"Another bomb threat," Sam held up the letter for Tamika to see. He'd only been working at On To Logic for three days, so these vicious messages still shook him. Tamika, for her part, barely gave a glance in Sam’s direction.

"Eh," She shrugged, "You'll get used to that."

"These don't bother you at all? Seriously?" He stared at her in disbelief, but she just scowled at her coffee cup, as though it had offended her.

"Looking Glass will kill us before any of those idiots do."

“They’re another verifier, not assassins.”

“Won’t be any less dead if you lose your job and starve.”

Information verification could be a dangerous business. People grew attached to their “truth,” and could react violently when it was challenged, especially by professionals. That was Sam’s assumption, anyhow. No two people agreed how dangerous it was “out there,” and everyone had different opinions on where “in here” ended.

“Police checked it?” Tamika asked, glancing at the sheet of paper for the first time.

“Yeah. Not enough to go on, they said. Won’t even refer it to SIG,” Sam replied.

“Then shred it. When more come in later, shred them too, after the police do their thing.”

Sam gave a deep, exasperated sigh, his dark brown eyes wide with frustration and fear.

“I don’t understand how you can be so blasé about having your life threatened so many times in one day,” Sam said, scanning the letter to find the most incendiary parts - maybe the part where the writer of the letter threatened to use fire, Sam thought - but the window of opportunity for conversation had closed.

“Like I said, you’ll get used to it,” She said, speaking louder as she walked to her office, “Use ‘em, let ‘em help you find the lies. People only get angry about things they want to be true.”

Sam

The question was always of what one would do with the truth, if they found it.

It was on that dreary Birmingham day that I got my first non-official case. I wasn’t sure what to expect; most of our jobs were government-funded press verifications, which usually had an answer within an hour, their level of honesty judged sufficiently after two or three passes over available information by our proprietary AI. This job would be different: it was one customer, paying with cash.

She was stunning, and I mean that I was literally stunned. Her grey eyes had a sly, almost relaxed look to them, but that effect disappeared when you took in her whole expression. Her black suit only served to supplement the almost severe, dark Indian face. I was sure that people had made marble statues of her ancestors; such was her icy perfection.

I'd seen many a movie that began this way: a femme fatale sits at the desk of a world-weary detective. She had a case only he could solve, and secrets of her own. But the detective knew her type, and by wit or weapon, he'd get to the bottom of it.

Except I was a brand-new analyst fresh out of uni, and no one in the Eastern Hemisphere had owned a gun in 30 years. In the UK, the Special Intervention Group had made sure of that; it was said that they had machines that could sniff out a grain of gunpowder from five kilometers away. 

“Samuel Cardiff, but you can call me Sam,” I introduced myself as she sat down. I held her unflinching gaze as long as I could, but looking into her eyes felt like trying to stay on my feet in a hurricane wind.

“Maryam,” She said, her voice rich and deeper than I expected, “You seem new.”

“Oh,” I said, gulping and floundering, “How uh…how do you know?”

“You’re young. You look like you’re eager to find the truth. That fire never lasts long.”

What an odd, and frankly offensive thing to say, I thought.

“No offense, but I hope you’re wrong,” I said, crossing my arms. She stretched her arms to her side, and her expression relaxed as she reclined.

“So do I, Sam,” She said, her face settling into the marble mask once again. It was an affectation, then. I cleared my throat and leaned forward.

“So, how can I help you?”

Maryam looked to her right, towards nothing specific. She took a deep breath and let her eyes close slowly before she began.

“My husband’s cheating on me,” Maryam said. Still feeling a bit slighted, I made the mistake of interrupting her.

“If you’re looking for me to verify that, I should warn you-”

Her sudden, piercing expression silenced me.

“I know. You can’t verify security camera footage, text messages are just as tricky, and cheating is subjective anyhow. I’m not looking for you to verify that; I already know it. What I want to know…”

She laid a printed copy of a spreadsheet on my desk gently. It had been so long since I’d seen real paper that it took me a few seconds to take note of its contents. Several cells were highlighted and circled, and there was a light coffee ring on the center of the front page.

“...is if my husband really is a secret billionaire,” Maryam finished.

“You don’t care if he’s cheating on you?” I asked, regretting the question immediately. I’d been strictly warned about the fine line between information and gossip.

"We've been in the process of divorce for several months. Lawyers are working out who gets what. There are no feelings left to hurt, if you must know,” She said, not looking away from me. I gulped.

“Apologies, my apologies. I uh…” I began, taking a breath to calm my nerves, “So you’re making sure he doesn’t walk away with more of the marital assets than he should?”

“Oh, no. Don’t want…or need his money. Plenty of my own. Do you…” She tilted her head to the side, her expression suddenly turning quizzical, “You know who I am, right?”

I felt confident that I wouldn’t forget a face as unique and striking as hers.

“Maryam Masters. I’m the director of Looking Glass,” She said, her face returning to its icy, matronly form when she saw the recognition in my expression.

“Looking Glass will kill us before any of those idiots do,” Tamika’s voice replayed in my memory. I could feel my heart pounding in my ear.

Two things immediately struck me. The first was how unprecedented this was: the director of a rival verifier, requesting business from that rival. On paper, verifiers welcomed review by their peers, but in reality, all of them tended to stick to their spheres of expertise. On To Logic specialized in combating science and educational misinformation, while Looking Glass dealt with the much more lucrative political and international news jobs. Regardless of expertise, she almost certainly had the resources to find the truth of her husband’s alleged financial subterfuge herself.

The second thing, the one that made my gut churn, was that she had apparently been assigned to the newest guy on staff. I had a sickening hunch that I was being used, but I wasn’t sure by whom.

“Has this gone wide?” I asked quietly. She shook her head no.

“He sent it to me,” She said, just as quietly.

I shook my head in disbelief. This had to be a joke.

“Your husband? Why would he…”

Another piece clicked into place when I remembered who her husband was. Clive Masters, the biotechnology expert, owner of Dane Research. Genius geneticist…suspected bioweapon designer for top secret United States operations abroad. These days, he spent as much time in court as he did at the lab, fending off charges of illegal experimentation and arms trafficking. As it was for anyone with the money for it, there was always enough bogus data in his favor that was just convincing enough to guarantee there’d never be a preponderance of the evidence against him.

A small voice nagged at me that this was a trap, and I’d already walked into it.

“He’s trying to ruin you,” I said breathlessly, “You have something on him, don’t you?”

“He suspects. He’s had verifiers covering for him for years, but he’s never been this brazen,” She replied.

Another piece clicked in place. If Clive had the money, he’d been conducting illicit deals under the table, and Looking Glass either hadn’t caught it, or had been covering up the tax evasion for years. But it was just as possible that he didn’t have the money, or that whatever was in the hypothetical hidden bank account would disappear without a trace as soon as Maryam tried to confirm the rumors everyone already knew were true.

“God, what a bastard,” I said. She nodded, and I knew she saw my understanding.

"So…why come to me? I mean I have to be your last resort, right? Or did Tamika assign you to me?' I asked.

"I requested you," She said, giving me a shock, "Your boss doesn't know I'm here, and I need you to keep it that way."

That got a laugh out of me.

"You…" I took a moment to collect myself, folding my hands in front of me, "There's no way I'll keep this secret. Even if I tried, it'll get out; you've got maybe a day before this.." I held up the printout, "Shows up on the front page of somewhere big."

"I know," She sighed and looked away, "Clive is probably just waiting for the wire transfers to clear…in whatever direction they're going. "

"Sorry, but nothing I could do would help you. Like you said, he's untouchable."

"I never said he was untouchable."

Maryam took a pen from her purse. Taking my arm, she pulled me close, leaning in so close that our cheeks nearly touched. She wrote a phone number on my arm, then nonchalantly slipped the pen into my pants pocket.

"Study what's on there," she whispered into my ear, "Find out what you can. Do not use AI.”

I wanted to protest, to say that there was no way I could sort through any story without the Causal Engine, much less something as insane as what she had probably just handed me. I was trembling too much to say something that complex. The rush of warm air from her lips into my ear and down my neck left me frightened, aroused and frustrated.

“You'll know what and when to do next when you see it."

Then, she kissed me on the cheek and pulled away.

“Let Clive have fun figuring that out,” She said, the slightest hint of a wicked smirk appearing at the corner of her lips. When she got up to leave the building, I was too stunned to speak until she was already halfway there.

“Wait,” I said too loudly, shooting up from my chair to catch up to her, “Wait.”

Her expression was a little sour, as though she was reluctantly giving me time she couldn’t afford to spare.

“You…you…” I stammered, the feel of her lips on my cheek lingering like tiny, cool stings, “This is insane. It won’t work. How…how are you…” I pressed my eyes shut and shook my head, as though I could physically shake the words loose from my brain, “How do you know I won’t just pass this up to my boss? Just being here…could…”

She sighed impatiently.

“Yes, I know. But by tomorrow, it won’t matter. This will all be over, however it happens,” Maryam said, taking a step closer, “And you won’t tell anyone in the meantime.”

“That a fact?” I said, sounding more confident than I felt.

“It is.”

“How-”

“Because you didn’t run to your boss as soon as you found out who I was.”

I began to protest, to warn her that Tamika’s office was the next place I’d be off to once she left.

“And…because you still want the truth. Especially about something as important as this. That’s why I came to you,” she said, pulling a small umbrella from her bag, “Good luck, Sam.”