Asimov’s Future History Volume 9

by Isaac Asimov

  Becoming a Special Service agent had then seemed the best answer to that dissatisfaction. For a time, she had felt amply fulfilled. Then everything had gone wrong during the Eliton Conference fiasco and she had been in the middle of every possible controversial aspect: personal security for Senator Eliton, Service manager of the only autonomous positronic robot the Service possessed, implicated in the conspiracy to murder Eliton and the chief delegates of the Spacer legations, and then, after, a traitor to the Service for exposing the agents who had been involved in the plot . . .

  A mess indeed . . .

  Now, in the logic of the Service, having proven herself capable of policing her own people, she was Internal Security on the Nova Levis blockade, responsible for finding and neutralizing corrupt officers.

  She gazed at the four bound volumes. How corrupt can a man who reads these kinds of books, this way, be . . . ?

  It was tempting to believe refined taste placed one in a special category. Not a common black market operative, surely. A misunderstanding?

  Her datum still worked through the comm logs. No, the manifest she had found was clearly Corf’s.

  Up to this point everything about him fit what she expected. An ensign, passed over for promotion twice due to substandard fitness reports, disciplined once for brawling, twice for “intemperate language to a superior,” and with a credit account several hundred credits richer than it should have been. A mediocre cadet, an average crewman, now a problematic officer: he would serve out his time and be discharged with no option for re-enlistment, vested in a small retirement pension. An unexceptional, somewhat dull, short-tempered, progressively bitter man, the perfect profile to be recruited by smugglers. His current duty was in Stores, also ideal, specifically requisitions for shipboard amenities . . .

  Les Miserables . . . ?

  Mia grunted and sat down. She tapped her datum for a second task and entered the specifications for the four books. She wanted to know what they would cost.

  WORKING

  She leafed through Oliver Twist while she waited. She stopped at a section to which someone had added a checkmark in the margin:

  For the next eight or ten months, Oliver was the victim of a systematic course of treachery and deception. He was raised by hand. The hungry and destitute situation of the infant orphan was duly reported by the workhouse authorities to the parish authorities. The parish authorities inquired with dignity of the workhouse authorities, whether there was no female then domiciled in “the house” who was in a situation to impart to Oliver Twist, the consolation and nourishment of which he stood in need. The workhouse authorities replied with humility, that there was not. Upon this, the parish authorities magnanimously and humanely resolved, that Oliver should be “farmed,” or, in other words, that he should be despatched to a branch-workhouse some three miles off, where twenty or thirty other juvenile offenders against the poor-laws rolled about the floor all day, without the inconvenience of too much food or too much clothing . . .

  Mia felt an inexplicable twist of conscience reading this. She looked at her datum.

  EXTERNAL SOURCES REQUIRED FOR INQUIRY

  She leaned over and pressed the CONTINUE key.

  Mia continued leafing through the book. It seemed incredible to her that she should know a few orphans. Here was a story more than a thousand years old about a situation that humanity, in all its progress and through all its various periods of wealth, had never solved.

  Curious, she pulled up Corf’s record again. No, he had never been an orphan.

  She opened the other books to see if any other passages had been checked. She found several, in all of them. The books had clearly not simply adorned a shelf somewhere unread. These volumes had been well used.

  No owner’s name appeared in any of the books. One, however, had a bookseller’s imprint on the inside back cover: OMNE MUNDI COMPLURIUM, ANTIQUITIES, LYZIG.

  She added that to the search protocol and set the books aside.

  The datum chimed, the first search concluded. She pulled up the results and sat back, dismayed. The trails of communications spread out like a complex algorithm, a web of interconnected associations covering several ships and traversing many levels of command hierarchy.

  Mia’s mood darkened. This is going to take days to collate into useful tables . . .

  “That’s why I earn the big money,” she said aloud, and began copying everything to a disk.

  She resealed the container of book disks and returned it to Corf’s locker. The paper volumes she tucked into her pack. She then made another search of the cabin, but she found nothing else out of the expected.

  Her datum still read WORKING, so she closed it up for now. It would continue to pursue the search. She slipped it into her pack, closed down Corf’s workstation, and left the cabin. She slapped an IS seal on the door and activated it. Only her code now would open Corf’s cabin.

  Satisfied that she had overlooked nothing—for now—she hoisted her pack over her left shoulder and headed for the ship’s personnel lock.

  Chapter 5

  DEREC SEALED THE last bag and set it by the cabin door with three others. Most of his worldly possessions filled those packs, the bulk having arrived only within the last week, shipped up from Earth. Hofton had managed to get it all through customs without question.

  I’m going to miss Hofton, he thought as he sat down to stare at the collection of luggage. Then: Hell, I’m going to miss everything . . .

  The door chimed and slid open. Ambassador Yart Leri, branch head of the Kopernik Auroran embassy, stood at the threshold with two security officers. Behind them, in the corridor, was a large porter robot.

  “Mr. Avery,” Leri said, looking and sounding slightly embarrassed, “the Wysteria is boarding. It may be best to go early, before it fills up and becomes a party.”

  “Of course,” Derec said. “Thales and . . . ?”

  “Already loaded and secured. My assistant saw to it earlier today.”

  Derec heaved to his feet. He felt intensely weary. “Fine, then. Shall we get started?”

  “Um . . . of course.”

  Leri stood aside and gestured. The robot floated on noiseless pivots, entered the cabin, and extruded limbs that deftly hooked all the bags. Thin straps appeared, wrapping instantly around the luggage, securing them firmly to the robot’s body. It rolled back into the corridor and waited.

  Derec pulled on his jacket, shouldered the case containing his personal datum and a few other items, including passport—newly-issued—and ticket. The ticket was merely a nod to dignity—there was no question of his leaving Kopernik; all that had been taken care of without his consent. He had rarely felt so powerless.

  “I’m ready,” he said.

  Leri walked beside him. The security officers stationed outside his cabin followed, three paces behind, and the robot brought up the rear.

  Derec could not stop looking pointedly at everything they passed, as if this were the first time he had seen any of it. It was likely the last time he would see it, though there was nothing remarkable about the place. It was a station, like any other found throughout settled space, though flavored by Terran taste. It was possible he would never see this particular station again. Ever.

  They entered a larger concourse. The few people they encountered gave them a wide berth, staring at the guards and the robot with open curiosity and dismay. Derec avoided direct eye contact, self-consciously keeping his expression neutral.

  Leri and one guard boarded a shunt with Derec, the rest of the entourage following in a second car.

  “I’d like to express our gratitude again for the work you did here,” Leri said. “Unfortunate consequences aside, you saved the branch mission itself from any undeserved blame.”

  “It was a pleasure to work,” Derec said. “Glad I could help.”

  “Yes, uhm . . .”

  Derec let Leri fumble and lapse into silence. He did not care to indulge in polite conversation. Not during his evictio
n from Earth territory.

  The shunt came to a halt and they emerged onto the broad plaza outside the customs station. Derec could see the boarding gate on the far side. Small collections of people loitered around the shunt platform. A short line passed slowly through the customs archway.

  The second shunt arrived and the remaining guard and the robot joined them.

  “I’ll walk you through, Mr. Avery,” Leri said, gesturing toward the arch.

  Derec glanced at the shunt monitor to see if another car were about to arrive. It showed none, so, disappointed, Derec walked alongside Leri toward the line.

  “I wish . . .” Leri began.

  “So do I, Ambassador,” Derec said. “But you’ve been an excellent host. I have no complaints.”

  Leri smiled quickly at one of the traditional compliments of Aurora. “Thank you, Mr. Avery. And you’ve been a perfect guest.”

  They reached the gate. Leri stepped behind the desk and spoke quickly to the attendant.

  “Pass through, sir,” she said.

  Leri stepped through to the other side. He clasped Derec’s hand. “Safe journey, Mr. Avery. I hope we have the opportunity to meet again.”

  “Given time, I’m sure.”

  The robot stopped beside him.

  Leri handed Derec a disk. “Give this to the bosun as you board. He’ll see you to your cabin personally.”

  Derec nodded. He cast a final look back toward the shunt platform, expectantly. A shunt arrived, opened, and four people he did not recognize got out.

  No Rana.

  “Take care, Ambassador,” he said then, and strode toward the loading gate.

  A short umbilical took him into the liner’s boarding lounge. A brightly-uniformed crewman greeted him just inside the enormous hatch. Derec handed over the disk from Leri, which the crewman slid into his hand reader.

  “Yes, sir,” he said. He looked across the chamber and signaled another uniform.

  The flashings at the collar of her equally bright blue uniform differed from the crewman’s. She looked over the reader and nodded.

  “Mr. Avery, I’m Chief Petty Officer Craym. I’ll take you directly to your cabin. Is this your robot?”

  “No, the station’s. That is my luggage.”

  “Let me get another porter.”

  CPO Craym made the arrangements quickly and efficiently and within minutes she was leading Derec through the narrow corridors of the liner, past other crew and passengers, to a small but comfortable cabin amidships.

  “Are you familiar with interstellar travel, Mr. Avery?” she asked as the robot porter deposited his luggage on the deck. It began stowing the bags in the row of cabinets set in the bulkhead, beneath a wall-size subetheric screen.

  “I’ve done some traveling,” he said.

  “So I need not go over every little detail? Emergency stasis couch is here, menu to shipboard activities and personnel available here, food processor here. We encourage dining in one of the three public commons, but you may easily take your meals in private.”

  “Sanitizer?”

  She crossed the cabin and pressed a contact. A vertical tube swiveled out from the wall. “We recommend decontamination prior to first jump, but as long as you use it before entering Spacer territory it’s up to you. How long has it been since you’ve flown?”

  “A few years.”

  “There have been improvements. It takes slightly less time now, and isn’t nearly so invasive.”

  “But still necessary.”

  She smiled helpfully.

  “That’s fine,” he said. “Can I find a list of fellow passengers on this?”

  “Except for those who have purchased privacy, yes.”

  The robot finished and whisked silently from the cabin.

  “Anything you cannot find listed in the menus, feel free to ask.”

  The particular pitch of her voice made Derec look at her more critically. She met his gaze with Spacer ease and a faint smile that seemed slightly warmer than standard politeness. When she did not look away or move toward the door, Derec felt an awkward uncertainty.

  “You?” he asked.

  “Barring other duties, that would be fine.”

  “Thank you.”

  She smiled more brightly, and left the cabin. The door sealed. After a few moments, he decided that his imagination was working too hard.

  Colluding with my loneliness?

  He stood then, still, listening to the distant and ubiquitous thrumming of the ship as to the blood flow of a somnolent beast, absorbing the finality of his position.

  It’s done . . . I’m going home . . . whatever that means . . .

  He shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over the high-backed chair nestled against the small comm station opposite the bed. He sat down and waited.

  Three hours. A light winked on above the subetheric screen and a polite, androgynous voice announced:

  “The Star Liner Wysteria is now leaving Kopernik Station. Please remained seated or reclining until we have reached initial cruising velocity. We will inform you when we will be approaching jump. Thank you for traveling with us. We hope you have a pleasant voyage.”

  Derec lay back on the narrow bed, arms at his sides, and tried to feel the surge of the engines and the change in g from acceleration. He could not tell—it seemed the background sound changed pitch—so he picked a point at which he could tell himself I’ve left. I’m gone. I’ll arrive . . . soon enough . . . .

  Coren entered the pavilion atop Looms’ Kenya District home, where, per Looms’ last wishes, the services were conducted under a transparent geodesic dome that was the only concession to the endemic agoraphobia the visitors exhibited in varying degrees. Coren swallowed hard as he walked out of the shelter of the arcade that rimmed a third of the dome. Ariel’s influence showed in his growing ability to cope with rooflessness, but he still felt a profound vulnerability when Outside.

  Above, faceted by the thread-like braces of the dome superstructure, gleamed an intense blue and cloudless sky. Its light set the air aglow within the pavilion. Coren estimated perhaps sixty people gathered. Others filled the drawing rooms and halls below, in the labyrinthine main house, unwilling to venture out from the protection of ceilings. Perhaps because of his newly-acquired tolerance, Coren felt the beginnings of contempt toward them.

  Subetheric recorders floated around, each sphere colored and marked according to the service to which it belonged. Coren did not see any reporters, though. He could not tell which, then, were personal cameras belonging to any of the guests and which were news feeds.

  As he neared the bier and the closed onyx and ebony casket upon it, Coren saw two people he would never have expected here. Myler Towne, the CEO of the newly reformed Imbitek Industries Incorporated, stood off to one side with three of his aides. He nodded slightly at Coren.

  The other stood alone by the casket. Coren walked over to greet him.

  “Inspector Capel,” Coren said as he stopped alongside the police detective. “A little far from your district.”

  Capel kept his chin tucked down, like most of the Terrans unaccustomed to the Open. “Lanra. Maybe. Looms kept a residence in my jurisdiction, I figure that gives me a small reason to be interested. That and the fact that he died there.”

  A holograph of a recumbent and cosmetically perfect Rega Looms hovered above the casket.

  “I thought you weren’t working for him anymore?” Capel asked.

  “So did I,” Coren admitted. “Somewhere along the line, he forgot to tell anyone else that I quit. I’m still on salary.”

  “Is that like him to forget?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see the crime scene and autopsy images?”

  “No. I’ve been occupied. I only came back when I heard he was dead.”

  “I’ll show them to you later. I’d like your opinion about something.”

  That surprised Coren. “Certainly. I’d appreciate that.”

  “It won’t
be for free,” Capel said. He patted Coren’s shoulder and wandered off.

  Coren stared at the holograph of his former employer. He resisted the urge to pry open the coffin and look inside.

  “My condolences, Mr. Lanra.”

  Coren turned toward the voice. Myler Towne stood near, hands clasped behind his back. He was a large man, easily twenty-five centimeters taller than Lanra and at least thirty kilos heavier, most of it in his shoulders and chest. He made an unlikely-looking CEO, but there was no question that he made an immediate impression.

  “Thank you,” Coren said. “And before you ask, I’m still thinking about it. Events have conspired to delay my final decision regarding your offer of employment.”

  “Oh, unquestionably. I would have it no other way. I trust you intend to find Rega’s murderer? Do so. Any assistance I can render, call.”

  “That’s generous.”

  Towne’s mouth turned down slightly. “Generous. Mr. Lanra, there was nothing to be gained by anyone I know of in killing Rega. This threatens us all. This isn’t generosity—it’s absolute self-interest.”

  “If I need anything, I promise I’ll ask for it.”

  Towne nodded, apparently satisfied. “What will happen to DyNan now? I understand there are no heirs.”

  “The will is to be read in two days. We’ll all know then.”

  “You have no guesses?”

  “After Nyom—after his daughter died, I was unaware of any contingencies. If he had a back-up plan, he never confided it to me.”

  “It will be interesting.”

  “Indeed.”

  Towne bowed slightly. “If you’ll excuse me . . .”

  Coren watched Towne retreat to the company of his aides. They exchanged a few words, then one left, wending a path toward the arcade.