Mirage

by Mark W. Tiedemann

  Now that she was satisfied that none of the injuries and deaths had been accidental, that indeed the assassins had been good enough to hit exactly what they aimed at, she found herself trying to figure out what each victim meant in the scheme of cause and effect.

  Humadros and Eliton represented the primary targets, obviously. Without them, the conference died, even though several parties worked valiantly to keep it alive. There would be a meeting, certainly, but how much could realistically be accomplished now? The bulk of Humadros’s legation had died. Those remaining were junior members, more diplomats-in-training and gophers than real negotiators. Of course, there was the anomaly of Ariel’s acquaintance, Tro Aspil, being both dead and en route back to Aurora, but even he had not been a significant member of the legation, not in the larger schema.

  All of Eliton’s security people.

  Including her.

  Why? Did they represent the only honest group within Special Service? As easy as it was to think that way, it was unlikely. But Mattu and Gel and Mia were the most likely to figure out the inconsistencies in the cover-up. It had been a matter of expedience to close off that avenue of trouble immediately. They had missed Mia in the Gallery, possibly the only shot that had gone wild.

  Or maybe not. Maybe they had wanted her alive to frame, along with Bogard. Easy enough to do.

  Then why the attack on the hospital? Second thoughts? Correcting a mistake?

  Safer to believe that she was a target all along.

  Eliton’s staff--two people--were dead. Along with five members of Humadros’s team killed, that totalled thirteen. One dead in the PSM party. Fourteen. The other seven?

  Crol Dushek, head of the Solarian Legation, and two of his aides. Seventeen. The three Aurorans from the embassy here. Twenty.

  The last one still seemed anomalous: a woman named Viansa Risher, who at first had no apparent reason to be on the platform. She had been a member of the Settler’s Transport Committee, a division of the Settler’s Coalition, a bureaucrat with no direct connection to anyone else. It looked like a token invitation.

  When Mia called up newsnet articles, though, she discovered that Risher’s presence had been significant indeed. The Settler Worlds had demanded a seat at the table from the first announcement of the conference and had been consistently ignored by both Terran and Spacer governments. Risher was the Settler Coalition’s spokesperson on Earth and had made a good case for inclusion. Trade relations between Spacer Worlds and Earth did potentially impact Settler Worlds, and they certainly had an interest in the piracy issue since everyone privately believed that the pirates were Settlers or at least used a Settler world as a base. The exclusion made little sense and none of the reasons given had been convincing, Finally, in the last month, Eliton’s office issued an invitation to Risher and the conference committee certified her for inclusion. But only her.

  Twenty-one officially dead (or twenty, depending on Eliton’s actual status). Thirty-three wounded. Fifty-five actual shots fired. Who among the thirty-three had they intended to kill?

  And why no one in the DyNan Manual Industries party?

  The screen on her datum continued to show WORKING.. Mia finished her water, staring at it, waiting.

  Ariel’s com registered another call. Mia hobbled over and sat down. She had scrolled through the growing list of messages, worried. Three from Ambassador Setaris, two from Delegate Korolin, five from her aide, Hofton, one from Senator Taprin...

  This one was from Coren Lanra, the security for the DyNan group.

  Mia killed the visual and pressed ACCEPT.

  “Ariel Burgess.”

  “Oh, Ms. Burgess.” Lanra’s voice was nasal and a little rough. “I tried your office already but they told me you weren’t in--”

  “So you called me here. How did you obtain this number?”

  “I’m Coren Lanra, security for DyNan Manual Industries.”

  He said it as if it explained everything. Mia felt herself smile despite her annoyance. “I’ll take that to mean it’s none of my business? What can I do for you, Mr. Lanra?”

  “Well...” He sounded unsure now. This was not the kind of response he had expected, obviously. “I had hoped we could discuss the incident at Union Station.”

  “Is there a reason you want to discuss it with me?”

  “I’ve tried to talk to several other people at your embassy, but no one seems to have the time. Understandable, with three of Ambassador Setaris’s immediate staff dead. But I’ve been working down the list. I thought I’d give up when I reached the maintenance department.”

  “Our maintenance is handled by robots, Mr. Lanra.”

  “Yes, well, as I said.”

  “I still need a reason.”

  Lanra said nothing for several seconds and Mia began to think he would simply excuse himself and go away.

  “There are certain...” he said finally,”... irregularities... about what happened.”

  “Concerning?”

  “My employers, for one.”

  Mia chewed her lip. “You mean like the fact that none of DyNan’s people were injured?”

  “Like that, yes.”

  “Do you think that needs explaining?”

  “It will.”

  “And you’d like to explain to us. Why? It seems to me that you ought to take this to Terran authorities.”

  “Right now they aren’t very receptive to explanations.”

  Mia did not doubt DyNan would be high on the list of suspects. Even without the anomaly of no injuries, Rega Loom, DyNan’s owner, was also the untitled head of the Church of Organic Sapiens, a rabidly anti-robot faction. But not only anti-robot--DyNan manufactured ergonomic and organic multiplier tech, tools that allowed a person to do the work personally; in fact, required a human to operate it. Their philosophy was a modified form of self-reliance: any tool that operated independently of human control; they claimed, sapped something vital from the human condition. Positronics topped the pyramid of technologies DyNan found inimical to their concept of humanity, but it certainly did not stop at robots. Imbitek, they declared, made things that were little better. Imbedded tech quietly did things humans did not even know about, hidden and forgotten. Humanity had no idea what capabilities it lost to machines that did work for them. Nothing DyNan made operated on its own. The Church of Organic Sapiens extended that belief into the religious, claiming that the true nature of humankind was pretechnological, that Eden had contained no machines, and that the only true state of grace was a state wherein human beings required and possessed nothing but their own bodies and minds.

  But, Mia reasoned, if they had been behind the attack, then it was stupid of them to have not at least offered a token victim.

  “I suppose listening couldn’t hurt, Mr. Lanra,” she said finally. “What do you have in mind?”

  “If we could meet somewhere...”

  “Give me a code where I can reach you. I have to juggle some things, but I’ll get back to you.”

  “Ms. Burgess, please don’t avoid me. I think this is very important--”

  “I have no intention of avoiding you, Mr. Lanra. But I still have responsibilities to attend. I will get back to you.”

  Lanra sighed unhappily. “All right. You can reach me here.”

  A number appeared on the com. “Thank you, Mr. Lanra. How late will you be there?”

  “As late as necessary.”

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  Mia stabbed the disconnect with a trembling hand and leaned back in the chair, thrilled and frightened.

  Something, she thought. Finally something!

  Now the only problem was finding Ariel.

  “Bogard,” she called.

  “Yes, Mia?”

  “Can you still tap directly into security com lines?”

  “I have not attempted to do so since our arrival here,” the robot said. “It may be that I have been isolated from access.”

  I doubt it, she thought, especially if they
think you’re gone...

  “Try it now. See if there is any local security chatter concerning Ariel and Derec.”

  Bogard moved up to the com console and extruded a thin cable from its left hand. The cable connected directly to the I/O port. Data flashed rapidly across the screen.

  “No,” Bogard reported.

  “Send an anonymous report concerning them.”

  “Through central coordination, or shall I find a field unit in the area?”

  “A field unit, of course, if you can.”

  A few seconds later, Bogard said, “There is a cruiser within the grid around the garage Ms. Burgess is investigating. I have sent a simulated dispatch directing it to the site.”

  “Very good, Bogard. Thank you.”

  “Do you wish me to continue monitoring?”

  “Yes, Bogard. No further communications, but let me know if anything happens.”

  “Yes, Mia.”

  Mia limped back to the couch, leaving Bogard connected to the com. She had not thought Bogard could do this, but, thinking about it now, it was only logical. She stared at it, wondering what other capabilities it possessed to which she--or anybody else in her department--had given no thought.

  She stared at her datum screen for several seconds. It no longer said WORKING. Instead, the words SEARCH COMPLETED glowed green.

  Hesitantly, she pressed ACCESS.

  _

  TWENTY

  Derec touched pavement at street level, relieved to finally be off the rooftops. He looked back up the length of ladder, toward the distant ceiling of D. C. Some of those roofs ended at that ceiling, forming part of the support for the cap that covered the city.

  He shook his right arm to ease the bum. He had climbed down the entire length of this building --about fifteen meters, he guessed--with the crate under his left arm. His muscles ached.

  “You know,” he observed, “it’s been a long time since I did any serious climbing, but this really isn’t a very good substitute.”

  Ariel was looking around, her face pulled into an annoyed scowl.

  “What?” he asked. “You’ve been looking like you lost something since we got to this sector.”

  “It’s--I don’t know, I can’t quite put my finger on it. I should know something else about this area.”

  “What does your datum say about it?”

  “A warehouse district, some small assembly plants, mostly merchandiser’s storage. I--”

  Ariel snatched out her datum and tapped it quickly. She turned and pointed. “That way.”

  Derec followed, irritated afresh. “You have an appointment?”

  “Actually, yes.”

  “Have you ever been here before?”

  “No, but it’s part of my duties to know certain areas.”

  Derec waited for more explanation, but none came. He resigned himself to following and waiting for a bit longer.

  Ariel went down a narrow gangway and out into a broad service alley that ran between loading docks. She glanced left and right and went left. At the fourth dock she stopped, referred to her datum, then pointed.

  “That’s the place.”

  “What place?” Derec asked.

  Ariel climbed onto the dock apron and tried the employee door. When it did not open, she looked expectantly at Derec.

  “Don’t overuse this,” he said as he joined her and inserted his decrypter. The lock was simple and the door opened within seconds.

  Inside, they found a small, neat office. Business licenses hung on the walls.

  “This is Auroran,” Derec noted.

  “I know.”

  “What are we looking for?”

  “Contraband.”

  The warehouse proper was filled with rows of ceiling-high shelving containing crates of a similar dull grey as the one beneath Derec’s arm, though much larger. Ariel stepped up to the nearest one and studied it, then looked around. She found a small handheld device hanging from the end of the shelves and ran it along the length of the crate.

  The lid unsealed and swung out. Within stood a humaniform robot, minus the head.

  “A DP-8,” she said. “Porter model drone.”

  “A bit too human for here, isn’t it?” Derec commented dryly

  “Just a bit.” Ariel checked three more and they all contained headless DP-8 drones. “Now, where do you suppose the heads are?”

  They wandered among the shelves. Derec saw cases containing a variety of drones--factory assembler units, agromaintenance, cleaning drones--but only one section with the humaniforms, and every one of those that they opened they found headless. He began to suspect now what it was he carried under his arm.

  “Derec,” Ariel called.

  He followed her voice to a wide door leading into another, smaller storage chamber. He saw machinery and workbenches.

  “How come no one’s here?” he asked.

  “The embassy ordered all our nationals to close their businesses for the duration of the crisis.”

  “There’s a crisis?”

  She gave him a warning look.

  On one of the benches sat a row of humaniform heads. Not absolutely human, but broadly so--caricatures of human faces. The backs were open. Derec turned one to peer into it.

  “Empty.”

  “And...?”

  He looked at Ariel. “It’s easily adaptable to a positronic brain, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I do.”

  He looked at the crate he carried, then back at Ariel.

  “This place is only a short distance from the garage,” she said. “Proximity doesn’t usually mean much, but in this case I’d have to say the coincidence is a little too much.”

  “I think we’d better leave before another incident.”

  Ariel nodded vaguely and let Derec lead her back to the small office. She went to one of the three desks, though, and switched on the terminal. She took out her datum and connected it to the I/O.

  “Ariel--”

  She held up a hand and Derec pressed his lips together tightly. It was futile to argue with her when she had her mind set on a goal. He waited while she riffled the system and transferred data.

  Finally, she shut down and pocketed her datum.

  “Let’s go.”

  Relieved, Derec stepped out onto the loading dock.

  “PLEASE STAND STILL. PLACE ALL OBJECTS ON THE PAVEMENT AND RAISE YOUR HANDS.”

  Derec looked sharply to the right. A police cruiser squatted in the alley and two officers stood behind it, weapons aimed at them.

  “Shit,” he muttered and slowly placed the crate at his feet.

  “Just what were you looking for?”

  Ariel stared angrily at the back of the cop’s head. Her voice was controlled and reasonable, completely at odds with the frustration Derec saw in her face.

  “Convention space,” she said. “There’s going to be a trade show of Spacer manufactures. That’s what I do, I’m the commerce liaison with the Auroran Embassy.”

  “Convention--? There aren’t any convention facilities in this area, Ambassador, and that was a private warehouse--”

  “But it’s called Convention Center District on all the maps.”

  “Yes, it is,” the cop said agreeably. “But there really aren’t any convention facilities there.”

  “So why is it called that if that’s not what it contains?”

  “It’s always been called that,” the other cop said. “You must be new on Earth. “

  “So it must be a practical joke, is that it? Leave outdated names on all the maps so the new tourists end up over their head in a bad neighborhood. Of course, that’s a joke, too, since the Terran Tourism and Visitors Department swears there are no bad areas in D. C. or in any other major urban center on the planet.”

  “Tourism doesn’t ask the police, Ms. Sorry.”

  “Someone should ask someone,” Ariel went on, her voice acquiring an edge now.

  Derec watched appreciatively as she gradually a
mplified her rant, over the course of the several kilometers back to the Auroran embassy, irritating and then enraging the two police officers who had, in fairness, just done their jobs. She picked on every explanation they offered until they clammed up and gave her only monotone answers and clearly could not wait to get her out of their cruiser. They had not arrested them because Ariel had her embassy ID on her and had convinced them that she had had business at that warehouse. Derec still had the crate, secured by the same explanation, though the policemen were clearly not happy about it. They were not willing to risk the trouble, though, in arresting an ambassador. Now she had gotten them to the point where they cared about nothing other than returning them to the Auroran embassy, which they had been more than willing to do, no doubt under orders to make sure no more Spacers got harmed or killed in the aftermath of Union Station. Ariel took advantage of that to so thoroughly outrage them with her petty slurs against Earth that they did not bother asking for Derec’s ID, nor did they ask the questions that would have opened the door to answers Ariel did not wish to give.

  On the landing pad, fifth floor of the embassy, they climbed out of the transport. Ariel strode off in a huff. Derec looked in at the two cops.

  “Thanks, I really appreciate it,” he said.

  The nearer one glared at him. “Your boss needs to learn a little circumspection.”

  Derec shrugged. “Well...”

  “Have a good day, sir.”

  They lifted off and Derec staggered back from the wash of hot, compressed air. He wondered how much of a report they would file.

  Derec caught up with Ariel at the elevator.

  “That was--”

  She shot him a look. “Unnecessary?”

  “--masterful.”

  She frowned briefly, then laughed. “Those poor...”

  The elevator door opened, letting three people out. Ariel did not finish her thought.

  “All the log recorded was date, destination, and distance,” Derec announced. “It was used once in the last eleven months.”

  “Union Station?” Mia asked.

  “Correct. And directly back to that garage. There’s no record of the driver, the medical technicians, or the patient.”

  “No surprises, then,” Ariel said.

  “But it’s confirmation,” Mia said, nodding. She pointed at the crate on the end of the table. “What’s in that?”