D
erec opened his eyes in the half-light of sleep mode. The lights had dimmed shortly after Masid had left his cell. Derec lay awake for some time, mulling over what Masid had told him, and had gradually drifted off to sleep.
He raised himself on his elbows and stared across the corridor to Masid’s cell. Masid seemed still asleep on his cot. Derec sat up and rubbed his eyes, wondering what had awakened him. He yawned. He went to the bowl in the corner and relieved himself.
He turned around, resealing his pants, and started at the shape staring at him through the cell door.
It was tall, broad across the shoulders, with long arms that hung to the sides. A pale halo outlined a bald head but left the face in darkness. It wore a long overcoat that fell nearly to its ankles.
It. Derec could not consider it otherwise. His subconscious labeled it as kindred to what Coffee had witnessed in the cargo bin, even though it bore no overt resemblance.
Derec swallowed hard.
It walked away from the door. Derec rushed forward and pressed his face to the mesh. He saw it walking toward the far end, to the cell of the new inmate.
“Hey!” Derec shouted. “Somebody! Intruder!”
With startling speed, it spun around and returned to Derec’s cell. Derec staggered back.
It placed a hand against the door, fingers splayed. The air suddenly smelled faintly of ozone. The door slid open with a sudden crack.
“Shit,” Derec breathed.
It seemed to fill the cell, head nearly brushing the ceiling. Derec wanted to yell, to argue, deny it the right to do this. He imagined slipping past it, breaking into the corridor, and fleeing; he was smaller and it seemed to be moving so slowly. Coolness spread over his thighs, down his calves, then across his shoulders, up his neck and across his scalp. He felt the beginnings of quivering somewhere around his spine.
It raised one arm and opened a hand, took another step forward. Derec could make out details in its face now and he thought he recognized it. Human face, but wrong, damaged...
“Looking for me?” Masid suddenly called out.
It frowned, then whirled about and stepped toward the cell door.
A brilliant scalding flash erupted around it. It dropped to one knee, staggered, and started to rise. Another flash. Derec flinched and backed up against the wall. The ozone smell was gone, replaced now by burning. He heard a roar, deep-throated and grainy, as if sound were being forced through too small a larynx, and heard the crackle then of a blaster, saw the reddish glow through closed eyelids. Dark ness. Crackle, glow...and stillness.
“Derec.”
He blinked furiously, trying to focus on the voice. Masid. Derec looked at the door of his cell. A man stood there now, the angled shape of a weapon in one hand.
“Are you all right?” Derec asked.
Masid snorted, amused. “I’m supposed to ask you that.”
“Um...” Derec pushed away from the wall. His legs felt slightly disconnected from his hips, but he could walk. Glad I pissed first, he thought, and laughed at himself. “Sure. I’m...not hurt...”
He caught the edge of the cell door and gripped it tightly.
Masid smelled faintly of sweat. He nodded toward a shape on the corridor floor.
The cyborg lay crookedly sprawled, its coat spread out beneath it like a pool of blood in the half-light. Smoke wafted from its shoulders and chest.
“My apologies,” Masid said. “I was asleep till you yelled.” He frowned. “Was it coming for you?”
“No, it...” Derec swallowed again and gestured toward the far end of the block. “It was heading for the new inmate.”
“That’s not what was supposed to happen,” Masid said grumpily. “We expected someone to come for me. “
The lights came full-on then.
The sound of running feet filled the corridor. Masid turned suddenly and hissed.
“Well, my cover’s blown,” he said sotto voce to Derec.
Derec pointed at the corpse. “They can see it now.”
People flooded around them. Palen stopped at the foot of the dead thing. Harwol stared from a few steps back.
Derec managed to walk toward it. The quivering centered now in his chest, along his sides, and over his pelvis, but he could move reasonably well.
Masid had shot it four times. Each hit was clear by the ugly burn on left shoulder, sternum, right side of the neck, and scalp. Bloody red patches mingled with ashen black. Fibers curled out of the wounds. Cloth and skin were seared together and blue, gray, and worm-white veins shot through the bubbled centers of the patches. Derec felt acid at the back of his throat, but swallowed it back.
The eyes were open. They looked strangely perfect, like exquisite copies of real eyes. No moisture, no veins in the whites, and now the irises were slightly different sizes. But the radial patterns of the dull gray pupils seemed precisely symmetrical.
The skin showed irregularities, like acne scars or old injuries that still contained fragments of whatever had done damage.
“Is this like the thing we saw in the recovered memories?” Palen asked.
“I--” Derec had to swallow again. “I wouldn’t be surprised. It opened my cell door by shorting out the lock. “
Reluctantly, he lifted the hand that had done the job and turned it over. Wires showed, spread over the palm. Derec pushed back the sleeve; the wiring ran up the arm.
“It shouldn’t have been able to open it,” Palen said.
“Was your Brethe dealer’s door shorted?”
Palen nodded. “We reprogrammed them then to remain shut in the event of a short.”
“What did you see on surveillance?”
“Nothing. Until your door opened. Then Masid came out of his cell. But this...” she gestured at the body between them. “Nothing.”
“It would be interesting to know how...”
Derec pulled the coat back from its shoulder. A small control box was attached to the shirt.
“Damn,” Agent Harwol said.
“What?” Palen asked.
“That,” Harwol pointed at the box. “You said masking technology, Mr. Avery. That’s it. Military spec, alternating wavelength...stolen.”
“Black market?” Palen asked.
Harwol nodded solemnly.
“Stolen military tech isn’t the worrisome part,” Derec said. “Whoever supplied it is also dealing in cyborgs.”
They all stared at him, expressions carefully neutral, the studied look of law enforcement unwilling to show worry when they were likely more than a little scared. Derec tasted acid once more and walked away, willing himself to not throw up in front of such pointless professionalism.
He stopped, staring at the cell at the far end. The man there sat on his cot, watching, face pale. After a few seconds, Derec went up to his cell door.
“So, who are you?” Derec asked. This close, he looked familiar.
“Who wants to know?” the man snapped back.
The voice, combined with that face...It took a few seconds for Derec to put it all together.
It was the dockworker from Petrabor. The one shown in the memories of the DW-12.
“Why was Gamelin coming to kill you?” he asked.
The man’s face turned even paler. He stood abruptly and went to the back of his cell.
“What’s going on?” Masid asked, coming up alongside him.
Derec gestured at the inmate. “This one worked the dock in Petrabor, middleman to those dead baleys. Who is he?”
“Yuri Pocivil,” Palen said, joining them. “Coren sent me his records. He’s been looking for him. We picked him up in the Settler section.”
“You mean, “ Masid said, with mock indignation, “that thing was coming to kill you and not me? All my careful planning and baiting went for nothing?”
Pocivil just glared back at them.
“We have to talk, “ Masid said to him. “What did you do to piss these people off?”
“I’m not saying anything to you,” Pocivil said.
“Then maybe we should just release you now,” Palen said, “and let you take your chances.”
Pocivil looked away. Suddenly, he lurched to his toilet and began heaving. The sound reminded Derec of his own urge. He walked quickly away.
He managed to suppress it, though he kept walking. No one called out or tried to stop him from leaving the cell block. He emerged into the security station. Everyone had gone into the corridor, leaving the consoles untended. Derec sat down before a bank of monitors, grateful to be off his feet.
Masid joined him.
“He’ll talk,” Masid predicted. “He’s terrified. I think it will occur to him that his best chance to stay alive now is to cooperate with us.”
“He might wonder if we can really protect him,” Derec said.
“Can’t we? Seems to me I managed to kill that thing pretty dead. “
“It took a bit, though, didn’t it?”
Masid shrugged. “Cyborgs, occlusion tech, dead baleys,” he said. “Any suspects in mind?”
“That’s your job, isn’t it?”
“So they keep telling me. There are a few arms dealers big enough to handle this kind of thing.”
“We just need one. “
“All right. Kynig Parapoyos. “
“Why him?”
“He’s the great bogeyman of the galaxy. Anything you can’t pin down to someone else gets blamed on him. But he does have his fingers deeper into military tech than the others, and the widest distribution network. He runs an intelligence agency that’s as good as anything a legitimate government can field. If nothing else, he’s the most logical choice.”
Derec nodded. “For the sake of argument, let’s say that.”
“All right. Then the next question is, what does he want with cyborgs?”
“The ideal soldiers.”
“He sells weapons to soldiers. “
“So? How profitable would it be to have something that could do it all?”
“Ideal mercenaries?” Masid shrugged. “I’m less impressed with mercenaries than with dedicated patriots and fanatics. Mercenaries are practical--miss a payment, they go away. They have a cost analysis attitude. If the cost is too high, they go away. What would make cyborgs different?”
“Depends. Research into them was suspended because they were unpredictable.”
“Like people?”
Derec shook his head. “No. People are predictable, at least in certain broad patterns. “
“So a cyborg would be a weapon that might turn and shoot its owner?”
“Maybe. If I recall correctly, they couldn’t be programmed with the Three Laws. Something in the organic side of things that kept sliding around them. “
“They’re positronic, then?”
“The ones the Calvin Institute worked with were, yes. These? I don’t know.”
“How quickly could you find out?”
“Get me back to the lab.”
Masid nodded and straightened. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Derec watched him go back into the cell block.
Too many questions to answer. Where would cyborgs be manufactured? Nova Levis? Could an industry be hidden there? A whole world? Why not? Was that perhaps the real reason behind the embargo?
But the technology...
“Derec. “
Rana stood in the doorway to the guard room. “Director Polifos is missing.”
“Did that robot take Director Polifos?”
Harwol spoke with a solid dispassion belied only by the glint of impatience in his eyes.
Derec, Harwol, and Rana stood in the positronics lab, facing each other.
“Why would you think that?” Derec asked.
“The robot is missing, Polifos is missing. I don’t know, but in my policeman’s way of looking at things that suggests a connection.”
“A robot wouldn’t do that,” Derec said.
“Really? You know that for sure? You also said it was collapsed. “
“It was,” Rana answered.
“Which means that it couldn’t just get up and walk out,” Harwol said.
“Normally, yes.”
“What does that mean, ‘normally’? Could it or couldn’t it?”
“On its own,” Derec said, “no. It had to have been removed. By someone who knew something about robotics.”
“Anyone working in this lab could have taken it, then. Perhaps even Polifos himself.”
It was not a question. Derec turned toward Harwol. Behind him, Hofton stood beside Ambassador Leri. Two of Polifos’s techs stood further back, watching anxiously.
“I don’t think it’s reasonable anymore to assume,” Derec said, “that the people working in this lab are the only ones on Kopernik familiar with robotics.”
Harwol regarded him steadily, then nodded. “Do you think there could be another cyborg?”
“Do you mean did a cyborg steal the robot?” Derec did not want to contemplate the possibility of more than one cyborg. “But why?”
Harwol shrugged. He was out of his depth, but refused to show it. “The thing we saw from the recovered memories,” he said, stepping toward the console, “didn’t look like what we caught tonight.”
We? Derec thought sourly. “No, it didn’t. But then it changed by the time Palen’s people opened the bin. No one remarked on anything unusual when the bodies were carried out, so it must have looked human. “
“Is that possible?”
“Malleable materials are common enough. I can imagine, though I can’t describe, how you might make something that could do that.” He thought of Bogard, brand new and newly aware, in its amalloy body, capable of changing shape to meet circumstances. But it never looked anything but artificial, always appeared to be what it was: a robot. Derec glanced at the monitors, then. Thales had said nothing so far.
Harwol rounded on Derec. “If I find out you had anything to do with this--”
“Why would I?”
“You didn’t want us to have the robot. Maybe you had legitimate reasons; maybe not.”
“Don’t waste your time suspecting me. I was in a cell, remember?”
Harwol suddenly grabbed Derec’s shirt and walked him back against the examination table. He pressed Derec against the hard surface. Harwol’s breath flowed hot across his face.
“I don’t have time to be diplomatic. I have dead agents and a lot of interference and now a piece of evidence is missing. I do not need self-important Spacer attitude. “
Derec braced himself on the table. “I used to be of the opinion that violence was the last refuge of the incompetent.”
Harwol’s eyes narrowed. “And now?”
“Now? I think it’s the first choice of an idiot.”
Harwol’s grip tightened, and he lifted Derec slightly from the floor.
“Beat it out of me,” Derec said. “That’s always the best way to solve a problem. Works for me all the time.”
“Agent Harwol. “ Palen’s voice cut through the sudden stillness. Her voice was calm, authoritative. “I want to see you privately. “
Derec’s heart hammered. Slowly, Harwol eased his grip. Derec’s feet touched the floor. Harwol stepped back.
“I want that robot,” he said. “I want it found and returned.”
Derec cleared his throat. “And if I can’t do that?”
“Then we’ll see how big an idiot I am.”
Harwol turned to glare at Palen, who stood nearby, hands on hips.
“Now, “ she said.
Derec watched them all leave, then sat down. “If I live through the night...”
“Sir--” Hofton began.
Derec held up a finger. “Where’s Polifos?”
“I don’t know,” Hofton said. “No one seems to remember when they saw him last.”
“Rana?”
She shrugged.
“All right, never mind.” He looked over the console. “We have another subject to do an excavation on.”
“Another robot?” Rana asked.
“No, not quite. A cyborg.” Derec turned to Hofton. “Get Palen’s pathologist--what’s his name? Baxin. I think he should assist with this one. In the meantime, where the hell did Coffee go?”
“I can answer that question, Derec,” Thales said. “Coffee walked out of here after I reloaded a functional matrix. “
“What did he do?” Rana asked, leaning over Derec’s shoulder to peer at the displays.
“We talked about this possibility,” Derec said. He looked from one screen to another, trying to follow the RI’s step trees. “Thales has been working at recovering Bogard’s matrix so we could find out what happened when it collapsed. Because I’d built so many peripherals onto Bogard, it partly became a hardware problem. Thales thought it was a question of raw memory--not enough--but when he got to use this system, he had enough, and realized that wasn’t the whole problem.”
“A positronic brain,” Thales said, “is not simply programming. Programming can be corrupted. The physical pathways are as necessary to its function as the matrix being run on them. Therefore, I determined that in order to successfully recover Bogard I needed to load its matrix into a brain.”
“You had no way of knowing,” Derec said, “if this would maintain its integrity.”
“I was reasonably confident. But, no, I had no way to be certain other than to load it and see.”
“You gambled.”
“There was an imperative.”
“Explain.”
“The situation has evolved,” Thales said. “Ariel and Coren Lanra have been attacked. Both are safe and Ariel is back at the embassy. She has been requesting that you contact her as soon as possible. However, there is a local problem which may pose a threat. I have traced the gates I found in the lab systems. There are two destinations. Most of them go directly to a location in the Settler sections. One, however, feeds directly to Director Rotij Polifos’s apartments.”
“What does that have to do with Coffee?” Rana asked.
“Three Law imperative, Rana,” Thales replied. “I am required to protect. I cannot effectively do so as a stationery system.”
“What,” Derec asked, “is Coffee now?”
“The unit previously designated ‘Coffee’ is contained in a memory buffer within my system. The robot now contains a composite matrix of myself and Bogard. It is effectively what you initially intended in designing Bogard.”
Derec felt excited and worried. “It’s functional?”
“After running several diagnostics and situation simulations, I was confident in disconnecting it from the link.”
Derec’s hands curled into fists. “So where is it?”
“In the Settler section. It went to follow up on the gates we discovered, and to attempt to locate Director Polifos. “ Thales paused. “It seemed the most reasonable avenue of action.” Another pause. “Did I err?”
A
ll we have to do, Coren thought as he rode the walk way toward the embassy district, is find them. Or let them find us...
Neither thought inspired him. He started to raise a hand to his eyes, to rub them, and his shoulder spasmed. When the pain subsided, he resigned himself to standing as motionless as possible till he reached his destination.
He thought about what Towne had told him.
The idea that Nyom was no more than an incidental casualty grated, but it made a kind of deeply banal sense. Rega entertained conspiracy theories, believing the universe was being manipulated by unseen cartels and malevolent forces. But Coren had worked for the government; he knew better. Things were a mess most of the time. Coren took compensatory comfort in that, after he thought about it for a while. It meant, finally, that no one was really in charge, and in the end he preferred it that way.
But it was intellectual comfort. In his gut, he wanted very much to blame someone when things went wrong. He very much wanted to hold vast powers responsible and perhaps try to bum them down to atone for their misdeeds.
He wanted Nyom’s death to mean something.
It did not. Except to him. It was difficult seeing that as sufficient.
Coren glanced around. The walkway carried him now through an office district. Stairs led up and down into a jumbled landscape of boxy office complexes, some with windows, most with illuminated signs giving the name of the company or just a number. Walkways and enclosed corridors crossed above him, connecting one side to the other, and above that were the larger stained surfaces of higher levels. He saw a grid marker pass by and started moving to the slower lanes.
He still had another person to question: Tresha. What to ask her, though?
To begin with, why kill a data troll and take her place? Perhaps the information Towne had commissioned her to find related directly to the baleys. But how?
And he was not not certain that the woman was this mysterious Tresha. It was simply a conclusion--a logical one, but not something upon which he could be absolutely certain. By the time he got back to the embassy, perhaps Ariel would have made the final determination.
Two more exits. Three people came from the opposite direction. Coren followed them with his eyes as they passed by and continued on
Twenty or so meters behind him two people rode his lane. A man and a woman. Immediately his fatigue seemed to subside, replaced by a wary tension. He kept his posture unchanged and looked ahead. A corridor split off from the avenue, but too close to make his exit look natural. He was four exits from the most direct route to the Auroran Embassy.
Perhaps it was only coincidence. He was fairly sure Tresha was under guard at the Auroran Embassy, but that left her “muscle,” Gamelin, still loose. Coren had no valid reason to feel that he was being followed, but...
He watched the corridor pass by and casually stepped over to the next slower lane. Only one separated him now from the stationery lanes. He glanced back. The couple had moved closer.
Coren stepped to the slowest lane. He saw an archway approaching that opened on a public mall. At five meters, he left the moving lane and strode purposefully toward the arch. He heard footsteps behind him.
He passed beneath the arch and ran.
The mall was a collection of cafes and clubs. The urgent throb of music pushed at the air. People looked up from tables nearby as he sprinted past.
He reached the far end to be confronted by a broad stair heading up. Behind him, the two people came running.
Coren bounded up the steps, three and four at a time. His breathing was heavy at the top, where he came to a large plaza with a holographic fountain in the center. Color and shape danced and shimmered thickly in the air.
He skirted the perimeter of the fountain and palmed a stunner. He thumbed off the safety and searched for an open door, but there were only windows encircling the plaza. On the opposite side, another staircase led up to the next level.
Coren judged the distance, took long strides, and hit the rim of the fountain. He closed his eyes tightly as he jumped across two meters of water to land on the edge of the central display platform. One more step and he slitted open one eye. He stood in the middle of the holographic display. All around him color prismed, split, washed one into the other. He glimpsed the top of the stairs he had ascended through brief gaps in the imaging. Crouching, he watched.
The pair came into the plaza and stopped. They exchanged glances and drew weapons, but through the dance of light Coren could not tell what kind of pistols they held. Each one circled the fountain in the opposite direction. Coren watched the woman, turning as she moved.
They joined on the other side of the fountain, spoke briefly, then hurried up the next staircase. Coren counted to ten and jumped out the far side of the display.
He wanted to continue running, reach the embassy, and worry about these two later, but that would be sloppy. He did not know if others waited further along the way, a second team waiting to pick up where the first left off. Slowly he walked around the fountain until he could see the landing above. Empty.
Silently, he walked up the stairs.
At the top, just beyond the wall that rose on either side of the landing, he found a boulevard. Residential warrens lined the far side. Personal transports sped by in both directions. He saw a moving walkway across the six lanes. A bridge spanned the trafficway to his right. He leaned cautiously out and glanced down the walkway, left and right.
The woman stood about three meters along, pressed against the wall. She seemed to be watching the footbridge. A moment later, Coren saw movement on it--the man.
It was a clear shot. He aimed carefully and fired. The man spasmed briefly and fell.
The woman made a move in the direction of the bridge. Coren rushed up behind her. She started to turn, bringing her own weapon up, when he reached her. He grabbed her gun hand and pushed it down sharply, bending the hand forward against the underside of the wrist. Her fingers loosened automatically and the weapon fell.
But then she drove her foot back against his shin. The pain surprised him. He lost his grip and she broke free. She spun around and slammed the heel of her hand against his collarbone. Coren snapped back against the wall. He saw her arm go back, preparing for another blow. Gracelessly, he kicked her across the ribs. She staggered back and fell to the sidewalk.
She sat up, began to rise. Coren dropped to one knee between her legs and pushed his pistol against her cheek.
“Tresha?” he asked on spec.
She frowned. “Who?”
He saw a shoulder holster beneath her jacket, and pushed the short coat off her. The rig held a commlink, restraints, and an ID folder. He plucked the little black case out and flipped it open. “You’re a cop?”
“Chavez. Homicide. And you’re in a lot of trouble,” she managed to say, her voice shaking.
“Why are you following me?”
She glared at him. Coren dropped the ID wallet in her lap and stood.
“I don’t have time for this. You tell your--”
“Put down the weapon!”
Coren turned. A uniform cruiser stood ten meters off now, two officers alongside the vehicle, weapons drawn.
“It’s all right,” he called, raising his weapon, fingers spread. “I have--”
“Time to wake up. You weren’t stunned that badly. Come on.”
Coren resisted opening his eyes. He had been aware of sounds around him for some time, though it was hard to judge how long he had actually been awake. Neural stuns did odd things to time sense, among other things.
He recognized the voice, though. He blinked. The light was low, for which he was grateful.
A broad-shouldered man with short, graying hair stood above him, watching, his bright green eyes intent.
“Inspector…Capel?”
“Very good, Mr. Lanra. Let’s hope the rest of your memory works as well. Can you sit up?”
Coren closed his eyes, trying to orient himself. He was lying on a cot. He sat up slowly, levering himself with his arm. His left shoulder throbbed with deep pain and he sucked air between his teeth.
“Here,” Capel said.
Hands grasped his arms; Capel pulled his right side around, and Coren swung his legs over the edge of the cot.
“Oh, that hurts,” Coren groaned.
“You’re bruised. Hairline fracture on the clavicle--no wonder the painkillers you’ve been taking don’t work. You should take better care of yourself, Mr. Lanra. Stop doing foolish things. Like running from the police.”
Coren looked up at Capel. “I was surrendering to the uniforms.”
“They saw a weapon,” Capel said reasonably. “You’d already shot one officer and had the other under threat.”
“I was checking her ID. They were following me.”
“You have some reason to be running from strangers?”
“Strangers usually don’t follow me.”
“Here.”
Capel offered a glass of amber liquid. Coren automatically accepted it and straightened. “How long?”
“They brought you in an hour ago. If you hadn’t been so beaten up you’d have been awake by then. Since you weren’t, we brought you to the infirmary first.”
“Thanks.” Coren lifted the glass and sniffed. He recognized the acid smell of the standard enhancer cocktail used by people in high stress occupations--like emergency medical techs and the military and police--to provide quick, temporary revitalization. He would sleep later, sleep deeply, if he drank this now, and he was not sure he liked that. But his head felt wrapped in thick wadding and his thoughts came sluggishly. He drank down half the liquid.
“Who did you think we were?” Capel asked after a minute.
Coren felt sharper already. One drawback was that the pain in his shoulder was more acute.
“First, were you following me, or did I stumble into something?”
“We were looking for Ree Wenithal. You were seen leaving his apartment warren, so I assigned a team to follow you. After you left Myler Towne, I decided we needed to have a talk. “
“Ah. You found out Wenithal was Damik’s sponsor.”
Capel nodded. “Do you know where he is?”
“Last I knew, in the Auroran embassy.”
Capel frowned. “What’s he doing there?”
“It’s a long story.”
Capel backed away from the cot and sat down. He crossed his left leg over his right, propped his head on his left hand. “You aren’t leaving till I hear it all.”
Coren finished the glass of unpleasant fluid, looked around the sterile infirmary room, and decided that he had no real choice. Still, he felt compelled to bargain.
“Quid pro quo?” he asked.
“We’ll see.” Capel smiled. “You go first.”
In his years as a government agent, Coren had found that lying to the authorities only gained time, and not very much at that. If you were not part of the center of their attention, a lie could pass almost unnoticed, but if you entered their field of interest even a little bit, lying never proved a sound policy. The only people who could get away with it were those who could afford to hire people to lie for them.
Coren doubted he could talk his way past Capel with anything less than a complete disclosure. At this point, it might be worth it to see what Capel knew. Besides, he had no time for anything else.
When Coren finished, Capel was leaning forward, arms on his knees, listening intently. After a time, Capel straightened and pushed a button on the wall behind him.
“Coffee, two,” Capel said, then folded his hands in his lap and looked at Coren. “I suppose it’s occurred to you to wonder why Damik ran to Wenithal in the first place?”
“I was coming to ask him that the night you and I met.”
Capel’s face flexed in a half-smile. The door opened, and a uniformed officer brought in a tray bearing two cups and a carafe. He placed it on the table beside Capel and left. Capel poured and handed a cup to Coren. After the revitalizer, it smelled wonderful.
“We dug up Wenithal’s case logs after we found the connection,” Capel said. “He was a reliable cop for most of his career, nothing special. That last case was his entree to bigger things. Very high profile. And very successful, as far as it went.”
“That’s rather ambivalent.”
“He didn’t finish. Arrests were made, several facilities were closed down, a big media event ;resulted making him out to be a hero. It benefitted everyone more than not, so Wenithal was allowed to quietly resign. But he wasn’t guilt free, and some people wondered if his success hadn’t been just a little too convenient. “
“You’re saying he was corrupt?”
Capel shrugged. “My personal take, after reviewing the logs, is that Eurosector Enforcement Agent Ree Wenithal was handed that success as a reward to stop looking. The missing children that were recovered comprised less than one percent of the total, which is still a considerable number. But he was far from over when he started arresting people. You know and I know that once you start making arrests, those you don’t get in the first wave go to ground and get harder to find. If they’re adequately resourced, you never get them. They leave Earth and you lose them.”
“And he lost some?”
“I’d say he probably lost the core perpetrators. Nobody who served time as a result of that case damaged the organization by their absence. There was a four- or five-year hiatus and the abductions began again. The market wasn’t shut down, the routes weren’t closed. What happened afterward was all public relations, and no one was willing to look foolish by calling it into question. “
“No other agents followed up?”
“Two of Wenithal’s partners from those days died shortly thereafter--one from natural causes, the other in an accident. There were three people in the civil advocate’s office connected to the case who died.” Capel waved a hand. “All the deaths were explained, and from what I can tell the explanations were legitimate, but the fact remains that those closest to events either died or quickly found new careers. I’m reading all this and I’m thinking coverup. Call me paranoid. It’s ancient history, though, so there’s no way to find out for sure. “
Coren sipped his coffee. “And Damik?”
“Damik is a little less problematic. He was definitely receiving bribes. Most of them were coming through Wenithal. Nothing large by some standards, a lot of gray market material--adjusted tariff stamps, relabelled goods, that kind of stuff. But he was also plugged into the baley network. One of them, anyway.”
“Which one?”
Capel shook his head. “Does it matter? As it turns out, the one being run by Imbitek under Alda Mikels. Oh, yes, we knew about it, but we could never get enough evidence for warrants. Besides, baley-running is generally considered a victimless crime. These people want to leave, who are we to say no? The laws are more symbolic than anything. What’s relevant here is that ten months ago Wenithal cut Damik off. Within a month, Damik had found other sources of income, and was finding more, but it hadn’t yet equaled what he’d been getting from Wenithal.”
“I saw reported payments in Wenithal’s records to Damik up till a few weeks ago. “
“Really. Where did you see those?”
Coren cleared his throat. “Something Wenithal left lying open on his desk.”
Capel smiled wryly. “In any case, there had apparently been a falling out between them. Maybe Wenithal had started paying him again, but we know he had stopped payments for several months. “
“How do you know they were bribes?”
“Because of the source of Wenithal’s funds.”
“May I guess? Either the Hunter Group or Kysler Diversified. “
“No. Imbitek. Or was. This new guy, Towne, has been trying to clean the company up, shutting down a lot of its illicit ventures. But under Mikels they’d been buying from Wenithal for years, except they paid him five times market value for what he supplied them. Half that money ended up going directly to Damik.”
“Imbitek...”
“Something else, though.” Capel took a folder off the table beside him and handed it to Coren. “Look at this and tell me what you think.”
Coren pulled an image out of the folder. It showed a naked female body, horribly bruised from face to shins. “Same kind of lividity as Damik.”
“That’s my thought. I did a records search for similar cases. That one was the closest match. “
“Who was she?”
“We don’t know. No ID. Found her in Lyzig District six days ago.” Capel retrieved the print and returned it to the folder. “You were in Lyzig not long ago yourself, weren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe a coincidence. I hoped maybe you could identify her.”
“Run a match for ‘Jeta Fromm: She was a data troll.”
Capel blinked, then pressed the button again. An officer appeared, and Capel told her to run a check on that ID.
“If it comes up positive,” Coren asked, “does that make me a suspect?”
“If I thought that, you’d be in custody. No, but you’re close to this. Closer than I am, anyway.”
“That’s your feeling?”
“That’s my feeling.” Capel finished his coffee and set the cup down. “If you could talk to anyone you wanted to right now, who would it be?”
Coren thought for a moment. “Alda Mikels.”
“He gets released tomorrow morning. We have till then to interview him.”
“Privately?” Coren asked with emphasis.
“Very. Interested?”
“Very.” Coren stood. “Why?”
Capel raised his eyebrows. “You mean, why am I letting you into this? Very simple. Some of the people who were around when Wenithal closed his last case are still around, only in even higher positions than they were then. If this goes where I think it will, I may need someone outside the department. “
“Do you trust me?”
“I looked at your record.” Capel pressed the button to be let out. “Shall we?”
Marland Reformatory and Social Reclamation Center occupied a huge area north of D.C. Capel took Coren through the security passage that linked directly to police headquarters, a ten-minute ride in a car designed to carry prisoners behind a transparent security shield that separated them from their guards.
Coren waited while Capel arranged an interview room. Silently, the two men followed a uniformed escort up four levels and down a long hall. The interview room was comfortable, with plush chairs all around and a writing desk. Coren was surprised to find it open, with no indication of any security wall to keep prisoners from interviewers.
Capel noticed his reaction. “We have no surveillance, either.”
Coren took his hemisphere from his pocket. “What happens if I switch this on?”
“Nothing. You don’t trust me?”
“You, yes. “ Coren thumbed the field damper on and returned it to his pocket.
Capel nodded and took a seat.
“How much freedom do I get?” Coren asked.
“Don’t abuse your welcome, “ Capel said. “Keep it within reason. “
A few minutes later, the opposite door slid open and Alda Mikels stepped through.
He had lost weight, Coren saw, and his thick mane of white hair seemed thinner. The lines in his face sank deeper and his skin looked slightly waxen.
“Mr. Mikels,” Capel said. “I appreciate you taking the time to see us. Please, sit. “
Alda Mikels frowned at Coren as he eased himself into a chair. “You’re welcome, I’m sure, Inspector. Do I know you?”
“I’m Inspector Capel, Homicide Division. This is Coren Lanra, head of security for--”
“For Rega Looms. Yes, I thought you looked familiar. Is there a reason for this visit, or just a last chance to see me in prison?”
“We have a few questions we thought you might help us with, “ Capel said.
Mikels focussed on Capel. “Homicide? I haven’t killed anyone. Not in here, at least.”
“That remains to be seen, “ Capel said. “Do you know Ree Wenithal?”
“Should I?”
“You’ve been overpaying him for textiles for years,” Capel said. “From the amounts, we thought perhaps you had a personal relationship with him. “
“A good supplier, then?” Mikels said, shrugging. “I don’t remember. “
“Odd. He remembers you,” Coren said. “Even kept a special log of all your transactions.”
“Really?”
“He was cut off by your successor,” Capel said.
“I wouldn’t know anything about it. What Towne is doing to my company...well, I’ll find out all about it soon enough.”
“You’re being modest,” Coren said. “I think you know all about it now.”
“And why would that be?”
“You’re waging a war for control of your company. I’m impressed with your resources--it must be very difficult to conduct business from a cell. But it’s not a very precise way to do it. Some people have died as a result. According to Tresha, the orders went through Wenithal, along with his monthly stipend from Imbitek...until Towne took over and started cutting up your empire.”
Mikels glowered. “This is all supposition, of course.”
Coren said nothing. Mikels blinked and looked at Capel.
“Is it standard procedure for the police to allow private security to harass wards of the state?”
“Coren,” Capel said, “you’re just supposed to observe.”
Coren nodded, but continued to stare at Mikels. He felt anxious, which was a problem--an interview like this needed a finesse he did not feel willing to accord. He realized then that he had decided to blame Mikels for Nyom’s death--it was his war, after all, that had gotten her killed.
“Now, Mr. Mikels,” Capel said, “we know you’re a busy man. We won’t keep you very long. But I wondered if you could explain those payments to Mr. Wenithal. The amounts were quite generous. It seems fiscally irresponsible--at least to me--that you’d pay him those amounts when you could easily have switched vendors and saved yourself all that extra expenditure. Unless he was blackmailing you, that is. Was he?”
Mikels laughed. “You’re more imaginative than most of your colleagues, Inspector Capel.”
“Then he was working for you in other capacities?”
Mikels stood. “I don’t have to talk to you.”
“I think it would be a good idea, though,” Coren said. He took a couple of steps toward Mikels. “You have a problem, and it could be very dangerous. “
Mikels laughed. “Are you threatening me, Mr. Lanra?”
Coren smiled with mock innocence. “Me? Not at all. I’m trying to help you. “
Mikels glanced toward the detective. “Inspector Capel--”
“Sit down, Lanra,” Capel said tersely.
Coren looked at Capel. He saw nothing but a warning in the inspector’s eyes, and the expectation of obedience. Coren gave Mikels a long look before he grudgingly returned to his chair.
“It seems, Mr. Mikels,” Capel said, “that your replacement at Imbitek may have gotten himself into some legal problems. Certain clandestine operations have surfaced and you could help us clear them up. I just thought we could help each other.”
“Towne?” Mikels sounded incredulous, but he sat down. “What do you have?”
“It seems he’s been running baleys. Some of them have gotten killed. We think reprisals have been made and will continue to be made. “
“Baleys.” Mikels looked from Coren to Capel. “You’re here about baleys?”
“Anything you might have that could help us...” Capel said, obviously trying to lead him.
“Is this off the record?”
“We don’t have anything official pending in your case. We’re hoping you’ll help as a good citizen.”
Mikels pursed his lips and folded his hands in his lap. “Well, it isn’t my desire to see Towne hurt.”
“Could you vouch or him, then--substantiate his innocence?”
Mikels smiled. “I don’t think so.” He sighed wearily. “I knew this would hurt the company in the long run. There has always been a faction at Imbitek involved in extra-legal matters. I shut down three divisions during my chairmanship that dealt in contraband. But Imbitek is large, and favors are passed in a variety of ways. It’s difficult to keep track of everyone and everything. Towne...well, he’s been tangled up with the Settler Coalition for a long time. If he’s running baleys, I’m not surprised.”
“Wenithal?” Coren prompted.
“I was not aware we were still doing business with him. Those three divisions I mentioned all used him to fix Customs. Wenithal had an associate in ITE--an adopted son, I think--through whom he got special considerations. When I shut them down, I thought I’d cut him off.”
“The payments?” Capel asked.
“Wenithal owns a textiles manufacturing firm. It would be safest to mask the payments as business-as-usual.”
“You said you didn’t know him,” Coren said.
Mikels glared at him. “Do I look like an idiot, Mr. Lanra? I don’t know him personally, but in this connection I remember the name. “
Capel pointedly frowned at Coren.
Coren ignored him and pressed on. “And the association. Is there any reason you could think of that Towne would have either of them killed?”
“Not unless they were about to turn against him.”
“Might they?”
Mikels shrugged. “I can’t see that Wenithal would gain anything, but Damik might. After all, he would have the most to lose in any kind of official inquiry.”
“So you knew Brun Damik, too?” Capel asked.
“I didn’t say that--”
“Were Damik and Wenithal about to go freelance? Or was it just Damik who thought he could set up his own operation from your leftovers? Is that why you had him killed?”
Mikels laughed. “I’m a businessman, Inspector. I don’t have people killed. I have no idea who murdered Damik. “
“So you did know he was dead?” Coren asked.
Mikels started to stand again. “I think our talk is over, gentlemen--”
Coren took the folder Capel had brought with him. Before the inspector could stop him, he walked quickly up to Mikels, slid the picture out, and held it before the industrialist. Mikels stared at it for a long time.
“Do you know her?” Coren asked.
“No.” Mikels looked worried now.
“Have you ever seen a body look like that? I’ve seen a few recently. Something--or someone--crushed them. Must be an incredibly painful way to die.”
“What does this have to do with me?”
“Whoever did this can slip in and out of secured areas undetected. Some kind of military-grade masking tech. I even know of one victim who was in jail, and no records exist of her death. None.”
Mikel’s eyes flicked to Capel.
“Why don’t you sit down again, Mr. Mikels,” the inspector said.
Mikels sank back to the chair.
Coren turned to Capel. “Here’s what I think. I think Mr. Mikels has been paying his way through Customs by way of Wenithal and Brun Damik. I think Myler Towne found out about it when he took over and started straightening Imbitek out.” He turned back to Mikels. “I think you did a quick estimate of how much this was going to cost you in future revenue and decided to oust Towne. It’s backfiring, though, and he’s more popular now than ten months ago, when he took over. So you’ve been cleaning up all the loose ends that could tie you up in litigation and further prison time if they come to light. You ‘re shutting down the baleys before he does, and you’re doing it so that it looks like it was his fault, because, after all, Imbitek is the one in charge of them, isn’t it? And you’re in jail, so how could you be doing any of it?”
“You have no proof,” Mikels said haltingly.
“Oh, but it gets better. When it looked like there was no way you could win a shareholder vote, you arranged to take over part of Imbitek, the part most profitable off Earth. You used the same people you used to funnel baleys all these years to fund the purchase of Captras Biomed. Towne tried to block the sale when he found out who was behind the purchase, but he couldn’t. To cap it off, you tried to kill him. Leave Imbitek headless and, after you get out of prison, leave the planet. Imbitek falters, you use Captras as a plat form through which to buy it out, and you end up owning it outright.” Coren grinned wolfishly. “Stock transactions leave a pretty good trail for those who can read it. “
Mikels grunted. “You have an excellent imagination. Why should any of this cause me to help you?”
“Because I think you may become a loose end yourself. All this is going on and the profits are rolling and you’re still in jail. Someone is going to be thinking pretty soon that you’re superfluous. “
“Why would they think that?”
“Because it just might occur to them that they already have Captras Biomed. What do they need you for? To run it? At this point, you’re waging a private war, against Myler Towne, to hurt a company that your backers no longer want. This isn’t good for profits.”
Now Mikels reacted nervously.
“The only thing that bothers me,” Coren continued, “that I don’t understand, is where all the baleys are going and what Nova Levis has to do with any of this?”
“What does Rega want to know this for?” Mikels demanded.
“Why do you think?”
Mikels shook his head. “I don’t know. He’s been out of it for years. Why now?”
“Maybe,” Coren said slowly, taking a gamble, “it’s a family matter.”
Mikels grew still. Only the sound of breathing filled the room. When he did not answer, Coren leaned close to his ear.
“This isn’t Rega,” Coren said. “This is me. I want to know.” He leaned closer still and whispered. “Your little vendetta killed a friend of mine. A good friend. This is personal for me.”
“Just because you and Damik served together--”
Coren straightened. “Not Damik! But if you know that, then you know the rest. You killed Nyom Looms, you fuck. “ He snarled. “I’m sure you know about Nyom and me. She’s dead.”
“Lanra!” Capel bellowed. “Back off--now!”
Mikel’s eyes widened. “I see. That’s unfortunate, Ms. Looms’ death, but...”
“Cyborgs,” Coren said flatly.
Mikels started. “What?”
“Cyborgs. What do you know about them?”
Mikels wiped a hand over his mouth. “May I give you some advice, Mr. Lanra? You should let this go now. You won’t help Nyom Looms anymore. All you could do would be to put yourself, your friends, and your family in danger.”
“Not really a problem. I don’t have any friends and I’m an orphan. Just like Damik.”
Mikels sighed and shook his head. “I don’t have to talk to you. But Wenithal knows everything. You can ask him. I’ve never been directly involved. “
“Is that why you’ve gone to all the trouble to buy Nova Levis?”
Capel grasped Coren’s arm. Coren shrugged him off.
Mikels looked startled, then laughed. He stood, then. “My, but you are impressive. If I thought you’d accept it, I’d offer you a job.” He walked toward the door. “If you know that much, then you know the rest. You figure it out.”
“Why infants?”
Mikels stopped. “Excuse me?”
“The thing I can’t figure out--why infants?”
Mikels shook his head. “This interview is over.”
Mikels rang the bell for release. A few moments later, the guard took him away, leaving Coren and Capel alone.
“Damn,” Coren hissed.
“What do you want to do now?” Capel asked sarcastically. “Is there anyone else you want to roust tonight before I get the full story?”
“I don’t know.” Coren stared at the door, then looked at Capel. “Don’t wait for an apology. “
“I won’t. I just wish I understood what just happened here.” He pressed a hand against Coren’s chest. “You can explain it to me, can’t you?”
“Maybe. Where do you want me to start?”
“First things first,” Capel said. “Given Mikel’s reaction to it--what’s a cyborg?”
Coren flashed a half-smile. “Well, as I understand it....”
T
he corpse on the table smelled cloyingly sweet. Baxin, Sipha Palen’s pathologist, directed a squad of devices while speaking aloud his findings for the recorders.
“--lungs are permeated by clusters of nodes which seem to function as storage systems for long-term oxygenation. Secondary vascular system routed through what appears to be a secondary spleen suggests waste gas disposal follows complimentary pathways for storage in...what the hell is that?”
He fidgeted nervously and glanced at Derec and Palen, who watched from the other side of the isolation screen. Baxin was perspiring slightly. His fingers worked a keypad, and the small scavengers moved on and through the body of the cyborg.
“The muscle structure is a complex interleaving of polymers and protein. Molecular bonding seems to be cyclodextrous...we have polyamide bonding along single-chain amine nitrogen...looks like it uses adipic acids to facilitate the protein interactions...”
Baxin looked at Derec and shook his head.
“I have no idea what I’m looking at,” he said. “This thing looks like it’s made of nylon and nylon analogs.”
“Myralar?”
“Yes, I’m finding a lot of that in the joints and the valves. A second pancreas that looks like an organic polymer factory...it’s producing hexamethyline diamine instead of insulin...I don’t even know why it was brought here.”
“This doesn’t look like the being in the recovered memories,” Palen said. “The skin looks...normal, I suppose.”
“Oh, that,” Baxin said. He took a pair of forceps and lifted a layer of skin from one pectoral. Instead of the red and gray of organic tissue, the underside looked like graphite. “There’s a layer of composite that seems to be electrolytically active. If I run a small charge through it, the material shifts to the exterior derma.” He dropped the layer and shook his head. “It causes problems--skin irritation and infections from the look of it. That’s the source of the rough complexion.”
“In your opinion,” Palen asked, “is it at all human?”
Baxin shrugged elaborately and surveyed the body. “Sure. There’s blood, oxygenation, amino acids...I’m seeing some alternate building blocks in part of the DNA, like fluorotryptophan...but it’s at least as much a machine... a very odd machine...” He grabbed a hand and held it up. “The musculature in key areas has an underlying carbon isotope structure that responds to pressure by forming a kind of sheathe. The best comparison I have is calcium deposition in bones under stress. But that takes days or months. According to the projections I’ve got here--” he pointed at his monitors “--this responds instantly by creating a kind of exoskeleton which can be reabsorbed.” He shook his head. “In my opinion, the only thing that would define this as primarily organic is that you’d have to grow all this. You couldn’t add it onto an already extant organic structure.”
“Not at all?” Derec asked. “I mean, how early would you have to start?”
Baxin sighed and glanced at the readouts on the bank on monitors beside him. “Well, there are some problems. I’ve got an organ here that looks like a gall bladder, but as far as I can tell it’s strictly for the isolation of ammonia, which seems to be produced as a byproduct of a polymerization process. The ammonia would still be toxic if released generally, so it’s flensed from the system and fed back into the one of the spleens for venting. It’s not a perfect system--I’m seeing excess carbonic carbonyl in the duodenum that seems to be ingested to compensate for an imbalance. I’m thinking that most of this secondary polymer system was introduced before puberty, probably in infancy. You could overcome some of these problems by starting with a base genetic template and growing one from scratch, but I wouldn’t be able to tell you how. Probably the rate of breakdown would overwhelm it at that stage, so starting later might compensate for some of the flaws. “
“You don’t sound too certain, “ Palen said.
“There’d have to be certain preconditions,” Baxin said. “I’m not good enough for this, Chief. I’m guessing. You need someone who understands sequencing and gene therapy.”
“What about the brain?” Derec asked. “Is it wholly organic?”
“No...well, yes...I mean, it’s oxygenated, but what I’m seeing is the presence of protonated oxygen. That would limit cell absorption considerably, except that there’s a monomer fiber strung along the vasal matrix that’s drawing particles from a small isotopic shunt in the hypothalamus. “
“What kind of particles?” Derec pressed.
“Positrons.”
Derec sensed Palen looking at him. “All right,” he said. “When you finish, I want the brain sent to the positronics lab.”
“The whole thing should’ve been sent there to begin with,” Baxin complained. “Sorry. I’ll let you know when I’ve completed my autopsy. “
“Thanks, Doctor,” Palen said. “By the way, the masking ability--”
Baxin laughed sourly. “That’s the only thing that’s easy to explain. The clothing. It doesn’t have it built into itself. It just wore military tech. “
Derec walked away from the theater. Masid leaned against the wall by the exit, arms folded over his chest. Derec heard Palen’s heavy tread catching up to him.
“Your assistant, “ Masid said, “just called to say you should come to the lab ASAP.” Derec nodded in response.
“So, just what is that thing?” Palen demanded as the three of them stepped into the corridor outside the morgue.
“A cyborg,” Derec said. “What I was afraid of.”
“Where did it come from?”
“I have no idea.”
“Are there more of them?”
“There’s no reason to think this one is the prototype. Why use it for something as risky as slipping into a police station to murder someone if it’s the only one? No, there are others. “ He glanced at Palen. “What did your Brethe dealer find that got her killed by one?”
Palen glared at Masid. “I don’t know,” she said. “We didn’t get a chance to debrief her.”
“Where was she when you picked her up?” Derec asked.
“Settler section, dockside,” Masid said. “She used to keep a flop there, in the service section.”
“Has anybody looked at it since she died?”
Palen nodded. “It had been tossed, pretty thoroughly. None of her associates shed any light on what she was into.”
“Was she actually dealing Brethe?” Derec asked.
“Absolutely,” Palen said. “Only way to keep her cover valid. “
“Who was her supplier, then?”
Masid nodded. “A local boss named Metresha, who also has a finger or two in the baley traffic.”
“Has anybody talked to her?”
“Not yet,” Palen said. “She’s offstation right now. I didn’t want to move on her till we had some solid information about these deaths.”
“Does anybody know when she’s coming back?”
Masid shrugged. “Metresha is rather hard to keep track of. No one is really sure what she looks like--she tends to work through intermediaries a great deal. I gather the docks are being watched?”
“The Settler ship that was supposed to pick up those baleys is in dock now,” Palen said. “Metresha always shows up when a cargo is being moved.”
“Have you heard from Lanra?”
“Not since yesterday.”
“I want to talk to Ariel,” Derec said.
“I want to know where that robot is,” Palen said.
Derec glared at her. “You might want to ask your new prisoner about the cyborg. He knew its name, after all.”
“We’re letting him think things through a while longer,” Palen said. “Do you want to be there when we question him?”
“It might be useful to have someone there who knows a little about robots,” Derec said sardonically.
The three of them took the next shunt to the Spacer quarters in stony silence. Derec found himself slightly in the lead as they strode toward the lab. Agent Harwol and one of his people stood outside the lab, talking quietly. When he spotted Derec, he came forward.
“We have a situation, Avery--”
“Talk to the ambassador,” Derec said irritably, brushing past the TBI agent.
“Avery--”
Derec entered the lab and stopped abruptly.
The DW-12 stood in the center of the space, most of the resident techs standing in a loose circle around it. Director Polifos sat, arms folded indignantly, before the robot. When he saw Derec, his scowl deepened and he tried to stand. The robot placed a hand on his shoulder and urged the director back into the chair.
“Damn it, you cannot do that!” he shouted. “What is wrong with this robot? Doesn’t it know that it has to take my orders?”
“It knows it has to keep you here,” Derec said. “For your own protection.”
“I’m in no danger!”
“Then, why were you running?”
“I wasn’t.”
Derec looked at the robot. “Thales?”
“The Director had booked passage on a Settler transport,” the robot said. “I found him in a dockside tavern in Section Forty-nine, carrying a pack of personal belongings.”
Polifos glared up at the robot.
“What is this thing?” he asked quietly.
“Never mind that,” Palen said. “Why don’t you tell us where you were going? And why?”
Polifos looked at her, anger and fear working at his expression. He shook his head.
“What ship?” Palen asked.
“The Reyatta,” Thales answered.
Palen pulled out her comm and stepped away, speaking softly. A few seconds later, she came back.
“Interesting choice of ships, Director,” Palen said. “The Reyatta is a known blockade runner. Where were you going, Director Polifos?”
Polifos shook his head and studied the floor.
Derec searched the lab until he saw Rana over by the workstation they had been using. She waved him over.
“Ariel needs to talk to you,” she said.
Derec stepped up to the console. “Thales, are we secure?”
“Yes, Derec. I have traced all the gates in place. One of them fed directly to Director Polifos’s quarters. Another went to Chief Palen’s office. One, however, I have a location for but no identification, in the Settler’s section.”
“Where’s Ariel?”
“Back in the embassy,” Thales said. “But not for long. There have been developments.”
“Connect me.”
Derec stopped before Polifos and waited for the man to look up. “Director.”
Polifos frowned.
“What kind of work did you do for Nova levis?”
Polifos blinked and went pale.
Derec turned to Palen, who had been talking intently with Masid, away from the others. “I want to bring him down to the morgue. “
Palen looked intrigued. “All right.”
Thales/Bogard urged Polifos to his feet. Harwol and two of his agents came forward. “What are we doing?” Harwol asked.
“A demonstration,” Derec said. “Thales?”
“Please follow Derec Avery,” the robot said.
“Agent Harwol, if you could have your people guard our flanks on the way down...?”
Reluctantly, Harwol agreed. The entourage emerged from the lab and headed back down to Palen’s morgue.
Baxin still worked on the body. He looked up at the approach of this new group, his brow knitting. Derec glanced at Polifos.
When the director saw the corpse, he stopped, then tried to back up. Thales/Bogard blocked his escape. Derec reached for him, took his shirt sleeve, and dragged him close to the transparency.
“What do you think of that, Director Polifos?”
“I--” He shook his head. “Please.”
“Recognize it? Perhaps some of it is your own work?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? Then why are you frightened? Why were you running? Is this what you were running from?”
“You don’t understand--”
Derec tightened his hand on Polifos’s arm. “Then make me understand. “
“Please!”
“Is this what you’ve been hiding from for the last twenty years? Did you make that?”
“No! I don’t know what that is! Let me be!”
Polifos squirmed loose from Derec only to encounter Palen, Masid, Harwol, and Thales/Bogard.
“Talk to us, Director,” Palen said. “We’ve got a lot of dead people we need explanations for.”
“I didn’t have anything to do with that,” Polifos said.
“What did you do in Nova levis?” Derec asked. He pointed at the cyborg. “Is that a direct result of your work?”
Polifos tried not to look at it.
“Is that your work, Kyas Vol?”
Polifos paled visibly then. “You know?”
“You‘ve been hiding here under the protection of the Auroran government since disappearing from Earth after Nova levis closed down. Why? What were you doing there?”
“I’m trying not to die, damn it!” He whirled around, shoving Derec away. He backed against the transparency. “They killed everyone! Anyone who knew anything about it! Fos and Holani...Cortem...the documentation staff...” He was shaking now. “I went to the Aurorans because they were the only ones not involved. Terran authority, Solarians, corporates...Aurora had nothing to do with it.”
“With what?” Harwol demanded.
Polifos started sobbing. He slid to the floor, eyes streaming.
“We never really knew who we were working for, “ he said finally. “The lab took subscriptions for stock. It was supposed to be a public corporation--we didn’t know...”
“Your mission,” Derec said. “What was your mission?”
“The plague. Stop the plague.”
“What plague?” Palen asked.
Polifos shook his head. “There wasn’t one. We succeeded.” He sat there, crying for a time, until he finally got control of himself. He stood and looked at the corpse. Baxin stood away from the body now, waiting. Polifos turned away. “Please. I don’t want to look at it anymore.”
Palen led them all to Baxin’s office. One of Harwol’s people got Polifos a cup of water. The director sat in a chair, trembling and sipping.
“What plague?” Derec prompted.
“Old, old nanotech,” Polifos said. “Do you know what UPDs are?”
“I know the term,” Derec said. “I’m still not sure what it means. “
“Untreatable Physiological Dysfunction,” Polifos said. “The term covers a lot of ground. Some of it is organic illnesses, chronic systemic dysfunctions, things we can only watch. We can’t cure them. In some cases, we can provide a little relief, but they’re all fatal, and usually pretty quickly. Ninety-eight percent of the cases are infants. The worst of them are nonorganic. We used to call them Vonooman Plagues.” He shrugged. “I don’t know why.”
He drank again, coughed, and set the cup down. “Before we outlawed robots--long time ago--we played with everything. One of our developments was nanotech. We still have a lot of it. Food production is a result of old nanotech. Some medical treatments, manufacturing--but most of it got thrown out with the robots. Largely because a few experiments went wrong and we created self-sustaining inorganic colonies. Parasites, really. They disassembled extant structures and used the material. There was a huge panic when the first of them erupted a few hundred years ago. But the fact is, they ate themselves out. It was fast and furious and so fatal that within ten, twenty years they died out all on their own, except for a few aberrant strains that stayed in the ecosystem and caused relatively minor problems since.”
“UPDs, “ Derec said.
Polifos nodded. “Poor kids. They’d be born with a minor problem and through some vector we’ve never been able to trace, a colony of these things would take advantage and set up within the system. Within extreme intervention, death would be quick. We set up hospice centers for them. “
“They aren’t very well advertised, “ Palen said. “This is the first I’ve heard of them.”
“Nobody wants to know about them. Anonymity is almost always desired by the parents, so it works out comfortably for everyone but the victim.”
“So what changed?” Derec asked.
“We found strains that were sustaining the victim. They were adapting. Why now and not before? Don’t know. And not in very many cases. But when we diagnosed the first adult cases of new infection, we knew we had a big problem.”
“Terrans?” Derec asked.
“Settlers,” Polifos said. “We needed to find a cure. To do that we needed to find the vectors and we needed to understand the nature of the host system. We set up Nova Levis as a research lab in prostheses to cover the actual research into the new plague.”
“And what was the vector?” Harwol asked.
“Only certain colonies. We found a series of enzyme deficiencies that produced chronic conditions that were treatable but rendered the system vulnerable to opportunistic infections. Those colonies tended to be the smallest and most isolationist. The influx of new colonists had been cut off for a variety of reasons--diplomatic, financial, other things. We were afraid that the plagues might adapt sufficiently well to become generally virulent and infect us. It was a small population that was at risk. We found a vaccine that was communicable by touch and could be spread through viral transfer.”
“How did you get around the immigration barriers?” Harwol asked.
“Baleys,” Derec said.
Polifos nodded. “Slipped them in through the back door.”
“What about the infants?” Masid asked.
“We continued our research on them. We found that the diseases had reworked their basic genetic structure in some cases, demanding augmentation in key organs. We thought we were finding a cure. We found that the disease had left us with an organic system perfectly suited to the introduction of symbiotic machine prostheses. But it was a holistic approach. We couldn’t fix one organ, we had to address the entire system.”
“You started playing with positronics,” Derec said.
Polifos nodded. “We got them through our Solarian contacts.”
“That means you. You’re Solarian.”
Polifos shook his head. “I was born here, on Earth. My parents were Solarian and I kept my citizenship, but I’ve never been there. “
“Then who was your Solarian contact?”
“Through the embassy mission. I never knew who.”
“Why was the lab shut down?” Palen asked.
“We started getting infants in large numbers. We’d developed a method of introducing self-sustaining support into the organic matrix, freeing them from the massive support systems they’d been forced to live in. The babies showed up, we’d refit them, and then they’d disappear. Director Holani was our head of staff. She found out they were going offplanet. She started demanding to know what was going on. She threatened to go public. That’s when everything was closed down.”
“So how does this explain that thing Baxin’s working on?” Palen demanded, gesturing in the direction of the cyborg’s remains.
“We stumbled on a process that would enable us to fuse machine and organic systems. The vonooman infection opened the way for the introduction of fully symbiotic artificial components. Puberty alters too much for reintroduction--a lot of it is mitigated by viral infections, RNA recompositions, stuff like that--but from infancy, we found we could grow a composite organism to adulthood. That’s when the traffic in infants increased.”
“So that thing may have been one of your patients?”
“May have,” Polifos admitted. “I went to the Aurorans when my colleagues started dying. I told them what was going on. They took me in and hid me.” He looked around at them. “I don’t want to die.”
“Where’s the work being done now?” Derec asked.
Polifos frowned.
“Where are the cyborgs being grown now?”
“A sister lab was built on Cassus Thole,” Polifos said. “A transfer point for baleys to the other colonies where the plague was taking root.”
“Cassus Thole?” Palen asked. “I never heard of that one.”
“It’s an old name,” Masid said. “It’s now called Nova Levis. “
Yuri Pocivil did not try to run when he saw the cyborg corpse. He swallowed, hard, and stared at it. Slowly, he turned to Palen.
“I don’t know anything,” he said.
“You worked the baley run out of Petrabor,” Palen said. “You worked with this thing. We have documentation on it, so don’t bother lying. “
“I’m just a dockworker, that’s all,” Pocivil said.
“Running baleys?” Masid asked.
“Baleys, drygoods, food, manufactured components--it’s all just cargo. My job is strictly dockside. I don’t know anything.”
“You know who pays you,” Palen said. “You know your contacts. You get your assignments from somewhere.”
“I also know what ‘dead’ means,” he said.
“You should, “ Derec agreed. “You already are. That was coming to kill you. “ He nodded toward the cyborg. “You know that. “
After a time, Pocivil nodded. “I got caught. That’s against the rules. “
“So why protect them?” Palen asked.
Pocivil shrugged. “A gato’s got to have standards.”
“Pretty low ones, in your case, “ Masid said. “You know all those baleys were murdered. The last shipment you sent up here.”
Pocivil sighed. “Shit. I guess it doesn’t matter. You won’t find them, anyway. “
“Why not?” Palen asked.
“Because the operation is over. It’s being shut down. I was on my way home when your people grabbed me.”
“Shut down,” Derec said. “You mean, no more baley runs? No more--”
“Nothing, no more anything. They’re closing up shop. It’s over.”
“Why don’t you tell us where and who, then?” Palen asked.
Pocivil let out a long, shuddering breath and turned away from the autopsy theater. “What do you want to know first?”
Derec watched through the transparency as Polifos assisted Baxin in removing the brain and brain stem from the cyborg body. He finally realized what bothered him about the scene: the colors were all wrong. The blood was nearly purple, organs were gray or bronze colored, nothing looked like it came out of a human body.
He glanced back at the robot. Thales/Bogard remained nearby, silently observing the same operation.
“What do you think, Thales?” Derec asked. “Or should I call you Bogard?”
“Either, both, or some new name,” the robot replied. “What do I think about what, Derec?”
“This,” Derec said, gesturing at the cyborg.
“I have not decided yet.”
“What do you mean?”
“The cause of Coffee’s collapse was due to a misidentification. It believed that it was intervening against a robot. When he injured the being and realized that it had just assaulted an organic form, it naturally recoiled, assuming it had just attacked a human.”
“Assuming? “
“I am not certain this construct qualifies as human.”
Derec felt a disquieting coldness form around his thoughts. He stared at the robot for a long time.
“You be sure to let me know when and what you decide,” he said finally.
“I shall, Derec.”
A
riel felt intense relief upon seeing Coren Lanra.
He slumped in one of her sofas, head propped on one hand, elbow on the sofa arm, eyes half-lidded. He looked profoundly weary, fighting sleep. He smiled crookedly when he saw her, and made an effort to sit straight. He put weight on his left arm and winced.
“As long as you’re here,” Ariel said, “we’re getting that shoulder looked at.”
“No time,” Coren protested. “I had an interesting talk with the police last night. “
“Don’t avoid the issue, you have no choice. I won’t continue this with a damaged partner.”
His eyebrows raised. “When did we become partners?”
“I’m not sure. Am I assuming too much?”
“That depends.”
Ariel ignored a spike of annoyance. “It always does.” She started unsealing his shirt. “You ‘re still getting looked at. “
“That was never a question. “ He smiled.
Ariel hesitated. Then, impulsively, she leaned forward and kissed him, very quickly and lightly, on the mouth. Coren stared at her, startled and, she thought, pleased. She continued removing his shirt.
“What have you been doing since Taprin?” he asked.
“Hiding for the most part. Turn around.”
“The police surgeon said it’s cracked.” ‘
The bruise was spectacular. “Is there some point you need to prove by finishing this in pain?”
Coren laughed sharply. “I told you I made an appointment with my doctor. You didn’t answer my question.”
“Nor did you.” She stood, his shirt in one hand. “But you will have that looked at.”
He shook his head. “I need to talk to Jeta. Tresha. Whatever her name is. Where is she?”
“Three floors down, under guard. She’ll wait.”
He tried to stand. “Then I have to go to Nova Levis.”
Ariel frowned. “The colony?”
“No, the lab.”
She pressed down on his shoulder. He winced but sat back down. “Don’t bother. It really was dismantled.” She turned toward her robot. “ Jennie? Who’s working the infirmary now?”
“I don’t suppose I can reason with you,” Coren said.
“Dr. Jerios,” the robot replied.
“Of course you can,” Ariel told Coren. “ Just do what I say. Thank you, Jennie. Let her know I have a patient for her--we’ll be right down. And bring me a robe, please.”
Coren let his head fall back. “Can’t she come here?”
“She can; her equipment can’t. Come on. Up. One more trip before you can sleep.”
“Make up your mind, will you? Up or down.” Coren grunted as he got to his feet. He stumbled. “Oops. One stim too many, I think. What do you mean, Nova Levis was dismantled?”
“What I said. After it was closed down, the facility was gutted and converted to its present use. There’s nothing there.” Ariel took his right arm and guided him toward the door. “ Jennie, route my calls to the infirmary.”
“What about Wenithal?” Coren asked.
“He’s fine. Same floor, separate quarters, under guard.”
“Guard?”
“Infirmary first. “
“I need to talk to Tresha first. “
“No, first--”
“She’s not Jeta Fromm.” Coren disengaged from Ariel. “The police identified Jeta‘s body in Lyzig. We need to speak to Tresha now.”
Ariel regarded him for a moment. “All right. We can stop there on the way. “
“Fine.”
They continued on down the corridor to the elevator.
“Ambassador Burgess?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Thank you. “
“For what?”
Coren smiled. “The list is too long. Just say ‘you’re welcome.”‘
“You ‘re welcome. “
The elevator let them out on the guest floor. Ariel led the way to the rooms.
A tall, uniformed Auroran stood outside each of two doors along the corridor. Ariel led Coren to the nearest. The guard bowed slightly and stepped aside.
Tresha sat on the bed, pillows behind her, watching the subetheric across the room. Ariel glanced at what was being broadcast--it was a very old hyperwave drama; she remembered it vaguely, something based loosely on the first modern Terran permitted to visit a Spacer world after the long quarantine of Earth--and stepped in front of the set, blocking the woman’s view.
“I hope you’re here to apologize,” Tresha said as she touched the remote to switch off the subetheric.
“For what?” Coren asked. “Not recognizing you sooner?”
The woman laughed. “ Just who is this ‘Tresha’ person you keep talking about?”
“You tell me,” Coren said. “I’d like to know why she killed Jeta Fromm.”
“Tresha shook her head. “Look--”
“Jeta’s body was found...and identified.”
Tresha stared at him, eyes narrowed. Finally, she shrugged.
“Why kill her?” Coren asked. “She was just a data troll.”
“Why worry about her?” Tresha returned. “She was, as you say, just a data troll.”
“Did Mikels order it?”
Her eyes widened briefly. Then she shrugged again. “If you know so much...”
Ariel said, “We have both Kyas Vol and Yuri Pocivil in custody. Your cyborg is dead--it’s being dissected even as we speak. So, if you want to play guessing games, it’s all right with me, but we don’t have to participate.”
Tresha pursed her lips. “You ‘re talking to the wrong person, gato. I don’t know anything.”
“Nonsense,” Coren said. “You were the contact for Damik and Wenithal. You handle all the legwork on the ground.”
“So the messenger is supposed to know what the message is?”
Ariel waited for Coren’s move. He said nothing. Tresha looked at him, then at Ariel, her eyes no longer so certain.
“Ask,” Tresha said.
“Why’d you kill Jeta?”
“She was nosy. She poked around into the wrong places.”
“How’d you pass for her in Lyzig?”
“They didn’t know her. I moved in there shortly after we terminated Fromm.”
“Why take her place?” Ariel asked.
“Common sense. If one commission for that data had come her way, more might. I wanted to find out how many vectors there were leading to that information. “
“And the baleys?” Coren asked quietly.
Another shrug. “I don’t think I’ll answer that.”
“Do you think you’re getting out of here without answering it?” Ariel asked.
Tresha smiled thinly in response, then looked at Coren. “I understand your ex-lover died on that last run. For what it’s worth, I apologize. It wasn’t personal.”
“That’s very comforting,” Coren said tightly. “You’ve been tidying up, haven’t you? Closing things down. Were you going to kill Wenithal when you showed up at his apartment?”
Tresha touched the remote again and turned up the volume. Music swelled.
“Your cyborg is dead!” Coren shouted.
Tresha looked at him and shook her head. “We’re done.” She smiled briefly, then ignored him.
Coren stalked out of the room.
“Who’s the Solarian in charge?” Ariel asked. When Tresha continued to ignore her, she spun around and jabbed the OFF on the subetheric. The sound died instantly. “The Solarian in charge,” she repeated. “Who is it?”
Tresha sighed. “You ‘re not as bright as I thought. “
“Do you have any idea what it is you’re playing with?”
Tresha snorted derisively. “Oh, please! Is this going to be an appeal to my naivety, or just my conscience?” She sat forward. “It’s all power, Ambassador--raw, absolute, overwhelming, carnal, irreducible power. Do I know what I’m playing with?” She grinned. “I’m not playing, Ambassador.”
She stabbed the remote again, once more filling the room with sound.
Ariel found Coren waiting in the corridor, his back to the wall.
“Do you want to talk to Wenithal?” she asked.
“No. Let’s get my shoulder looked at first.”
He said no more till they arrived in the embassy infirmary, where two robots placed him on a gurney and pushed him into a diagnostics bay.
“What’s the problem, Ariel?” Dr. Jerios asked as she tapped commands into her console. “He looks like he needs about three days’ sleep.” Jerios frowned at her. “So do you, by the way.”
“That would be a good start. But I need him up and alert by morning. He’s been running on stims and painblock for about four days now. His left shoulder is--”
“Cracked,” Jerios said. “My word, how did this happen?”
“He was grabbed by a very strong hand.”
Dr. Jerios shook her head skeptically, gazing at the scan image. “Some hand. I can see why he’s in pain. All right, I can pump healant and accelerant into this. Actually, the stim saturation will be harder to deal with. He should be allowed to sleep it off.”
Ariel shook her head. “No time.”
“Then he’s going to be very grumpy.”
“As long as he’s alert.”
“Oh, he’ll be alert. I hope you get along well if you have to work together tomorrow.”
Ariel looked at Coren through the transparency separating them. He looked asleep now, his face relaxed as the robots carried out Jerios’s instructions.
“I think we get along well enough, “ Ariel said. In a whisper, she said to the sleeping Lanra, “You ‘re very welcome. “
“Ariel, there is an emergency comm message for you,” R. Jennie said.
Ariel opened her eyes. For a moment, she did not remember where she was; then realization came. She was in her own apartment, still fully dressed. Coren was asleep in the guest bedroom. She blinked at her robot.
“A message from...?” she asked groggily.
“Security.”
Ariel snapped to her feet and crossed the room. She slapped the ACCEPT on her comm. “Ambassador Burgess here.”
“We’ve had a break-in, Ambassador,” the security officer said. “Two guards have been found unconscious, a third dead. We’re sealing the embassy grounds and alerting staff. Please stay in your apartment--”
“Negative. Send extra security to the protected apartments. The two people I brought in last night--”
“We’ve already dispatched extra personnel there. I am to advise you--”
She broke the link and ran out the door.
The scene she found when she stepped onto that floor shocked her. At least five guards lay broken along the corridor. Both apartment doors stood open.
Tresha was missing. No real surprise there, Ariel thought angrily.
She found Wenithal in his bathroom. He was dead--eyes staring blindly, head tilted at an awkward angle.
“Damn!” she shouted.
Behind her, more security officers rushed by in the corridor. She knew, though, that Tresha was long gone.
The security recordings of the corridor showed the guards entering the hallway. They joined the two already on station. Minutes later, something caught their attention from the direction of the elevator. Their hands, almost as one, went to their sidearms, but they began falling, one by one, twisting around, writhing in pain, thrown to the floor. Two of the guards managed to fire shots, but they, too, were suddenly seized by some spectral force and crushed.
After they had all been subdued, Tresha’s door opened, and she emerged. She rushed up the corridor to Wenithal’s room and entered.
The view showed no one emerging.
“Masked,” Coren said.
“But before or after the attack?” Ariel asked.
“After,” Coren said. “We never saw her leave the room before the attack, so that means she had help.”
They watched the recording on Ariel’s subetheric. Coren lay propped up in her bed, his left shoulder covered by a thick pad. He had slept nearly six hours. Ariel knew he was angry that she had let him sleep while her people had scoured the embassy for the woman who had pretended to be Jeta Fromm, but he had said nothing in rebuke.
“No one saw her leave the embassy,” Ariel said, “but we can assume she’s gone. The question is: where did she--or they--go?”
“Petrabor maybe, “ Coren said glumly. “Tell me about Nova Levis.”
“I had a long talk with Ambassador Setaris last night. I hate it when I’m treated like a child who can’t be told the truth.” Ariel let herself experience the anger and irritation--she had felt during and after her meeting with Setaris. Just for a few moments, while she composed her thoughts.
“We’ve known that Solaria has a compound on the ground on Nova Levis for several years, but until now we had no idea what it was or what they were doing. Just an enclave on an island, away from the Settler towns and cities. A lot of traffic in and out. Nothing we could do anything about. It was a Solarian holding originally, and they then let it to a Settler colony, so we had no legal grounds to go in there to investigate. Several years ago, though, when the first talks began between Earth and Aurora to try to reconcile our differences, we were able to share data on black market trade. Nova Levis was interesting because it seemed to be acting as a haven for several of the ships suspected to be regular contraband runners. Aurora made a few tentative inquiries with Solaria, Solaria offered to look into it, and what followed was a series of reports telling us that nothing illegal was happening on Nova Levis. Then the Tiberius incident happened.”
“That’s what precipitated last year’s conference?” Coren asked.
Ariel nodded. “One of the things. A Terran smuggler challenged by an Auroran police cruiser. For whatever reason, it had drifted into our space and we insisted on inspection rights. They refused and were fired upon. The Tiberius was on its way to Nova Levis. Among the facts that did not become public was that several Solarian nationals were on board--primarily positronics specialists, but also a few geneticists. We decided then to push for more cooperation with Earth as a first step toward forcing Solaria to open up.”
“Which blew up in everyone’s face.”
“Solaria will not allow ground inspections of Nova Levis. “
“I thought Nova Levis was refusing.”
“Same thing, as far as we’re concerned.”
“So why hasn’t Solaria’s involvement been made public?”
“Games. Aurora can’t risk war with Solaria until we know who our allies are. Or how much of the Solarian government is involved. We have to pretend to accept everything at face value until we have the proof necessary to convene a general council of the Fifty Worlds.”
“And the Theians?”
“We’re using them as a potential cause for convening that council on other grounds if we can’t get it any other way. If Solaria moves to interdict a Theian ship, we have the excuse. If Nova Levis fires on a Theian ship, we have the excuse.”
“And if Earth actually gets permission to do the ground inspections?” Coren asked.
“What we find will give us the excuse,” Ariel replied.
“In the meantime, the dance goes on until someone steps wrong.”
“The wonderful world of diplomacy. “
“I suppose that’s preferable to arbitrarily getting several hundred thousand people killed. “
“Is it any different in the corporate world?”
“Worse. You can’t ever declare open war on each other. At the end of all the games, you still have to sleep with the enemy.”
She smiled. “I suppose even that could have its pleasant moments.”
Coren shot her a look. “I’m sorry, Ambassador, but I don’t find any of this particularly amusing.”
Ariel jerked as if she had been struck. “I didn’t mean--”
“Someone very special to me is dead because you people are playing games. I understand them, but that doesn’t make it any more acceptable. “
Ariel’s expression hardened. “Don’t bleed too much, Mr. Lanra. You might pass out when I need you. “
Coren looked away, reddening. He visibly controlled himself, then cleared his throat. “So what does Aurora think Solaria is doing on Nova Levis?”‘
“Until this, we had no idea. Black market trade is too vague to really attack them with--to one extent or another, we all participate, or at least our citizens do.” She spoke evenly, the same tone of voice as before, as if their disagreement had not occurred.
“Until now. You mean the cyborgs?”
“Settlers couldn’t build them. Solaria has to be behind it. “ She took a deep breath. “Which means that, if part of the research and development was done here, there had to be a Solarian contact on Earth to funnel materials and technologies and manage the program.”
Coren blinked. “Gale Chassik was one of the original shareholders in Nova Levis.”
“But he divested before assuming head of the Solarian mission. “
“Which would make sense...But--why?”
“That’s a very good question. I--”
Coren’s comm chirped. He snatched it up from the table at his right and stabbed at it. “Lanra.” He listened for a time. Gradually, his face lost its composure. He looked momentarily confused, then shocked. “I’ll talk to him. Where is he now? Good. No, don’t tell him I’m coming. Thanks.”
“What is it?”
“Come with me. We have to see someone.”
“You need more--”
“Now, Ariel. Please.”
They took an embassy limo to the DyNan compound, where Coren easily passed them through security. He led the way to the elevator, and tapped in the destination; a minute later, they stepped into a spacious, comfortably furnished suite.
Someone was sitting in a chair, watching the subetheric. Coren held a hand up and felt Ariel bump into it.
The subetheric showed Rega Looms at a press conference. “
--decision has not been taken lightly or capriciously. For personal reasons I choose not to go into at this time, I must announce my withdrawal from this campaign. I apologize to all those who have shown me their support through the last several months. I know all our hopes have been compromised, but I trust they have not been destroyed. There are others, more qualified than myself, to step into office and carry on the work to which I have pledged myself my entire life. I do not--”
The screen went blank. The man who had been watching now stood and turned.
Coren stared. “Rega?”
Rega Looms looked at them both, his face expressionless and pale.
“What are you doing, Coren?” he asked quietly. “Why are you here?”
“Trying to find out why your daughter was murdered.”
Looms shook his head. “I want you to stop. I don’t want you to go any further. I want this ended. Now.”
“Why?”
Looms shook his head again. “I don’t choose to discuss it.”
“That’s not good enough, Rega.”
Looms looked mildly puzzled for a moment, then scowled. “You work for me, Coren. This investigation is over.”
“Why?”
“I told you--”
“Why didn’t you tell me you had a son before Nyom?”
Rega Looms turned his back on Coren and faced the dead subetheric. Coren waited till it seemed Looms would say nothing more and reached down for his pack.
“I’ve withdrawn from the campaign,” Looms said. “I was contacted by someone who threatened to release the fact you’ve just mentioned to the public and tie me in with people and concerns I broke from years ago. Of course, in the public’s imagination, nothing is ever finished--if I had once been in league with the enemy, I must still be so. Without even a chance to explain, my ability to function would be compromised and my reputation crippled.”
“Do you know who sent it?”
“No. Not specifically.”
“When did this happen?”
“Yesterday afternoon. I tried to comm you, but you were unavailable. I decided late last night to withdraw rather than hurt the Church.”
Coren wanted to argue with him, tell him that people would understand, that they would support him because blackmail was so odious. But he knew better. The appearance of hypocrisy and the suggestion of a lie, even one of omission, turned people crudely incapable of compassion and robbed them of the ability to think when it came to politics. Coren had worked for the government, seen too many politicians go down in a mangle of innuendo simply because their constituency thought they had been betrayed by a promise compromised. There was nothing else Looms could do.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Coren repeated.
“I didn’t tell anyone. It was nobody else’s business. It was my own grief, my own horror. No one else has a right to that.”
“Ree Wenithal knew.”
Looms turned toward him. “Wenithal? What in god’s name are you doing with him?”
“He came up. There was a kidnapping case and evidently you were part of it. “
“Wenithal is a corrupt policeman who failed to follow through on that investigation. I was peripheral to his case at the time, but we had several interviews because of Jerem.”
“Jerem? That was your child’s name?”
Suddenly, Looms’ eyes flowed with tears. His hands curled into fists and he looked toward the ceiling. “Why won’t you let this end?”
Coren waited again. Looms sighed shakily and sat down on the edge of a couch. “ Jerem was born with a compromised immune system. Unusual, but not unknown; standard treatments exist for it. But they didn’t work. It got worse. When he was a year old, it was obvious something was killing him. Finally, he was diagnosed with a nonorganic system infection. A nanotech disease. A leftover. “ He glared suddenly at Ariel. “A gift from our flirtation with technologies we should never have allowed. “ The fury waned as quickly as it had emerged, and his gaze returned to the floor. “No treatment. Life support was available in certain institutions, but we had to...surrender him into their care...”
He sobbed loudly. “It was easier. They offered anonymity and promised to make him comfortable till he died. “
“Did they tell you when he died?” Coren asked.
“No. That was part of it. We had to walk away. In return, we guaranteed that it would never be made public.”
“What about birth records?”
“Security locks. The system has been in place for a long time.”
“Locks can be picked, Mr. Looms,” Ariel said. “This one was.”
“Let me guess,” Coren said. “You bought shares in Nova Levis because they offered research into exactly what killed Jerem.”
“Oh, much more than that. I named the place! Nova Levis. ‘New Light.’ Something I’d...borrowed...from the Church.” Looms shook his head. “I was naive. I hadn’t yet realized that the original anti-robot movement had been absolutely correct in their analysis that any concession on the issue of nonorganic life was nothing but a danger, a complete betrayal of all things human. That this idea was fundamentally destructive and could never be controlled. “
“We’ve proven them wrong,” Ariel said.
“Have you? You’re so utterly dependent on your robots that you’re dying out. You don’t even reproduce anymore.”
“That’s--”
“What? Untrue? What is the average birthrate on a Spacer world? Is it sufficient for replacement? Or are your populations dwindling?”
Ariel said nothing.
“Life is good among the Spacers,” Looms went on, warming now to his own arguments. “Two, three hundred years to explore the insides of your own psyches to the exclusion of all else, even the future. The possibilities of self-indulgence are so wonderful that you forget the most basic necessity of organic life--to breed. It’s seen as an oddity, a curiosity, a peculiarity. Solarians don’t even share the same households, they can’t stand to be near others. They breed ex utero. Aurorans find children too undignified and simply avoid the whole embarrassing thing. But you compensate--you make life through your robots. I imagine that this goes quite a distance in fulfilling the void in your hearts by the absence of real children.”
“We don’t have orphanages to warehouse the unwanted and uncounted,” Ariel said.
Looms stared at her.
“Why did you sell your shares?” Coren asked.
“Um...the research took a direction that repulsed me.” He frowned. “They began developing symbiotic prostheses--nonorganic augmentation that combined with organic systems, became essentially one with them. I found this... unacceptable. “
That’s a lie,” Coren said. “You got out because Jerem died.”
Looms glared at Coren. “I know my own mind. Jerem died two years before I sold my holdings.”
“But it frightened you,” Ariel said. “The research.”
“Yes, Ms. Burgess, it did. To preserve the few, we were threatening the very definition of ‘human.’ “
“Isn’t that a little extreme?”
“Is it? Where’s the line? Do you know where it is? Would you call your positronic creations ‘living; Ms. Burgess? I wouldn’t. And I saw no good in blurring the distinctions further, no matter how many suffering infants it saved. “
“So you bailed out,” Coren said. “Did you know there was a sister lab on a Settler colony?”
“No. But that wouldn’t have changed my decision.”
Coren sighed wearily. “It’s too late to stop this, Rega. I have to finish. “
“Why? I left it alone for almost thirty years, why can’t you drop it now?”
“I...” Coren coughed. “I loved Nyom. This is personal for me.”
“You work for me.”
“I quit. “
Looms’ face reddened.
“This is out of your hands anyway, Mr. Looms,” Ariel said. “Aurora has a joint interest in this with Terran authorities. Nova Levis is the source of a problem to which your naivety may well have given birth. “
“You can’t make me responsible for any of this.”
“No? Try this: If you hadn’t turned your back on what you did and pretended since that it never happened, maybe what’s happened now would never have gotten this far. You surrendered any chance of control over it when you surrendered your responsibility.”
“I did not act alone!”
“None of us ever do. Some of us forget that, though. Then there’s a mess to clean up.” She stepped up to Coren. “Mr. Lanra, Aurora offers you a job working on our behalf in this matter. Along with that comes our sanction and protection.”
Coren could not look away from Looms, even when he said, “I accept, Ambassador Burgess.”
A day earlier, the expression of betrayal he saw on Looms’ face would have broken his heart. Now it only annoyed him.
“Very well,” Looms said finally. “If you insist on going ahead. Use whatever facilities DyNan has. Both of you. Any assistance my company may offer, feel free to use, Ms. Burgess.”
He walked past Coren, to the door. For a moment, Coren thought he might look back. But Looms passed through, out of the suite.
“You didn’t tell him that his son is still alive,” Ariel said.
“I see no purpose in cruelty now.” Coren looked around the office as if trying to memorize its details. “Besides, “ he said at length, “is it really his son anymore?”
T
he configurations in the memory buffers are nonstandard, Derec. “
Derec glanced at the console. “That’s what I expected, Thales. Can you access them?”
“Yes, but I cannot guarantee any degree of coherence.”
Everyone had gathered around the platform on which lay the slightly viscous mass of cyborg brain tissue and nearly fifty centimeters of what resembled spinal column. Instead of distinct vertebrae separated by disks, the spine was composed of overlapping sheathes that attached on clusters of bearing-like spheres.
Derec had found positronic nodes within the brain mass, though their links to the actual neurons of the brain were difficult to determine. Fine cables now entered the tissue, feeding back into the interface, connecting it to Thales.
Derec looked around at the others. Rana sat at the main board, monitoring the link. Palen, Harwol, Masid, and Polifos stood on the opposite side of the platform. Baxin sat nearby, with two of Harwol’s agents.
Thales/Bogard stood behind them.
“Whatever you can give us, Thales,” Derec said.
“Very well. I am translating through my own language processors. Stand by.”
Silence stretched.
A loud hiss emerged from the speakers. Three screens flickered to life. The far left-hand screen displayed alphanumerics. Derec recognized the symbology--inferential calculus and asymptotic series, standard approaches to positronic interactions--but the groupings did not appear logical. As the symbols flowed by, he spotted an equation that startled him:
Then:
He recognized it out of combinatorial topology, but its use here baffled him. “You’re copying this to Ariel, Thales?”
“Yes, Derec.” Thales paused. “I am seeing invariant topologies expressed in Poincaré Sets. I surmise these are serving as anchor points between the organic neuronal structural and the positronic matrix. “
“I’m glad you have some idea what it means. “
The second screen showed abstract shapes broken at intervals by recognizable objects--faces, buildings, rooms. A catalogue of visual memory, delivered in a form Derec comprehended from ordinary positronic excavations.
The third screen seemed to be nothing more than lists. Places, names, things.
The speakers popped loudly. Then: “My owaaaaaaaaaaa!”
The hiss seemed to modulate, then fade.
In a faint voice, sexless and tired: “Make it stop.”
Derec took a step toward Rana.
“It moves! That’s what I like, more juice, give me some of that and that and turn it around again, stop it!”
“Thales?” Derec prompted.
“The memory is stored nonhierarchically,” Thales said. “More like a human brain, although storage is discreet rather than undifferentiated. I am trying other nodes.”
The speaker crackled. “Kill it! What business does it have doing like that? I came here expecting nothing! Pull that or put it away I can do better than--”
“Derec,” Thales said, “I have identified a structure that seems to be a positronic external interface. “
“We can talk to it?” Rana asked, surprised.
“You can’t have that, it’s too complex and I’m too one thing or another! Get out of my borrowed--”
“Perhaps,” Thales said. “It depends on how reliable the connections are to the rest of the brain. It is presently generating conceptual axioms similar to an organic condition known as Korsakov’s Syndrome. Imposing order may not be possible.”
“Let’s try it,” Derec said. “It is now active.”
“Can you hear me?” Derec called out. Silence.
“Do you have a name?”
“Several,” the speaker said. “Call me Shit For Brains, like Greeshal does when I don’t answer right away, nice guy Greeshal, should see me now, what do you want?”
“I want the name you prefer. “
“Cordios.”
“What are you, Cordios?”
“The answer to your problem.”
“Do I have a problem?”
“A lot of problems. Main one, you’re alive.”
“So are you. Is that a problem, too?”
“Wrong. Wrong. Error. Sorry.”
“You aren’t alive?”
“Not since I was born.”
“When was that?”
“Before I died.”
“Cordios, do you remember becoming what you are?”
“Do you remember being born?” it asked.
“No.”
“Then you must be human.”
“Do you remember being born?” Derec asked.
“Light, fade, pinpricks all through my head, I have now taken up the heat. Little nits chasing around through my spleen, see them run, see them caught and added to the dog. Everything hurts it feels right, for once I’m growing, I hear, I see, I touch when I want to...no, I don’t remember being born, just being reborn. The clarity! Look--at--that! If you made this then you must be good for something. Little shits can’t even reflect light, but boy do they inspire! Watch me Mommy while I kill the cat! If you don’t want me to break my toys then don’t give them to me, hypocrite, liar, that’s human, too. Left me here and all I did was breathe. Now I don’t even have to do that. Some things are worth dying for, you should see it from the other side. “
“What is this?” Harwol asked. “This doesn’t make any sense.”
“You want sense, tissue? Try this: evolution has infinite vectors, most of them unrecognized, a lot of them artificial. Evolution by design only happens when design evolves. Riddle, riddles, junior piddles, spank him nice and kill him twice. You’re all obsolete. Look at me, I’m the new standard.”
Thunder burst from the speaker then, fading quickly to a whisper, then silence.
“The interface has been deactivated, Derec,” Thales said. “Why?”
“I do not know.”
“You had no reason--?”
“I did not deactivate it. The subject did.”
“What does that mean?” Palen asked.
“It means,” Derec said, “that this thing is still self-aware. It shut down the interface.”
“Is that possible, boss?” Rana asked.
“I wouldn’t have thought so. But...Thales, see what you can salvage, then terminate the subject.”
“I may have a problem with that, Derec.”
“What’s that?”
“Is it human?”
Derec considered the question. “I see. Then just terminate the excavation. I’ll deal with the remains.”
“Yes, Derec. “
The names still danced across the third screen, but now the other two showed nothing.
“Thales, do you have any identification on the names being displayed?”
“Yes, Derec. They are several lists combined. I have names of people currently employed in warehouses, shipping departments, and ITE offices. Dockworkers. Transportation specialists. There is a separate list of merchant ships. A considerable amount validates the information given by Yuri Pocivil. Another list of people and places which I infer from the locations are on Settler colonies. There is also a list matching files Ariel instructed me to locate regarding the kidnappings which precipitated the investigation that closed Nova Levis.”
“They’re all the victims?”
“Yes, Derec.”
“I see. Copy all this to Ariel.”
Derec walked away from the station. He could feel everyone watching him.
“So, now what?” Masid asked.
“We have to find them,” Derec said.
“‘Them ‘?”
“The rest. The cyborgs.”
“So, now you’re convinced there’s more than one,” Harwol said.
“Something like this...yes, I am. And we have to find them and stop them. “
“Stop them from what?” Palen asked.
“Taking our place.”
Coren, Ariel, and Ambassador Setaris filled separate screens mounted on the wall of Palen’s private office. Harwol, Hofton, Masid, and Derec filled chairs around her desk.
“Pocivil hasn’t shut up since he agreed to talk, “ Palen said. “So far we’ve identified twenty-six locations for contraband, illegal transport, and warehousing on the ground, and seven bays here that are regular stops for the black market.”
“Has he said anything about the operations being shut down?” Coren asked.
“That’s why he was heading back to Cassus Thole,” Palen replied. “Operations on Earth are finished--so he says, anyway. Frankly, I doubt that.”
“Maybe a temporary hiatus,” Ariel said. “They ceased before, after Wenithal’s investigation.”
“We’re prepared to move on all the sites,” Harwol said. “Some of them are Spacer-owned, Ambassador Burgess. We’re waiting on you to clear us.”
Ariel frowned. “Derec, the cyborg--I went over the autopsy and excavation reports a little while ago. How many of these do you think there could be?”
“I have no way of knowing,” Derec said. “Seems safe to assume at least two of them--the one we have and the one down there. Blood scans confirm that this one here is not the same one that was in the cargo bin with the baleys. But as for how many there might be...” He shrugged.
“We will sign off on the raids, Agent Harwol,” Setaris said, “under the condition that any cyborgs found, captured, or killed will be turned over to us for study.”
Harwol looked unhappy, but he nodded. “Agreed.”
“And I want my people to have access to the sites after they’re secured.”
“I’ll see what I can do, Ambassador. “
“This isn’t a good time to play things too close, Agent Harwol,” Setaris stressed. “Your people know next to nothing about robots in the first place. You won’t know what you ‘re looking at if these sites contain positronic equipment, you won’t know how to deal with any robots on hand, and you certainly won’t know what to do with any of it afterward. If you encounter any cyborgs, you’ll be even less prepared.”
Harwol cleared his throat. “I understand. How soon can you have people available to accompany our teams?”
“Ariel?” Setaris asked.
“Give the word,” Ariel said.
Harwol was surprised. “Do you have that many?”
“Enough for what we consider the key sites. I’ll copy the list to you. You have people on Kopernik who can fill the same roles there.”
“Very well. I want to move on this within the next six hours, Ambassador. The sooner we do, the more of these people we can catch.”
Ariel nodded. “Agreed. Coren and I will be going in with the Petrabor team. Coren has been there before.”
“Mr. Lanra,” Harwol said, “you are aware of the possible risks. You aren’t an active agent --are you willing to submit to the team leader?”
“My status is problematic, Agent Harwol,” Coren said. “Let’s stop talking and move.”
“Very well. All agreed, on my authority. Chief Palen will coordinate the station raids. If we time this well, we can shut it down all at once. “
Palen gave Harwol a dubious look but said nothing.
“One more thing,” Derec said. “These cyborgs, if there are more, will not succumb to stuns. You ‘11 have to use lethal force, a lot of it, and that means some humans will probably be killed as well. I suggest...” He hesitated, unsettled by his own thoughts. “I suggest you don’t worry about the human casualties. These things, loose, are far more dangerous. “
Everyone stared at him for a time. He felt acutely uncomfortable.
Masid spoke then. “Ambassador, what about the Spacer end?”
“Pardon me?” Setaris asked.
“Obviously, there’s a Spacer connection. Probably Solarian, most likely an embassy official. What will be done about that?”
“We’re already working on that. We will take care of it.”
Masid nodded.
“All right, then,” Palen said, standing. “Let’s move.”
C
oren watched the TBI team sort and ready their equipment for the third time. The comm unit bead in his ear fed him updates on the status of all the other teams. He still could not quite believe they expected to pull this off--the final count had been thirty-one sites on the ground, and eight on Kopernik, all targeted to be hit simultaneously. It was ambitious.
But the clearances had come through from the Aurorans, which, no doubt, would cause a furor within Spacer circles--several sites were Solarian- or Keresian-owned.
Coren’s own pack lay at his feet; he had arrived prepared, and had never been one to check and recheck his equipment in nervous anticipation. He glanced around the edge of the bay, toward the warehouse across the alley--the same one where all this had begun. He distrusted tidy closures like this, but it seemed the most logical place for Tresha to go. She was either here waiting transport, or she was already on Kopernik--in which case, Sipha would grab her.
At least this time I don’t feel like I need a bath...
Ariel sat nearby, her back to the wall, eyes closed, arms folded over her chest, legs outstretched with ankles crossed. She gave the appearance, at least, of a seasoned field agent practicing patience, waiting for the Go signal. At this point, for all Coren knew, she was--everything he had assumed about her had turned out to be insufficient for any reasonable assessment. Ariel Burgess did not conform to easy descriptions or predictable definitions.
Like Nyom, he thought, only completely different...
The TBI team leader approached her, and squatted down to talk. She spoke quietly and intently, instructing the ambassador on what she was expected to do. Ariel nodded and rose smoothly to her feet, then crossed the ancient floor of the bay and sat down. A dozen agents huddled around her for one more question-and-answer session.
Telemetry chittered in Coren’s ear. Suddenly, he heard: “Set. Good to go.”
He looked up and met the team leader’s eyes. She nodded. The huddle broke up into scurrying efficiency. In less than a minute, everyone was loaded up and waiting for the word.
Coren pulled his mask down, hoisted the pack onto his shoulders, and jumped from the edge of the bay. He sprinted across the alley and leapt onto the apron of a mirror-image bay. He pressed against the wall and waited while the TBI team flowed throughout the alley, taking positions to cover him.
Coren took a five-centimeter-square chit from his thigh pocket and slid it into the reader set in the wall. The bay door rumbled up and he ducked inside.
Three dockworkers looked up from the workstation around which they stood, shocked by the sudden intrusion. Automatically, their hands went up as TBI agents rushed in, aiming weapons at them.
“Down!” Coren hissed at the workers. They dropped to the floor obediently. “How many inside? Where?”
“Um...short staffed,” one of the workers said. “Don’t, uh...there’s a special shipment, private...uh...”
“Okay,” Coren said, tapping the man’s head. “Quiet.”
Coren set the pack down on the loading dock. The sounds of the warehouse and the distant port thrummed in the vast open spaces, constant and oddly reassuring. Trucks, dollies, crates, containers, all furnished the area.
He scooped out a handful of vonoomans and began methodically activating them. Upon release, they scampered into the recesses of the warehouse. He sealed the pack then took out his palm monitor.
“Give them a few minutes,” he said to the team leader. He waved to an agent and pointed to the three workers. Immediately, they were restrained and moved out of the way. The team leader spoke intently into her comm.
Coren unfolded the monitor. Within seconds, a map of the interior sketched itself. The little machines showed bright green on the schematic. At no point did they change color to indicate human presence--not until one reached the transfer bays on the far side, where the bins for the shuttles came and went on automated tracks. Then several blue points appeared, huddled just outside one of the bay doors. Coren tapped Ariel’s arm and pointed.
“That’s them, then?” she asked.
“I assume so.” Coren refolded the monitor and stood. He looked at the team leader. “Ready?”
She nodded silently.
Vehicles rolled into the alley outside.
Shouldering the pack, Coren started forward. Now he felt anxious. He wanted to get out there and find Tresha and whoever else she had with her.
He was beginning to accept that Nyom had died coincidentally, the result of a power struggle between forces that in all likelihood had not even been aware of her existence. Accept it, yes, but he would never be at peace with it. All that remained for him now was to find those responsible. After that...
He would never be able to work for Rega again, even if Looms were willing to have him.
I wonder if Ariel’s offer is real...
At the rear of the bay, they ascended a short staircase. The door at the top let them into an office area. The squad seemed to fill it.
Coren was unconcerned about tripping warehouse security monitors--he doubted any of the normal internal systems were on right now--but his targets might have placed alarms at various points. He opened his pack again and took out another mass of tiny machines. He keyed them and let them out in the corridor beyond the office. Scavengers, they would hunt down and eradicate any telltale devices they found.
He sat down before a comm and waited, watching his monitor. When all the lights showed green, he nodded to the team leader.
Swiftly and efficiently, the agents poured from the room and disappeared into the warehouse, each member with a preassigned location. One of them remained behind.
The bead gave him new updates, reports from the various locations. Ariel listened to the same data, nodding silently to herself.
Coren inserted a decrypter into the console before him and initiated the invasive routines. Within seconds, the data stored in the warehouse systems was isolated from the DELETE protocols that would have erased everything upon a single command--a command, Coren noted, which had not yet been given. Secured, he opened a comm channel and began sending all this information to another site.
“Done,” he announced. “Let’s go.”
The trap was closing as Coren and Ariel hurried through the administrative areas of the warehouse. With Palen coordinating on Kopernik and Agent Harwol coordinating on the ground, the global sweep was underway. Warehouses, shipping firms, and ships were being seized. Executives were being picked up for questioning.
Alda Mikels was about to be arrested again.
He entered the same office area he had been in five days ago, overlooking the gridlike expanse of the warehouse proper. So familiar and so strange--things rarely formed neat closures or elegant symmetries in his profession. There was a mirror-like quality to this, though, that gave him a sense of validation, confirming his choices and assuring him that his purpose was necessary and sufficient. Perhaps this feeling was wrong, an illusion, but he could use it. He moved unhesitantly.
Halfway across the grid they heard the first blaster shots. Then shouting. Coren recognized the stentorian timbre of TBI commands. Arrests were underway.
He crossed the apron to one of the open doors leading out to the transport grid. Agents stood above eight people who lay face down on the floor, hands clasped behind their heads. Nearby sprawled three corpses, smoke still coiling listlessly from their wounds.
Coren went from prisoner to prisoner, then to the bodies. No Tresha.
The maze of cargo bins beyond was motionless, the power cut. Huge cubes scattered across the vast field hovered on their self-contained antigravity cushions.
In his ear, Coren continued to hear reports of successful raids, arrests, a few casualties.
But no cyborgs.
He pulled out his optam and scanned the field of inert blocks. No movement. He strode onto the grid.
“Coren--”
Ariel came after him, the TBI agent trailing behind. “Where,” she asked, “are you going?”
“They’re here,” Coren said. “They have to be.” He turned away and continued walking.
“There are agents at the other end,” Ariel called.
“I know!”
The TBI were very good at these sorts of things--they rarely botched a raid--but Coren wanted the confrontation. Things were going too well--the sites were being taken efficiently, arrests made quickly, few fatalities--but he wanted more of a mess, an excuse to get angry and desperate and violent.
He moved quickly, though cautiously, among the eerily-still cargo bins. The air smelled of ozone, and he felt a faint, dry tingle over his skin. The maze stretched a good two kilometers to where the port machinery sorted out the containers, those arriving and those departing going to separate chutes to the correct shuttles.
He stopped. He could not see the warehouse end now through the forest of cubes.
“Gamelin!” he called, voice echoing. “Did you know who she was? The baley runner you killed?” He listened to the answering silence. “Nyom Looms! Do you remember that name?”
He continued walking. “She was your sister, Gamelin! Did you know you had family?”
Coren stopped and looked to his left. He glimpsed a tall shape, dull gray, slightly crouched, standing outlined against one of the bins.
Coren raised his blaster.
Suddenly, the shape came toward him faster than Coren had ever seen anyone move. If it were not moving directly at him, Coren doubted he would have been able to discern a single detail.
But the moment seemed infinite in what he could see:
A face, pockmarked as if by horrible disease. Wide-set unblinking eyes. A hairless skull. Wide shoulders. A runner’s build. A dead-alive intensity, unchanging, mutated into an expression of profound resentment.
Coren wanted more than anything to run.
He fired, too late. The charge slammed into the cyborg’s torso, but momentum carried it into Coren. He felt as if his entire body had been slapped all at once. He flew back, into one of the cargo bins, and dropped onto his buttocks painfully.
Coren rolled and slowly rose to his feet.
When he turned again, the cyborg stood less than a meter away. He suppressed the impulse to try to shoot it--he doubted he could raise his weapon fast enough.
“Gamelin?” Coren said.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, human,” it said, its voice a rasp like dried paper scraps and crushed bone. “We don’t know each other, do we, gato?”
“Maybe, in a way. Is that your only name?”
“Only need one.”
“How about Jerem?”
It cocked its head quizzically. “You have a name?”
“Coren Lanra.”
“That’s two names. Never figured that. What, humans got to have more than one of everything? How come you never give anything else more than one name?”
“You know better than that. Look at your homeworld. It’s got four names: Nova Levis, and Cassus Thole.”
“Don’t forget the star now. Tau Secordis. Six names. But other living things? One name.”
“Are you a living thing?”
Gamelin shook its head. “Not really. But I don’t mind. It’s not so bad being dead. You should try it.” He took a step forward. “What was that you said about a sister?”
“You killed her.”
“Not possible, gato. I don’t even have parents.”
“You did.”
Gamelin looked puzzled. “How’d I kill her?”
“Broke her neck when she wouldn’t breathe your poisoned air.”
Gamelin’s eyes blinked, very slowly. Coren could not read its expression. The cyborg’s eyes narrowed briefly.
“Not acceptable,” it said.
“Coren!” Ariel’s voice called.
Gamelin looked around. Coren gripped his weapon and brought it up.
The cyborg moved fast, laterally. Coren fired. The bolt struck a cargo bin, punching a hole in it. Something within it had been under pressure and now shot out of the wound, sending the entire container careening off its track into another one. Within seconds, they dominoed off and into each other, and Coren watched, stunned, at the sudden pile-up.
The grid’s AI tried to compensate. Bins that had been immobile now began precipitously changing tracks and rearranging to avoid the collisions. Enormous piles of metal rammed each other. Bins bounced around like toys. The drumming of colliding bins filled the vast chamber. Somewhere the violent hiss of escaping gas cut through the thunder--the bin he had punctured.
What was I thinking about this being too neat and efficient...? Coren wondered.
Through the din, four harsh blaster shots, like air tearing, focussed his attention.
“Ariel!”
He looked around for her--just as Gamelin grabbed him.
Coren felt a bolt of terror pulse through him as he was lifted off his feet by one arm. The hand that gripped him compressed muscle and bone on his forearm, impossibly strong, and he understood how Jeta and Damik and the Brethe dealer and others unnamed had died. The blaster fell from his hand.
Now, was all he thought as he looked into Gamelin’s face.
Ariel ran. Cargo bins careened in her wake, seeming to chase her. When the inert cubes had begun to move to compensate for the sudden threat to property, restarted by a watchful but uncreative AI, she expected to be crushed between them.
She glanced back. One bin bounced randomly among the others, a thick spray of gas squirting powerfully from a hole in its side. She considered shooting it again, but that might only make it worse. She kept running.
Finally, near the warehouse end of the transport maze, the banging ended and the shifting bins stopped shifting. Ariel looked back into the altered landscape and thought, Even if very little is damaged, getting all this straightened out is going to take some doing...
When it was clear that nothing else was moving, she started back.
“Ambassador.” The TBI team leader came up alongside her. “The warehouse is secured, we have nine people in custody, and we found four robots in stand-by niches. Your assistance is required to secure them. “
“Are they moving?” Ariel asked.
“No--”
“Then they already are secured. Forget about them. Coren’s out here.”
“Ambassador. “ The woman stepped in front of Ariel and stopped. Ariel came up against her outstretched hand. “Please go back. We’ll find Mr. Lanra.”
“You can accompany me. “
“Please, I insist--”
“Something started this disaster,” Ariel said, waving her hand around at the jumbled bins. “Coren’s vonoomans located no other people than those you already have in custody. Which means?”
“Ambassador--”
“Which means you can accompany me, but I’m going. “
Ariel stepped around the agent. She heard a sharp hiss of breath--a signal--and then running feet. Two more agents joined her, along with the team leader.
They spread out laterally and worked their way through the labyrinth of containers.
The number of damaged bins grew the further they went. Clusters of toppled containers formed tangles. Ariel held her blaster in both hands, her pulse racing.
I must remember in the future that I don’t really have to do this, she thought.
She heard voices. Moving toward them, it became clear that one of them was Coren, but the other--rasping and low--was not even clearly human.
Ariel came around a pair of mashed bins and saw Coren dangling by one arm from the grip of the cyborg. Coren nodded as the cyborg spoke to him, its head tilted forward on enormous shoulders.
Ariel licked her lips. Now what?
In those seconds of indecision, the cyborg suddenly straightened and looked around. It saw Ariel.
Indifferently, it dropped Coren.
In that instant, a blaster shot splashed against its back. “No!” Ariel shouted, then pressed the stud on her own weapon.
Gamelin’s pain came out like dust-laden wind. The cyborg took a few more steps, and fell. Coren squirmed and pushed and managed to crawl away. The stench of scorched fabric, melted plastic, and meat filled Ariel’s nostrils.
Ariel hurried forward, along with the TBI agents. One of them grabbed Coren’s jacket and dragged him further from the cyborg.
Ariel stopped a meter from it, keeping her weapon aimed at its head. It lay face down. Smoke wafted up from three burns on its back and shoulders.
The team leader took its arm and heaved, turning it over.
Gamelin surged up suddenly, brushing away her weapon and clutching her jacket.
“Oh, kill me slow, gato,” it said. “It’s the only thing I have left to feel.”
It placed one enormous hand over her face and squeezed. Bone snapped with sickening delicacy, and the team leader screamed.
Ariel jerked the trigger of her blaster; the shot grazed Gamelin’s arm. The cyborg stood and tossed the body of the team leader at the other agent, turned, and fled. Ariel tried to hit it again, firing repeatedly. But none of the shots found a target, and Gamelin soon disappeared among the cargo bins.
Ariel’s breathing came heavy as she went to Coren. Sweat covered his face, but he was conscious.
“It knows,” he said. “I told it.”
“How bad are you?” Ariel ran her gaze over him, settling on his right arm. She reached for it.
His other arm came up and stopped her. “Hurts.”
“We’ll get help.”
“Tresha must already be in transit,” Coren said. “Contact Sipha...make sure...”
Ariel felt momentarily frantic about his injuries, but she nodded and stood. She went to the other agent, who held the team leader in his arms. Her face was turning black already. One eye bulged hideously.
Somehow, though, she was still alive.
Ariel raised her comm and started issuing orders.
Derec listened absently to the tense comm traffic being monitored behind him. He gazed out of the office across the empty dock, waiting for the instant the bay doors opened and the shuttle for which they waited slid into the station.
Masid came up beside him.
“Reports from groundside indicate a rousing success, “ Masid said.
Derec glanced at him. “How come you don’t sound pleased?”
Masid raised his eyebrows. “It’s not finished. I’m never happy till it’s over.”
“All the Settler bays in question have been seized,” Derec mused. “We have prisoners, some of whom are already giving up information--”
“Ah, but they don’t really know a lot. Most of it won’t amount to very much unless we can persuade this one--” he nodded toward the bay below them “--to talk. Tresha’s the key to the whole thing.”
“You never struck me as a pessimist. “
“Pragmatist. Big difference.”
“Coren’s been hurt,” Palen announced.
Derec and Masid turned toward the room. Harwol sat behind one desk, hand to his ear. Palen occupied another desk opposite him. She looked at Derec.
“Ambassador Burgess is all right,” she said. “The cyborg got away.”
“Damn,” Masid said.
“Is Lanra hurt badly?” Derec asked.
“Crushed forearm,” Palen said. “Reparable. Tresha is in transit.” She touched a contact. “Look sharp, people--the main fish is coming into our net. “
Derec turned away. One cyborg still loose. They had found no others. Part of him was reassured--at least they would not have to deal with any more right now--but he could not convince himself that these represented the only two. From what Polifos had told them, it was an old and ongoing program. Somewhere, there were more.
Maybe Tresha could tell them.
“Damn it!” Palen shouted. “Her shuttle is changing vector. It’s heading to another bay. Who gave clearance for that?”
Harwol looked up. “I’m moving my people now. Do you have the new destination?”
Palen listened intently. “Working on it...come on... shit, it’s going to a Solarian dock.”
Masid leaned close to Derec. “What did I tell you?”
Derec went to an empty chair and pulled himself to a comm. He tapped in a code and waited. Ambassador Setaris appeared on his screen.
“Ambassador,” he said, “we have a new situation. Our last target has switched destination from the Settler dock she was scheduled for to the Solarian section.”
Setaris’s eyes widened. “What do you need, Mr. Avery?”
“We’re moving on her regardless,” Derec said, glancing at Palen and Harwol, who both nodded. “You might want to start working on smoothing things over with Ambassador Chassik now.”
“Thank you for the warning. Good luck. “
“Move, “ Harwol said, looking at Palen. “Your station, your arrest. “
Palen jumped up and headed for the exit.
Masid nodded for Derec to come along.
When they reached the dock in question, Solarian security--Keresians--blocked access. Palen pushed her way through the knot of TBI and station security. She brought her face close to the chief of Solarian security.
“Chief Palen,” she said. “Stand aside. This is a lawful entry.”
“I have orders--” the Keresian started.
Palen shoved him to one side and stabbed the access panel. The door opened.
Her people poured through.
They crowded into the control booth. Operators started to abandon their positions.
“Sit down!” Palen shouted. “You’re receiving an unauthorized shuttle. When will it be in the bay?”
“Your pardon, Chief Palen, “ one of the operators said, “but we received authorization fifteen minutes ago.”
“From who?”
“Our embassy, of course.”
Palen stared at the man. “Are you going to tell me that this shuttle is under diplomatic protection?”
“I--well--”
“Entering the cradle now,” another operator said.
“Bring it in,” Palen ordered. “Embassy clearance or not, that shuttle is impounded.”
Below, the huge doors opened. Tractor lines drew the sleek, bullet-shaped shuttle into the, bay. Once it had cleared the opening, the doors sealed and the bay started pressurizing.
Palen moved to the access hatch. “Security, with me. Avery, you get on the comm and do liaison with your people. Masid, you do the same with Harwol.”
“Pressurization complete, “ an operator announced.
Derec went to the comm console and tapped in a code. The channel to the Auroran Embassy, Earthside, showed open.
The hatch slid aside and Palen led her squad of police down the stairs. The hatch closed behind them. Derec went to the window and watched the security teams spread out around the shuttle.
Masid joined Derec. “Now maybe I’ll start being optimistic,” he said.
Derec looked at the chief operator. “Who issued the clearance?”
“I’m not at liberty to--”
“Don’t. A name. Was it Chassik?”
The man looked embarrassed and uncertain. “Derec,” Masid said.
Below, the shuttle hatch opened. Palen took a position at the base of the ramp, hands on hips. A woman appeared in the hatchway. For a long, long moment, she gazed down at the security people and Palen.
There was a faint series of flashes around the bay door. And then, between one instant and the next, the door itself blew outward.
Derec flinched back. The shuttle lurched off its cradle, the prow rolling over Palen. Bodies lifted off the deck and sailed out the gaping hole. The shuttle itself caught against the sides of the dock, wedged briefly.
Then it exploded.
There was no sound. Derec fell to the floor. He could hear the walls of the control booth creaking under enormous stress, but they did not yield.
Minutes later, he managed to stand.
The bay was empty of anything that might have been loose. The walls were stained black, and the hatch itself was buckled outward. The shuttle was gone, and no one remained in the now airless space.
D
erec watched Masid pack. The man wore the clothes of someone used to moving around: comfortable, lots of pockets, simply cut. The pack, though, contained tools and devices no baley would carry.
“You’re sure about this?” Derec asked.
“I’ve got the best chance of getting to Nova Levis of anyone,” Masid said. “Already worked it out with the TBI and the Aurorans, so don’t even try talking me out of it. “
“Is there anything I can do?”
Derec had grown quite fond of Masid in the last few days, since the world had changed. Derec had few enough friends. The thought of losing a new one disturbed him.
But Palen’s death had affected Masid profoundly. He was angry and felt the need to do something. Derec believed going off like that was a bad idea, but he could think of no convincing argument to stop Masid.
“You’ve got your hands full here,” Masid said. He glanced significantly at the robot standing near the door. “You wouldn’t want to loan that to me, would you?”
Derec started. “That could be awkward, don’t you think? Having a robot with you wouldn’t be the most inconspicuous thing you could do.”
“True, but I think I’m going to miss it.”
The DW-12 did not react. Derec needed to schedule a complete diagnostic for it. Thales was unable to tell him very much about its make-up; everything was guesswork and projection. For a time, it had insisted on accompanying Masid. It took a good deal of insistent talk to convince it to stay with Derec. He recognized Bogard’s attachment to duty, certainly, but its facility at debate was all Thales. Derec doubted he would win every argument with this new creation, this composite.
“You’re right,” Derec admitted. “Besides, Ariel asked me to help her do the analysis on the cyborg we acquired.”
“‘Acquired’? Interesting term. ‘Killed and captured’ would be more accurate. “
“If you destroy a robot, do you kill it?”
Masid frowned.
“It’s a good question,” Derec continued. “I’d say no. They aren’t, strictly speaking, alive. Can you make the same statement about a cyborg? They’re organic, certainly, but are they human?”
“Or human enough.” Masid nodded. “Too much philosophy for me. I’m just a spy.” He finished packing and sealed the bag, then turned back to Derec. “We need to say goodbye. It’ll take me a few days to work myself back under cover so I can do this with any expectation of success. I’ll be on Kopernik for a time still, but after this we can’t know each other.”
Derec took Masid’s hand. “Be safe.”
“Always my intention.”
Masid shouldered the pack and walked quickly out.
Derec looked at the DW-12. “What am I going to do with you?”
“Whatever you wish,” the robot replied. “Within limits.”
Derec started, then laughed out loud. “What do I call you?”
“The preponderance of my matrix is based on Bogard.”
“In that case, welcome back, Bogard. We have a lot to talk about....”
Derec found Hofton in the positronics lab with Rana. They looked up at him dourly when he entered.
“Now who died?” Derec asked.
Neither smiled.
“Ariel can’t get you permission to bring Bogard down,” Hofton said.
Derec considered the news for a moment, then shrugged. “So I expected.”
“She’s also being seconded to Auroran intelligence.”
He started. “What?”
“The cyborg is being shipped back to Aurora. They want her to work on it. Classified work, of course. “
“I thought--”
“She wants you, boss,” Rana said. “But if you leave Earth...”
“I won’t get back.”
“It is unlikely,” Hofton admitted.
“I see.”
“Boss--”
Derec held up a hand. “We’ve got a little time, don’t we?”
“A few days,” Hofton said. “Not much more, I’m sure.”
“We’ll work something out.” Derec looked around the lab. “I need a workstation set up for a full diagnostic. Is Thales still linked up?”
Rana nodded. “No one’s shut it down yet.”
“Fine.”
Work would take his mind off the situation for a time. Perhaps he could come to terms with what amounted to exile.
Yart Leri strode into the lab. He gazed about, eyes wide, until he saw Derec, Rana, and Hofton.
“There you are,” he said, coming up to them. “Have you heard? No, of course you haven’t. I just found out myself.”
“Rega Looms has won the election despite having withdrawn?” Hofton said dryly.
Leri frowned at him. “No, of course not.”
“Sorry, Ambassador,” Derec said, giving Hofton a look. “What haven’t we heard?”
“Nova Levis. A blockade runner has fired on a Theian perimeter ship. We may have a war on our hands.”
Ariel’s lower back ached from the too-stiff posture. She could not make herself relax, and the chair simply could not compensate for her tension.
The room felt cold, too. She was not entirely sure that was not an illusion, her own projection. No one around the conference table smiled; the mood was sepulchral. For the last four hours, Setaris had conducted the meeting--hearing, really--with all the warmth of a stone slab. After the first hour, Gale Chassik had stopped looking at anyone. He answered the questions put to him in monosyllables when possible, offering as little detail as he could get away with.
The clearance that had allowed the shuttle carrying Tresha to switch destinations to the Solarian section of Kopernik had come from his office. He refused to acknowledge responsibility, but he could not deny the evidence.
He had stopped responding to questions at all nearly an hour ago. Ariel had been asked a few questions concerning details of the raid, but otherwise had not participated in the proceedings.
“In view of the circumstances,” Setaris said finally, “I cannot in good conscience overlook the potential culpability in this matter on the part of Ambassador Chassik. Therefore, as head of the joint legation of the Fifty Worlds on Earth, I revoke his ambassadorial authority pending a hearing to review charges of abuse of office and negligence. Such hearing will be held on Aurora at a date to be determined by the Auroran legislature. Until then, Ambassador Chassik is remanded to house arrest, and his duties shall be assumed by another mission to be chosen by mutual agreement of this body.”
Chassik looked up. “You ‘re making a vast mistake, Sen. “
“Possibly,” Setaris said. “But a vastly smaller one than I would be making were I to allow you to continue as ambassador. Any questions?” She surveyed the table. “Good. This meeting is adjourned.”
Ariel gratefully pushed away from the table and stood.
Chassik met her at the door and blocked her way.
“And, indeed, we have not finished, Ambassador,” he said.
Ariel glanced at the two security guards flanking him. They stepped closer. Chassik glared at them, then left the room.
“He’ll probably be recalled,” Setaris said.
Ariel turned.
“I’ll see to it he leaves before you do,” Setaris continued. “I apologize, Ariel. I know you wanted to remain on Earth, but...”
“But I’m much more valuable where I can be kept an eye on,” Ariel said. “I understand.”
“Ariel, I actually envy you leaving so soon. I don’t imagine that we’ll have a mission here for much longer. Once the Terran senate finishes casting us in the role of the devil for having spawned a new menace, we’ll be asked to leave. If war actually breaks out...well, I don’t look forward to leaving under those conditions. “
“Why would Earth make war on us? It was a Settler ship that fired on a Spacer ship.”
“Prejudice. We’ll be assuming control of the blockade, Earth will feel some perverse sympathy for the Settlers that we are then blockading, and the situation will degenerate from there.” Setaris shrugged. “I may be too cynical, though. Perhaps none of this will actually happen. If not, perhaps you can return. “
Ariel could think of no response. She wanted to go back to her apartment and have a drink.
Or go see Coren.
Which would be more dangerous right now? she wondered.
“We can talk again before you leave, “ Setaris said. “Arrangements need to be made and so forth. Till then, as a favor to me--be careful.”
As she watched Setaris walk away, Ariel thought, I’m not happy about leaving Earth, but it will be a relief to get away from her.
Rega Looms finished the meeting and sat behind his desk, eyes closed, trying to find the satisfaction he once enjoyed from business well-concluded. Nothing. After a time, he sighed and wondered if anything, ever again, would give him any joy.
Melodramatic thought...
He poured himself a glass of brandy and drank it slowly. When it was finished, he left the office and ascended to his private chambers.
On the desk in his residential office lay the draft of his next sermon. He was alone now--wife dead, both children dead. He had nothing left but his company and his church. Politics was over for him, at least as a personal activity.
He toyed with the ancient pen he always used to hand write these pieces, but, looking down the lines of neatly calligraphed words, he could think of nothing more to add just now.
The world was ending and he had said everything...
Looms shook his head. Ridiculous. Still, he felt that way often. What if, tomorrow, time stopped and the end came? Would he have done all he needed to do?
Some things he no longer could finish.
There were words he had needed to say to Nyom...
He walked into his bedroom.
Someone sat on the edge of the bed. A large man, dressed darkly, bare head bowed.
“Who are you?” Looms asked automatically. He thought of the gun in his nightstand.
The man raised his head. The room’s lighting played off of pale skin, rough, scarred complexion, and large eyes that seemed somehow artificial. He grinned.
“Hello, Daddy,” said Gamelin. “So nice to see you after all these years.,..”