Asimov’s Future History Volume 9

by Isaac Asimov

  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 scree
n 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?”

  Twenty-Four

  ALL 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?”