Snake Oil

By johnnedwill

My local liaison was waiting for me in the arrivals lounge of the spaceport. he was haloing up a lightboard with my cover name scrawled on it in neon-green, block capital letters. I looked around the crowd to check there was nobody else looking for someone by that name, then went to introduce myself.

"Good morning, I said, and stuck my hand out. "I'm here about the problem."

My contact fumbled his reply, "G-good ... Actually, it's after noon, local time. M-m-mist, err Miss Koenig?"

I handed him my valise. "If you think jet lag is a bitch, then you should feel try getting to work after a star hop." I smiled to reassure him. "I'm not even sure what year it is."

"W-well," the liaison stuttered. "It's - ."

I cut him off. "Relax. I'm just trying to break the ice. We're supposed to be working together. Now, shall we get going? You can brief me on the way."

"S-sure."

I followed my contact out to the taxi rank. A robohack was there, waiting for us. As soon as it took off, I gave an order to the controller: "Privacy mode, please." The robohack obliged, blacking out all the windows and setting up a pink-noise field to screen us from any eavesdroppers. Then I turned to my contact. "Right. What do I call you? I can't just call you 'Hey'. It's only good for horses and dogs."

He stared blankly at me. "Horses?"

"Old Earth creature. People used to ride on them and reach them."

"Oh. R-right. My name is Creighton. Ward Creighton." He fidgeted in his seat. "What do I call you?"

I smiled back at Creighton. "My name is Yeovil. You can call me 'Agent Yeovil' or 'ma'am' when we're on duty. And - as far as I'm concerned - that is until such time as my target is safely in custody. Clear?"

Creighton swallowed. "Yes, ma'am."

"Good." I took my lipstick and compact out of my purse and started on touching-up my makeup. "Now, tell me what my target has been up to." I crossed my legs and put myself into 'listen mode'.

Creighton had a lot to tell me. According to him, my target had arrived on-world two years ago. The first thing he had done was insinuate himself into the local society. He did this by throwing credits around like they were going out of fashion. Not surprising, that. My target had come from a rich, Old Earth family. The fates had blessed him with a combination of natural charisma and manners that was enough to impress the shallow climbers. There had been a theory that this was the result of some latent psi-power, but that had never been proven one way or the other.

The local authorities had only taken an interest in my target when there had been complaints about phoney businesses - schemes that had promised big returns for investors, but which had always just failed to deliver on those promises. It had taken a lot of effort to get these investigations off the ground. The local leaders and influencers had fallen under his spell and had tried to obstruct every avenue of inquiry. However, if you fling enough mud at a wall, someone will eventually decide to clean house.

While looking into what seemed to be a particularly fraudulent piece of marketing, the local investigators had come across something much worse. My target had been memehacking: using illegal memetic techniques to convince marks to sign up and give him their hard-earned savings. This should have been enough to get him a hearing from the judiciary, but, in the course of their inquiries, it had been found out that the target had been promoting subversive economic systems.

So, I had travelled over a dozen light years and built up a time debt of almost six months.

"That's his MO, alright." I shook my head. "When somebody like him cracks, they go all the way."

Creighton gaped at me. 'He's done this before?"

"Sure has. Done it on two worlds that we know of. He's destabilised one government and caused a major depression. The man is classified as an economic terrorist."

"W-wow." Creighton shut his mouth. "So, what are we supposed to do?"

First we have to get him out of circulation and away from his supporters. That's going to be hard, judging from what you've told me. Then we send in the cultural auditors to see how much damage he's done and what it will take to put it right. Some of those memes of his are pernicious and difficult to counter."

Creighton wiped his brow with a handkerchief that he pulled from the breast pocket of his jacket. "I think w-we might have a problem."

"What kind of a problem?" My heart sank into my stomach.

"He's put himself forward as a candidate for president."

I uttered a most unladylike and unprofessional curse that brought a red flush to Creighton's face. "What?" I asked him. "Why is that a problem?"

"Unless he has been convicted of something ... It's in the constitution ... Individual rights ..."

I let Creighton babble on while I collected my thoughts. If my target had managed to subvert the system enough that he could stand for office, then something had gone very badly wrong. But how wrong? And could the situation be rescued?

"You're going to have to forget your legal niceties," I said. "This man just takes advantage of them. He doesn't deserve any rights, except for the right to a fair trial followed by whatever punishment the law allows him. Now - I need to get close enough to confirm that we have the right person. How hard is that going to be?"

Creighton thought for moment. "He has an election rally tonight."

"That will do," I said. "Get me in there."

The rally was taking place in the municipal arena. My target's political team had hired the venue months before. Obviously this had been the plan for a while. Crowds of the 'faithful' had converged on the arena, filling the local transport net to capacity and beyond. Security at the venue was tight, and everyone who was coming in was being searched - much to the disgust of some. Not being one of my target's followers, there was no way that I was going to be allowed in through the turnstiles. But, since when did the rich and self-important ever pay any attention to the hired help?

Creighton had provided me with a uniform for the catering staff. It wasn't particularly modest. If anything, it showed off too much of my flesh for my liking. With any luck, any attention that came my way would be focussed on my legs not my face. Still, I made a mental note to find some suitable way of thanking Creighton when this was over. I also managed to conceal a spy-wire in the uniform so I could record what went on. It would act as an insurance policy should things turn ugly. It wasn't unknown for the target to whip his followers into a frenzy of hate that he would direct at his enemies. In the past this had included reporters, officials and even random members of the public he had taken a dislike to.

My target was in good form that night. The crowd was listening eagerly to his rant, cheering him on and applauding him. I could understand why. Somebody had coached him well. His orange jowls shook and his straw-coloured hair clung to his sweat-drenched head, but he delivered a barrage of memes designed to break down critical barriers and appear to the most atavistic emotions. Greed. Anger. Envy. Hatred. Then, fuelled on this heady mix, he ignited the crowd's passions. They would have sacrificed their children to him if he had demanded it of them.

I retreated behind a pillar and tried to appear inconspicuous. "Are you getting this?" I whispered into the wire.

"Does he really believe all this?" Creighton asked me.

"He believes whatever gives him what he wants. As for these idiots? If it wasn't for the semiotic training, I'd be cheering along with them."

I exited the arena and went back to the room we were using as our operational headquarters. Creighton and his assistants were waiting for me. "So, ma'am. W-what now?"

I desperately needed to get out of the uniform. In fact, I wanted to burn it, scrub myself clean of the miasma of the rally, then have a really stiff drink to help me forget it all. Unfortunately, this was business. "We get him into our custody. We'll need to bring the locals in on this. Get in touch whoever we need to get on our side. I'll send a message back to head office. But first - give me some privacy!"

Give Creighton his due - it didn't take him long to get things organised. There was some resistance - the usual juris-my-dick-tional posturing. But it is amazing what Class-3 Warrant can persuade people to do. After all, it was only one step down from a Class-2. (Planetary Emergencies Only. Don't ask me what a Class-1 Warrant is for. I'd have to brainwipe you.) When we had everybody on board, I laid out my plans over breakfast.

"Gentlemen." I was the only woman in the room. So much for equal opportunities in the colonies. "It is imperative that we act quickly. The target has access to significant resources, and more than a measure of support amongst the people who think they matter. Should any of what I am about to tell you leak, I expect us to be swamped by hostile lawyers. The target has prior form for this. Rest assured, gentlemen," I let my gaze go around the room, "I will personally make sure that anyone I so much as suspect of passing on information regrets it. For the rest of their life."

And, with that particular sword of Damocles hanging over them, we got to work.

By noon-local we were ready to go. We had advance knowledge of our target's movements, and we knew where it would be easiest for us to move against him. With just the right application of force, we would be able to get him away from his security detail and into my custody. Then we could get the target off-world and into the justice system, where he belonged.

The operation ran like the proverbial monorail. we intercepted the target's motorcade just as he was arriving at his hotel. His security detail were hesitant, but were persuaded it was not worth their while to put up any resistance. The target protested - loudly, but to no avail. We had him.

it took a few days for the fuss to die down. The local press was full of wild speculation about what had happened and who was responsible. Meanwhile, as predicted, the target's lawyers swung into action. However, their writs and motions were easily dismissed, all failing under the authority of my warrant. Within a week, the target was heading off-world and out of their hands.

Creighton caught up with me at the spaceport just before I left. "So, w-what happens now, ma'am?"

I shrugged. "That's not up to me. You've done your job, and I'll soon have done mine. Then it will be up to the tribunal."

Creighton tried to conceal his disappointment. I had felt the same when I was a rookie and a senior agent had told me the exact same things. "Just that?"

"Get used to it," I told him. "That's the way it has to be."

This story is a combination of atompunk, Cold War thriller and (hopefully) satire.