Empery by Michael P. Kube-McDowell

Thackery’s assertions on the subject. After reviewing his manuscript I find myself wondering if he remained in contact with the D’shanna after returning to Earth, or at least knew how to contact them at will.”
    “I find that hard to believe.”
    “Nevertheless, I want to know what happened to Thackery’s personal datarecs—his notes, diaries, logs, anyplace he might have recorded his most private thoughts.”
    “I presume he took his personal recs with him when he resigned. There may be some record of the download—”
    “There is. Two hundred gigabytes worth.”
    “P.D.’s aren’t archived. They’re gone.”
    “But he had them. That’s the track I want to follow.”
    “Impossible,” Farlad said, shaking his head. “Thackery filed a comprehensive no-disclosure request with Earth’s Citizen Registry three years after he resigned. I can’t even get confirmation on a date of death.”
    Wells scowled. “Damned Privacy Laws—what the hell is the use of a planetary information net if you can’t get anything out of it?”
    “I can’t blame Thackery. He was apparently hounded by all sorts of mystics and religionists who wanted his blessing or his secrets or to have his baby.”
    “If we couch the request as a Defense need-to-know—”
    “I did, sir. They wouldn’t release any information, citing the Right of Privacy. They wouldn’t even confirm that they had any information.”
    “Route the request through Berberon.”
    Farlad shook his head. “Sir, I’ve dealt with these people before. It doesn’t matter. Thackery requested that his records be closed, so they are closed, end of discussion. Earth citizens have that right, sir, as you well know. Even Berberon wouldn’t be able to help. And in any case, if there really was anything sensitive in his files, Thackery would have ordered them destroyed after his death.”
    “I suppose so,” Wells said. He pursed his lips and glanced at the clock. “I can shower here before the Committee meets, but my dress uniform is upstairs in my apartment—”
    Farlad took the hint graciously. “Be back with it shortly,” he said, and left the room.
    But rather than head for the comfort room, Wells went to his desk. He dialed the number manually, since it was forbidden to have it recorded anywhere. Even the dialer’s traffic log would be purged by commands from the other end as soon as the connection was made.
    The phone rang twice, then stopped. No one spoke, but he had not expected them to. “This is Harmack Wells, Eighth Tier,” he said, and hung up.
    A moment later the phone buzzed softly. Wells touched a contact and settled back in his chair.
    “Alcibiades went out for the evening,” said the caller.
    “And saw a play by Aristophanes,” Wells replied. The callback and code exchange were special concessions to the need to protect Wells from being charged with a proscribed affiliation. Had he been an Earth-based civilian, as most Nines were, no such precautions would have been necessary.
    “Good morning, Mr. Wells,” the undertier said. “How can I help you?”
    “I have an Aid Referral request.”
    “Go ahead, sir.”
    “Do we have persons placed where they can access secured data in Earth’s information net?”
    “Of course, Mr. Wells.”
    “I need to get around a Registry blackout arid locate the personal datarecs of former USS Director Merritt Thackery. If they’re archived anywhere, I want a copy. If not, I want to know what became of them. Can you help?”
    “One moment.” After a few seconds the undertier came back on the line. “Yes, we have some avenues we can pursue. What priority shall we assign to it?”
    “Highest.”
    “Yes, Mr. Wells. Will a progress report every six hours be sufficient?”
    “Yes, thank you.”
    “If he’s left any traces, we’ll find them,” the undertier promised.
    Sujata breezed into the Chamber Room of the Unified Space Service Steering Committee later than she had planned but still with ten