Domus Publica
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The Silver Fox Strikes Again
Tallisibeth Chambertin doesn’t think she’s getting the respect she deserves.
Oh, to be sure, Moff Powellyne is the picture of good cheer, meeting with her at least once a week and directing his regulars to cooperate with
her at every turn. But there’s a certain sense of strained good manners every time she meets with him, as though his silly parties and galas and
state dinners were more important than matters of state security.
Sometimes she thinks he cares more about impressing his out-of-Sector visitors than he cares about catching the Silver Fox.
She puts down her stylus and rubs her eyes. What time is it? She glances at the desktop chrono: 0400. She stands up and walks over to the
‘fresher, throws some water on her face. Another day, another report sent off to the Central Office and cc’ed to the Sector and Regional offices.
Just a courtesy, really; the Central Commander personally signed the orders that make her independent of the local chain of command,
reporting directly to Powellyne and the Central Office. It’s why she has the courtesy rank of a colonel, to ease relations with the regulars and
CompForce, if necessary.
She returns to her desk and sits, staring at the monitor. It glows so cheerfully, like it’s unconcerned with the importance of the security records
it displays. Unconcerned with the difficulties of catching a phantom. It glows so cheerfully, like it’s mocking her. Suddenly she feels the
overwhelming compulsion to just smash the thing.
She looks at the scandocs littered over her work space. The Silver Fox has been quiescent lately, probably because Moff Powellyne has quietly
ordered a moratorium on executions. The man’s no slouch when it comes to law and order, but he’s a bit hesistant when it comes to dealing
with thought-criminals, she’s noticed. Of course it would never do for her to say such a thing; the Central Commander’s made clear on more
than one occasion that Powellyne – a very highly decorated war hero – is above criticism.
“Sometimes, for the greater good, one must make judicious application of the third of the Three Pillars,” the Central Commander had said, a
polite and ideologically correct way of saying that she shouldn’t question her superiors – the Three Pillars of Correct Thought are of course
Unity, Stability, Conformity. Emphasis on ‘Conformity’ in this case, it seems.
So he’s not been too active recently, because they haven’t been putting any thought-criminals to death. Interesting. Unlike malefactors
associated more clearly with the counterrevolutionary Rebel Alliance, he doesn’t attempt to break out Enemies of the Empire at the first
opportunity, only when they’re facing imminent death. Notably, according to her records, he’s never once lifted a finger to help
counterrevolutionaries known to be agents of the Rebellion. He is indeed an unusual malefactor.
She touches a few keys on her workstation console and brings up a detailed datafile of known criminals broken out by the Silver Fox, arranged
by specific offense. Hm, seditious libel, seditious slander, seditious propaganda, association with seditious elements, association leading to
suspicion of sedition... failure to report seditious activity... interesting.
No charges of treason, no charges of insurrectionism or secessionism. No clear association with Rebel or Separatist elements. No charges of
embezzlement, or of misuse of privileged information, or fraud, larceny, anything. No crimes of non-ideological nature. No white collar, no blue
collar. Only thought crime, thought crime, thought crime. No acts of overt oppositionism against the Imperial State or the local governments.
Interesting.
She closes that datafile and sits back to think, rubbing her temples and sparing a glance at the chrono again. It’s almost time for P.T., she
knows, making a face. She dislikes having to interrupt her work schedule for something so mundane as exercising. Still, it’s her responsibility to
maintain herself in a physically fit state, ready to satisfy whatever physical requirements the State may have of her. Correct Thought demands
it.
She gets up and washes her face again, then changes into P.T. gear and heads out to the gym. She’s in excellent shape, but she doesn’t really
pay attention any more than is necessary to perform the correct evolutions as directed by the P.T. Leader – strictly speaking she could lead
herself, as she outranks him, but she doesn’t particularly want to do that. Instead she focuses on the problem at hand: The Silver Fox.
The man is a skilled ventriloquist, she knows that for certain. He successfully impersonated HIM Attorney General for the Imperial State to a
group of people who have actually met Krylenko, to say nothing of the incident with Councilman Blista-Vanee of the Serenissimus, a security
breach of such colossal proportions that it defied description. Because of that, however, she’s forced to disregard the fact that he spoke with
the Received Pronunciation of the Core; he has significant control of his voice and vocal mannerisms, sufficient to disguise his voice completely
and mimic that of a well-known public figure.
He is also a skilled dancer, probably having taken classes, and claims to be trained in Teräs Käsi and K’tara, although he has not actually
demonstrated this. He certainly has, however, demonstrated his skills as a burglar, pickpocket, thief, and infiltrator. He has easy access to
evening wear and an Hendanyn death mask – the latter bit is interesting, given the masks’ rarity – and he claims to regularly wear a Kuati-style
ring with family crest, and is at least passingly familiar with the Imperial Navy’s regulations regarding conduct by commissioned officers. This
last bit could explain his accent (assuming it is genuine), as a large number of the Empire’s officers are educated in the Core Worlds and often
end up emulating the accent even if they are not themselves of the Core.
He claimed that he had planned to attend Powellyne’s New Year Fête ball, but that could very well have been a lie. He did know the capital
city’s sewer system well enough to elude her and make his way into Government Palace, where he somehow managed to change into his
evening suit and mingle among the revelers (oddly enough, they’d never found the clothes he’d been wearing earlier – either he had an
accomplice or he had hidden them somewhere for subsequent retrieval).
She finishes morning P.T. and returns to her quarters, still thinking. The Silver Fox had known about Councilman Blista-Vanee’s unannounced
visit. Only a limited number of people had known about it ahead of time, so he must either be one of those people or otherwise compromised
them in some way; an informant? Moff Powellyne would never authorize her to investigate most of those people, but it bears remembering.
She’ll have to keep an eye on the Moff’s household and court, albeit unofficially.
She puts on her service whites and heads over to Government Palace. As usual, the public spaces are filled with sycophants, supplicants,
petitioners, hangers-on. Aiguilletted aides bustle about like ants. It’s as much a court as any monarch has ever had. Lobbyists and favor-
merchants wait around and plot their sales pitches; elected officials and civil servants compare notes and prepare their briefings; intrigants and
courtiers take note of who’s wearing what and is saying what to whom. She turns up her nose at them; social parasites, people who make their
living using people and the system rather than actually contributing in any meaningful way to society. First thing we do, let’s kill all the
lawyers, she quotes to herself.
“Ah! Good morning, Miss Chambertin,” says a voice.
She turns to see an elegant, black-suited gentleman, whom she recognizes immediately as Diego Antilles. She rolls her eyes.
“It’s Special Agent Chambertin, Citizen Antilles,” she says coolly. “How is the meddling business today?”
He flashes a charming smile of gleaming white teeth, and runs his hand over his slicked-back hair. “Negotiating, not meddling, my dear. Meddling
is what thought police do.”
Quite the cheeky sort, isn’t he? Not many people are so insouciant as to speak of thought police in the presence of a whiteshirt, who are
generally known to resent that particular characterization of state security functions. She notices that he’s wearing a ring on his right hand –
just like the Silver Fox.
She makes a quick mental check of what she knows of him while she plods through a meaningless social conversation with him. He’s
independently wealthy, and works as a freelance negotiator in delicate matters, often taking on consultative positions with His Imperial
Majesty’s Government for Cingetorix Sector. Negotiator, of course, usually being a euphemism for private-sector whiteshirt. He has regular and
fairly easy access to the Office of the Sector Governor, and the nature of his work makes it easy for him to disappear for days at a time
without arousing suspicion.
She makes a mental note to keep an eye on Antilles, and proceeds on her way through the main hall, moving past various people attempting to
get her attention. The specific nature of her work is not generally known, but it is generally known that she is a relative colonel with the ISB
and has almost unlimited access to the Moff, a valuable asset for the latest intrigues. She actually pities Powellyne; he has to deal with this
petty politicking on a daily basis.
The door to the main holding office opens, and out comes the white-haired Mrs. Huntington, Moff Powellyne’s redoubtable executive
secretary, and Commander Tan Percival Avonstale, from Supreme Headquarters Cingetorix Sector Command.
Special Agent Tallisibeth Chambertin does not like Commander Tan Percival Avonstale.
Scion of a patrician family from Delaya, Tan Avonstale is the very picture of the stereotypical Imperial Naval officer: Cool, collected, cultured
and well-bred; intelligent, well-educated, resourceful, and – as necessary – ruthless. One hastens to add that he is ambitious and arrogant in the
extreme. And that monocle is simply ridiculous.
“Ah,” says he, in his cold and faintly condescending Received Pronunciation. “Good morning, Colonel.”
“Good morning, Commander,” she says stiffly. There’s a sarcastic jibe due in the next five seconds.
“Burned any good books lately?” Right on schedule.
She glowers at him. “Is that any way to address a superior officer, Commander?”
“You’re not an officer, Colonel, the Central Office’s fondest fantasies notwithstanding,” he says, with a hint of venom in his marble-like voice.
“Your rank is accorded to you as a matter of courtesy and convenience, to facilitate cooperation in operational matters. As this is not an
operational matter...”
“Courtesy and convenience is an interesting way to describe it, coming from a man whose rank was bought and paid for by his father, don’t
you think?”
He merely arches an eyebrow. “That’s queer, Colonel, most whiteshirts have the good taste not to mention thinking, since we all know what a
horrible crime that is. What progress have you made in the hunt for the Silver Fox today, Colonel? Wasted a large fraction of our budget, I
trust? Arrested the Procurator of Justice, perhaps?”
“Agent Chambertin, Tan Avonstale, please,” says the unflappable Mrs. Huntington, who is technically beneath both of them in personal rank
but whose positional authority is such that both lay aside their barbs immediately. “I presume you wish to consult with His Excellency on the
matter of your specialty, Agent Chambertin? He’s currently at breakfast, but he is free to see you until his meeting with the First Secretary of
State at 0800. Is that sufficient time, or shall I make you an appointment?”
“That should be sufficient, ma’am, thank you,” she says, grateful to the ageless woman for the opportunity to ignore Avonstale. Seeing
Avonstale’s ring, she secretly hopes he and not Antilles is the Silver Fox, as it would give her the opportunity to interrogate him as brutally as
humanly possible.
Tallisibeth is always careful to keep her revenge fantasies within the bounds of Correct Thought.
She passes through the holding office and outside onto one of Government Palace’s many patios, where she finds Moff Powellyne and – Oh,
stars. Not him.
“Why, Chauvelin!” Lamont Powellyne says, taking her hand and kissing it ridiculously. The fact that he’s the only man in the last three years
to have had the chutzpah to have tried to chat her up does not compensate for the fact that he is a fop among fops, a dandy to end all dandies,
more concerned with just the right knot in his cravat or just the right tint of white or style of lettering for his calling card than doing anything
useful with his life.
“It’s Chambertin, Citizen Powellyne,” she says, rolling her eyes. “My name is Chambertin.”
“A thousand pardons, mademoiselle,” says he, to his uncle’s keen amusement, well concealed behind the large sheet of newsflimsi he’s reading.
“We’re having a magnificent gala this weekend, my darling, do promise you’ll come. One word to my tailor and I can have you in a dress that
will dazzle the stars. I do wish you’d pay more attention to fashion, instead of this dreadful hobo suit they make you wear.”
Tallisibeth can feel her cheeks redden with anger. Hobo suit? The uniform of His Imperial Majesty’s Sword and Shield is a hobo suit, is it?
“... and so you simply must come,” he prattles – she realizes that he’s actually still talking – “It will be delightful. You’ll have a ball. Ha! Oh,
did you hear that, Uncle Joe? She’ll have a ball! Oh, that’s too much. I – you do follow, don’t you, uncle?”
Josef Moff Powellyne, Governor of Cingetorix Sector, lowers his newsflimsi – an old-fashioned habit he picked up long ago during his
university days – and regards his nephew with the patience born of many long years of having to deal with his inanities. “You know, Lamont, I
haven’t risen to my present rank and station by being a dullard.”
“Oh, I know, Uncle Joe,” he says, clearly not listening at all, “I just wanted to be sure that you followed the delicious subtlety of it.”
“There was no ‘subtlety,’” Tallisibeth says, plainly annoyed at having to deal with the fop at all. “You invited me to a gala and then said I’d
have a ball. It works on precisely one level, and it is witty wordplay worthy of a primary schoolchild.”
“Well, then,” says the Moff, folding up his newsflimsi. “I assume you have something of official interest, Special Agent Chambertin. Lamont,
if you would be so kind as to excuse us for a moment...?”
“Oh, of course, Uncle Joe,” he says, sipping his coffee, not moving a centimeter.
Both Moff and whiteshirt stare at him.
“Oh! Oh, right,” he says, standing up and walking away a discreet distance. The Moff leans forward and flips a switch on the table, activating
the patio’s privacy screen.
“He’s rather fond of you, you know,” Moff Powellyne says.
“Excuse me, Your Excellency?”
“Lamont,” he says. “He’s really rather fond of you. I know he’s a trifle... tedious... but he’s really not such a buffoon as you think he is.
Graduated with honors, you know.”
“Fascinating, I’m sure,” she says, glancing at her chrono.
“From the Academy,” he says, nonchalantly looking at his tea cup. “The Naval Academy, not a Sector Academy. I must admit that we sort of
pushed him into following his cousin’s footsteps. My son was set to graduate as valedictorian before he disappeared, you know.”
“Lamont Powellyne went to the Naval Academy?” Tallisibeth says, forgetting despite herself that she had more important things to talk about
than a fop’s academic credentials.
“He’s never really recovered from his father’s death,” the Moff says, momentarily lost in reverie. “Grand Moff Powellyne died quite
suddenly. Heart attack, of all things. Not an assassination, or a suicide. Mundane, preventable heart attack. Lamont’s been wasting his life ever
since then, but he’s not a bad sort of fellow. Really quite fond of you, you know.”
“I’m flattered,” she says, obviously not.
“You know, young lady,” he says languidly, leaning back into his chair. “My son vanished nearly ten years ago, and my brother and his wife
are both dead. I have no other siblings or cousins. Lamont is the only family I have. When I die, he will inherit the largest fortune in the galaxy
outside the Great Houses and Old Families. The virtues of Correct Thought notwithstanding, you might want to consider what you will do
later in your life when His Imperial Majesty no longer has need of your faithful service. Very few women have caught the eye of my nephew
and heir. That is something to think about, young lady. Now then, you have something for me?”
She blinks, a bit nonplussed. Is he trying to tell me I should marry his nephew? It doesn’t occur to her to think that the tireless, patrician
Powellyne hopes that her complete lack of frivolity might serve to anchor his completely frivolous nephew more firmly to reality. A question
of perspective, really; she looks at Lamont and sees his silly necktie, while he looks at him and sees his last surviving relative and heir. Since
Lamont obviously hasn’t got any sense left, he hopes to marry the boy off to someone who has.
“Er, yes, Your Excellency. My records show that the Silver Fox only acts when we’re about to terminate a thought-criminal. I wish to entrap
him, but I shall require that you lift your moratorium on the absolute measure for the defense of the State.”
“The ‘absolute measure for the defense of the State,’” he repeats. “Meaning of course the death penalty.”
“It is not a penalty, Your Excellency,” she says earnestly. “It is a preventative measure used to protect our great society.”
He looks at her. “Call it whatever you like, Special Agent. It’s easy to be glib when it’s not your signature condemning men to death. Continue.
You require me to authorize a prisoner’s termination?”
“Yes, Your Excellency. I shall require a lure. One of the class of offenders that interests him – thought-criminals, political malefactors,
something like that.”
“And aside from offering him another triumph, what will this accomplish?”
“I shall handle the arrangements for the ambush personally, Your Excellency, you need have no worry over that. I shall control the operation as
strictly as possible. We shall have him, you’ll see. I require only your signature,” she says, handing him her datapad. “I’ve taken the liberty of
preparing the necessary order, Your Excellency.”
“Have you indeed,” he says, taking the datapad. He looks over it carefully, reading it twice – Josef Powellyne is not the sort of politician to
just sign anything thrust under his nose – pauses for a moment, then takes up his stylus and signs the order, then presses his code cylinder into
the dataport, digitally affixing his seal.
Tallisibeth Chambertin smiles.
Oh, to be sure, Moff Powellyne is the picture of good cheer, meeting with her at least once a week and directing his regulars to cooperate with
her at every turn. But there’s a certain sense of strained good manners every time she meets with him, as though his silly parties and galas and
state dinners were more important than matters of state security.
Sometimes she thinks he cares more about impressing his out-of-Sector visitors than he cares about catching the Silver Fox.
She puts down her stylus and rubs her eyes. What time is it? She glances at the desktop chrono: 0400. She stands up and walks over to the
‘fresher, throws some water on her face. Another day, another report sent off to the Central Office and cc’ed to the Sector and Regional offices.
Just a courtesy, really; the Central Commander personally signed the orders that make her independent of the local chain of command,
reporting directly to Powellyne and the Central Office. It’s why she has the courtesy rank of a colonel, to ease relations with the regulars and
CompForce, if necessary.
She returns to her desk and sits, staring at the monitor. It glows so cheerfully, like it’s unconcerned with the importance of the security records
it displays. Unconcerned with the difficulties of catching a phantom. It glows so cheerfully, like it’s mocking her. Suddenly she feels the
overwhelming compulsion to just smash the thing.
She looks at the scandocs littered over her work space. The Silver Fox has been quiescent lately, probably because Moff Powellyne has quietly
ordered a moratorium on executions. The man’s no slouch when it comes to law and order, but he’s a bit hesistant when it comes to dealing
with thought-criminals, she’s noticed. Of course it would never do for her to say such a thing; the Central Commander’s made clear on more
than one occasion that Powellyne – a very highly decorated war hero – is above criticism.
“Sometimes, for the greater good, one must make judicious application of the third of the Three Pillars,” the Central Commander had said, a
polite and ideologically correct way of saying that she shouldn’t question her superiors – the Three Pillars of Correct Thought are of course
Unity, Stability, Conformity. Emphasis on ‘Conformity’ in this case, it seems.
So he’s not been too active recently, because they haven’t been putting any thought-criminals to death. Interesting. Unlike malefactors
associated more clearly with the counterrevolutionary Rebel Alliance, he doesn’t attempt to break out Enemies of the Empire at the first
opportunity, only when they’re facing imminent death. Notably, according to her records, he’s never once lifted a finger to help
counterrevolutionaries known to be agents of the Rebellion. He is indeed an unusual malefactor.
She touches a few keys on her workstation console and brings up a detailed datafile of known criminals broken out by the Silver Fox, arranged
by specific offense. Hm, seditious libel, seditious slander, seditious propaganda, association with seditious elements, association leading to
suspicion of sedition... failure to report seditious activity... interesting.
No charges of treason, no charges of insurrectionism or secessionism. No clear association with Rebel or Separatist elements. No charges of
embezzlement, or of misuse of privileged information, or fraud, larceny, anything. No crimes of non-ideological nature. No white collar, no blue
collar. Only thought crime, thought crime, thought crime. No acts of overt oppositionism against the Imperial State or the local governments.
Interesting.
She closes that datafile and sits back to think, rubbing her temples and sparing a glance at the chrono again. It’s almost time for P.T., she
knows, making a face. She dislikes having to interrupt her work schedule for something so mundane as exercising. Still, it’s her responsibility to
maintain herself in a physically fit state, ready to satisfy whatever physical requirements the State may have of her. Correct Thought demands
it.
She gets up and washes her face again, then changes into P.T. gear and heads out to the gym. She’s in excellent shape, but she doesn’t really
pay attention any more than is necessary to perform the correct evolutions as directed by the P.T. Leader – strictly speaking she could lead
herself, as she outranks him, but she doesn’t particularly want to do that. Instead she focuses on the problem at hand: The Silver Fox.
The man is a skilled ventriloquist, she knows that for certain. He successfully impersonated HIM Attorney General for the Imperial State to a
group of people who have actually met Krylenko, to say nothing of the incident with Councilman Blista-Vanee of the Serenissimus, a security
breach of such colossal proportions that it defied description. Because of that, however, she’s forced to disregard the fact that he spoke with
the Received Pronunciation of the Core; he has significant control of his voice and vocal mannerisms, sufficient to disguise his voice completely
and mimic that of a well-known public figure.
He is also a skilled dancer, probably having taken classes, and claims to be trained in Teräs Käsi and K’tara, although he has not actually
demonstrated this. He certainly has, however, demonstrated his skills as a burglar, pickpocket, thief, and infiltrator. He has easy access to
evening wear and an Hendanyn death mask – the latter bit is interesting, given the masks’ rarity – and he claims to regularly wear a Kuati-style
ring with family crest, and is at least passingly familiar with the Imperial Navy’s regulations regarding conduct by commissioned officers. This
last bit could explain his accent (assuming it is genuine), as a large number of the Empire’s officers are educated in the Core Worlds and often
end up emulating the accent even if they are not themselves of the Core.
He claimed that he had planned to attend Powellyne’s New Year Fête ball, but that could very well have been a lie. He did know the capital
city’s sewer system well enough to elude her and make his way into Government Palace, where he somehow managed to change into his
evening suit and mingle among the revelers (oddly enough, they’d never found the clothes he’d been wearing earlier – either he had an
accomplice or he had hidden them somewhere for subsequent retrieval).
She finishes morning P.T. and returns to her quarters, still thinking. The Silver Fox had known about Councilman Blista-Vanee’s unannounced
visit. Only a limited number of people had known about it ahead of time, so he must either be one of those people or otherwise compromised
them in some way; an informant? Moff Powellyne would never authorize her to investigate most of those people, but it bears remembering.
She’ll have to keep an eye on the Moff’s household and court, albeit unofficially.
She puts on her service whites and heads over to Government Palace. As usual, the public spaces are filled with sycophants, supplicants,
petitioners, hangers-on. Aiguilletted aides bustle about like ants. It’s as much a court as any monarch has ever had. Lobbyists and favor-
merchants wait around and plot their sales pitches; elected officials and civil servants compare notes and prepare their briefings; intrigants and
courtiers take note of who’s wearing what and is saying what to whom. She turns up her nose at them; social parasites, people who make their
living using people and the system rather than actually contributing in any meaningful way to society. First thing we do, let’s kill all the
lawyers, she quotes to herself.
“Ah! Good morning, Miss Chambertin,” says a voice.
She turns to see an elegant, black-suited gentleman, whom she recognizes immediately as Diego Antilles. She rolls her eyes.
“It’s Special Agent Chambertin, Citizen Antilles,” she says coolly. “How is the meddling business today?”
He flashes a charming smile of gleaming white teeth, and runs his hand over his slicked-back hair. “Negotiating, not meddling, my dear. Meddling
is what thought police do.”
Quite the cheeky sort, isn’t he? Not many people are so insouciant as to speak of thought police in the presence of a whiteshirt, who are
generally known to resent that particular characterization of state security functions. She notices that he’s wearing a ring on his right hand –
just like the Silver Fox.
She makes a quick mental check of what she knows of him while she plods through a meaningless social conversation with him. He’s
independently wealthy, and works as a freelance negotiator in delicate matters, often taking on consultative positions with His Imperial
Majesty’s Government for Cingetorix Sector. Negotiator, of course, usually being a euphemism for private-sector whiteshirt. He has regular and
fairly easy access to the Office of the Sector Governor, and the nature of his work makes it easy for him to disappear for days at a time
without arousing suspicion.
She makes a mental note to keep an eye on Antilles, and proceeds on her way through the main hall, moving past various people attempting to
get her attention. The specific nature of her work is not generally known, but it is generally known that she is a relative colonel with the ISB
and has almost unlimited access to the Moff, a valuable asset for the latest intrigues. She actually pities Powellyne; he has to deal with this
petty politicking on a daily basis.
The door to the main holding office opens, and out comes the white-haired Mrs. Huntington, Moff Powellyne’s redoubtable executive
secretary, and Commander Tan Percival Avonstale, from Supreme Headquarters Cingetorix Sector Command.
Special Agent Tallisibeth Chambertin does not like Commander Tan Percival Avonstale.
Scion of a patrician family from Delaya, Tan Avonstale is the very picture of the stereotypical Imperial Naval officer: Cool, collected, cultured
and well-bred; intelligent, well-educated, resourceful, and – as necessary – ruthless. One hastens to add that he is ambitious and arrogant in the
extreme. And that monocle is simply ridiculous.
“Ah,” says he, in his cold and faintly condescending Received Pronunciation. “Good morning, Colonel.”
“Good morning, Commander,” she says stiffly. There’s a sarcastic jibe due in the next five seconds.
“Burned any good books lately?” Right on schedule.
She glowers at him. “Is that any way to address a superior officer, Commander?”
“You’re not an officer, Colonel, the Central Office’s fondest fantasies notwithstanding,” he says, with a hint of venom in his marble-like voice.
“Your rank is accorded to you as a matter of courtesy and convenience, to facilitate cooperation in operational matters. As this is not an
operational matter...”
“Courtesy and convenience is an interesting way to describe it, coming from a man whose rank was bought and paid for by his father, don’t
you think?”
He merely arches an eyebrow. “That’s queer, Colonel, most whiteshirts have the good taste not to mention thinking, since we all know what a
horrible crime that is. What progress have you made in the hunt for the Silver Fox today, Colonel? Wasted a large fraction of our budget, I
trust? Arrested the Procurator of Justice, perhaps?”
“Agent Chambertin, Tan Avonstale, please,” says the unflappable Mrs. Huntington, who is technically beneath both of them in personal rank
but whose positional authority is such that both lay aside their barbs immediately. “I presume you wish to consult with His Excellency on the
matter of your specialty, Agent Chambertin? He’s currently at breakfast, but he is free to see you until his meeting with the First Secretary of
State at 0800. Is that sufficient time, or shall I make you an appointment?”
“That should be sufficient, ma’am, thank you,” she says, grateful to the ageless woman for the opportunity to ignore Avonstale. Seeing
Avonstale’s ring, she secretly hopes he and not Antilles is the Silver Fox, as it would give her the opportunity to interrogate him as brutally as
humanly possible.
Tallisibeth is always careful to keep her revenge fantasies within the bounds of Correct Thought.
She passes through the holding office and outside onto one of Government Palace’s many patios, where she finds Moff Powellyne and – Oh,
stars. Not him.
“Why, Chauvelin!” Lamont Powellyne says, taking her hand and kissing it ridiculously. The fact that he’s the only man in the last three years
to have had the chutzpah to have tried to chat her up does not compensate for the fact that he is a fop among fops, a dandy to end all dandies,
more concerned with just the right knot in his cravat or just the right tint of white or style of lettering for his calling card than doing anything
useful with his life.
“It’s Chambertin, Citizen Powellyne,” she says, rolling her eyes. “My name is Chambertin.”
“A thousand pardons, mademoiselle,” says he, to his uncle’s keen amusement, well concealed behind the large sheet of newsflimsi he’s reading.
“We’re having a magnificent gala this weekend, my darling, do promise you’ll come. One word to my tailor and I can have you in a dress that
will dazzle the stars. I do wish you’d pay more attention to fashion, instead of this dreadful hobo suit they make you wear.”
Tallisibeth can feel her cheeks redden with anger. Hobo suit? The uniform of His Imperial Majesty’s Sword and Shield is a hobo suit, is it?
“... and so you simply must come,” he prattles – she realizes that he’s actually still talking – “It will be delightful. You’ll have a ball. Ha! Oh,
did you hear that, Uncle Joe? She’ll have a ball! Oh, that’s too much. I – you do follow, don’t you, uncle?”
Josef Moff Powellyne, Governor of Cingetorix Sector, lowers his newsflimsi – an old-fashioned habit he picked up long ago during his
university days – and regards his nephew with the patience born of many long years of having to deal with his inanities. “You know, Lamont, I
haven’t risen to my present rank and station by being a dullard.”
“Oh, I know, Uncle Joe,” he says, clearly not listening at all, “I just wanted to be sure that you followed the delicious subtlety of it.”
“There was no ‘subtlety,’” Tallisibeth says, plainly annoyed at having to deal with the fop at all. “You invited me to a gala and then said I’d
have a ball. It works on precisely one level, and it is witty wordplay worthy of a primary schoolchild.”
“Well, then,” says the Moff, folding up his newsflimsi. “I assume you have something of official interest, Special Agent Chambertin. Lamont,
if you would be so kind as to excuse us for a moment...?”
“Oh, of course, Uncle Joe,” he says, sipping his coffee, not moving a centimeter.
Both Moff and whiteshirt stare at him.
“Oh! Oh, right,” he says, standing up and walking away a discreet distance. The Moff leans forward and flips a switch on the table, activating
the patio’s privacy screen.
“He’s rather fond of you, you know,” Moff Powellyne says.
“Excuse me, Your Excellency?”
“Lamont,” he says. “He’s really rather fond of you. I know he’s a trifle... tedious... but he’s really not such a buffoon as you think he is.
Graduated with honors, you know.”
“Fascinating, I’m sure,” she says, glancing at her chrono.
“From the Academy,” he says, nonchalantly looking at his tea cup. “The Naval Academy, not a Sector Academy. I must admit that we sort of
pushed him into following his cousin’s footsteps. My son was set to graduate as valedictorian before he disappeared, you know.”
“Lamont Powellyne went to the Naval Academy?” Tallisibeth says, forgetting despite herself that she had more important things to talk about
than a fop’s academic credentials.
“He’s never really recovered from his father’s death,” the Moff says, momentarily lost in reverie. “Grand Moff Powellyne died quite
suddenly. Heart attack, of all things. Not an assassination, or a suicide. Mundane, preventable heart attack. Lamont’s been wasting his life ever
since then, but he’s not a bad sort of fellow. Really quite fond of you, you know.”
“I’m flattered,” she says, obviously not.
“You know, young lady,” he says languidly, leaning back into his chair. “My son vanished nearly ten years ago, and my brother and his wife
are both dead. I have no other siblings or cousins. Lamont is the only family I have. When I die, he will inherit the largest fortune in the galaxy
outside the Great Houses and Old Families. The virtues of Correct Thought notwithstanding, you might want to consider what you will do
later in your life when His Imperial Majesty no longer has need of your faithful service. Very few women have caught the eye of my nephew
and heir. That is something to think about, young lady. Now then, you have something for me?”
She blinks, a bit nonplussed. Is he trying to tell me I should marry his nephew? It doesn’t occur to her to think that the tireless, patrician
Powellyne hopes that her complete lack of frivolity might serve to anchor his completely frivolous nephew more firmly to reality. A question
of perspective, really; she looks at Lamont and sees his silly necktie, while he looks at him and sees his last surviving relative and heir. Since
Lamont obviously hasn’t got any sense left, he hopes to marry the boy off to someone who has.
“Er, yes, Your Excellency. My records show that the Silver Fox only acts when we’re about to terminate a thought-criminal. I wish to entrap
him, but I shall require that you lift your moratorium on the absolute measure for the defense of the State.”
“The ‘absolute measure for the defense of the State,’” he repeats. “Meaning of course the death penalty.”
“It is not a penalty, Your Excellency,” she says earnestly. “It is a preventative measure used to protect our great society.”
He looks at her. “Call it whatever you like, Special Agent. It’s easy to be glib when it’s not your signature condemning men to death. Continue.
You require me to authorize a prisoner’s termination?”
“Yes, Your Excellency. I shall require a lure. One of the class of offenders that interests him – thought-criminals, political malefactors,
something like that.”
“And aside from offering him another triumph, what will this accomplish?”
“I shall handle the arrangements for the ambush personally, Your Excellency, you need have no worry over that. I shall control the operation as
strictly as possible. We shall have him, you’ll see. I require only your signature,” she says, handing him her datapad. “I’ve taken the liberty of
preparing the necessary order, Your Excellency.”
“Have you indeed,” he says, taking the datapad. He looks over it carefully, reading it twice – Josef Powellyne is not the sort of politician to
just sign anything thrust under his nose – pauses for a moment, then takes up his stylus and signs the order, then presses his code cylinder into
the dataport, digitally affixing his seal.
Tallisibeth Chambertin smiles.
| * * * * * |
“Any movement?” Tallisibeth Chambertin asks the stormtrooper, looking through the window with her electrobinoculars, straining to see any
movement. The moons are out tonight, leaving it surprisingly clear. She lowers the electrobinoculars and looks at the stormtrooper.
“No ma’am,” he says in his tinny, filtered voice. “They’ve been stationary for two – belay my last, ma’am, they’re moving.”
“Excellent,” she says, satisfied. The specially-designed tracking device she’d had implanted in the unlucky poet she’d scheduled for a one-way
trip to the disintegration booth was working perfectly. She brushes her pistol belt unconsciously, satisfied that tonight is the night that she will
have the Silver Fox at long last. There’ll be no escape for him this time.
“Excellent,” she repeats. “Signal the trailing squad to pursue at distance. Be careful, he’s slippery.”
“Aye aye, ma’am,” the stormtrooper says, acknowledging her order in the manner peculiar to the Navy and Marines. He relays the order, and
waits for acknowledgment, which he passes back to her. “Squad acknowledges and is executing, ma’am.”
“Very good,” she says. Or is it very well? She can’t remember what precisely she’s supposed to say.
She doesn’t like hanging back like this. She’s always believed in leading from the front. She was going to do that this time, too, but her assistant
had gently pulled her aside and pointed out that one of the reasons none of the Army and Navy officers treat her with the respect due her
relative rank is that she doesn’t act like a colonel. Colonels do not personally lead squads of stormtroopers in tracking a wanted criminal; that’s
what sergeants are for. Colonels are much too important – and expensive – to do routine gruntwork.
She pats her pistol belt again.
“They’re moving again, ma’am,” the stormtrooper says, looking over the sensor/communications gear he’s set up in the apartment’s living room.
The apartment’s residents weren’t too happy to have these interlopers in their home, but a few stern words from Tallisibeth about state
security and their patriotic duty to assist was enough to shut them up. She’d had to resist her impulse to lecture them about Correct Thought
and cooperation with the authorities. To be honest, though, she’d probably be annoyed if someone barged into her room in order to set up a
stakeout.
“Where are they now?”
“It looks like they’re near the warehouse at Fourth and Ronhar Kim, ma’am,” he says. “They’ve moved into it.”
“Good. Order your men to form a perimeter and secure the building.”
“Aye aye, ma’am.”
She raises her comlink to her mouth. “Squad Two, form a perimeter around the warehouse at Fourth and Ronhar Kim. Stand by for further
instructions.”
The stormtrooper looks at her quizzically. “I borrowed some extra men from the local CompForce battalion,” she says casually. “No offense to
the Marines, but I like having troops whose loyalty is unquestioned.”
“The Imperial Marines cannot be bribed, blackmailed, or seduced, ma’am,” the stormtrooper says mechanically. “Just a moment, please, ma’am
– Loss of signal, ma’am. We’ve lost the tracking device.”
“I know we have,” she says, smiling. “And that’s why you’re under arrest in the name of the Emperor.”
“Ma’am?”
“Don’t bother acting surprised. I know it’s you.” She claps her hands and a group of eight armed men – whiteshirts, by the looks of it, probably
belonging to the ISB’s Enforcements division – appear out of nowhere and train their rifles dead-center on the stormtrooper’s armored cuirass.
“Put your hands behind your head and kneel down.”
He slowly does as he’s told.
She raises her comlink to her mouth again. “Squad Two, execute your orders. Arrest the stormtroopers and hold them for questioning.”
She smiles. “Not really stormtroopers, are they? Who are they, men you hired from the network of smugglers you’ve paid to help you? Oh, yes,
I know about that. The unfortunate thing about loyalty for sale is that it goes to the highest bidder, my dear Silver Fox.”
The stormtrooper shrugs. “You should thank me, you know. They’re actually members of the local Army garrison. You’d be surprised how
venal the regular soldiers can get.” His entire manner – speech, posture, everything – has changed. He is decidedly not a real stormtrooper
anymore.
“Oh, I am grateful,” she says, smiling wickedly – the other whiteshirts have never seen her smile before. “Grateful that you’ve walked right into
my hands. I knew you couldn’t resist disabling the tracking device here, so I couldn’t find it again later. Nor could you resist the opportunity to
make me look stupid. Your vanity has caught up to you, my friend.”
He shrugs again. “You know, if you arrest my hired help, Seldona will get away.”
“Let her,” Tallisibeth says, shrugging. “I don’t care. She’s just a poet, not an insurgent, and certainly not a menace to society like the infamous
Silver Fox. We’ll catch her again eventually, especially when she doesn’t have you around to help her. Now that I have you, it’s only a matter of
time before I mop up the rest of your hired help. My men are already sweeping the spaceport now.”
“I see.”
“I can see you’re thinking of trying to escape. Don’t bother; no amount of hand-to-hand combat training will protect you from eight riflemen.
Enforcements has sent me their best.”
“Their best, eh?” The Silver Fox shrugs, a gesture that looks decidedly odd in a man in stormtrooper armor. “I wouldn’t buy much stock in
Enforcements in the future, if I were you, Tallisibeth. These men are obviously amateurs. Too focused on where I am and not enough on where
their counterparts are: If I were to stand and move right now, for example – you know I’m fast enough to do it before they get a shot off – those
two over there would very definitely shoot these two here on my left. Geometry is a harsh mistress, you know.”
The riflemen take a moment to check their positions – and much to their acute alarm, they find that he’s right.
Tallisibeth draws her pistol and points it directly at his heart. “It matters very little, you know. You may be faster than they are, but you’re not
faster than I am. You claim to have read my service record. You know I’m an exceptionally good pistol shot. Make one false move and you’ll
have a carbonized cavity where your chest used to be. I can shoot a great deal faster than you can dodge, my friend. Take off the helmet.”
“Well, you’re right about the pistol thing,” the Silver Fox says, removing the helmet – and revealing that grotesque red Hendanyn death mask,
sculpted so exquisitely that it mirrors his every facial tick, as though the grinning skull really were his face. His expression shows that he’s
entirely too blasé about all this. “I must admit, you’ve really got me this time, Tallisibeth. How did you know where I’d be?”
“I’ve studied every single incident you’ve ever been associated with,” she says triumphantly. “I know your habits better than any other being
alive. You just can’t resist an opportunity to make me look stupid, can you?”
“Oh, don’t be silly, I – Oh, all right, yes. I do admit, I do think it’s funny, but in a good way. I’m laughing with you, not at you.”
Tallisibeth’s smile is nothing less than predatory. “And who’s laughing now, my Rebel friend?”
“Rebel? Rebel?” His mask grins more widely still at this, genuinely amused. “Don’t be silly, Tallisibeth. More than seventy percent of all armed
oppositionists in this galaxy aren’t affiliated with the rebel Alliance, you know that. What makes you think I am? Is it the fact that I’m not a
Separatist, so I must therefore be a Rebel? There really are more leaders in the galaxy than Palpatine, Mothma, and Dooku, you know. Ever read
Deltonin’s Exposition and Protest, for example? I know you at least know of it, it’s on the Index of Prohibited Books.”
“And I’m sure you’ll have a great deal to say about politics, and a great many other things,” she says, nodding to one of the whiteshirt, “in the
interrogation booth. Cuff him and then remove his mask, Agent Matthews.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Special Agent Matthews,” the Silver Fox says calmly.
“And what makes you think he cares more about a wanted criminal’s ideas on arrest than he cares about his commanding officer’s?” Tallisibeth
says, amused at the man’s desperation. She finally has him; she can afford to humor him a little bit. “Put the binders on him.”
“Before you do that, Special Agent Matthews, I think you’d better have a look at this,” he says, somehow managing to produce a datacard in
between his index and middle fingers on his right hand. He contrives to toss it to the Enforcements agent without taking his hands off his head.
Tallisibeth hesitates just a moment, then nods to Matthews. “Read it,” she says suspiciously.
The whiteshirt takes the datacard and slides it into his datapad. He reads the scandoc, flushes a little bit, and presses his code cylinder into it.
His eyes go wide.
“What is it?” Tallisibeth is getting a little bit nervous.
“It’s – it’s – ”
“It’s an official letter,” says the Silver Fox, “certifying my immunity from arrest.”
“Rubbish!” Tallisibeth hisses. “Councilman Blista-Vanee’s code cylinder was stolen, it’s a forgery.”
“This isn’t signed by Councilman Blista-Vanee, Colonel,” Matthews says. “It’s signed by Grand Moff Selit.”
“What?” Tallisibeth fairly screams, yanking the datapad out of the lower-ranking whiteshirt’s hands. She lowers her pistol and fumbles about
before pressing her own code cylinder into the dataport. The datapad chirps in recognition and displays the security certification and
authentification, showing all the right codes and tamper-proof tapes. The signature on the scandoc is genuine. It really is a certificate of
immunity.
“This is – this is a forgery!”
“Actually,” the Silver Fox says, smirking a little bit – just enough to be noticed, and, therefore, annoying – “although I do have a number of them
that are forgeries, this one is quite genuine. I’d been hoping not to have to use that.”
“The law is clear, Colonel,” Matthews says. “He’s free to go.”
“No!” She hisses at him; she throws the datapad down. “No, it’s a forgery! I will not let him slip away again!”
“Tallisibeth,” the Silver Fox says, standing slowly, even as the Enforcements agents lower their weapons. “The letter of the law is quite clear.
Upon reading the certificate of immunity and verifying its authenticity, you are prohibited from detaining me any further. And don’t think that
you’ll just shoot me anyway, because that would be murder and we both know that you might very well be a whiteshirt and you might very well
shoot a man without a second thought if it’s legal, but you’re not a murderer and you won’t shoot me. Because you have verified my immunity,
and you know very well the first principle of Correct Thought: The complete willful submission to proper authority. And even if I did blackmail
Selit into signing that, he is proper authority.”
“I hate you,” she says, finding her moment of triumph dashed away by some... by some lawyer’s technicality.
“Oh, I know you do,” he says, offering her a courtly bow, before extracting his certificate of immunity from Matthews’s datapad. “But what is
hate if not tainted love? And now, Tallisibeth, if you don’t mind, I really must be going. Don’t bother following me, because we both know I’ll
just give you the slip. I’ll give Miss Seldona your regards, by the way. Here, hold this.”
He hands her a strip of flimsi with a cheeky poem and the signet of the Silver Fox scrawled on it. Before she has a chance to react, he leans in and
plants a kiss on her cheek and then ducks under her instinctive slap. He runs and jumps out the window, and she’s so incredibly angry that she
hasn’t even got the presence of mind to turn and see how he gets away from there.
First thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers, she thinks.
movement. The moons are out tonight, leaving it surprisingly clear. She lowers the electrobinoculars and looks at the stormtrooper.
“No ma’am,” he says in his tinny, filtered voice. “They’ve been stationary for two – belay my last, ma’am, they’re moving.”
“Excellent,” she says, satisfied. The specially-designed tracking device she’d had implanted in the unlucky poet she’d scheduled for a one-way
trip to the disintegration booth was working perfectly. She brushes her pistol belt unconsciously, satisfied that tonight is the night that she will
have the Silver Fox at long last. There’ll be no escape for him this time.
“Excellent,” she repeats. “Signal the trailing squad to pursue at distance. Be careful, he’s slippery.”
“Aye aye, ma’am,” the stormtrooper says, acknowledging her order in the manner peculiar to the Navy and Marines. He relays the order, and
waits for acknowledgment, which he passes back to her. “Squad acknowledges and is executing, ma’am.”
“Very good,” she says. Or is it very well? She can’t remember what precisely she’s supposed to say.
She doesn’t like hanging back like this. She’s always believed in leading from the front. She was going to do that this time, too, but her assistant
had gently pulled her aside and pointed out that one of the reasons none of the Army and Navy officers treat her with the respect due her
relative rank is that she doesn’t act like a colonel. Colonels do not personally lead squads of stormtroopers in tracking a wanted criminal; that’s
what sergeants are for. Colonels are much too important – and expensive – to do routine gruntwork.
She pats her pistol belt again.
“They’re moving again, ma’am,” the stormtrooper says, looking over the sensor/communications gear he’s set up in the apartment’s living room.
The apartment’s residents weren’t too happy to have these interlopers in their home, but a few stern words from Tallisibeth about state
security and their patriotic duty to assist was enough to shut them up. She’d had to resist her impulse to lecture them about Correct Thought
and cooperation with the authorities. To be honest, though, she’d probably be annoyed if someone barged into her room in order to set up a
stakeout.
“Where are they now?”
“It looks like they’re near the warehouse at Fourth and Ronhar Kim, ma’am,” he says. “They’ve moved into it.”
“Good. Order your men to form a perimeter and secure the building.”
“Aye aye, ma’am.”
She raises her comlink to her mouth. “Squad Two, form a perimeter around the warehouse at Fourth and Ronhar Kim. Stand by for further
instructions.”
The stormtrooper looks at her quizzically. “I borrowed some extra men from the local CompForce battalion,” she says casually. “No offense to
the Marines, but I like having troops whose loyalty is unquestioned.”
“The Imperial Marines cannot be bribed, blackmailed, or seduced, ma’am,” the stormtrooper says mechanically. “Just a moment, please, ma’am
– Loss of signal, ma’am. We’ve lost the tracking device.”
“I know we have,” she says, smiling. “And that’s why you’re under arrest in the name of the Emperor.”
“Ma’am?”
“Don’t bother acting surprised. I know it’s you.” She claps her hands and a group of eight armed men – whiteshirts, by the looks of it, probably
belonging to the ISB’s Enforcements division – appear out of nowhere and train their rifles dead-center on the stormtrooper’s armored cuirass.
“Put your hands behind your head and kneel down.”
He slowly does as he’s told.
She raises her comlink to her mouth again. “Squad Two, execute your orders. Arrest the stormtroopers and hold them for questioning.”
She smiles. “Not really stormtroopers, are they? Who are they, men you hired from the network of smugglers you’ve paid to help you? Oh, yes,
I know about that. The unfortunate thing about loyalty for sale is that it goes to the highest bidder, my dear Silver Fox.”
The stormtrooper shrugs. “You should thank me, you know. They’re actually members of the local Army garrison. You’d be surprised how
venal the regular soldiers can get.” His entire manner – speech, posture, everything – has changed. He is decidedly not a real stormtrooper
anymore.
“Oh, I am grateful,” she says, smiling wickedly – the other whiteshirts have never seen her smile before. “Grateful that you’ve walked right into
my hands. I knew you couldn’t resist disabling the tracking device here, so I couldn’t find it again later. Nor could you resist the opportunity to
make me look stupid. Your vanity has caught up to you, my friend.”
He shrugs again. “You know, if you arrest my hired help, Seldona will get away.”
“Let her,” Tallisibeth says, shrugging. “I don’t care. She’s just a poet, not an insurgent, and certainly not a menace to society like the infamous
Silver Fox. We’ll catch her again eventually, especially when she doesn’t have you around to help her. Now that I have you, it’s only a matter of
time before I mop up the rest of your hired help. My men are already sweeping the spaceport now.”
“I see.”
“I can see you’re thinking of trying to escape. Don’t bother; no amount of hand-to-hand combat training will protect you from eight riflemen.
Enforcements has sent me their best.”
“Their best, eh?” The Silver Fox shrugs, a gesture that looks decidedly odd in a man in stormtrooper armor. “I wouldn’t buy much stock in
Enforcements in the future, if I were you, Tallisibeth. These men are obviously amateurs. Too focused on where I am and not enough on where
their counterparts are: If I were to stand and move right now, for example – you know I’m fast enough to do it before they get a shot off – those
two over there would very definitely shoot these two here on my left. Geometry is a harsh mistress, you know.”
The riflemen take a moment to check their positions – and much to their acute alarm, they find that he’s right.
Tallisibeth draws her pistol and points it directly at his heart. “It matters very little, you know. You may be faster than they are, but you’re not
faster than I am. You claim to have read my service record. You know I’m an exceptionally good pistol shot. Make one false move and you’ll
have a carbonized cavity where your chest used to be. I can shoot a great deal faster than you can dodge, my friend. Take off the helmet.”
“Well, you’re right about the pistol thing,” the Silver Fox says, removing the helmet – and revealing that grotesque red Hendanyn death mask,
sculpted so exquisitely that it mirrors his every facial tick, as though the grinning skull really were his face. His expression shows that he’s
entirely too blasé about all this. “I must admit, you’ve really got me this time, Tallisibeth. How did you know where I’d be?”
“I’ve studied every single incident you’ve ever been associated with,” she says triumphantly. “I know your habits better than any other being
alive. You just can’t resist an opportunity to make me look stupid, can you?”
“Oh, don’t be silly, I – Oh, all right, yes. I do admit, I do think it’s funny, but in a good way. I’m laughing with you, not at you.”
Tallisibeth’s smile is nothing less than predatory. “And who’s laughing now, my Rebel friend?”
“Rebel? Rebel?” His mask grins more widely still at this, genuinely amused. “Don’t be silly, Tallisibeth. More than seventy percent of all armed
oppositionists in this galaxy aren’t affiliated with the rebel Alliance, you know that. What makes you think I am? Is it the fact that I’m not a
Separatist, so I must therefore be a Rebel? There really are more leaders in the galaxy than Palpatine, Mothma, and Dooku, you know. Ever read
Deltonin’s Exposition and Protest, for example? I know you at least know of it, it’s on the Index of Prohibited Books.”
“And I’m sure you’ll have a great deal to say about politics, and a great many other things,” she says, nodding to one of the whiteshirt, “in the
interrogation booth. Cuff him and then remove his mask, Agent Matthews.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Special Agent Matthews,” the Silver Fox says calmly.
“And what makes you think he cares more about a wanted criminal’s ideas on arrest than he cares about his commanding officer’s?” Tallisibeth
says, amused at the man’s desperation. She finally has him; she can afford to humor him a little bit. “Put the binders on him.”
“Before you do that, Special Agent Matthews, I think you’d better have a look at this,” he says, somehow managing to produce a datacard in
between his index and middle fingers on his right hand. He contrives to toss it to the Enforcements agent without taking his hands off his head.
Tallisibeth hesitates just a moment, then nods to Matthews. “Read it,” she says suspiciously.
The whiteshirt takes the datacard and slides it into his datapad. He reads the scandoc, flushes a little bit, and presses his code cylinder into it.
His eyes go wide.
“What is it?” Tallisibeth is getting a little bit nervous.
“It’s – it’s – ”
“It’s an official letter,” says the Silver Fox, “certifying my immunity from arrest.”
“Rubbish!” Tallisibeth hisses. “Councilman Blista-Vanee’s code cylinder was stolen, it’s a forgery.”
“This isn’t signed by Councilman Blista-Vanee, Colonel,” Matthews says. “It’s signed by Grand Moff Selit.”
“What?” Tallisibeth fairly screams, yanking the datapad out of the lower-ranking whiteshirt’s hands. She lowers her pistol and fumbles about
before pressing her own code cylinder into the dataport. The datapad chirps in recognition and displays the security certification and
authentification, showing all the right codes and tamper-proof tapes. The signature on the scandoc is genuine. It really is a certificate of
immunity.
“This is – this is a forgery!”
“Actually,” the Silver Fox says, smirking a little bit – just enough to be noticed, and, therefore, annoying – “although I do have a number of them
that are forgeries, this one is quite genuine. I’d been hoping not to have to use that.”
“The law is clear, Colonel,” Matthews says. “He’s free to go.”
“No!” She hisses at him; she throws the datapad down. “No, it’s a forgery! I will not let him slip away again!”
“Tallisibeth,” the Silver Fox says, standing slowly, even as the Enforcements agents lower their weapons. “The letter of the law is quite clear.
Upon reading the certificate of immunity and verifying its authenticity, you are prohibited from detaining me any further. And don’t think that
you’ll just shoot me anyway, because that would be murder and we both know that you might very well be a whiteshirt and you might very well
shoot a man without a second thought if it’s legal, but you’re not a murderer and you won’t shoot me. Because you have verified my immunity,
and you know very well the first principle of Correct Thought: The complete willful submission to proper authority. And even if I did blackmail
Selit into signing that, he is proper authority.”
“I hate you,” she says, finding her moment of triumph dashed away by some... by some lawyer’s technicality.
“Oh, I know you do,” he says, offering her a courtly bow, before extracting his certificate of immunity from Matthews’s datapad. “But what is
hate if not tainted love? And now, Tallisibeth, if you don’t mind, I really must be going. Don’t bother following me, because we both know I’ll
just give you the slip. I’ll give Miss Seldona your regards, by the way. Here, hold this.”
He hands her a strip of flimsi with a cheeky poem and the signet of the Silver Fox scrawled on it. Before she has a chance to react, he leans in and
plants a kiss on her cheek and then ducks under her instinctive slap. He runs and jumps out the window, and she’s so incredibly angry that she
hasn’t even got the presence of mind to turn and see how he gets away from there.
First thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers, she thinks.
| 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. |
This short story was originally published in October 2005. It was republished on 1 February 2007.