ONE

_C

oren Lanra watched from behind a grime-encrusted refuse bin in the recess of an old, unused loading dock. A sneeze threatened, teased by sharp odors and the chill air. Across the wide alley, members of a third-shift crew emerged from an unmarked door. Even if they saw him they would pass him off as one of the ubiquitous warren ghosts, homeless and destitute, that haunted the districts surrounding Petrabor Spaceport. Coren wore a shabby, ankle-length gray-black coat over worn coveralls; four days’ beard darkened his pale face beneath oily, unwashed hair. He itched.

            Three hours still remained in the third shift. Coren counted fifteen people through the door--all but one of the full crew compliment of the largely automated warehouse. They were unlikely to get into trouble--Coren recognized their supervisor among them, marked by the thick silver rings around his upper arms. They strode noisily up the alley, boots crunching on scattered debris, laughter echoing off the walls, heading for a home kitchen or a bar. They rounded a corner. Coren listened till their voices came as whispers in the distance.

            He dropped from the lip of the bay and hurried to their exit door, propped open by a thin sheet of plastic he’d stuck there earlier to jam the lock and disable the tracking sensor that kept a log of when the door was ‘used. Just inside, he found an ID reader set in a heavy inner door. He slipped his forged card into the slot and waited to see if he had gotten what he had paid for.

            The light on the reader winked green and he slipped through into a locker room. Forty-eight lockers, sixteen per shift. Coren wondered where the last worker was inside the mammoth complex.

            From one of the oversized pockets in his coat he took out a small button and pressed it on the frame of the exit door. Should anyone follow him through, the button would warn him with a strong signal pulse tuned to a receiver on his wrist.

            He went to the shower room.

            Water dripped from some of the shower heads; the floor was damp. He turned on a jet of hot water and removed several blocky objects from various pockets. He placed them beneath the steaming spray and stepped back. Quickly, the scan-occluding resins melted off a number of devices. Coren shut off the water and gathered them up, shaking away the excess water.

            He hurried down a short hallway that let into a large office area, then threaded a path through the maze of irregularly-spaced desks and chairs to the transparent wall that overlooked the main warehouse space.

            Immense square blocks formed a grid below the enormous ceiling. Within each block, stacks or cubicles, nacelles, skids, crates--all manner of packaging--filled the volume. Turnover was constant. The space between each block extended down several levels and buzzed with transports, bringing loads up from below or, coming from the bays along the far wall, descending with newly arrived cargo to the proper location. The contents were monitored by a very sophisticated AI system--not alive, no, but as close to machine awareness as Terran prejudice and law allowed.

            Walkways followed the grid pattern; staircases led down into the hive-like labyrinth. Coren wondered just how far he would fall if he lost his balance while walking along one of those narrow paths. He pressed close to the wall and looked straight down and could not make out the bottom.

            He turned away, head swimming in a brief wash of vertigo. At least there was a roof above...

            Coren took out a few of his vonoomans. The little machines clustered in the palm of his left hand. He turned slowly, surveying the office. Satisfied, he knelt down and set them on the floor. He lightly touched them, and each glowed briefly as it activated.

            “If Rega knew I used you,” he whispered to them, “he might...” He grunted, self-mocking, and touched each one again. The devices stirred for a few moments, then shot off in different directions, seeking out the specific energy signatures of communications, monitoring, and alarm systems. Once in place, Coren would be able to range wherever he wished within the warehouse, free of detection.

            He took out a palm-sized pad and switched it on. Less than a minute later all the telltales winked green.

            He sat down at one of the desks, jacked his palm monitor into the computer keyboard before him, and initiated an access sequence. The security code was not very sophisticated; his decrypter gained entry in less than thirty seconds. Coren keyed quickly. The scheduling chart came up on the screen, showing incoming and outgoing traffic for all the bays on the far side of the warehouse. He studied the times.

            Most of the bays were tightly scheduled. One showed a half-hour period with nothing going out, nothing coming in. He tapped queries. A shipment had been canceled at the last minute. Three shipments, in fact, all belonging to a company called Kysler, and all cancellations routed out of the Baltimor ITE oversight offices. Baltimor...practically the other side of the globe. Odd. There was an ITE oversight office in the Laus District and another up north in Arkanleg, both of which should have had responsibility for supervising traffic in and out of Petrabor. Still, there was no reason Baltimor would be necessarily barred from such duties...

            He opened the manifests. Mostly raw synthetic materials, exotic molecular structures, exported by an Auroran-owned wholesaler. One bin contained electronics manufactured by Imbitek. Coren studied the ID tags for a few moments. Kysler Diversified was the distributor. All the lots had destination codes which he could not read.

            Coren closed down the station. He unjacked his monitor, checked the status on his little interference runners once more, then headed out. He knew now which bay he needed.

            Coren followed the transparent wall till he came to an exit. A short staircase took him down to the walkway that bordered the labyrinth. He produced another handful of vonoomans, smaller than the first group, from a different pocket. Activated, they scurried along the walkway and disappeared. The first group gave him security, interfering with the warehouse systems; these would find people for him.

            Automated tractors following invisible guide signals sped through the canyons, a constant loud humming and rush of cold air that whipped at his coat. The place smelled of oil and ozone, metal and hot plastic, and, under all that, an organic odor: yeast or mold. Rot.

            The walkway took him to a broad receiving area fronting a row of large bay doors. As he neared, the sounds grew thunderous: doors opening and slamming shut, transports rumbling through in both directions, the wind now almost constant. And beyond that, in the distance, deeper, sepulchral, the heavy thunder of the port itself: shuttles lifting off and landing irregularly, disrupting any possible rhythm to all the noise.

            Between the edge of the storage hive and the bays lay six meters of ancient, stained apron. Except for small piles of boxes and litter, Coren saw nowhere to hide. He set free another handful of machines and retreated to the nearest staircase leading down into a canyon.

            Fog lay heavily a few stories below. Coren descended half the height of the block, until the cold bit at his face and filled his sinuses with warning hollowness. He sat down on a step and pulled his palm monitor out once more.

            It unfolded four times to give him a display showing the locations of all his little spies against a map of the entire warehouse. The surveillance blocks still showed operative. Now he saw blue dots where all his other machines had secreted themselves. He pressed the half-meter-square screen against the wall beside him and waited.

            Ten minutes.

            One blue dot turned red. Coren looked up, surprised. The intruder had come from the nearby loading bays. The sixteenth member of the crew, he thought. Coren looked down at the fog, twenty or more meters below, and wondered if he should move--into even more bitter cold. But numbers flashed beside the dot on his flatscreen, coordinates that told him the precise location of the worker, who waited near one of the bay doors, showing no sign of coming any closer to Coren. After a few seconds Coren felt confident that he would not be seen--not by this one, at least.

            Twelve more minutes passed.

            Three blue dots turned red, far down the row, back near the offices. As he watched, his machines focused on the new intruders, coordinates proliferated over the screen, and he counted bodies: fifty-one.

            The number surprised him. He had expected no more than a dozen, at most fifteen.

            They came as a group down a walkway, heading this direction, obviously for a meeting with the waiting dockworker, who now moved a few steps from the wall.

            Coren folded the screen back down to palm-size and crept up the stairs to the lip of the walkway.

            The dockworker stood just inside the warehouse by an open bay door several meters away, his back to Coren. Hands in pockets, the man shifted minutely from foot to foot as if keeping time to a tune only he heard. Coren looked across the grid of walkways to the approaching group. From this distance he recognized no one. All of them wore black, all of them carried small packs.

            Five or six children accompanied the adults.

            Coren glanced at his palm-monitor. The communications and surveillance dampers still showed green. He estimated that he had another twenty minutes before the AI figured out why its internal security system was down.

            Coren peeled off his overcoat.

            As the fifty-one refugees gathered around the dockworker, Coren stepped silently from the stairwell and moved smoothly up to the perimeter, then cautiously worked his way through them. He looked at no one, aware only that a few people gave him quick, nervous looks. They were frightened, tense, too careful perhaps in some ways, careless in others. None of them would want to believe that they had been followed or infiltrated or caught, so unless it was made obvious that he did not belong here, they would explain him away to themselves. At least, for the time being.

            Long enough to reach the front of the gathering. “--no changes,” a woman said tersely. “Canister BJ-5156. Don’t tell me about some other canister--”

            “It can’t be helped,” the dockworker said calmly. “I’m sorry. The one segregated for you was found and impounded.”

            “Why wasn’t I informed?”

            “I’m informing you now. I’m informing you that we have back-up. We were prepared. It’s the same as it was, only different. A new canister. I could point out that you were supposed to be a party of fifty-two and you’re missing one. Bad security. But, hey, we understand--people get scared and back out at the last minute.” He gave her a crooked smile. “We are professionals.”.

            The woman was tall, almost gaunt, sharply featured. Her head sat forward, angry and demanding, as she glared at the dockworker, who gazed back at her evenly. Coren admired his nerve under that displeased inspection.

            After several seconds, she nodded slowly. “All right. But if this turns out to be anything but copasetic I’ll peel your skin off with pliers. Tell your people we’re ready.”

            The worker nodded and walked through the bay.

            Coren started forward.

            Something closed on his right bicep. He tugged at it automatically, to no effect. He turned around, left hand curled to give a palm blow, and froze, abruptly and utterly terrified.

            A robot regarded him blankly through mesh-covered eye sockets.

            “I apologize, sir,” it said quietly, “but I must ask that you come with me. “

            The robot drew him back through the crowd, which now watched him with open fear and shock. Some cringed back from the robot, but most stood fast, staring outrage at Coren Lanra.

            The robot walked him down the row of bay doors, to the fourth one from the group, and waited, still holding him, firmly but harmlessly.

            “Damn it, Coren. “

            Coren glanced around at the voice. He looked at the woman he had come to talk to. He waited as long as he could before speaking, taking advantage of the opportunity to simply look at her. Finally, he said, “Good to see you, too, Nyom.”

            She let her breath out through her teeth, slowly, and Coren felt himself smile.

            “Don’t tell me you’re surprised to see me,” he said.

            “I’m not. That’s what bothers me.”

            Coren gestured toward the robot. “Umm..,”

            “Coffee, go see to our arrangements.”

            “Yes, Nyom.”

            The robot released Coren ‘s arm. He congratulated himself that he did not immediately step away from it. Instead, he watched it walk back toward the group of refugees.

            “What are you doing?” he asked the young woman. “Running baleys?”

            “You know I am. I have been. “

            “I’d hoped I’d been misinformed. Are you insane?”

            She shook her head impatiently. “That’s good, Coren, appeal to my vanity. You always had a way of making me feel special. “

            “I’m serious. Do you know what you ‘re doing?”

            “Usually.”

            Coren waited, but she said nothing more. Abruptly, he felt awkward and slightly foolish. He glanced toward the baleys.

            “Where’d you get the tinhead?” he asked. “Your father would love that.”

            “To hell with my father and to hell with you. What, did he send you to find me? What are you going to do, throw me over your shoulder and drag me back home?”

            “The thought had occurred to me.”

            She snorted, but took a step back. Then she gave him a narrow look. “What are you going to do?”

            He met her gaze evenly, trying to think of a suitable answer. Finding none, he shook his head. “I didn’t know you had a robot.”

            She laughed. “You don’t have a plan? Rega didn’t send you. You came on your own.”

            “Not exactly. He did tell me to find out what you’re doing and--”

            “And what? Sit on me till the election is over? That’s what this is about, then. Rega is afraid his little girl’s activities might botch his election. Tell him not to worry. I think he can ruin his chances all on his own; he doesn’t need my help. In fact, you can give him some good news: He won’t have to worry about me anymore at all. I won’t give him any further cause for concern.”

            Coren waited. He recognized the tone of voice, the half smile, and a small point of fear burned at the back of his throat. He slipped his hands into his pockets, the right one finding a small plastic bag. He squeezed it till it burst in his palm.

            “Nyom,” the robot interrupted. Coren started and Nyom laughed.

            “Coffee won’t hurt you,” she said. “What is it, Coffee?”

            “Time,” the robot said.

            “I’ll be right there.”

            Coffee retreated.

            “What do you mean, Nyom?” Coren asked.

            She sighed and stepped closer. “Tell me the truth now, Coren: did you tell the authorities? Am I going to be arrested by Immigration and Trade Enforcement?”

            “No.”

            She studied him. “You really just came all on your own.”

            “Too many people are hard to control.”

            “That’s not it.” She frowned. “It’s still personal, isn’t it?” When he did not answer, she smiled. “I’m really flattered. And I’m sorry. “ She touched his face lightly and turned away.

            He grabbed her arm. “What did you mean, Nyom?”

            “I’m going with this bunch, that’s all. My turn to exit. Nothing personal, Coren, but if you found me, then it’s only a matter of time before the authorities find me. I’m taking this ride.”

            Coren felt his fear grow, becoming panic. “Go where?”

            “Nova Levis.”

            Coren released her. He wanted to argue. More, he now really did want to drag her out of here. But it was clear from her expression, from the waiting baleys, and the robot watching everything that he would not be able to.

            “Well,” he said, shrugging. “I can die happy now. I know you really are insane. “ He cleared his throat. “You do know that Nova Levis is under blockade, I suppose?”

            “We’ll make it.” For a moment, Nyom looked sad. “Sorry. I wish...”

            “Nyom. Please don’t.”

            She shook her head. “Gotta go. You shouldn’t be seen. My contacts aren’t as understanding as I am.”

            Nyom sprinted back to her flock of baleys. Seconds later they filed through the bay door. Coren backed quickly up against a wall, standing motionless until they had all passed out of the warehouse proper.

            Behind him, one of the bay doors began to open.

            Coren broke for it and slipped around the edge just as a huge hauler rumbled through, carrying a four-meter-high stack of cubes. Its slipstream almost knocked him down.

            Just on the other side of the opening, Coren found a massive support rib rising to the ceiling high overhead. He pressed into the corner and waited till the bay door sealed, then pulled another device from his pocket.

            He raised the optam to his eyes as he peered around the column of composite metal.

            Seven or eight meters from the wall, the pavement ended and a tangled maze of thin tracks spread out, delta-like, busy with huge transports carrying large containers, bins, and packages from the tunnel system that led directly to the shuttle pads dotting the landing area of Petrabor field. The surge and rumble of shuttle traffic drove through him, vibrating his bones.

            He was annoyed that Nyom had read him so easily. He had hoped she would assume that he had brought back-up--the police, immigration authorities, other company security. He thought he could talk her out of it; that, after loading her latest troop of misguided would-be Settlers aboard whatever means of transport she had arranged, he could convince her to come home and suspend operations for a time. Until the end of the election. He had hoped she might finally want to stay with him.

            He had hoped...

            The view through the optam showed the party of baleys, a few dozen meters down, on an empty patch. While Coren watched, a huge pod drifted out of the writhing traffic and came to a stop before them. The end developed a seam and opened smoothly to one side. Four people stepped from its dark interior to meet with Nyom.

            Coren stiffened. Two of the four were robots. One looked a bit more sophisticated than the other, almost human, but the dull sheen that outlined its sleek head and body gave it away. It moved with an unusual grace, a fluid, almost organic motion, uncharacteristic of any robot with which Coren was familiar. It circled the baleys, slowly, as if taking inventory. It stopped before Nyom’s robot, Coffee, then seemed to come to a decision and rejoined its companions.

            Coren touched a contact on the side of the optam and sound came through the bead in his ear, but he only heard the muffled, unintelligible sounds of a discussion. He lowered the optam and tried to adjust the aural filters to compensate for the noise, then raised it again.

            The strange robot was gone.

            Coren dropped the optam; he saw the robot clearly. When he raised the magnifier again, the robot did not appear. He could see the other robot easily, a machine slightly smaller than Coffee, a bit sleeker. But the first robot remained invisible.

            Masked...?

            Coren tensed, preparing to act. The baleys began filing into the big container, and he realized that he would do nothing. Nyom knows what she’s doing, he thought. At least as far as procedure goes. She did not act alarmed, so he had to assume she knew these people, these machines. It unsettled him, though, to watch her, the last one, walk up the ramp, accompanied by Coffee.

            The masked robot followed a minute later, causing Coren’s pulse to accelerate again. The other contacts, human and robot, closed up the container, then walked away.

            Five minutes later an automated hauler hooked onto the container and pulled it into the maze of tracks and out of Coren ‘s reach.

            Abruptly, Coren felt a wave of bitterness. Failure did that. It would have been so simple, so much easier if she had just come with him. Now...

            He opened his palm monitor and keyed for a new signal. A bright yellow dot glowed on the small screen. The smear he had placed on Nyom had transferred from fabric to metal to plastic, a clever seeker code built into the tiny molecules that imparted a kind of machine instinct to find a suitable place to use as a conductor and enable them to transmit.

            He pocketed the optam and the palm monitor and slipped back through the bay door on the next cycle, just ahead of another huge pallet. All he had to do now was get out of the warehouse--and all the communications damping he had put in place--and signal his contact on Kopernik Station.

            He imagined how angry Nyom was about to be.

            “So what?” he mused as he recovered his overcoat. “Better she’s righteously pissed off at me than dead from some trigger-happy blockade station.” Ht; glanced back at the bay door. “Nova Levis! What are you thinking, Nyom? Or are you thinking.” He trotted along the walkway toward the offices, muttering. “You’ve never been particularly impulsive, but when you are, you are absolutely unpredictable. Nova Levis. Damn.”

            When he reached the locker room, he punched a code into the palm monitor. All the little machines he’d released throughout the warehouse began to eat themselves into dust. Nothing would be left to analyze, if anyone ever found them. Just minuscule piles of refuse.

            He checked the time, estimated that he had about six hours before that bin reached dockside on Kopernik. He could even clean up before he made his call...

            He recovered the small button he had placed in the exit and stepped into the alley. He saw no one and quickly bounded across to where he had been hiding when the nightshift crew had left. He fished one more device from an inside pocket and opened it. He tapped in a code and waited for the comm to upload for him.

            The screen remained blank. He ran a diagnostic. LOCALITY ERROR scrolled across the small screen. Coren hissed, annoyed. Something around here was interfering with the link. He should have tested it first. Probably being this close to the port was causing problems. He closed up the comm unit and headed down the alley.

            He splashed through the accrued seepage and hunched his shoulders against the random drops of condensation from the unseen ceiling high overhead. He rounded the next corner and headed up a broad alleyway littered with abandoned shipping crates, refuse dumpsters, old and broken transports, and the scraps of traffic.

            “Hey, gato.”

            Coren glanced to his right, at the source of the throaty voice. A tall man came out of the shadow of a receiving bay and loped toward him, hands in the pockets of a long overcoat. Coren’s hand moved for the stunner he carried in his jacket. The stranger coughed heavily, a phlegmy hack Coren recognized as one of the recent strains of sublevel tuberculosis. Not contagious usually, but Coren liked to keep his distance.

            “Not tonight,” he said.

            “Hey, that’s not sapien,” the man said. “ Just wanting a share, you know.”

            Coren reflexively pulled out a few credits from his pocket and tossed them.

            The man scooped them up with more alacrity than Coren would have guessed.

            “Thanks, gato,” he said and touched a finger to his hat.

            Coren turned away.

            A hand clenched around his throat between one breath and the next. Coren grabbed the wrist and pushed forward to relieve the pressure, but the hand held. The wrist, wrapped in a thick sleeve, seemed like steel. Coren tried to turn away from the encircling arm and drive an elbow back. He missed, tried again, and then dropped to his knees under a sharp blow to the left shoulder.

            He choked. Sparks danced around the edge of his vision. He tried to sweep a hand around to catch the knees of his attacker, but he was too off-balance.

            He closed his eyes, and the pain went away.

Coren came awake lying on damp pavement, his throat burning as he choked on the sourness in his mouth. His shoulder throbbed and would not support his attempt to push himself up. He rolled over and stared up at dark walls, too close. He had been moved. He lay still for a minute or more until the acid subsided and his breathing calmed. He managed finally to sit up.

            He was about three meters from the end of a narrow hallway, but still in the same general area of Petrabor, from what he could see beyond. His head spun and his legs trembled as he got to his feet. He needed to get to a medical unit, he knew, but not down here; no telling what kind of treatment he might get from the quacks practicing in the sublevels. He needed to get to a comm sooner.

            He patted his pockets. His stunner was gone, as were his optam, palm monitor, and comm unit. But they had missed his ID, and he still had a few credits in a calf-pouch.

            Coren tried to figure out what had happened. He was not a small man, and he had been trained well during his years with Special Service, but whoever had attacked him had handled him as if he were a child. Possible, but not the panhandler. Surely not.

            He sighed heavily and coughed.

            Later, he thought, stumbling from the hallway. Figure it out later....

TWO

_W

hen he returned to the hostel, all Coren wanted to do was fall into bed and sleep. He leaned against the door of his room, eyes shut, feeling his bruises and weariness. He had been beaten up once before, years ago, but the brain did not remember the pain.

            He forced his eyes open. The clock above the bed said NINETEEN-TEN LOCAL.

            “Damn. Five hours. “

            He lurched to the small desk and pulled a briefcase from beneath it. He threw off his overcoat and tapped in the release code on the case, then took out his personal datum. He jacked it into the room comm and entered a string of numbers. He sat down then, anxiously watching while the link assembled itself through a secure channel.

            “Come on...come on...”

            “Palen here,” a voice crackled sharply from the comm.

            “It’s Coren, Sipha. The package is on its way up.”

            “Already tracking it. We’ll have it in the bay in...two hours and a bit. Where have you been? I expected your call--”

            “I’ll tell you later. I was delayed unavoidably.”

            “You still coming up?”

            “As soon as I get clean. I’ll be on a shuttle in an hour.”

            “If we get the package in station before you get here?”

            “Can you delay opening till I’m there?”

            “Within limits.”

            “I’m moving as fast as I can, Sipha. Thanks. “

            Coren entered a new number and read over the shuttle schedules that scrolled onto the screen. Hand trembling slightly, he booked one, and closed down the link. He considered trying to contact the data troll who had told him about tonight’s clandestine emigration, but that could scare her. She had been nervous anyway; their meeting had not gone smoothly. Coren had been in too big a hurry to question her anxiety, but now he wondered about it. He unjacked his datum and put it away.

            He assembled his luggage quickly, then stripped off the grimy clothes. He showered, depilated his face, and dressed in tailored black and dark blue. The overcoat and coveralls went into the recycle chute.

            Coren snatched his briefcase and single duffle, gave the cubicle a last look, gaze lingering on the bed. I really need sleep, he thought. On the shuttle, he decided, and left for the port.

Coren gripped the armrests, unable to make himself relax. He knew the shuttle was in motion and, though he felt nothing, the knowledge made him sick. He forced himself not to slouch, grateful that the nausea was not worse.

            “Big brave policeman,” he muttered sourly, “scared of a little spaceflight. “

            He glanced at his fellow passengers. One man slept soundly by induced coma--an option Coren found more repellant than the flight itself --and the only others he could see clearly seemed to be Spacers, tall and elegant and gathered together in one section in the front of the cabin, talking animatedly, unfazed by the fact that they were hurtling through space with less than thirty centimeters of hull between them and vacuum.

            Coren closed his eyes and tried to think about what had happened to him.

            It was possible that Nyom had hired someone to cover her back and that the panhandler had been her muscle. Possible, but inconsistent with Nyom Looms--at least, not the Nyom Looms Coren thought he knew.

            Perhaps he no longer really knew her. He had made an assumption, relied on old data, and gotten hurt.

            But assuming for the moment that the panhandler had not been her man, then who was he? Coren’s shoulder and neck throbbed; the bruise would be spectacular.

            Definitely have to have a talk with that data troll, he thought. The idea that he had been set up troubled him, but it was not unlikely. Baley running attracted an undependable variety of conscience, people committed to various causes but with a weakness for money that worked against their revolutionary principles. The few True Believers were unapproachable in any ordinary sense--those from whom Coren could extract information were, by definition, untrustworthy.

            The troll who had supplied him with the data for last night’s shipment--a woman named Jeta Fromm--should have been more reliable. Coren used a clearing house for people like her: Data Recovery Systems, Ltd. An innocuous name, considering how much borderline illicit trade they dealt in. But they guaranteed the work of their operatives--sometimes in heavy-handed and unpleasant ways--and would not take it well to learn that one of their people had betrayed a client. Still, he had not gotten that impression from Jeta Fromm. She did not seem like the sort who would indulge in doublecrosses. She had been anxious, but the data she supplied had been accurate. If anything, she had seemed preoccupied. Coren relied a great deal on his intuition about people--he had occasionally been wrong, no system is perfect--and he thought he had judged her correctly. Perhaps he had and something else was involved. It would not do to act before he knew, which meant he had to find her on his own and not go through the clearing house. They might misunderstand. At best, he could cost her employment. At worst...

            The other possibility was that Number Sixteen third shift dockworker who had met with Nyom. But Coren had not seen him clearly and with his optam stolen he had no images to work with. Perhaps he could find out who he was through the ITE office in Baltimor. He knew someone there. It would be interesting in any case to find out what connection existed between that branch and a Petrabor baley-smuggling operation.

            At least he knew he could rely on Sipha Palen and accomplish his mission.

            Nyom would be furious with him.

            No matter, so long as she was safely back on Earth and out of circulation for a while. Rega owned a villa in Kenya Sector where he often went to be alone--Coren himself had overseen its security. It was the safest place he knew to tuck Nyom away while the election ran.

            “Your attention please, “ an automated voice said. “We will be docking at Kopernik Station in fifteen minutes. Please be sure your safety field is on and secured and any personal objects are stowed in the appropriate compartments. Remain in your seats until the green debarkation light is on. Thank you.”

            Coren sighed gratefully. Fifteen minutes. Good. He looked up at the group of Spacers and briefly caught one’s eye. For a moment he thought he recognized an expression of sympathy. But it passed and she laughed at a joke from one of her companions.

            He shifted uncomfortably. His safety field had stayed on the entire trip. His skin prickled slightly from the faint pressure. His shirt stuck to him from the sweat; he would need another shower as soon as he debarked.

            He felt a brief lurch and clutched desperately at the armrests.

            “We have completed docking at Kopernik Station, Bay two-one-seven. Please remain seated until we are ready for debarkation. We hope you have enjoyed your flight and we thank you for traveling Intrapoint.”

            Coren bit back a snide comment and concerned himself with shutting down the safety field. His legs hurt from the constant tension.

            A row of green lights winked on overhead the length of the cabin. An attendant came through to help anyone who might need assistance. Coren stood, thankful his legs did not shake. He pulled his briefcase from the cubby beneath his seat and made his way to the exit. As he walked down the white-walled tunnel away from the shuttle, he began feeling more confident. He emerged into the brightly-lit, cheerily-colored, close-ceilinged reception lounge feeling a bit foolish about his fear. He slipped on his jacket while he scanned the waiting crowd.

            Sipha Palen stood off to the left and gave him a nod, then strolled off. Coren checked in at the security desk and retrieved his duffle. He caught up with Sipha halfway down the concourse and fell into step beside her.

            Sipha stood at least twelve centimeters taller than him, with broad shoulders tapering into what she called a “swimmer’s build”--slim-hipped and sinewy. Pale amber eyes stood out sharply against her brassy-brown skin; she wore her copper hair in a thick queue than hung to just between her shoulder blades. Her ivory suit hinted at “uniform “ without being obvious. She smelled of hot metal and flowers.

            “How was the flight?” she asked nonchalantly.

            “Don’t, “ he said.

            She gave him a wry smile. “You should fly more often. You might learn to like it.”

            “It’s good to see you, Sipha,” he said, ignoring the jab.

            “Likewise. The package arrived four hours, twenty minutes ago. We have the bay secured--just my people. Do you want to go right there or tidy up first?”

            “Let’s get it over with. Maybe I can enjoy the rest of my stay afterward. “

            Sipha made a dubious noise, but increased the pace slightly. She led him to an in-station shuttle car.

            “By the way,” he said as he strapped in, “there are two robots in there. One looks pretty ordinary, but the other one was invisible to my optam.”

            “Masked?”

            “I can’t think of another explanation. So let your people know to be careful.”

            They made the transit in silence, Coren staring at a spot just above Sipha’s right shoulder. The car slowed to a halt and Sipha stepped lithely out. Coren followed her down a service corridor into an immense bay.

            The security people standing around straightened when they saw Sipha. She strode across the pale gray floor toward the cargo bin sitting near its center. Coren’s heartbeat quickened upon seeing it--relief, he realized. It was here, safe, and soon Nyom would be on her way to even more safety.

            It is still personal...he thought.

            A pair of uniformed techs, expressions tight, approached Sipha. They spoke in low, terse tones.

            “Open the damn thing now!” Sipha shouted.

            She sprinted the rest of the distance to the bin. Coren dropped his luggage and ran after her. Techs, galvanized, lurched into motion.

            People converged on the bin. Coren stopped outside the huddle of technicians working to open it and waited, impatient and anxious.

            The seal parted and the door folded down.

            Coren shouldered his way through the uniforms.

            Sipha entered the bin first.

            “Get me some light in here!” she called, her voice hollow.

            Coren bumped her, stopped at the edge of darkness. The spillover from the bay lights picked out disconnected details of a squat bulk just before them and lines that might be the edges of shelves or cots. Coren heard a faint, rhythmic buzzing.

            “What--?” he began.

            Techs came up behind them with hand-held floodlamps. They switched them on and raised them.

            Coren blinked at the sudden glare.

            The air smelled faintly burnt...

            “Shit,” Sipha breathed.

            Racks of couches crowded the walls all around, three deep, with barely a meter between levels. Each pallet contained a body. None of them moved; Coren detected no breath pushing at clothing, no hint of life. Dead bodies, an umbilical running from each facemask to the large apparatus in the center of the cramped open space directly before Sipha and Coren.

            On the opposite side of the big machine, Coffee knelt, motionless.

            Coren’s ears sang with blood. Sparks teased at the periphery of his vision and he felt cocooned, separated from his surroundings. He made himself step forward. He looked in at the nearest corpse. She had been strapped into the couch. Her hands had clutched spasmodically at the fabric beneath her.

            The couch above her held a child, its eyes staring blindly.

            He made his way around the apparatus, stepping carefully over the tubes running from its base, up the railings, and into the couches.

            Coffee’s hands were frozen on a control panel. Coren bent over to see what the robot was touching. DISENGAGE. Coren glared at the robot. He felt his hands curl instantly into fists.

            “You piece of--”

            “Coren.”

            He looked up at Sipha. She still stood at the entrance. She pointed up.

            Coren looked.

            Dangling from the ceiling of the bin was another body. Hanging, suspended, it shifted ever-so-slightly right to left and back in the movement of air coming from the bay. It was a woman, her head angled sharply to the left. Her eyes were wide, tongue extruded between her lips.

            Nyom.

The tea in his cup had gone cold as Coren watched Sipha’s people remove the bodies. The air in the office cubicle was a few degrees too cool. He stared fixedly through the window at the forensic dance around the crime scene.

            Nyom would be brought out last, he knew, because her condition was so different.

            Sipha entered the office and sat down heavily behind the small desk.

            “Fifty-two bodies,” she said. “We don’t have the facilities to store them in our morgue. I’m having stasis units moved into an equipment locker nearby. Best we can do till we know how to handle this.”

            Coren looked up. “Fifty-two? There were fifty-one baleys.”

            “We’ve got fifty-two now.”

            “All human?”

            Sipha nodded. “Maybe one was already in the bin. Who knows?”

            “What about the other robot?” Coren asked.

            “No second robot. Just the one. Sorry.”

            “I saw it enter the bin with them. You ‘re telling me it got out?”

            “You saw it get in at the warehouse dock. After that, who knows? Once on board its shuttle, it could have left. Or it might not have even gotten on the shuttle.” She grunted. “We could ask the one we do have, but it’s collapsed.”

            “How convenient,” he said. “What ship was this bin scheduled for?”

            “It’s not even in dock yet, won’t be for another three days. A Settler cargo hauler, slated for a direct run to an orbital facility owned by a company called the Hunter Group. “

            “Three days...” Coren shook his head.

            “So,” Sipha said after a time, “what do you think happened?”

            Coren shuddered briefly and set the cup aside. He folded his hands in his lap. “The other robot. It must’ve glitched or malfunctioned or...something. It killed Nyom, then suffocated the others by switching off the rebreather unit.”

            “What about Nyom’s robot? Why would it have allowed that to happen?”

            “They must’ve been in it together. “

            Sipha said nothing. Coren turned his chair to face her. She wore a skeptical expression.

            “That’s what you want to believe,” she said.

            Coren nodded. “Trouble is, I don’t have a viable alternative. Do you?”

            “No. But I’m not sure I can accept that one robot could kill. You want me to accept that two of them were cooperating in a mass murder. “

            Coren grunted. “Since when have you gone Spacer?”

            She frowned. “Since when have you lost the ability to think?”

            Coren glared at her.

            “We partnered for two years in Special Service,” she said. “I thought you were more reasonable than that. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe working for Rega Looms has loosened your grip on objective reality. What do you think?”

            Coren worked himself back from anger and tried to think it through. Sipha had come into the Service directly from the military, a different path than his more direct route of applying to the Academy for Civic Defense, Forensics, and Criminal Interdiction. Despite their divergent backgrounds, Coren had come to trust her. He still did. It had surprised him when, after he had left the Service, she had taken this position as head of security for Kopernik Station.

            But it put her in almost daily contact with Spacers and Settlers, both factions of whom had embassy branches on the station.

            Nevertheless, he trusted her. That, he recognized, had not changed.

            “All right,” he said slowly. “Tell me your reasoning.”

            “That robot is collapsed. Positronic nervous breakdown. Something happened to cause it, and if it could break down like that then it could not have harmed any of those people. If it were still walking around, calmly trying to do its business, then I might agree with you.” She sat back. “I’ve been up here five years, Coren. I’ve learned a little bit about robots. Have to, when you deal with Spacers who won’t leave home without them. I had to learn to discount my own prejudices a long time ago if I wanted any chance of running my department efficiently and doing my job honestly. It wasn’t easy--I still don’t like them--but I know their limitations. It wasn’t the robot. Not that one, anyway. And I doubt it was this other one--there’s no in-built compunction that prevents a robot from harming another robot, especially in the defense of humans. As far as we’ve been able to tell, that second robot wasn’t even on board when this happened.” She gestured toward the bay. “Besides, what motive? Suicide? Bringing along a robot would have been the best way to fail to commit suicide. They’re programmed to save our lives for us, whether we want them to or not.”

            Coren nodded. “All right, that’s all logical. As far as it goes. Sorry about the remark. “

            “Forget it. So--how do you want to proceed?”

            “Why do I get a say? Isn’t this official now?”

            Sipha pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Maybe.” She seemed to consider carefully. “See, this bay is Settler. When you contacted me about this little favor you wanted, I called in a few favors of my own. Right now, this whole business exists in an official vacuum. No one knows but you, me, and my immediate staff. “ She stabbed a finger in the direction of the cargo bin. “And whoever killed all those people.”

            “You’ll have to make it official sooner or later.”

            “True. But maybe by then we can figure this out.”

            Coren studied her for a moment. Something in her expression teased at him.

            “There’s something else,” he stated.

            Sipha still pondered, then nodded. “I agreed to do this for you because I need you. “

            “I’m flattered. But I’m also private now.”

            “Oh, I think we can change that if we need to. But...I have a problem I can’t take to my superiors. I’m not even sure who among my own people I can trust with it. I need outside help. I didn’t know how I was going to get it till you called.”

            “Is it related?”

            “I wouldn’t be surprised. Probably. It has to do with baleys, at least. Dead ones, too, though this is the first load of corpses to show up on my station. “

            Coren raised an eyebrow in amusement. “‘Your’ station?”

            Sipha smiled wolfishly. “Oh, yes, old partner mine. Never doubt it. My station. It has trouble and I want it fixed.” She gazed past him, into the bay. “As I say, this is the first load of corpses. The occasional body has been turning up from time to time. The sorts of people who easily get crushed when they learn the wrong thing, or know too much, or who just show up where they shouldn’t. Most of them have been thoroughly professional kills...till about three months ago.”

            Coren waited. She seemed to come to a decision and activated the datum on the desk. The paper-thin screen extruded and winked on. She worked intently for a couple of minutes, then crooked a finger at him to have a look.

            “We found this in one of our detention cells,” she said.

            On the screen Coren saw a body, laid out on a morgue table. It had been a woman--the basic shape was still intact--but he had never seen a body so thoroughly bruised: blue, green, and sickly yellow marks ran from the scalp to the toes. Faint red laceration marks interrupted the mottling here and there.

            “What was it? Explosive decompression? Something fall on her?”

            “In a detention cell?” Sipha asked wryly. “She was alive when we put her in there. Small-quantity Brethe peddler, nothing major, ever-public nuisance, more than anything else. She was supposed to be, you see, because she worked for me.”

            “Regular cop?”

            “No, she really did used to deal in black market. I made her a better deal. It worked out. She worked the Settler section for me.”

            Coren felt himself smile. “And when there was something really important to report...?”

            “She got herself arrested. This hadn’t been the first time she’d visited one of my cells. The next shift, we found her like this. Very simply, every bone in her body had been broken. A lot of them were crushed.”

            “What was she reporting?”

            “I don’t know. She came in ‘under the influence.’ I was tied up with arranging all this for you and didn’t get a chance to talk to her.”

            “No one heard or saw anything?”

            “Evidently not. That’s why I’m not really sure about my people. Can you think of a way that could happen and no one on watch would know about it?”

            Coren shook his head. “What about surveillance?”

            “Blank for that section. I suspended two of my officers for negligence, but I honestly don’t think they were the ones who did it. Someone with a bit more expertise fiddled the recorders. The problem with that is, I have at least five people on my staff who could have done it, but none of them has a motive.” Sipha gestured toward the image on the screen. “Besides, look at that and tell me how it was done. A couple of adjusters with clubs? I don’t think so.”

            “But since you don’t really suspect your two discipline cases, you have an idea. “

            Sipha nodded. “During autopsy we came up with this. “ She tapped the keypad. “The bruising is uninterrupted over the entire body and none of the fractures are consistent with blows. “

            The screen changed, showing an image of a shoulder, blackened like rotting fruit. Sipha adjusted the scan and one shape emerged, slightly darker than the surrounding bruise. Coren stared at the vague outline of a hand. An odd hand, to be sure, the fingers too thick and short, the spread too wide.

            “Was it clear enough for any kind of prints?” he asked.

            “No prints. Perfectly smooth except for a couple of joints. And the bone beneath this impression had been ground nearly to powder. No, partner mine, this isn’t a human hand.”

            “A robot?” He shook his head. “But you said--”

            “I said that robot--” she pointed out at the bay “--didn’t do it. But that’s still my best guess. And if a robot did this--” she gestured at the screen “--if a robot--maybe your second mystery robot --got into my cells and did this, then I have a serious problem.” She looked up at him. “Will you help me?”

            “I--” Coren began.

            The door opened. One of Sipha’s men leaned in. “Chief, you need to see this. “

“Couple things,” the older man--Baxin, Sipha’s staff pathologist --said when Sipha and Coren entered the bin. He pointed at the rebreather unit. The umbilicals had all been disconnected and had retracted into the unit. “That’s a standard Fain-Bischer rebreather. About six years old, out of date, but still in good working order. No reason it won’t last another hundred years once it’s been cleaned out.”

            “Cleaned out of what?” Sipha asked.

            “We don’t know yet, but it’s evident from the postures of the deceased that they’ve been poisoned. Something in the rebreather, we assume. Something clever, too. The filtration system should have blocked it, but it didn’t.” He nodded sharply. “That’s one thing. The other...” He pointed up.

            Nyom’s body had been taken down and now they could see how she had been suspended. The roof had a crack in it, about half a meter long and perhaps five to eight centimeters at the widest. The metal around it was discolored, heat-scored.

            “The bin was pressurized,” the tech explained. “The air leaked out through that crack. My guess is that the body was drawn to it during freefall. The fabric of her pants got caught in it. “

            “Did decompression kill her?” Coren asked.

            “No. A broken neck did that. She was dead before she got stuck in the ceiling.”

            Coren looked down at the rebreather. “Why? If everyone else was poisoned...” He looked around. “Where’s the robot?”

            “I’ve got it in an impound locker,” Baxin said. “I didn’t know where else to put it.”

            Sipha extended her hand. “Give me the tag. I’ll take care of the robot. How long on autopsies?”

            “Fifteen, twenty hours,” Baxin said. “A few preliminaries sooner than that maybe. “

            “What made the crack?” Coren asked. “It looks intentional. “

            “It is,” Baxin said. “Heat induction, industrial grade drill or welder, crystallized the metal, made it brittle.”

            “What kind?”

            “We don’t have it. There’s nothing in here that would do that.”

            “Not even the robot?”

            “No, I don’t think so. Specialized tool, in my opinion.”

            Coren gave the hole in the roof a last glance, then left the bin.

            When Sipha joined him, he said, “Doesn’t make sense. Who broke her neck if Coffee didn’t?”

            She glanced at him. “ ‘Coffee’?”

            “That’s what she called the robot.” He saw Sipha’s expression. “Don’t ask me, I don’t know why. But who else could have broken her neck?”

            “We’ll check the bodies to see if time of death matches in all cases. But I still think you’re wrong about the robot. Maybe it knew they were being poisoned--that’s what it was trying to stop.”

            “How did it know? And who--”

            “I know, who broke Nyom’s neck. Maybe the same one who crushed that Brethe dealer?”

            “And which one would that be? Which dead one in that bin who had never been to Kopernik before would that be?” Coren asked sarcastically. “Oh, wait, I know. The same one who cracked a hole in the bin with an inducer that no one can find. “

            Sipha snarled at him. “I don’t damn well know, Coren. So I repeat: will you help me?”

            He nodded. “Oh, yes. I’ll help you. No question.” He mulled his options for a few seconds. “I’m going back down. You can handle the autopsies without me. Also, I’ll need ID on all of them.”

            “What’s down there?” Sipha frowned. Clearly, she had thought they would be working together for a few days.

            “I have a couple of people to talk to. For one, the data troll who put me onto Nyom in the first place. I want to find those people Nyom was dealing with, and she’s my best chance right now.” He drew a deep breath. “And we’re going to need a roboticist.”

            “There’s a lab full of them here--”

            “Do you trust them?”

            Sipha scowled, then shook her head. “Not till I find out who killed my Brethe dealer. “

            “I’ll see if I can take care of that, then.”

            “I suppose you know a roboticist?”

            “Of one, yes. I think it’s best to stay away from anyone involved directly with the Spacer sector on Kopernik.”

            Sipha nodded. “I’ll get you on the next shuttle back to D.C.”

            “No, not D.C. Lyzig District--that’s where my informant lives. I’ll take the suborbital back to D.C. after I talk to her. Send me the autopsy data when you have it.”

            “What are you going to say to Looms?”

            Coren shook his head. “I’ll worry about that when I see him.”

THREE

_T

he flight down frightened him more than the trip up to Kopernik. Perhaps it was the idea of falling, but Coren felt at the edge of panic from the moment the shuttle left dock till he walked, legs trembling, into the concourse at Lyzig Station. It did not make sense--he never reacted this way on a semiballistic--and he resented the idea that it was all psychosomatic. He went directly to a public restroom and rinsed his face in cold water, then sat in a stall till the sweating and nausea passed.

            “Never again,” he muttered as he finally gathered himself up. He checked his watch--twenty minutes wasted getting over his reaction--and left the restroom.

            He rented a locker and shoved his one bag inside, then headed for the station lobby.

            Lyzig buzzed with first-shift traffic. The warrens swarmed with people going to jobs or shops or meetings. Coren liked Lyzig: Clean, robust, a polished politesse substituted for the unmannered friendliness of other Eurosector districts, as if the residents were conscious of a long history--an important past they were obliged to honor.

            At the station gate he flagged a taxi and gave his destination. The driver’s eyebrows raised speculatively, but all he said was “Very good, sir,” and moved into the vehicular lanes. The short ride ended at an ancient hotel. Coren tipped the driver and stepped out.

            The taxi pulled away and Coren began walking in the opposite direction. His shakes were gone by now and he walked purposefully, in imitation of resident Lyzigers.

            He had three options to find Jeta Fromm. He had already decided against contacting Data Recovery Systems, through which he had originally found her. He had to assume that whoever had killed Nyom had gotten the same information about the baley run, and that meant a competitor. He had no way of knowing yet where they would have gotten the data--it might have been Jeta Fromm herself, or her handlers, or some as yet undetermined third source. He could too easily reveal his interest by going through the usual channels.

            The second option was not worth considering at this point. Local police could find her and pick her up, but he would be effectively destroying her career and perhaps hurting several other people associated with her. A significant part of the work he did depended on clandestine resources. Damaging them by “going local” could cost him his reputation and impair his ability to do his job. Using the local police, then, was a course of last resort.

            His best option, then, was to find her himself. He had met with her twice, at different locations of her choosing. Her nervousness had bothered him, so he had traced her back to her hab--just in case he needed to find her quickly and confidentially. Like now.

            The area he now entered was very old, and the signs of wear and neglect became more evident the further he walked. The fast pace and energy representative of Lyzig faded; people here were in no hurry to go anywhere--a few were even sitting in doorways, or gathered in small groups near shops or in the cramped public spaces that passed for parks in this part of the urbanplex.

            Coren automatically imitated the lethargy around him, moving slower, keeping his head down. He tucked his hands in his pockets and searched the corridor signs till he found one marked BETRAGSTRAS. He walked down the narrower corridor to a steep metal staircase that ran up the windowless wall to his left. The ghosts of old graffiti discolored the surfaces, scrubbed endlessly by automated cleaners that, over time, failed to remove all the paint.

            At the top of the stairs, Coren found a broad rooftop upon which stacks of single-unit cubicles formed a small, cramped village. Light glowed from open doorways, and the thick smell of cooking almost covered the odors of plastic and sweat and unprocessed waste.

            Faces appeared at doorways, lingered for a few seconds, then retreated.

            Coren estimated about a thousand people lived in this precariously overbuilt shantytown, lived quite illegally and with little fear of eviction, but with the constant possibility of having the entire makeshift construct tumble down on them. Many of the residents worked legitimate jobs that paid too little to afford them a decent domicile and do whatever else they found more important --sending children to better schools, subscriptions to expensive entertainments, paying off a debt, or saving for the chance to emigrate--but just as many worked on the edge of legality: dealers in stolen data or controlled substances, informants, runners, small credit fences, rented muscle. Others simply had nowhere else to go and had fallen here, fortunate to at least have a place to sleep and a source for food.

            Coren took out his palm monitor and made his way through the maze of passageways, up a ladder, and down a short gangway to an unlit doorway. The signal from the smear he had deposited on Jeta the second time they met was weaker, but still traceable. The self-replicating vonoomans exhausted themselves after a few days and decayed unrecoverably. He ran the sensor up and down a scale to test it. Satisfied that Jeta Fromm had at least stayed here for more than an hour, giving his tiny tracers a chance to proliferate in the environment, he pocketed the monitor. He palmed a flash and switched it on as he kicked in the flimsy plastic door and stepped through.

            In the harsh blue-white illumination, the cubicle leapt into sharp relief. A cot stretched against the wall to his left, a sleeping bag and extra blankets wadded up at the head. A makeshift desk stood along the back wall, cluttered with objects that formed an indecipherable tangle. Along the wall to the right was a trunk, the lid open, the contents spilling over the edge--clothing, from the look of it.

            Immediately to the right Coren found a lamp propped on a three-legged table. He switched it on and turned off his own light.

            Vacant. He closed the door behind him.

            He studied the room carefully. Jeta Fromm had struck him as a fastidious person, neat and methodical. This place did not. He sat down on the edge of the cot.

            Disks, small pieces of paper, items of clothing, scraps of unidentifiable detritus littered the floor. A chair lay on its side to the left of the desk. The cot itself was angled away from the wall.

            It appeared to Coren that she--or someone--had left in a hurry, possibly in a panic. Jeta peddled data--rumor, software, illicit downloads, even documented fact when she sold material to the newsnets as a stringer--so any of a number of deals could cause her to run.

            She had been very professional when he met her, but it seemed to him now that there had been an undercurrent of desperation. She managed it well and he had been in a hurry, so he had neglected to pay it enough attention.

            Coren stepped up to the desk. The clutter consisted mainly of components from old, salvaged readers, scanners, and bits of datum units. He saw a control panel from a commline. Tools lay mixed with the debris. Two bare spaces suggested removed equipment. He guessed, given her range of services, that she owned a pathburner, a very expensive microcircuitry cutter. Probably a very good decryption datum. The cost of those two pieces would be more than his own yearly salary.

            What he saw here convinced Coren that Jeta was on the run. Someone--maybe the same someone who had rolled him in Petrabor--had come looking for her. She had duly disappeared.

            He knelt down and shuffled through the papers and disks on the floor. The disks were labeled by numbers. He could go through them, but he doubted she would have left anything behind worth the trouble.

            The papers mostly contained scribbled comm codes, cryptic notes--” Jam on B-stras, 3s” or “Cram Seef for Rudo, level 12”--and a couple of doodles. One caught his eye that said “B meet at seven’s place, 2shift” followed by a comm code. He slipped it into his pocket and stood.

            He turned off the light and stepped outside.

            To his left he glimpsed someone watching him from a doorway. The door slammed shut. Coren reached the cubicle in three long strides and shouldered his way in.

            In the pale light he saw a small man shoving himself in the comer behind a large chest of drawers. Coren shut the door and stepped closer.

            “I didn’t! Stop! I didn’t!” the man cried.

            “You know Jeta?” Coren demanded. “She ask you to watch her place?”

            “I don’t--nothing to say, gato--please--”

            “Don’t ‘gato’ me, shit. Dump it now. You’re a friend of Jeta’s?”

            He nodded once. He was not quite as small as he at first seemed, but the clothes he wore were too big and his head was long and shaved bald. His sleeves half-covered his hands.

            “You ‘re watching for her, right? Who came to visit before me? Who’s looking for her?”

            The man shook his head a little too quickly. “Don’t know.”

            “Don’t know what? Who, if, when?”

            “Never saw them before.”

            “Them? Two? More?”

            “Two. Man and a woman.”

            “The man,” Coren said. “Short, stout, yellow skin?”

            A scowl flashed across his face. “No, it was--I don’t know. Leave me alone.”

            Coren resisted the urge to grab the smaller man. Strong-arming would do no good, but he wondered just how far subtlety would get him.

            “Listen, gato,” he said gently, “Jeta’s in trouble. If I don’t find her first she’ll be dead. Savvy? Now, who came?”

            “Never--I--” The man swallowed loudly and closed his eyes. “Dead?” he whispered.

            “Very dead. “

            The man nodded weakly. “She--two days ago, third shift, she says time to go, she’s sorry. Be back in a few days for her jumble--”

            “Her what?”

            “Jumble--her stuff--”

            “All right, go on.”

            “Asks me just to spot who comes looking. Like you guessed. “

            “And?”

            “Three hours later this tall gato, long coat, tosses her cube. Didn’t see me. Stayed in her place maybe twenty minutes.”

            “Tall. Anything else?”

            “Dark skin, like he’s seen sun or something. Didn’t blink.”

            “Didn’t blink...his eyes?”

            “What else you got that blinks?”

            “Did he talk to you?”

            “No,” the man said indignantly. “I said he didn’t see me.”

            “You said a woman?”

            “Came yesterday. Looked around Jeta’s cube, stayed maybe an hour, then left. “

            “What did she look like?”

            “Wore a mask. Not too big, though, but--”

            “Nobody stopped her?”

            “The other one was with her, stayed outside. “

            “You don’t know where Jeta might have gone?”

            “No,” the man insisted.

            Coren grunted. He took a gamble. “Who’s Seven?”

            The man frowned. “ ‘Seven’? I don’t know...” He seemed honestly ignorant, so Coren dropped it.

            “Did these gatos talk to anybody else?”

            “Might have.” The man paused, thought it over for a moment. “Yes, did. Cobbel and Renz. They got the first cubes at the edge.”

            Coren suppressed a smile. “What did this tall gato sound like?”

            “Kind of raspy-voiced, like he had trouble breathing. But it came out of his chest, real deep. Cobbel and Renz didn’t like him too much. “

            “Did the woman talk to anyone?”

            “No.”

            Coren considered. Then he stood. “All right, thanks. I’m not here to hurt Jeta. You tell her the gato that paid her twice market for that last data she sold needs to talk to her again. Tell her to find me if she wants to stay alive. Savvy?”

            “How’ll she find you?”

            “Same way she found what I wanted. She’ll know. You see her, you tell her to stay on the move, though. “

            “Serious shit?” the man asked.

            Coren nodded. “Very. “

            He backed out of the cubicle and reentered Jeta’s cube. He took out his palm monitor and adjusted it, then turned a slow circle till a light flashed red.

            From up in the corner, tucked in a crack between the wall and the ceiling, he removed a small button. He repeated the scan and found another one, on her desk amid a jumble of electronics, pretending to be a relay switch.

            If there were more, his monitor missed them. He opened a slot in the side of the monitor and dropped them in. They barely fit.

            At the edge of the hab collection, he paused. Then he knocked on the nearest door.

            A woman looked out at him. She said nothing, only waited expectantly.

            “Cobbel or Renz?” Coren said.

            “Renz. What?”

            “The tall gato talked to you about Jeta Fromm.”

            She frowned. “What about him?”

            “Did he give you a code to tap if you found Jeta?”

            “You police?”

            “Private. “

            “Ah.” She stepped out. She was quite a bit shorter than he, surprisingly so. “He tapped us. Ears allover the place. Cobbel’s still looking for all of them. We figured that, when he didn’t give us a code. “

            “He knew you’d lie.”

            Rena shook her head. “Wouldn’t lie.” She smiled. “Wouldn’t tell him anything. “

            “What was he like?”

            She frowned again, thoughtfully. “Scary shit. Never blinked. Skin looked wrong. “

            “Wrong how?”

            “Don’t know. Just wrong. Diseased, maybe. Too smooth. No veins.” She studied him narrowly. “ Jeta’s in trouble.”

            “Looks that way. Bad trouble.”

            “You trying to help?”

            “My fault. Trying to cover accounts.”

            Renz nodded. “You won’t find her. Best she finds you. “

            “If you see her, tell her. I need to talk to her.”

            “Ain’t seen her in a few days. She knows how to find you?”

            Coren nodded. “I don’t think there’s much Jeta can’t find. Do you?”

            That elicited a sly smile.

            “Just out of curiosity,” Coren asked, “how long has she lived here? People in her profession move a lot, I know.”

            “Long enough,” Renz said. “longer than most--three months or so. “

            Coren nodded. That was a long time--for a data troll.

            “I’m going, “ Coren said. “You see her, tell her. I need to talk to her soonest.”

            He went to the steps. He glanced back and saw people watching him now, openly. Something had passed through here that had scared them.

            Coren hurried down the steps.

            On the way back to the tube station, Coren stopped at a public comm and punched in the code he had found. The screen flashed DISCONNECTED SOURCE. He studied the note for a time, trying to decide if it would be worth his while to try to find this Seven. In the end, he fed the paper into a recycler. No time to be as thorough as he wanted. He tapped in the code for the Auroran embassy and began making his way through the maze of connections to find the person he needed to speak to.

Third shift was just beginning in Petrabor Sector. Coren’s timing was close, arriving at the warehouse just ahead of the crew.

            He stood across from their entrance and this time they noticed him as they filed in by groups of twos and threes. He no longer wore the tattered leftovers of a warren ghost but the fine suit of someone in authority--an inspector or manager or perhaps a cop. As they saw him their friendly chatter died away, replaced by suspicion and silence.

            Coren had about half an hour before he needed to catch a semiballistic to D.C. He studied the faces that passed before him, matching them to his memory, but the sixteenth crewman failed to appear. No surprise.

            The foreman emerged from the employee access and came toward him. He was a short man, middle-aged and just beginning to lose the firm lines of a body made powerful during time working the bays instead of just supervising others.

            “Can I help you?” he asked, stopping a meter away.

            Coren held up his ID, which contained the emblem identifying him as a licensed independent security investigator. The foreman almost took a step closer to examine it, but Coren shoved it back into his pocket.

            “Last night,” Coren said, “you took your crew out during on-duty time. A place called Dimilio’s?”

            The foreman’s eyes became wary. “What about it?”

            Coren shook his head sorrowfully. “That’s not contract.”

            “The Guild send you? Management?”

            “What do you think would’ve happened if the routers had glitched with no one there to shut it down?”

            “Routers never glitch!”

            “They do if they’re hacked.”

            Now the wariness turned to fear. “Hacked...” He swallowed. “You’re talking about--”

            “I’m not talking about anything yet. I’m asking. Why did you think it would all right to walk out midshift, en masse like that, for a few drinks?”

            The foreman scowled at him. “I don’t have to talk to you.”

            Coren nodded agreeably. “That’s right, you don’t. But if that’s what you decide to do, the next people you talk to will be ITE inspectors. They don’t give a damn about contract protections. “

            The foreman took a tentative step closer. “Look--it was Oril’s birthday. Not yesterday, but the day before, but there wasn’t time then to do anything. Busy shift. Things slowed down yesterday, there were a couple of windows, we figured, what’s an hour or two? We’ve never had a problem--”

            Coren sighed dramatically. “Contract says someone has to be on duty--”

            “There was! We left the sub here. He didn’t know Oril anyway, no loss.”

            “The sub. I didn’t see any sub listed--”

            The foreman looked pained for a second. “Farom was out, he’s been having trouble with his kid. He’s already past his allotment for personal time and sick days--any more and he gets written up. We paid the sub out of our own pocket to come in for him so Farom wouldn’t get the reprimand.”

            “I need the sub’s name.”

            “I’m telling you, Farom’s a good worker--”

            “The sub’s name.” Coren leaned closer and softened his voice. “If I can keep this off the record I will--it’ll save me a lot of trouble. I don’t need the extra datawork. I just have to verify that you didn’t leave your shift unattended. Word is that management has some losses to explain to shareholders. You know how that is. Now there was a glitch in the logs for the time you were all toasting Oril’s good health. If it was operator error, then we can correct it on our end and leave you alone.” Coren reached out then and grabbed hold of the foreman’s coverall. “But you pull that kind of shit again, I’ll have your ass in front of management and the Guild conciliators. Understand?”

            “Yuri Pocivil,” the foreman said quickly. “He’s normally Second Shift at the Number Four yard. He had personal time.”

            “How did you come to call him?”

            “We used him before.”

            “Covering for Farom?”

            The foreman swallowed. “As a matter of fact, yeah.”

            Coren released him. “Yuri Pocivil. I’m going to have a talk with him. He explains the glitch to my satisfaction, you won’t see me again. “

            “We’ve never had any problems with him before.”

            “Happens when you step out of contract. Go back to work.”

            Shaken, the foreman almost bowed as he backed away. He’d recovered his composure by the time he reached the entrance. He gave Coren a last look--to which Coren returned a reassuring nod--then disappeared inside the warehouse.

Yuri Pocivil had failed to report to work that day and his apartment was vacant. Coren was not surprised, but he was disappointed. It would have been simpler had he found him. Pocivil was a more direct line to whoever was running the operation.

            He made his way to the station, mulling over his next move. The routing had been modified in Baltimor. That, at least, was convenient to his next stop.

FOUR

_D

erec Avery watched the screens with mild interest. The central view was a complex collection of concentric, overlapping rings. Where some of the lines crossed, pockets formed containing patternless amalgams of small shapes, like froth or dried, cracked mud, or a cloud of midges. The right-hand screen showed a similar view but without the pockets. The left showed only chaos.

            As he watched, the rings on the central screen expanded and shrank minutely, as if jockeying for position in a crowded container, occasionally sending waves through one or more of the broken pockets. One pocket suddenly dissolved, quickly forming its own node and growing a set of rings. On the opposite side another pocket, this one filled with what appeared to be different-sized pebbles, wavered on the brink of dissolution. The pocket changed shape, narrowing, nearly splitting in two, then reinflating. Abruptly, it solidified, the pebbles merging to form a smooth surface. Then the wall burst and pebbles spilled across the orderly waves of circles, rupturing them, forming new pockets of disorder, and within seconds the screen lost all sign of pattern.

            “Disappointing,” said a calm, genderless alto voice.

            “What happened, Thales?” Derec asked, though he already knew.

            “I lost a primary anchor in the matrix,” replied his office’s Resident Intelligence. “When it went, it caused a cascade.”

            “Did you know it was a primary anchor?”

            “No. That is, of course, the problem. I have to assign anchor points without knowing how they relate to the entire matrix. Some are unimportant and stable, others are primary and stable, but a few are primary and corrupted. When they go, they corrupt the entire system.”

            “Maybe you’ll get lucky next time, Thales.”

            The positronic intelligence did not reply. Thales had long since catalogued most of what it called Derec’s “sympathy concessions”: meaningless phrases used to soothe hurt feelings or disappointments that, according to Thales, seemed important to people not for what they contained--because they contained nothing useful--but for the fact that they were said. For the moment, it appeared Thales did not consider a response necessary.

            The chaos filling the screen in front of Derec, so far resist ant to Thales’ attempts at restoring pattern and function, showed all that remained of Derec’s ambition: the flexibility of a human mind expressed in a positronic matrix. He had always wanted to build a robotic intelligence that could cope with trauma--with failure--and recover from the brink of collapse. He had hoped to build a robot that would work through Three Law violations and retain a coherent structure, preserving memory and identity in the face of the unacceptable.

            He had failed.

            The physical fragments of what had been the robot Bogard filled a crate, awaiting shipment...somewhere. The positronic remnants of Bogard’s mind filled a buffer in Thales’ generously large, though currently abbreviated, memory. Bogard’s collapse had resulted from the death of Bok Golner--a death for which Bogard had felt responsible, indeed had inadvertently caused. Golner had been a killer, an anti-robot fanatic, and had been about to kill Derec when Bogard came to his creator’s rescue. But none of that mattered in the absolutist structure of a positronic brain which prohibited the taking of a human life, intentions notwithstanding. Thales believed the key to Bogard’s failure could be pulled from those shards. But after nearly a year, they had proved indecipherable. Thales continued to express optimism; Derec was not as sanguine.

            “Perhaps,” the RI said, “I should make a copy of each stage so that I can reset one step back rather than do the entire construct over. Of course, that would require a larger memory buffer than the one to which I now have access.”

            “Oh, well,” Derec said, standing. “Sorry.”

            “I understand, Derec. No need to apologize.”

            Perversely, Derec felt a pang of guilt. That lack of memory had been a problem throughout Thales’ attempts to reorder Bogard’s matrix. Thales simply did not have enough in its present configuration. Derec counted them both lucky to have as much as they did. Of course, any less might begin impairing Thales’ normal functions.

            “I can try to make another request...” he said.

            “If you think it will help.”

            No, he thought, but it might make me feel better to try...

            Derec reached to the screen of chaos and touched an icon. The screen went blank.

            “Do you wish me to continue, Derec?” Thales asked.

            “Sure. I’m...I have some other things to tend to.”

            “Of course.”

            Derec drifted into his living room. Against one long wall a subetheric showed two political candidates soundlessly debating. He frowned, recognizing one of them: Rega Looms. For a moment, Derec felt confused, then remembered that Looms was running for a senate seat in the upcoming election. He had declared in opposition to Jonis Taprin, who had replaced Clar Eliton the previous year in a recall election. Taprin ran now on a revised, anti-robot platform, a complete about-face from his position not fourteen months earlier when, as Eliton’s vice senator, he had supported what had become known as “Concessionism” and a gradual reintroduction of positronics on Earth.

            In retrospect, Derec did not know how much he had ever believed it could be done. In Earth’s long history of social change, fickle politics, and policy-by-trend, the ban on positronics had lasted the longest and tenaciously resisted reform. Hard to believe, on a world where once the newest and brightest and best technologies had been created and dispensed and embraced with almost childlike passion for novelty.

            Curious, Derec turned on the volume.

            “--travel to other worlds has diluted Earth’s reservoir of genius,” Looms said, jabbing the armrest of his chair with a stiff finger. “I’ll concede that you now hold a position with which I have long been in agreement, that positronics should not be allowed a return to Earth, but I feel that you don’t go far enough. Positronics is not the only threat.”

            “Mr. Looms, with all due respect,” Taprin said smoothly, clearly the more practiced public figure, “you can’t expect us to shut down commerce. What you suggest would break the back of our economy.”

            “No, sir, I think that’s alarmist and misleading. Economies are artificial constructs, just like any other machine. We make them what we want them to be. I am simply saying that we should change the way in which we operate our economy so that we can eventually sever all ties to other worlds.”

            “But, sir, you must take into account that there are citizens--Terrans--who simply don’t want those ties severed.”

            “There are also Terrans who want positronic robots,” Looms countered. “We don’t let them dictate policy.”

            “The numbers, sir, the numbers--”

            Derec switched off the subetheric. Looms’ campaign strategy seemed to be to try to become more reactionary than his reactionary opponent. A year ago Derec would not have given that tactic a chance of success, but Earth always surprised him.

            “You have a call, Derec,” Thales said. “Ambassador Ariel Burgess. “

            Derec considered telling Thales to say he was out. Instead, he went to the comm and pressed his thumb on the ACCEPT. “Hello.”

            “I hope I’m not interrupting anything, Derec, but are you busy right now?” Ariel asked crisply.

            The visual was off, so Derec allowed himself a wry smile. “Nothing pressing.”

            “Would you come up to my office? I need--I’d appreciate your opinion on something.”

            “‘Something.’ For instance?”

            There was a pause. “Please.”

            Derec blinked. Please...? “I’ll be right there.”

            “Thank you. “

            The connection broke and Derec stared at the comm, baffled.

            “Thales, I’ll be in Ambassador Burgess’s offices for a while,” he said, moving to the door. “In case anything comes up.”

            “Very well, Derec.”

Ariel’s offices consisted of four large chambers in the main diplomatic quarter of the Auroran Embassy. The lone robot at the reception desk magnified the impression of emptiness: Only one robot, out of a staff of four robots and eleven people a year before.

            “Ambassador Burgess is expecting you, sir,” the robot said as he entered. “Go right through.”

            “Thank you. “

            Derec pushed open the door to Ariel’s personal office.

            He hesitated. Hofton stood behind and to the left of Ariel’s chair, hands folded appropriately before him, posture straight and attentive, looking as if he had not been absent for most of the last year, transferred to another office. He inclined his nearly hairless head in greeting but otherwise said nothing, face professionally expressionless.

            A man sat in one of Ariel’s highback visitor’s chairs. He stood as the door closed behind Derec. Tall, wide-shouldered, with short, gray-flecked hair, dark eyes set deep below pale eyebrows, and a too-straight nose that hinted at cosmetic retouch, he looked familiar to Derec.

            “Mr. Lanra,” Ariel said, “this is Derec Avery, special attaché to my department. “

            Derec gave her a sharp look.

            “Derec, “ she continued smoothly, “this is Coren Lanra, head of security for DyNan Manual Industries.”

            Derec gripped Lanra’s hand. “I’ve heard of you, of course. Mia Daventri said you helped her out during the Managin...situation last year.”

            “Indeed, “ Lanra said. “And you ‘re the head of Phylaxis Group. “

            “Once upon a time.”

            Lanra frowned.

            “I’ve asked Mr. Avery,” Ariel said, “to sit in as an impartial witness. He’s attached to my office but he doesn’t work for me, unlike Hofton.”

            Lanra sat down. “I’d hoped to confine this meeting to just you and I, Ambassador Burgess. “

            “Humor me, Mr. Lanra. The past year has made me wary of private meetings.”

            Lanra almost smiled at that. “Very well. I have a problem which may interest you. I’d like to enlist your expertise.”

            “In what capacity?”

            Derec moved to the other visitor’s chair and sat down. Lanra seemed to be deliberating, lips pursed, hands pressed together meditatively.

            “You must understand,” he said slowly, “that this has nothing to do with DyNan. This is a private matter concerning Rega Looms and myself.”

            “If you say so,” Ariel said dryly.

            Lanra sighed wearily. “Rega Looms’ daughter was found dead less than twenty-four hours ago on Kopernik Station. She was involved in running baleys and was apparently accompanying a group of them. All fifty-two are dead.”

            Ariel winced. “I’m terribly sorry. But how--”

            “She had a robot in her possession.”

            Derec sat forward, startled. Hofton moved his hands behind his back, which made him seem even more attentive. Ariel stared at Lanra, openly amazed.

            After a long silence, Ariel cleared her throat. “This hasn’t been on the newsnets.”

            “Not yet,” Lanra said. “I hope to keep it that way for a few days. Longer if possible, but sooner or later someone is going to make some connections, find a source--something.”

            “That’s …unique, Mr. Lanra...”

            Lanra said nothing.

            “The daughter of Rega Looms,” Derec said, as much to break the silence as to confirm what he had heard, “had a robot.”

            “Yes, Mr. Avery.”

            “Her own?”

            “I presume so.”

            “And where is it now?”

            “On Kopernik, under security lock.”

            “Forgive me,” Ariel said, “but I still don’t see how this concerns us.”

            Derec frowned at her. “This robot, it was collapsed?”

            “Uh...yes, “ Lanra said. “Frozen up, unresponsive. But there’s activity--at least, there’s current still running through it. I don’t know enough about them to know if that means anything.“

            “Well--” Derec began.

            “I repeat,” Ariel interrupted, “I still don’t see how this concerns us.”

            Lanra shifted uncomfortably. “Forgive me, but it was my understanding that you are the liaison from the Calvin Institute here on Earth.”

            Ariel pursed her lips, inclining her head as if to say And...?

            “This is a robotics issue,” Lanra said. “Your field. Positronics.” His expression darkened. “I don’t know anyone else here. If there are other specialists, I’m not aware of any--at least, none I can get access to.”

            “And none you’d want to confide this to in any case,” Ariel said. “I suppose you want us to try to recover its memories, if possible. “

            “Something like that.”

            Ariel laughed sharply. “How much do you know about our situation, Mr. Lanra? Mia surely told you something about our current problems. I can’t believe you’d come here like this without having done a little background work.”

            Lanra straightened in his chair and the hint of a smile tugged at his lips. “I know that you aren’t held in very high esteem by your own people. Last year’s events with Senator Eliton--”

            “Ex-Senator Eliton,” Ariel said crossly.

            “--didn’t come out in your favor, as perhaps they should have.”

            “That’s generous of you, Mr. Lanra,” Derec said. “

            Generous? No, Mr. Avery, merely fair. Ex-Senator Eliton’s duplicity cost us all a gram or two of flesh. We were both under scrutiny for things Eliton engineered.”

            Faking his own death to discredit positronics, Spacer diplomacy, ruin a long-overdue reconciliation with Earth, Derec thought bitterly, and wrecking my own ambitions as a side-effect...yes, that was an expensive experience.

            “Involving ourselves in Terran affairs,” Ariel said slowly, “cost us perhaps a bit more than you know.”

            “I may be able to help you defray some of those costs.”

            Ariel shook her head. “Based on the chance that Rega Looms will be elected to the Terran Senate? You have to know how ironic that would be to us.” She stood. “I’m sorry, Mr. Lanra, but I don’t really think there’s anything we can do to help you.”

            “You haven’t heard everything yet, “ Lanra said, rising.

            “I’m not interested.”

            “Then why did you agree to see me?”

            “Simple courtesy, Mr. Lanra. You were helpful to us last year. I’m sorry we can’t return the favor, but the situation is too complicated just now. If you’ll excuse me.”

            “But--”

            Derec watched Ariel end the interview with a firm shake of her head. She glanced at him, then left the office, leaving Lanra staring after her.

            The door closed and Lanra sighed heavily. He looked at Derec. “I don’t suppose you can do anything?”

            “Like what? Talk her into something that I agree is a bad idea?”

            “I thought you’d be interested in the problem. I thought you might welcome a chance to--”

            Derec shook his head.

            “You’re not interested?”

            Derec laughed. “Of course I’m interested. That’s beside the point.”

            “You’re a private citizen, Mr. Avery. Would you consider taking the job as a consultant? I imagine Ambassador Burgess could order you to stay here, but would she if you took this up of your own choice?”

            Lanra’s eyes danced knowingly, as if he knew something about Derec no one else did. Under other circumstances, Derec decided, Coren Lanra might be an interesting man to know.

            “We misjudged you, “ Derec said. “You knew exactly what our problems were before you came in here, didn’t you? I’m not exactly a private citizen, not in any way that gives me the freedom of movement to do what you ask. Aurora’s entire policy is one of wait and see, don’t move, stay still and maybe the situation will change. So even if Ariel might want to help you, it’s doubtful Ambassador Setaris would allow it. But you knew all this. Why pretend otherwise?”

            “I didn’t want anyone to feel pressured. People work better if they think they have a choice.” Lanra shrugged. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Avery. Perhaps under other circumstances...” He headed for the exit. “If you reconsider--”

            “I have your code, sir,” Hofton said.

            “Thanks. “

            The door closed softly and Derec let out a heavy breath. He considered for a few moments doing exactly what Lanra suggested: taking the job, whatever it was, and chancing Ariel’s anger.

            But she had a good point--what chance was there that Rega Looms could win his run for the Senate? And if he did, how likely would it be that he would help the very people he most wanted off Earth?

            “I hate it when she’s so right,” Derec said. He looked up then at Hofton, who seemed amused. “You were awfully quiet.”

            “Not my place to interject opinion,” Hofton said. “Besides, I concur with Ariel’s assessment.”

            “What are you doing here anyway? I thought you had been assigned to another department.”

            “Which has been shut down. I’m taking leave from official duties for a time. Ariel asked me to attend this meeting as a favor.”

            Another department closed...The Auroran presence on Earth shrank a little more each week. Ariel kept these offices only because they had no other use for them. She retained her title and, presumably, her perks for appearances only, but Derec knew that Ambassador Setaris would ship her back to Aurora in an instant if she could. Derec, too, for that matter. They were embarrassments to the Auroran mission here; they stayed only because admitting it to Earth by recalling them would be more embarrassing.

            But it would not take much to shift that balance.

            Still, to get his hands on a complete positronic lab would be worth a few risks. He might be able to get Thales the extra memory buffers then, might be able to set up a more thorough analysis protocol on Bogard, while working on Lanra’s problem, might--

            “Derec. “ Ariel stood in the doorway. “Don’t even think about it.”

“I know you too damn well. “ Ariel poured them drinks. Hofton sat now in the chair vacated by Coren Lanra. Derec reflected idly that he had never before seen Hofton relaxing. Ariel handed him a scotch, then gave another to Derec.

            “You were just as tempted as I was,” Derec said.

            “I doubt it. I’ve had enough of being burned by Terrans. “

            Derec sipped at his drink. “But think of it! Rega Looms, the great Luddite, has--had--a daughter who owned a robot.”

            “If I may point out,” Hofton said, “Mr. Lanra said a robot was found in her company. He never said she owned it.”

            “She was a baley runner,” Derec said. “That’s what Lanra said: she was running illegal emigrants, she was in charge. I don’t think a baley slipping by ITE would be allowed to bring along a robot. Therefore, it’s only logical that it was hers.”

            “Lanra probably thinks the robot killed her,” Ariel said. “He wants us to substantiate his suspicion. That would be convenient, wouldn’t it? Any help Rega Looms might have been able to offer would evaporate when we hand him verification of his worst fears.”

            “Come on,” Derec protested. “How could that be? From his description, the robot is collapsed. Obviously a Three Law violation occurred--”

            “You had a robot that collapsed after it killed someone.”

            Derec stiffened. “That was an accident.”

            Ariel shrugged. “Whatever. So might this have been. Would Rega Looms appreciate the difference?”

            “It’s doubtful in any event,” Hofton said, “that Mr. Looms--should he win the election--could do anything on our behalf under any circumstances without compromising his newly-won mandate. Should he win, he will do so as the avatar of the anti-robot faction and, unless I’ve misunderstood his rhetoric, the anti-Spacer faction as well. Added to that, his daughter was engaged in illegal activities that ran counter to his political position and the rhetoric of his church. That can’t be explained away. I suspect Mr. Lanra is offering what he cannot guarantee.”

            “If Coren Lanra has his way,” Ariel said, “none of this will ever become public. He’s doing damage control.”

            “Precisely,” Hofton said. “And with no public reason to do so, Looms will have no private reason to fulfill any obligations his agents may make without his knowledge.”

            “Rega Looms has a dead daughter,” Derec said. “Someone’s going to notice.”

            They sat in silence for a time, brooding. Derec began to resent Lanra for bringing something to them that offered the possibility of rehabilitating their situation. Raised hopes crumbled too easily under analysis.

            “It would be interesting,” Hofton said finally, “to know where she got a robot. And how she managed to keep it with her.” He finished his drink and stood. “I have a few chores to tend to. Thank you for the chance to act the part of your aide once more. It was fun. Should you need further performances...”

            “You’ll be the first I call, Hofton,” Ariel said, smiling wanly. “Thanks.”

            Hofton bowed his head. “Ambassador.” He walked out.

            “I’m going to miss him,” Ariel said.

            Derec shot her a look. “Have you heard something?”

            “No, but how much longer could it be?” She leaned forward and turned her glass idly on the desk. “I still do a little liaison work so I get to keep track of some of the numbers of illicit robot traffic. There’s still activity, but it’s declined precipitously in the last year.”

            “Is that a surprise? ITE must be working overtime now that they feel they have permission.”

            “Mmm. Mostly, I get to do P.R. work with irate Spacer businesses. The latest was a complaint about a five-hour delay in shipping. An unscheduled route change out of Petrabor spaceport.” She shrugged. “Five hours. You’d think the world was ending to hear the complaint. Too much excitement sometimes.” She smiled grimly. “Did you know Alda Mikels is being released next week?”

            “I thought he was sentenced to ten years for public endangerment. “

            Ariel shrugged. “Terran jurisprudence. Damned if I can see what’s prudent about it. But how long after that do you think it will be before he starts haranguing us in public of trying to bring a suit against us? That might just convince Setaris to ship us home.”

            Derec closed his eyes and swallowed more scotch. Alda Mikels: head of Imbitek Heavy Industries, industrialist, engineer. And murderer. The trial had lasted nearly two months--scores of witnesses, experts and counterexperts testifying...but not one positronic specialist. Derec had been deposed, as had Ariel, but neither of them had been called to the stand. Something about their status as noncitizens, it seemed; Derec never did get it entirely straight.

            Mikels had sabotaged the complex Resident Intelligence of Washington D.C.’s Union Station, the showpiece on Earth for positronics. The fragile treaties and agreements that had allowed it to be built in the first place as an intercultural zone where Earthers might come to see for themselves how positronics worked, the first step in a hoped-for reintroduction of robots to Earth, shattered in the aftermath of that very system’s failure and the subsequent slaughter of so many Spacer and Terran diplomats.

            A failure Alda Mikels had implemented.

            But the end result had been that Mikel’s sabotage had been poorly understood and therefore the harm he’d done had been rendered less his responsibility than the unpredictable nature of positronics. Derec had watched, amazed, when the lesser indictment of “Public Endangerment” had been handed down.

            It had all been part of a larger scheme to discredit positronics and any possible diplomatic advancements in Spacer-Terran relations. At its center had been Senator Clar Eliton, a man who had convinced Aurora of his honest intentions to help bring robots back to Earth. For his part, Eliton had escaped prison because of the frail evidence to connect him to Mikels and the others involved--which included the former head of Special Service, who had vanished. At least Eliton had been recalled, losing his senate seat in the process.

            Not that his replacement, Jonis Taprin, was much better. He was openly hostile to Spacers and robotics. Better that than the oily duplicity in which Eliton had indulged, Derec felt.

            But it had been Mikels’ technology that had undermined the positronic intelligence that ran Union Station and allowed a team of assassins to enter the main gallery and shoot down the gathering of diplomats who had arrived to commence the conference they had hoped would begin reconciliation.

            Coren Lanra’s employer, Rega Looms, had been suspected for a time. None of his people had been shot during the slaughter, which made him look very culpable. But that, too, had been a set-up.

            Their own involvement--Derec’s and Ariel’s--had gotten them sequestered to the embassy, in a legal limbo, awaiting deportation at the convenience of Sen Setaris, the head of the Auroran mission on Earth. Ariel’s confinement had been repealed after a few months as certain duties were returned to her, but as far as Derec knew she rarely left. He often wondered what was taking so long to deport them. It seemed cruel to leave them dangling like this, teasing them with possibilities. He had grown numb waiting.

            He finished his scotch and went to the bar for another.

            “My question,” Derec said, “is how come we’re being so careful? Do you really want to stay here?”

            Ariel frowned. “I don’t--”

            “You ‘re afraid to do anything that might get us kicked back to Aurora sooner. We both know that’s what they intend to do anyway. Why are we being so careful? I repeat: do you want to stay on Earth?”

            “I don’t know.” She looked at him. “Don’t you?”

            “Under these circumstances?” He shrugged and left the question hang. In truth, he was tom. Saying no would mean he had never found anything worthwhile here, which would be a lie. Saying yes meant he was willing to tolerate anything to remain, which would be a bigger lie. His affection for Earth complicated his thinking. He finished his second scotch and set the glass down. “Thanks for the drink. I have some time to hunt down and kill, so if you’ll excuse me...”

            Ariel raised her own glass in mock assent.

            Derec left her offices and headed down the corridors, in the direction of his apartment, his mood muddied by the alcohol. He reached the elevator and punched the button.

            “Mr. Avery?”

            Derec turned slowly. Coren Lanra stood nearby.

            “Forgive me,” Lanra said. “I just thought you’d like to know--that you’d be interested to know--that we believe a robot was responsible for Nyom Looms’ death.”

            Derec stared at him. One more point in Ariel’s favor...

            “That’s impossible, of course,” he said.

            Lanra smiled thinly. “So you say. But I suppose you’ll never know now. Thank you for your time. Sorry to bother you.”

            Derec watched Lanra walk away until the elevator door opened.

FIVE

_A

riel, you have a call. “

            Ariel squeezed her eyes shut and groaned. She rolled over, and the band around her skull tightened just enough to let her know that the muzzy warmth of too much scotch needed several more hours to sleep off. Too late. She opened her eyes.

            R. Jennie stood at the foot of the bed, impassive and attentive.

            “What? What did you say, Jennie?” Her mouth felt gummy, barely cooperative.

            “You have a call. Ambassador Setaris. “

            “Hell...what time is it?”

            “Two-twenty.”

            “In the morning?”

            “I asked if it would be convenient for her to call again later, but she insists that she cannot.”

            “Of course she does,” Ariel complained as she pushed herself up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. “That’s what it means to be an Ambassador. Ambassadorial prerogative...plenipotent--potentiary authority...executive privilege...” She shook her head. “Two-twenty... what in?”

            “I brought coffee.”

            Ariel looked up at the robot. A tray with silvered urn and various cups waited on Ariel’s dressing table. Ariel sighed. “Thank you, Jennie. Tell Ambassador Setaris I will be there in a minute. Or two.”

            “Yes, Ariel.”

            It seemed to Ariel that her robot left the room gratefully, as if relieved to have something to do other than watch Ariel struggle with a hangover. Impossible, really...or was it? Empathic mimicry was part of the positronic package...

            Ariel stood, dismissing the thought. Too complicated at the moment. She stumbled only once on her way to the coffee. She poured without trembling and raised the cup of hot, black liquid to her lips. The aroma, usually welcome, made her shudder briefly, but she swallowed a mouthful without incident and decided that she would manage.

            She caught sight of herself in the dressing table mirror and frowned at the deep circles under her eyes. Her black hair stood out in chaotic spikes and she noticed that she had the faint beginnings of jowls and a double chin. The rest of her seemed trim enough, though she had not paid serious attention to her body in nearly a year. She met her own eyes again--normally a clear blue, but cloudy now and slightly unfocussed--and saw the weariness. This past year had been a steady mix of boredom and anxiety, layered over a sense of helplessness. Instead of fighting it she had taken to sense-dulling indulgence. It showed.

            She finished the cup, poured another, and pulled on a robe.

            R. Jennie had kept the screen on the comm blanked. Ariel sat down before the compact unit, ran fingers through her hair, and keyed ACCEPT.

            “Good morning, Ambassador,” she said, letting sarcasm leak into her voice.

            “My apologies, Ariel, I realize this is an inconvenient hour, “ Setaris said smoothly. “I need to speak to you in person. Please come to my office.”

            Ariel glanced at the time chop in the lower left corner of the screen. “I’m feeling a little--”

            “Of course you are. I imagine you have been for a while. Perhaps we can do something about it. Would you be so kind as to be here in an hour? We have some things to discuss. “

            “Um...of course.”

            “Very good, Ariel. See you then.”

            The link died and Ariel felt a hard lump develop just behind her breastbone. What the hell...?

            “Jennie, it looks like we may finally be taking that journey.”

            “Shall I begin packing, Ariel?”

            “No...not yet. But do an inventory.”

            “Yes, Ariel.”

            Ariel had expected to be recalled to Aurora for nearly a year. That it had not yet happened worried her. Now that it seemed imminent, it worried her more.

            The message light winked on before her. She automatically touched ACCEPT.

            A single line of type scrolled across the screen.

            WE HAVEN’T FINISHED WITH YOU, AMBASSADOR BURGESS. K.P.

            Ariel stared at it for some time before she keyed for a trace. She knew it would not be backtracked, she had gotten messages like this before. Since last year’s trial, a dozen or more of these had been a daily nuisance. Most had come from recognizably marginal obsessives--harmless in any real sense--but a few had come from people who might have followed up on the threats, implied or otherwise.

            It had been a few months, though, since a message like this had shown up on her system. The screens the embassy had installed very efficiently and thoroughly blocked them all. That one had gotten through was a mark of how good the sender was at penetrating protected systems. Which also showed just how dangerous he or she might be.

            The trace came back negative. No source could be located.

            Ariel finished her coffee and went to dress.

Sen Setaris’s offices dwarfed Ariel’s. Even at this hour, embassy personnel scurried about constantly. Ariel counted five robots between the receptionist and Setaris’s private office, and saw minor staff from at least four other Spacer legations waiting in the anteroom. The Auroran embassy contained the main meeting hall for all joint legation conferences, and at least four guest suites were attached directly to the offices. Ariel’s own chambers, four levels below, were one of a dozen departmental offices with quasi-independent status. Their importance to the principle mission was reflected in their relative size.

            Even so, Ariel was surprised to see so much business being done. Perhaps the entire mission was shutting down. She had heard nothing that would have suggested so drastic a move, but then she had been kept out of most embassy affairs.

            Sen Setaris looked up from a flatscreen on her desk when Ariel entered. She appeared as elegant and austere as ever: thick, silvered hair forming wings around her narrow head, eyes large and brilliant green, and the ideal set of lines on her otherwise smooth face to give the impression of experience and intelligence without pointing up age. On Earth she was an anomaly in that regard, as were most senior Spacers: Terrans lived relatively short lives, aging quickly until death at around a hundred, while Spacers tended to live to two or three centuries. Ariel did not know Setaris’s exact age, but it was well on toward two hundred.

            She wondered if Setaris slept anymore.

            “Ariel,” Setaris said, smiling thinly. “How good of you to be so prompt. Sit down, I’ll only be another minute or two. “

            Ariel suppressed a sarcastic smile and sat on the long sofa to the left of Setaris’s desk rather than in one of the visitor’s chairs. If Setaris noticed the small breach of protocol she gave no indication. She continued working on the flatscreen, touching it from time to time, until finally she picked up a stylus and dashed her signature on the screen. She shut the datum down and turned toward Ariel.

            “What do you know about Nova Levis?” she asked.

            Ariel raised her eyebrows. “Only what I’ve seen on subetheric. It’s a Settler colony that’s been blockaded. They refused inspections for pirate bases or something. “

            “That’s essentially correct, though, of course, there’s much more to it. Earth has requested Spacer cooperation. Ships have been provided to patrol the perimeter of the system, but they want more. They want an intervention. “

            “You mean an invasion.”

            “Exactly. It’s out of the question, of course, but we haven’t said no yet. They’re offering us a chance to recoup our losses diplomatically. If we could give them something to mollify their paranoia we might actually recover ground from...” Setaris let the sentence drift off, her eyebrows raised suggestively.

            “What do we have to do with Nova Levis?” Ariel asked.

            “Nothing directly. But it has been a transfer point for a good deal of black market trade. That’s what started the Terrans on this ill-advised military operation. Solaria is still providing a limited amount of access, though, and Earth has accused the Fifty Worlds of acting in collusion to thwart their legal mandate to investigate and control piracy. “

            “Do they actually have such a mandate?”

            “They have ships around Nova levis. The finer points of law are so much wind under the circumstances. It’s in our interest, however, to be seen as supporting legality in this case. And because Solaria has elected to ignore requests to cease any and all transport to Nova levis, it falls to us to represent Spacer adherence to law.”

            “And in return, Earth gives us what?”

            “We gain credibility,” Setaris replied.

            The true currency of diplomacy, Ariel heard her finish. She wondered if the Solarians believed that. She was not sure she believed it herself, but certainly her own credibility was no longer bankable.

            “Why would Solaria be so...uncooperative?” she asked.

            Setaris grunted. “Do they need a reason? But seriously, we don’t really know. I’ve asked Chassik and he keeps promising to look into it.”

            “Is Nova levis hosting pirates?” Ariel asked.

            Setaris frowned thoughtfully. “Probably. I’m afraid they may be involved in something worse. But that’s speculation. Whatever they’re doing, it seems they think it necessary to hide it. “

            Ariel waited. When Setaris remained silent, she asked, “What does this have to do with me?”

            “Two things. ITE has suggested to us--without providing much proof--” she gave Ariel a dubious look as if to say as usual, then continued “--that Spacer businesses here are connected to the illicit shipments going to Nova Levis. It seems that--they suggest--baley-running and contraband travel the same routes and that we are colluding in all this.”

            “That’s ridiculous.”

            “I agree, but can you say for certain? Do you know what our people are doing these days?”

            Ariel stiffened, fully aware of the implied criticism. She had been lapse, she had let things slide. She could not remember the last inspection she had administered through the Auroran manufactories on Earth. She found the idea that Aurorans would be tangled up in running baleys as well as contraband ludicrous...but she could not make a case based on current knowledge.

            And of course it was her responsibility. She was still Trade and Business liaison...”

            “And the other thing?” she asked.

            “You had a visitor yesterday. Coren Lanra, security chief for DyNan Manual Industries.”

            Ariel managed to keep both surprise and disgust from her voice when she answered. “Yes, I did.”

            “May I ask what he wanted?”

            Don’t you already know? “He wanted my help. He has a problem with a robot.”

            Setaris pursed her lips.

            “You’re not surprised?” Ariel asked.

            “Did you know that the daughter of Rega Looms is a baley runner?” Setaris asked instead. “She’s been operating a successful underground emigration avenue for nearly five years.” She nodded at Ariel’s silence. “I just learned this myself recently. I was quite surprised. “

            “Did you know that she’s now dead as a result?” Ariel asked.

            Setaris frowned at that. “This...robot problem--”

            “Relates to her death. “

            “Interesting. Did you agree to help him?”

            “No, of course not.”

            “Why not?”

            “Under the circumstances, I thought minimizing our involvement in what seems to me a Terran police matter would be the best course. Was I mistaken?”

            Setaris folded her hands on the desk and seemed to study them. “Not entirely, no.” She drew a sharp breath and looked up. “But...there are certain limitations official status imparts which can be very frustrating. All circumstances have boundaries. Mine may be more constraining than yours in some cases.”

            Ariel frowned. “Are you suggesting that I help Mr. Lanra?”

            “The Terrans are very concerned with their baley problem. A growing fraction of them seem to be heading for Nova Levis. The place has acquired a certain status since the embargo, a faux romantic patina making it seem more attractive than other...less notorious colonies. It may be also that Nova Levis has the facilities for trans-shipping them to other colonies more efficiently than trying to get direct routes from here. That’s one of the suggestions I’ve heard. “

            “You sound dubious. “

            “Most baleys get to where they want to go without a terrible amount of trouble--there are plenty of freelance pilots with ships for hire to take them. And, frankly, I’m not convinced Terran authorities really want to stop them. But Nova Levis is different. It requires blockade runners. This is a problem on an order of magnitude higher than simple illegal emigration. “

            “You think Solaria is involved in getting them past the blockade.”

            “It’s one of those certainties one can’t prove without creating an incident. It might be possible to prove it from this end with less incident.”

            “And you’ve been asked--unofficially--by Earth to see if you can do something about it.”

            Setaris almost smiled. “You know, you’re very sharp, Ariel. I’ve always admired that about you...even when you’re suffering the effects of alcohol poisoning. Imagine what you can do with a clear head and a purpose.”

            The sarcasm sank through Ariel like a wave of muggy heat. Ariel felt herself start to bristle, but checked it before she said something impolitic.

            “I’m not entirely clear how rendering assistance to Mr. Lanra would help us with any of this,” she said instead.

            Setaris frowned. “Now you’re being obtuse. Nyom Looms and Coren Lanra had a relationship once. We don’t know why it ended or if it did. In either case, it seems logical that if she’s running baleys then her father--or someone in her father’s organization--is helping her.”

            Ariel laughed briefly. “Coren Lanra doesn’t strike me as the type. “

            “Perhaps not. But the connection exists nonetheless.”

            Ariel nodded slowly, understanding exactly what Setaris was asking her to do. In a way, it made perfect sense--Ariel was the most expendable member of the Auroran mission.

            “Can I expect any kind of extra consideration should things work out well?” she asked.

            “Ariel, you know extra consideration is always on the table for good work.”

            But what constitutes “good” work? Politically convenient or thorough?

            “I’ll want Hofton reassigned to me,” Ariel said.

            “I think you need an aide in any case. It doesn’t look good to be all alone in your department.”

            Ariel stood. “What level of access do I have?”

            Setaris looked genuinely surprised. “I don’t believe your clearance was ever rescinded, Ariel.”

            “I would like confirmation of that. “

            Setaris regarded her for a long time before nodding.

            “By this afternoon, if it’s not too much trouble,” Ariel said then, turning.

            “Don’t you feel sometimes that you’ve been on Earth too long, Ariel? That certain of their less admirable qualities have transferred?”

            “I like to believe that it goes both ways, Ambassador.” She made herself present a pleasant, innocuous, naive smile, though she did not expect Setaris to be fooled. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to make some calls.”

            Ariel expected Setaris to call her back and retract everything, but she made it to the door without hearing her voice. She wondered then what kind of confirmation she would actually get when she returned to her own office and checked.

            Her heart hammered as she reached the main corridor. Her head still hurt, but for the time being she did not really mind.

Halfway back to her office she came to another conclusion and entered a general clerical station to call Hofton. An hour later, he joined her in the embassy restaurant at a table beside a bank of windows that overlooked an open air park on the roof of the building. False dawn gave everything a shimmery, vague appearance. Beautiful, she thought, and pitied the agoraphobic Terrans who could not enjoy such a simple, open view.

            “I understand,” Hofton said as he sat down, “that I’m working for you again.”

            “When did you receive notice?”

            “Around midnight. I didn’t bother going to bed. I gather you know something about this?”

            Ariel chuckled. “She told you before she called me. That’s interesting.” Ariel gazed out the window for a time. The trees swayed in a breeze. Somewhere to the east lay the Atlantic Ocean, somewhere northwest was the spaceport. It would be pleasant, she thought, to live on a world where you didn’t have to make a special trip just to see open sky and trees...

            Hofton waited patiently. At some point during Ariel’s reverie he had ordered an iced drink.

            “Sorry,” she said, turning back to him. “To answer your question: yes, I know something about it. Not enough, of course, but it seems we’re being given a chance to redeem ourselves. “

            “At what cost?”

            Ariel shrugged. The question was rhetorical--Hofton understood the machinery of politics better than she. “Ambassador Setaris would like us to render assistance to Mr. Lanra.”

            Hofton frowned contemplatively. “I suppose,” he said, “we have no choice. “

            Ariel flashed a sarcastic smile. “Oh, sure. We have a choice.”

            Hofton looked skeptical, then raised his glass in mock toast. “Here’s to damnation, then. Who do we have to kill?”

SIX

_C

oren kept a private office in an old quarter of D.C., far from the corporate warrens of DyNan. He had not used it in nearly eight months. When Looms had asked him to find Nyom, he hired the best cleaner he knew to find any and all eyes and ears. Only a few had turned up, and those had long since been severed at the receiving end. Coren set up a screen to let him know if any new ones turned up, and moved in.

            The neighborhood was undergoing one of its period downturns in popularity. Not a year earlier, it was impossible to find available space here, but now even his own building was nearly empty. He had leased the space before accepting the position with DyNan, right before it had become really popular, thinking that he would go into private practice after leaving Special Service. He had never used it for business other than DyNan’s, though, and sometimes thought about breaking the lease and letting it go. He was glad now that he had kept it.

            He walked through the small reception area and into the main office. He shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on the pole by the door.

            “Good afternoon,” his Desk said. “Please verify identity.”

            Coren sat down and placed his palm against the ID scan on the desktop. He felt a moment’s warmth as the machine explored his hand, body temperature, blood chemistry, and pattern of bone growth.

            “Welcome, Mr. Lanra,” the Desk said. “You have three messages. “

            “List,” Coren said.

            “One from Sipha Palen, one from Rega Looms, and one from Myler Towne.”

            “Who is Myler Towne?”

            “Director ProTem of Imbitek Incorporated.”

            Coren drummed his fingers tentatively on the edge of the desk. “Play Rega Looms’, please.”

            The flatscreen remained retracted--no video, typical of Rega. A crisp tenor voice snapped out of the air.

            “Coren, I’m in Dukane District, code appended. I would appreciate an update on that detail I asked you to look into at your earliest convenience. I’ll be here till tomorrow, then I’m going to--” He paused. “Going to Delfi. I’ll forward the code when we get there.”

            Coren checked the time chop. Most likely right now Rega Looms’ entourage was packing him up to leave Dukane. It would not be a good time to interrupt, especially with bad news. Besides, Coren thought, it would be best to tell Rega in person. He did not want to; for anyone else a comm dialogue would be sufficient. But not Rega.

            “Desk, see if you can get me an update on Mr. Looms’ itinerary for the next three days. “

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Play Sipha Palen’s message, please.”

            This time the flatscreen slid up from the desk top and winked on. Sipha’s face filled the field.

            “Coren, we’ve got prelims on the autopsies. Atropimyfex, an atropine-based neurotoxin. Basic crystalline structure that gasifies on contact with moisture--in this case, the humidity of all those exhaling lungs. It has the same profile as certain beneficial pharmaceuticals, but my pathologist says it didn’t need the camouflage since the rebreather’s filter system wouldn’t have caught it anyway. Baxin is really impressed, by the way. Says this is very sophisticated stuff, high profile. It’s used mainly in terraforming work, suppression of indigenous fauna. Very expensive and not available legally on Earth. Someone way up the chain wanted these people dead. He’s doing work-ups on all of them just to be sure, but he estimates that death came within five minutes of the first seizures. Paralysis in under ten seconds, then gradual destruction of the autonomic nervous system. It starts breaking down, then, and becomes very difficult to trace in a few days. “

            She glanced off-screen briefly. “Nyom Looms is a different matter. She was evidently smart enough to carry her own breather. We found it in one of the couches, crushed. She died from a broken neck. I’m having Baxin go over her for any foreign material--he found some fabric under her fingernails--but he says you can rule out the robot we found. Whoever killed her was still on board; there’s no sign that anyone got out. So we have a suicide/murder. I know that’s not what you thought we’d find, but...”

            She shrugged elaborately. “No sign of the robot you told me about. The only thing we’ve gotten out of there are corpses. No telltale handprint on Nyom, either. This was a very clean break; anyone with the hand strength and the training could have done it. That’s all the good news I have, Coren. I’m sending you an encrypted data package with everything we’ve got so far. Let me know what you turn up down there. I hope you come back up soon.”

            Coren suppressed a mild shudder. A return flight?

            He had not hoped to find the second robot, but if the seals were intact from the inside, then someone had to have accompanied the baleys up. So one of Nyom’s own baleys had committed the crime? It strained credulity.

            But there was a missing passenger... “

            Desk, code a reply to Sipha Palen, use same encryption. Sipha, we may still be looking at a robot, just not the one we have in the locker. The second one got out somewhere, and someone else might have gotten in. We don’t know what the exact procedure is for this kind of smuggling. Keep me apprised of what you find under Nyom’s fingernails. I’m still trying to find my informant. She’s disappeared, of course. I’ll comm you later. Desk, send.”

            “Yes, sir. Message encrypted and sent. You have one message remaining.”

            “Wait.”

            Jeta Fromm posed a problem. Without her, tracking down the people Nyom worked with would take days, weeks. Finding the dockworker, Yuri Pocivil, would be even harder.

            For now, though, he had no answers. Maybe she would contact him, but he doubted it.

            “Desk, do a records search for Yuri Pocivil. Last known residence in the Petrabor District. Now play the last message.”

            Appearing on the flatscreen was a face Coren did not recognize, with a wide brow and short, black hair. Large, moist-brown eyes stared out at him.

            “Mr. Lanra, please forgive the presumption. I’m Myler Towne, current administrative head of Imbitek. You may know our company. “ He smiled slightly at his own false modesty. “I’m familiar with you, of course, and with your record. We’d like to discuss the possibility of acquiring your services ourselves. If you’re interested, please give me a little of your time and we can talk. My code is appended. I hope to talk with you soon. “

            The screen went blank and slid out of sight.

            Coren laughed out loud, then sobered. Surely this was a joke! Or was Myler Towne, temporary mouthpiece for the company that had nearly ruined Rega Looms, so ignorant of circumstances that he thought this was a good and accept able offer?

            It might be amusing to meet with him and see how it goes...

            “Do you wish to send a reply, sir?” the Desk asked.

            “No. Not yet. Do you have that itinerary for me?”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Let me see it.”

            A list of destinations within the northeastern quadrant of the continent appeared on the desk surface. He skimmed it quickly, then touched one. Baltimor District. That would be convenient, but Rega would not be there for another two days.

            Still, lacking any other worthwhile possibility...

            “Desk, send a message to Rega Looms, informing him that I’ll talk to him in Delfi. Then find the code for Brun Damik at Immigration and Trade Enforcement. “

            “Yes, sir. Do you wish me to connect you?”

            “No, just give me a location.”

            “Baltimor District ITE headquarters, Level Five, unnumbered private office.”

            “Thank you. “

            Coren leaned back and considered what to do next. Brun Damik would be a place to start, at least until he found Fromm.

            If he found her.

            Time, time, too damn little time...

            He really did not want to speak with Rega. He could put that off for a day. Brun Damik, though...so the man had a private, unnumbered office now. Coren chastised himself for not keeping better track of people he still knew in government service. The trouble was, he had left originally out of a desire to have no more to do with government service, so he was unmotivated to pay close attention.

            Not very professional, Coren. Not very professional at all...

            That was the reason he had bought the Desk in the first place, so he could overlook details like this without losing track of them altogether. He appreciated his Desk--it was the closest thing to full sentient awareness he could afford to buy on Earth, just shy of illegal positronics.

            Illegal, but not unobtainable. Nyom had gotten hold of a robot, had even owned it long enough to name it and work with it under the noses of ITE.

            Spacers kept robots within their own districts. The ban on positronics had many, many holes in it. There were even Terrans who owned robots--fetishists and self-indulgent social rebels who enjoyed flaunting the law and custom, even if only in private.

            Holes Rega Looms wanted to fill in, an ambition that would suffer should his daughter’s ideological treason become public.

            Coren stood and went to the door to his workroom. A sofa sprawled the length of one short wall to the right, a low table before it. An alcove contained changes of clothes. To the left, three sets of shelves held a variety of boxes, bags, and objects--tech Lanra used from time to time, some of it illegal even for him to possess. He absently took a replacement optam from one shelf.

            He locked the door and sat down on the sofa, folded his hands beneath his chin, and studied the shelves. After a time, he heaved himself to his feet and went to a lower shelf. He pulled out a shallow box and placed it on the table.

            He took out a set of images and spread them over the table. Nyom Looms: laughing, smiling, contemplative, seductive, playful, clothed, naked, painted, bathed in light. The kind of pictures meant for one other person, exposed and cloistered at once. Old pictures--Coren checked the dates, though he knew it without thinking--from five years ago.

            One image showed them both, together, holding each other.

            “Frivolously romantic, “ so Nyom had pronounced them afterward, when it ended and she chose a life that discluded him. Disclusion--left out, overlooked, omitted--rather than excluded. She never barred him from joining her, but she did not invite him, either. Probably because she already knew what he would say.

            They had argued, he remembered, and she had left him confused. It had taken some time for him to understand that part of what had hurt her was that he had not made a counteroffer. He had not asked her to stay with him. Coren Lanra did not think that way. Nyom had made a decision--what right had he to ask her to turn her back on her choice?

            On the other hand, perhaps he still did not know what it had been about.

            Beneath the sheaf of images were three small boxes. One contained a silver-and-jade bracelet, another contained a set of rings in gold and platinum, and the third held the receipt for an apartment lease they had shared.

            Coren stared at the pictures, left the boxes unopened, and grunted. This was all--the only evidence outside his memories of their relationship. All that remained of someone for whom he had cared. All he would ever have of her, now.

            “She’s dead,” he said quietly. “Nyom is dead.”

            And then, for the third time in his life, Coren Lanra wept.

The office of Immigration and Trade Enforcement, Baltimor District, occupied five floors of a hexagonal block near the Trade Mall, where thousands of Import-Export firms kept offices, adjacent to the warehouse warrens that occupied an apostrophe-shaped wedge around the lines of the ancient harbor. South of the District, spaceport facilities filled the upper levels and the urban canopy almost the entire distance to D.C. Passengers debarked in D.C., at Union Station; cargo and its handlers came into Baltimor, through Customs and Dissemination.

            Coren waited outside the administrative entrance, in a small cafe, watching. Brun Damik emerged a little more than an hour before his regular shift ended. Damik walked quickly for a man of his size, but being so tall it appeared to be his natural gait. Coren had some trouble keeping up with him and nearly lost him twice before Damik entered a restaurant.

            Coren watched from the entrance as Damik was seated at a small table near the back of the dining room. When the maitre d’hôtel approached, Coren laid a credit note on his station and pointed at Damik.

            “He’s alone, sir,” the maitre d’ said. He palmed the note and turned his back while Coren, smiling, entered the restaurant.

            He sat down across from Damik, who looked up from his salad, startled.

            “What’s good here, Brun? A little expensive for you, isn’t it? Take must be good this year.”

            Damik’s face lost all expression for several seconds. Then, slowly, a wide grin compressed his features. “You ass. Lanra! How are you?”

            “Busy these days. But I thought I’d make time to talk to an old backstabber. How are your connections these days, gato?”

            Damik laughed loudly and slapped the table once, sharply. “What are you drinking? I’m off-shift, so it doesn’t matter.”

            “I’m not, so it does. Are you buying?”

            “Of course.”

            “Nava.”

            Damik frowned briefly. “That’s a Solarian drink, isn’t it?”

            Coren nodded. “Tastes like a good bourbon but without the alcohol. “

            Damik grunted. “Very Spacer. Riskless pleasure. Spineless ninnies.”

            Coren shrugged. “Good drink, though.”

            “Expensive. “ He gestured for a waiter and gave the order anyway, including a beer for himself. “What have you been doing, Coren? Still working for what’s-his-name? Rega Looms?”

            “I am.”

            “He pays you well enough to afford good food?”

            “When I have time to eat it. What about you? You’re not still counting canisters, are you?”

            “Not by hand, no. They gave me my own department.”

            “They must be desperate. “

            Damik laughed again. Their drinks arrived and he raised his beer in a mock toast. Lanra tapped his glass and sipped.

            “So,” Damik said. “Pleasantries aside, what do you need?”

            Coren reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small hemisphere that looked like polished foam. He pressed the base with his thumb and set it in the center of the table.

            Damik cocked an eyebrow. “Does Looms know you play with toys like that?”

            “I take it you’ve seen one or two yourself, then. No, actually, if Rega knew what I use in the course of my job we’d probably have a serious policy disagreement. Fortunately, he’s not the sort of employer that pries a lot unless things go wrong.”

            Damik thought about that. “Has anything gone wrong?”

            “We don’t have to be coy now, Brun.” Coren pointed at the hemisphere. “Maybe Special Service has something that can unscramble the interference that’s generating, but it would take longer than our conversation.”

            “You’re not staying for dessert, then.”

            “I don’t think I’m staying for a second drink. I asked how your connections are. I meant it.”

            “I got a promotion, didn’t I?”

            “I’m talking about your black market ones.”

            Damik grinned. “So’m I. What do you need?”

            “I stumbled on a diverted shipment recently. You gimmicked a bay assignment all the way over in Petrabor, some stuff for Kysler. I’m assuming it was you, or someone in your office. “

            “You ‘stumbled’ on it? How does that work?”

            “Part of the job. Am I speaking to the right man?”

            Damik shrugged. “What if you are?”

            “Baley-running. How does that work?”

            Damik stabbed a forkful of green leaves and pushed them around the plate listlessly. “How much are you offering?”

            “Depends entirely on the quality of your data. “

            “Hm. Well, the cheap part is the actual transportation. Refitted cargo bins are popular. Usually, they only have to support life for a day or two till they get turned over to the ship that’s going directly to the colony of choice. Then it’s no different than steerage class. Most baleys, I can’t understand why they bother--they could go legally.”

            “You know that’s not true. ITE screening sorts out ‘undesirables’ and denies them visas. That means anyone with a political opinion, technical skills above a certain level, and money they might take with them. That’s about eighty percent of the people who apply. “

            “If they’re that well-off or that smart, why would they want to go?”

            “I really don’t care. Go on. “

            “The expensive part is the bribery. You need a customs inspector, a set of transit permits, and enough to payoff a warehouse crew. You need another customs official on the other end. “

            “At Kopernik.”

            Damik nodded. “But you knew all this.”

            “You left out the part I don’t know. Who do you start the process through? Who fronts the credits and who parcels out the payments?”

            “It’s not that organized. We’re talking about rats in the system, a few here and there. Whoever is taking money from the baleys themselves has to know who to talk to--”

            “Not in every case,” Coren said. “That might be true for small groups, but in the last two years the numbers have increased. There are shipments of up to three hundred people leaving in one group.”

            “That’s a myth. Numbers like that, ITE would look totally negligent--or subverted--to let them through. No, the largest single group you’ll ever see go through would be fifty or sixty. Even that’s pushing it.” Damik finished his salad. “So?”

            “So that still means enough money to attract the people I’m looking for. Once they get a taste, they don’t go away, they assume control.”

            Damik chuckled. “You never disappoint, Lanra. I can see why you left Service--those idiots wouldn’t know what to do with a smart one like you. “

            “I assume that means I’m right. So who?”

            “Depends on the colony. Each one has a gatekeeper.”

            “Reporting to who?” Coren asked.

            “I don’t know. I imagine you’re right, there is some person or persons at the end of the chain, but...”

            “Okay. Then give me a gatekeeper.”

            “Which colony?”

            “Let’s say Nova Levis.”

            Damik’s eyes widened fractionally, just for an instant. He shook his head. “You don’t have that kind of credit.”

            “How do you know?”

            “Because you’re overdrawn now and we haven’t even talked price. “

            “I knew you were the right gato to talk to about this. I always appreciated your honesty.”

            “Ha ha. Your wit hasn’t improved much.”

            “But my credit has,” Coren said.

            Damik regarded him skeptically. The waiter came and cleared away his salad plate, then set his dinner before him. Damik appeared to notice none of this, eyes fixed on Coren.

            “Do you remember,” Coren said as the waiter left, “all that business last year involving Clar Eliton and the assassinations at Union Station?”

            “Lot of dead Spacers. So?”

            “More than that --quite a few Terrans were killed or hurt, too. It was complicated. For a time, Rega Looms was suspected. In the course of doing my job--covering Rega’s butt, technically--I learned a lot of details about a lot of people, mostly people I’ll never meet and never deal with. But there’ve been exceptions. You, for instance.”

            Coren leaned forward, as if preparing to confide in Damik. “We knew each other for...what? Six years before I left Special Service?”

            “Something like that.”

            “In all that time I never knew you were a Managin. Did you even know that yourself, or did you simply neglect to enter it in your file?” Coren spread his hands. “None of my business, really. Before last year, none of anyone’s. But they turned out to be less than simply embarrassing to someone like you. They turned out to be--can you guess, Brun?--a security risk. Now imagine that. A bunch of fringe idiot anti-Spacer sociopaths an actual security risk. I’ll tell you, Brun, I got a real laugh out of that when I heard it the first time. I thought, ‘Don’t those people at the Terran Bureau of Investigation have anything better to do than upgrade their lists of the possibly dangerous all day long? They should be after real criminals, real threats, real detriments to society.’ “

            “You thought all that, did you?”

            “Yes, I did. I thought all that. But that was then. Today I thought, ‘I wonder what the director of ITE would say if he knew his freshly-promoted chief of inspection at the Baltimor Station used to be one of those sorts?’ And I decided to find out what you would think of it first.”

            Coren sat back and smiled across the table at Damik.

            Slowly, Damik picked up a fork. “Is that all?”

            “No, no, no. You were a real follower back then. I’ve got your name attached to at least four other groups like the Managins. But to be fair, only two of those ever got serious attention from the TBI. “ Coren watched Damik cut a piece of his cutlet and fork it into his mouth. “So, how’s my credit now?”

            “Still not good enough.” Damik grinned crookedly. “I’ll tell you this, they’re all corporate types at the high end. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the guy getting out from rehab this week is one.”

            “Alda Mikels? Is he the one you deal with.”

            “I told you, I don’t know names--”

            Coren shifted in his chair, leaned on his forearms over the small table. “I asked, is that who you deal with?”

            Damik moved back. He studied Coren with narrowed eyes for several seconds. Finally, he shook his head. “Mikels is in jail--how could he do anything with baleys? Look, Coren, that’s as much as you get--”

            Coren sat back. “Let’s see, besides the Managins, you were part of the Campaign for Terran Rights--they were the ones who shut down the vats feeding Calcubay District several years back. About the time you were an active member, under the name of...” Coren looked upward in mock concentration. “Ah, I remember. You called yourself ‘Damil Bruller: Then there was--”

            “Enough.”

            “What’s the problem, Brun? No one can hear us.” Coren gestured at his hemisphere.

            “How big a file do you have on me?”

            “Big enough. Come on, Brun, I don’t have any desire to ruin your life. This has nothing to do with you. I just need to know how to find the people who would have had oversight on the last shipment of baleys out of Petrabor that you so innocently arranged. Seriously, who do you deal with? Who helps you afford real pork?” Coren took his own fork, reached across the table, and delicately worked loose a small piece of the gravy-soaked meat. He popped it into his mouth and smiled. “Very good.”

            “You don’t need to know that.”

            “I’m afraid I do, “ Coren said flatly.

            Damik let out a long, low breath--nearly a growl. “Two people come see me to arrange things: a woman named Tresha, and a man named Gamelin. At least, that’s what she calls him. He never speaks--I assume he’s just muscle, he’s big enough. “

            “Tresha what?”

            “The bank is closed for the day.”

            Coren studied Damik’s eyes, then shrugged. He picked up his hemisphere and dropped it back into his pocket.

            “You don’t ever come talk to me again, Lanra,” Damik warned. “We’re done.”

            “Oh, I wish I could promise that. I really do.” Coren smiled. “Enjoy the rest of your meal.”

Coren entered a bar down the corridor from the restaurant, ordered a drink, then went into the restroom. He shrugged out of his jacket, pulling it inside out, changing it from a dark green to a light blue. He broke a small vial in his hands and smeared the thick liquid through his hair, which turned black in less than a minute. He washed his hands before returning to his drink.

            Damik walked by a few minutes later. Coren gave him several meters before he sauntered after him.

            Damik went through the motions of surveying for a tail, but Coren suspected that his skills were long unused and inadequate. Within two intersections, Damik stopped looking behind him, and picked up his pace.

            Coren followed him to a high speed walkway that carried them south into the vast financial district that filled a lot of the area between Baltimor and D.C. He got off after ten kilometers and used a public comm. Coren counted off two minutes, twenty seconds. Damik left the booth and skipped across the accelerating lanes to continue south.

            Another ten kilometers. Coren took off his jacket and tied it around his waist. Damik had apparently decided no one would follow him from here and never bothered to do another survey. Coren moved closer out of contempt, as if to dare Damik to recognize him, but the man never glanced back.

            Damik got off in a warehouse sector. He descended three levels, to a home kitchen, and took a position leaning against one massive pillar. He stood out in this T-class area and drew a lot of odd looks, but he remained where he stood, feigning ambivalence.

            Coren turned his jacket out again, slung it by one finger over his shoulder, and skirted the edge of the kitchen till he found a table recently vacated. He sat down before the remains of a late, vat-based dinner, the rich yeast-and-grain aroma thick in his nostrils. He gripped the nearly empty glass of beer and pretended to be enjoying the last of it, keeping Damik in the corner of his field of vision.

            About ten minutes went by before anyone approached Damik. An older man in an innocuous black jacket and gray pants came up to him. Coren slipped his optam out, adjusted its range, and waited. Just before Damik and the old man were about to turn away, Coren smoothly raised the device and recorded them.

            They moved away from him. The last Coren saw of them, the old man put his arm around Damik’s shoulders and patted him in an incongruously paternal manner.

SEVEN

_C

oren swallowed a painblock. The throbbing along his neck and shoulder began to ebb. He did not want to take the time to see his doctor, though he knew he should--he still did not know how badly he had been injured in Petrabor.

            He crossed the avenue to the open arcade. Shops alternated with private offices along both sides. Coren breathed in the mingled smells of several restaurants and food vendors. At this hour he saw few people. Later, the place would be as crowded as it had been during the height of the last shift.

            The door he sought turned out to be plain blue bearing a small nameplate: RW ENTERPRISES.

            The image he had recorded of the older man matched quickly to a name--Ree Wenithal--and the company he owned. The public record contained a brief description and little else: a general import-export firm specializing in textiles, licensed eight years ago, with Ree Wenithal listed as sole owner. No recent police reports, at least not in the last three years.

            Coren had nearly paid a second visit to Brun Damik after his cursory check of Wenithal’s company--what was their connection? Then he found the one detail that had brought him directly here: Wenithal had been a cop.

            Coren pressed his fingers to the nameplate.

            “Yes?” a polite voice asked.

            “Coren Lanra to see Mr. Wenithal.”

            “Do you have an appointment, Mr. Lanra?”

            “No, but I think he’ll want to talk to me. I was given his name by a mutual acquaintance: a man named Damik.”

            Coren waited.

            “Very well, Mr. Lanra. Please come in.”

            The door opened.

            At the end of a short hallway, he passed under an arch into a wide, brightly-lit office area. Coren counted eight people working at desks.

            A door at the rear opened and a neatly-dressed man with thin, pearl-white hair came toward him--the same man he had seen meet Brun Damik. He seemed tall from a distance but as he neared, Coren saw that it was an illusion: the man walked and carried himself as if he stood a head taller than anyone else.

            “Mr. Lanra?” He extended a hand. “I’m Ree Wenithal. How may I help you?”

            “A little of your time, a few questions.”

            Wenithal smiled and waved Coren in the direction of his door. Coren keyed the little hemisphere in his pocket.

            The office was dark, expensively furnished with heavy chairs and sofas and polished woodwork. The desk was cluttered with disks and papers. A suit hung from the handle of a closet door to the right. Another sheaf of papers lay beside a half-full cup of coffee on an end table by an upholstered armchair that still held the imprint of its recent occupant.

            Coren turned at the sound of the door clicking shut.

            Wenithal’s left hand was in his jacket pocket.

            “There are easily four other ways to leave this office beside the way you came in,” Wenithal said matter-of-factly.

            “Do I need to know any of them?”

            “I suppose that depends on what you have to say.” His eyes narrowed. “You used a name I know to get in here. But I don’t know you. “

            “But you know my type.”

            “TBI?”

            “Special Service.”

            “But not anymore. You‘ve gone private. “

            “It happens from time to time.”

            “Who do you work for now?”

            “Rega Looms.”

            Wenithal’s face showed a moment of confusion. Then he grunted, took his hand from his pocket, and went to his desk. “Drink?”

            “No, thank you.”

            Wenithal poured a glass for himself and added ice, moving carefully, methodically. “So,” he said, turning to Coren, “what does Mr. Looms want with me now?”

            “‘Now?’ Has he wanted anything from you in the past?”

            Wenithal frowned. “We’ve done business before. I admit, he’s never sent his security people to negotiate a new contract, but...”

            “Nothing. I’m not here at his behest. I’m following up on something else, unrelated to the company.”

            “What would that be?”

            “I’m told that you’re the man to see about baleys.”

            “Who told you that? It wasn’t Brun.”

            “A mutual acquaintance.”

            Wenithal shrugged. “Suit yourself. I don’t know anything about it.”

            “I could check. “

            Wenithal sighed. “I’m assuming you checked me out before you came in here. You know what I used to do. What I know stems from my investigations as a law enforcement officer. Most of that information is several years out of date. I’m really not interested in rehashing old cases with you. “

            “Old cases often refuse to go quietly into a file. Especially if they’re big enough.”

            “And are mine big enough?”

            Coren shrugged.

            “You threatened Brun over this. You are the same man who spoke with him earlier, aren’t you? What particularly do you want?”

            “Names. Who were you investigating?”

            “You don’t know what you want, do you?”

            “I hoped you might be able to help me narrow it down. I’m looking for a baley runner, the one who makes all the arrangements with the shippers before the runners themselves shunt their cargoes.”

            “A particular one, I imagine.” Wenithal smiled sardonically. “Actually, at one time I was investigating your Mr. Looms. “

            “For what?”

            “It didn’t prove out. His name was on a list. You know how that goes. It was coincidental.”

            “So why mention it?”

            “Just to remind you that we all have files. What would someone find in yours?”

            “Less than you might expect. I’ve had a fairly dull career.”

            Wenithal looked surprised, then laughed. “My cases are all a matter of public record--you could look for yourself. Why bother me?”

            “What I’m looking for won’t be in your case logs. For one thing, I doubt very much if the people I’m interested in are part of the public record.”

            “Why not?”

            Coren felt his patience fray. “Is this a test?”

            Wenithal shook his head. “You’ve come into my business, you’ve asked questions that could be construed as accusatory, you’ve made requests you have no right to make and no authority to push through. I haven’t heard one thing yet to convince me that I shouldn’t call the police and have you escorted out.”

            “Nova Levis.”

            Wenithal’s face hardened. His reaction lasted less than a second, but Coren recognized it and it surprised him. Dropping the name of the colony had been a gamble; Wenithal could easily have feigned ignorance. Instead, Wenithal now took this seriously. Coren wished he knew why.

            “This had been slightly amusing till now,” Wenithal said. “Leave. I no longer have any involvement in anything that might help you, and I resent the implication that I should. I’m a businessman. A legitimate businessman.”

            “Yes, well, you’re in imports and exports. Coincidence?”

            “Not at all. I learned quite a bit about the industry working on certain cases. When I retired it was easy to slip right into it. Now leave. This interview is over.”

            “That’s unfortunate. I felt certain we could help each other.”

            “Why would you think that?”

            “You said it yourself: I scared Brun. He came to you before anyone else. Why was that? Paternal advice?”

            “As odd as it may seem, yes.”

            Coren raised an eyebrow skeptically. “Really. Well, if that is indeed the case, then perhaps we should both be concerned about the same thing. If I compromised him and you have his interests at heart, then--”

            “If this is unrelated to Rega Looms, what is it related to? What’s your concern in any of this?”

            “I didn’t say it wasn’t related to Looms, I said it wasn’t related to his company. “

            “Ah. Campaign stuff? You’re private security, so part of your job is to clean up embarrassments. Let me guess--his daughter is in trouble. “

            “Why would you guess that?”

            Wenithal shrugged. “Rumors. I hear things still. Conversations with old friends. She runs baleys, does she?”

            “Not anymore. She’s dead.”

            Coren had not planned to tell anyone, but he wanted to see Wenithal’s reaction. He was not disappointed. Wenithal looked surprised and, for a moment, vulnerable. The bluster and firmness of the ex-cop vanished, replaced by an expression of informed terror. It metamorphosed slowly into a mask of sympathy and sadness.

            “I’m...very sorry to hear that...” He turned away and muttered something more.

            “What was that?”

            “Hmm? Oh, nothing. I was just--my condolences to Mr. Looms. How--?”

            “Running baleys. “

            “I see...yes, I can see that you would be interested. I’m very sorry, Mr. Lanra.” He sat down. “I can’t help you. I wish I could, but I’m long out of it. All I could give you are rumors.”

            “Rumors are often more reliable.”

            “Pah! Police superstition. You hope rumors are more reliable because usually they’re all you get. When I was working I’d have taken a solid fact over rumor any day.” Wenithal looked up, the wall back in place. “Now if you don’t mind, I have a business to take care of. I’m not a policeman anymore. I did that for twenty-two years. No more. Go away.”

Coren wanted to return to his private office and begin reviewing Wenithal’s career. Instead, he took the tubeway west, to Delfi. From Wenithal’s place it was only forty-five kilometers to Looms’ hotel.

            What is it about a Settler colony that would spook an ex-cop like that? His mention of Nova Levis had disturbed Wenithal. If he was part of a baley-running scheme, it might make sense. And if Nova Levis was the name that rattled him, then maybe he was the contact Nyom went through, in which case Coren would visit him again.

            He dozed on the short ride, uneasily, the image of Nyom dangling broken-necked from the ceiling of that bin an unwelcome intrusion.

            He tucked the earpiece of his portable comm in his left ear and keyed his office. The Desk answered.

            “I want you to search police files for the case logs of Wenithal, Ree. Especially his last few cases and anything that might relate to baleys and baley running. Anything on Yuri Pocivil?” he asked sotto voce.

            “Public records search positive result,” the Desk reported. “Pocivil, Yuri. Immigrant, work-pass issued six years ago. Originally from the Settler colony Cassus Thole. Resident of Petrabor District for the last four years. Employee of Improvo Shipping and Storage, Petrabor branch, last three years eight months. Current status, indefinite sickleave. Current location unknown. “

            Sick leave. Dead more likely, Coren thought sourly. He said, “Is there an image attached?”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Forward all this to Sipha Palen on Kopernik Station and continue search, locate. Any new messages?”

            “New message from Myler Towne. Do you wish to hear it?”

            “No. File.” He hesitated. Then: “Make an appointment for me to see my physician, earliest convenience. End link.” He plucked the earpiece out and tucked it back in the slot on the side of his comm.

            Yuri Pocivil was a settler. Unusual for them to return to Earth. Unless he had been born on Cassus Thole and thought Earth had more to offer. It was easy to forget that the entire Settler program was less than two centuries old, with so many emigrants leaving Earth all the time.

            He wondered who owned Improvo Shipping and Storage...

Rega Looms’ entourage filled two floors of the Banil-Holbro, in the center of the theater district in Delfi. Coren stepped off the walkway directly onto the broad plaza fronting the polished false stone-and-gilt facade of the hotel.

            Two of Coren’s people stood just inside talking to the bellcaptain. Their laughter seemed distant and muffled in the lobby.

            Both of them straightened when they saw Coren.

            “Boss,” Shola said. “Back from vacation?”

            “No, don’t worry, I’m not back yet,” Coren said. “Where’s Rega?”

            The other one--New man, Coren thought for a moment. What’s his name? Lukas--came up alongside him and they walked a few paces from the bellcaptain.

            “Mr. Looms is in room four-ninety-one, sir.”

            “Thanks, Lukas. Everything copacetic? Any problems?”

            “Other than lack of sleep?” Lukas smiled wanly.

            Coren laughed. “That’s what overtime pay was invented for,” he said and walked away, toward the elevators.

            Two more of his people waited in the hallway outside room four-ninety-one. They greeted him with silent nods. Coren knocked on the door and entered.

            Rega Looms sat on the edge of a chair, staring at a datum screen on the table between him and Lio Top, his campaign manager. A spread of fruit and vegetables covered a sideboard, next to a big samovar.

            Lio looked up first. “Hi, Coren,” she said. “Didn’t expect you back so soon.”

            “My compulsiveness is bothering me,” he said, choosing a carrot from the tray. “ Just wanted to see how things were going. Or not. “

            Rega Looms continued to focus on the datum. “Hello, Coren. Make yourself comfortable, I’ll be with you in a few minutes. “

            Coren wandered to the far end of the room and sat down in a too-soft armchair. He ate his carrot without really tasting it. Now that he was here, in Rega’s presence, he felt anxious.

            “First thing in the morning,” he heard Looms say finally.

            Lio stood. Rega Looms closed the datum and rubbed his eyes.

            “Six, then?” Lio asked.

            Looms nodded. “That will be fine. Thank you, Lio.”

            She cast Coren a sympathetic look. “G’night, Coren.” Coren’s heartbeat kicked up a notch.

            “Coren,” Rega said. “Come sit down here.”

            Coren’s legs felt leaden, but he took the seat vacated by Lio and made himself look at Rega Looms.

            Too much of Nyom there, he thought, wincing.

            “My daughter, “ Looms said.

            Until this moment Coren had given no thought to what he intended to tell Rega. He justified--excused--this lapse by telling himself that he had yet to accept the facts. But that was facile, a diversion to keep himself from acknowledging the truth, that it hurt to say the words and it would hurt more to see his own reaction mirrored in Rega.

            “She’s dead, Rega.”

            Rega sat back as if slapped. He did not look at Coren, but stared at a point midway between them, eyes locked in place. He closed them slowly and his mouth opened wordlessly.

            Coren’s ears began to hum in the silence.

            “How?” Rega asked, a faint whisper.

            “I don’t have all the details. She was running baleys and went with the last bunch. They all turned up dead on Kopernik Station.”

            “You didn’t prevent her?”

            “How was I supposed to do that?”

            Rega’s eyes snapped open and focussed on Coren. “I pay you to know how to manage those details. “

            “Dragging her out was my only option. Not feasible.”

            Rega did not look away, but the rage drained slightly from his face. Finally, he nodded.

            “Now what?” he asked.

            “I need a few days to find out why and who. I can keep it out of the newsnets that long, but you better be prepared for it to hit. If I come up with answers, you could--” He stopped himself. He almost said, you could turn it to your advantage. It surprised him for a moment.

            “That’s Lio’s job,” Rega said, following his thoughts. He closed his eyes again. “Both of them now,” he whispered. He sighed. “I have a campaign to win. Do what you have to do to find them. If it costs me the election, so be it.” His eyes glistened now. He stood. “Thank you for...for coming by, Coren. I know this wasn’t easy for you.”

            “For either of us.”

            “Do you have any ideas yet?”

            “Possibilities. Do you want to know?”

            “No. Not till you finish. Then I want to know everything.”

            “Yes, sir.”

            As Coren started for the door, Rega caught his arm.

            “Everything, Coren.”

            Rega let go and walked away, toward the bedroom. Coren waited till the door snicked shut before he left.

By the time Coren returned to his office, third shift was just ending. His stomach churned--the carrot had triggered his hunger--so he stopped by a small carry-out within walking distance of his building and bought a sandwich.

            “Good morning,” the Desk greeted him. “Please verify identity.”

            Coren sat down and went through the procedure, unwrapping his sandwich with his free hand.

            “Welcome, Mr. Lanra. You have two messages. One from Myler Towne, one from Ambassador Burgess, Auroran Embassy.”

            Coren stopped chewing. “Burgess? Time.”

            “Six-ten.”

            Half an hour ago.

            Coren finished chewing and swallowed. “The one from Myler Towne--is it a repeat of the first message?”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “File it. “

            “Yes, sir.”

            “No word from Jeta Fromm?”

            “No, sir.”

            “Anything further on Yuri Pocivil?”

            “No, sir.”

            “Ree Wenithal?”

            “Yes, sir. Public records plus case logs, per parameters.”

            “Good, good. New search. I want to know who owns Improvo Shipping and Storage, and which freighter and passenger lines it does business with.”

            “Yes, sir.”

            Coren stretched lazily until his shoulder twinged. “Did you make that physician’s appointment?”

            “Yes, sir. Your physician has an opening six days from now, second shift.”

            Good thing it’s not an emergency, Coren thought wryly. “Okay. What specifically do you have on Wenithal? Display.”

            The screen rose from the desk and file headers scrolled down. Coren caught the words “Nova Levis” and said “Stop. Case file number 82-791-AKB. Review.”

            “Infant abduction case involving several prominent families. Ree Wenithal primary investigator. Eighteen month investigation culminating in sixty-two percent recoveries and the closing of eight orphanages and four bioremedial research laboratories. “

            “How does Nova Levis figure in?”

            “R and D facility which came under investigation relative to Ree Wenithal’s investigation. Laboratory cleared of any charges.”

            Cleared...but the name scared Wenithal just the same...

            “Collate the particulars: names of families, the children involved, witness lists, and other sources.”

            “Yes, sir. Do you wish to audit Ambassador Burgess’s message?”

            “Not yet. Alert me two hours from now.”

            “Yes, sir.”

            He rubbed his face and eyes as if to massage away the fatigue.

            He felt incompetent. Things had gotten away from him already. It had happened before, but he never got used to it. So much of police work relied on chance and luck--the rest was a question of tenacity. Coren had a good track record of wearing a case down until he solved it. But that took time, and right now he did not have that luxury. He needed to know now.

            He had lost Jeta Fromm. That was his one chance of finding out about that strange robot quickly enough to find Nyom’s killers before the murders went public. The more time passed, the less likely he could wrap this up before the news broke.

            Going to Brun Damik had been a gamble. Not a bad one, Coren thought, considering the rearrangement of shipping schedules out of his office for Petrabor. And Damik did know something. But instead of the answer that would have made Coren’s life easier, he led him to Ree Wenithal. In truth, despite the curious fact that Damik had called Wenithal first after Coren’s visit, Coren would have walked away from Wenithal as a useless lead.

            Except for Wenithal’s reaction to the name Nova Levis. But now Coren knew that Nova Levis was the name of a research lab. How did that relate to the colony? And what did kidnapping have to do with it?

            “Desk, display data package received from Sipha Palen.”

            The screen came up. A menu scrolled across it. Coren read through the choices--autopsy, crime scene, material forensics--and touched the icon over crime scene.

            The screen showed the cargo bin. Coren hesitated, then accessed the internal view.

            Bodies stacked in couches crowding the walls...

            He reached for the screen and accesssed the image of the dead Brethe dealer, then gazed at it thoughtfully. “Desk, I want a search for all manufacturers of prosthetic devices. Find a match for the hand pattern found on the woman’s shoulder, and the type of prosthetic capable of doing this kind of damage.”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “End,” he said. The screen went blank. “I’ll go over it later.”

            “Yes, sir.”

            He scooped up his sandwich and went into his private space. He was tired and hungry and the painblock had worn off sometime in the last hour. It would do no good to rush into anything as unexpected as this.

            The images of Nyom still covered the table. He gathered them up and placed them back in the carton. He sat down then, and finished eating.