,” the Commissioner says finally, looking at Dupont. “We can charge him with failure to obey a lawful order
or regulation, malicious disregard for public order, and wilful impediment of an Imperial investigation.”
“That sounds a little mild, Jorj,” the Deputy Sub-Prefect says. “The Secretary is furious about this one. He wants
somebody’s hide for this foul-up.”
Neither one of them seems to notice that Ambiorix can still hear them.
“Oh, I don’t know,” the Commissioner says. “They’re all felonies, and the Assembly just made wilful impediment a
Class One offense under the Imperial Penal References.”
Ambiorix nearly faints again. Class One? The booth? Him? He looks pleadingly at the Commissioner. “Please, sir...! I
don’t understand! What happened? Was the speeder’s driver the Silver Fox?”
“You idiot,” Chambertin says coldly. It was the first time she’d spoken. “You still don’t realize what you’ve done,
do you?”
Ambiorix is exhausted, and it takes all his energy not to hyperventilate. “I – I don’t understand... How did I miss it? I
checked the speeder completely, and – ”
“The speeder driver was not the Silver Fox!” she hissed. “You idiot! The stormtrooper officer was the Silver Fox, and
every one of his troopers an Enemy of the Empire!”
This short story was originally published in January 2005. It was republished on 26 January 2007.
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