Asimov’s Future History Volume 9

by Isaac Asimov

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

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

  A failure Alda Mikels had implemented.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Ariel frowned. “I don’t–”

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

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

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

  Ariel raised her own glass in mock assent.

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

  “Mr. Avery?”

  Derec turned slowly. Coren Lanra stood nearby.

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

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

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

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

  Derec watched Lanra walk away until the elevator door opened.

  Five

  ARIEL, YOU HAVE a call.”

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

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

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

  “You have a call. Ambassador Setaris.”

  “Hell... what time is it?”

  “Two-twenty.”

  “In the morning?”

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

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

  “I brought coffee.”

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

  “Yes, Ariel.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Um... of course.”

  “Very good, Ariel. See you then.”

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

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

  “Shall I begin packing, Ariel?”

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

  “Yes, Ariel.”

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

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

  A single line of type scrolled across the screen.

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

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

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

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

  Ariel finished her coffee and went to dress.

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

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

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

  She wondered if Setaris slept anymore.

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

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

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

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

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

  “You mean an invasion.”

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

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

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

  “Do they actually have such a mandate?”

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

  “And in return, Earth gives us what?”

  “We gain credibility,” Setaris replied.

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

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

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

  “Is Nova levis hosting pirates?” Ariel asked.

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

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

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

  “That’s ridiculous.”

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

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

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

  “And the other thing?” she asked.

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

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

  “May I ask what he wanted?”

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

  Setaris pursed her lips.

  “You’re not surprised?” Ariel asked.

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

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

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

  “Relates to her death.”

  “Interesting. Did you agree to help him?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Why not?”

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

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

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

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

  “You sound dubious.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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