Frandsen thumped the table. “Enough of this,” he said, angrily. “We know who was behind the murder, or the faked death, so what are we going to do about it?”
“We have no proof linking Tiberius to the Admiral’s death,” Anderson said, flatly. “We do not have grounds, under the new laws, to haul Tiberius in for questioning, even gentle questioning. We could ask him to make an attestation under a lie detector, but he would be quite within his rights to refuse, as indignantly as he liked.”
“And that,” Frandsen snapped, “would prove that he had something to hide.”
Anderson sighed. “Everyone has something to hide,” he said. “Anyone, even someone who is completely innocent of anything that could be called an offence, even under the Empire’s harshest laws, would fear a lie detector test, or the use of truth drugs. Everything they knew would come pouring out of them; the secret shames, the truths they would die rather than confess, the dark truth about what they’re really like, their sexual fantasies… everything and anything. No one will blame him for refusing to go through such a session. They will, instead, blame us for forcing him to submit.”
He leaned forward. “And even if we do find proof, what then?”
“Stamp on it sharp,” Frandsen said. “If he’s guilty, can’t we strip him of his power and position and dump him on some godforsaken penal world?”
“It’s not that simple,” Colin said, tiredly. He ran his hand through his brown hair. “We are attempting to build the rule of law here… and the law applies to everyone, even traitors — suspected traitors.”
“You know he’s a traitor,” Frandsen pointed out. “You have all the proof you need to convince yourself. What more do you need?”
“Yes, I do,” Colin agreed. “I know, but we have to convince the Empire that he is a traitor, rather than me merely stamping on someone who happened to disagree with me and creating a martyr. I could name seven MPs who will be quite happy to lambaste me for hammering Tiberius without a full confession, in triplicate, and others who will add their weight to secession campaigns. The Empire could fall apart over this.”
He shook his head. “Vincent, can’t you get covert access to his estate?”
“Not easily,” Anderson admitted. “The Thousand Families have always controlled their estates ruthlessly; it’s not like the High City, where we have domination and overall control. I couldn’t slip someone into his staff without them going through personality conditioning, which would render them useless, and I would have great problems breaking through their counter-surveillance techniques.”
He paused. “But this may not be the first murder that Tiberius has ordered, if indeed it was a murder,” he continued. “Lord Roosevelt was murdered by his own pleasure slave, one sold to him by” — he paused for dramatic effect — “Tiberius.”
Colin scowled. He disliked the entire concept of pleasure slaves — and forced personality reconditioning, for that matter — and had signed a number of laws into existence banning the former and placing the latter under strict supervision, but it hadn’t prevented the practice from continuing. There was little that could be done for the existing pleasure slaves — they couldn’t be re-educated or even freed from their condition — while anyone with any degree of paranoia, which suited the Thousand Families perfectly, would only want conditioned servants. It was possible to prevent conditioning from having an impact on a subject, but any halfway competent medical doctor would be able to tell that the conditioning had failed, giving rise to all kinds of questions.
“I see,” he said. “How many more of them are there on Earth?”
“Several thousand,” Anderson said. “They’re not even regarded as human, so there isn’t a precise count, but the High City alone has over nine hundred working within the city, mainly pleasuring visitors.”
Colin shuddered. The concept was revolting. One might as well bed down with an animal, or commit incest with a blood relative. The pleasure slaves might look human — they tended to maintain an innocent demeanour that could be both haunting and stunningly attractive — but they were little more than children, mentally. They would remain at the apparent age of twenty for thirty years, then age and die rapidly, unless they were put to sleep first. It wasn’t murder, according to the Empire. They weren’t human.
“Disgusting,” he said, shaking his head. If Tiberius had a means of controlling them at a distance, he might even have an entire army right under Colin’s nose, one that would never be suspected until it was far too late. No one took pleasure slaves seriously. “Keep them out of Parliament and anywhere else that might be dangerous.”
“Already done,” Anderson said, with a wink. “The remainder of the Thousand Families were not happy to learn about Lord Roosevelt’s death.”
“I’m sure,” Colin said. He laughed briefly. Tiberius had probably done the Roosevelt Clan a big favour, although the handful of survivors probably cursed his name with every breath they took. “We still have no direct proof, which leaves us with a problem.”
He picked up the gold-covered envelope on the desk and opened it. “You are cordially invited to the wedding of Tiberius Cicero, Head of Clan Cicero, and Alicia Russell, of the Russell Family,” he said, dryly. He’d only met Alicia once, but she reminded him, in some ways, of Kathy. Tiberius might have chosen well. “It’s not something I want to attend, but I may have no choice.”
“I don’t think that you count as a vital family member,” Anderson said, dryly. Colin had to smile. Apart from a bastard some few generations back, his family tree was decidedly common. Some of the Family matrons could barely bring themselves to acknowledge his existence. “You could just turn down the invitation.”
“You have got to be joking,” Frandsen said, a second later. “Here, we can pretty much guarantee your safety, unless they manage to get shipkillers launched at the city. In Tiberius’s estate… they could do anything to you. Colin, I hope you’re not considering going, not seriously.”
“I may have no choice,” Colin repeated. He scowled down at the invitation. It was handmade, a beautiful piece of craftsmanship under almost any situation, but Frandsen was right. The odds were that it was an invitation to a trap. He admired the workmanship of the artist, thinking hard. They had to understand the problem before they could advise him. “Tiberius is a member of the Cabinet in good standing.”
He held up a hand before they could object. “Officially, there is no break between the pair of us, so being invited — and accepting the invite — is pretty much compulsory,” he continued. “If I snub him, it will look as if I am snubbing him, in public. The outside observers, the reporters, the chattering classes, will take my snub and run with it. They will decide that Tiberius is on the way out and that news, in the wrong place, will inflict harm on the Empire.”
The thought was maddening. If he moved against Tiberius, in the stark certainty that he intended to kill him, he would look like a tyrant. The first-rank worlds would consider breaking ranks. His supporters would fear him and start preparing contingency plans for his removal. His enemies would see the writing on the wall and strike first… and all his hopes and dreams for the Empire would wither and die. He couldn’t allow it to happen, which meant that he had to expose himself to enemy fire, as crazy as it seemed.
“That is as nothing compared to the harm that would befall the Empire if anything happened to you,” Frandsen said, firmly. “The entire Provisional Government would come apart at the seams. You’re the only person holding it together. Parliament can’t go in the same direction without bickering… and the Imperial Navy will fragment without you. Admiral Wilhelm may win by default.”