by Isaac Asimov
Coren continued to let his gaze drift over the gathered mourners. He saw furtive looks, worry, a few expressions of genuine regret and pain. More than a few overly-pointed looks directed at him.
He worked his way back through the crowd, stopping to speak to people, share a few stories about Rega with old acquaintances, and generally blend in with them. He hated being the center of attention—it was anathema to his job, an impossible position from which to carry on any kind of delicate inquiry.
An hour and a half later, he found himself back beneath the arcade. He took a drink from a passing tray and went down the stairs into the main house.
A wide central corridor led down the center of the butterfly-like superstructure. Doorways opened on large rooms, staircases up and down, alcoves, and other passageways. There were even hidden rooms behind false walls. Nyom had shown him many of them, but he was sure there were several even she had not known about. The house was a vast architectural playground, the ideal hide-and-seek environment for a playful personality few would have guessed Rega to possess.
This was Rega’s proudest possession, this manor. Contrary to tradition—and, in some parts of the globe, the law—he had built it “above ground.” Rebuilt, in fact, the new layered atop an already-existing structure that predated the expulsion of robots from Earth. It rested in the middle of several thousand acres of natural preserve, accessible by aircraft or a single tube that connected it to Bassa District. There was also an aircar pad, complete with a collection of obsolete and mostly nonworking aircars from previous centuries. Coren had intended bringing Nyom here during Rega’s scuttled senate campaign, after getting her away from the baley runners with whom she had been working. Except that she had gone with the last group and given him no chance to extract her from the situation. Her death afterward and the threat of blackmail had ruined Rega’s chances for a senate seat. His unwillingness to let Coren proceed with the investigation to find Nyom’s killers had driven a wedge between them that had kept Coren away.
Till now, when it was too late to help.
Rega Looms was dead. Coren could not help but feel responsible.
He found Capel in one of the galleries just off the main hall. The detective stared at an ancient abstract painting that Coren had long ago decided was a perversely distorted winged woman trying to fly out of a volcano.
“Enlightenment must be earned,” Coren quipped.
“Hm. I’m working at it.”
“You want to show me something?”
Capel nodded. “Somewhere we can go?”
Coren pointed, then led the way to one of several offices scattered throughout the multilevel structure.
“I keep wondering,” Capel said as Coren locked the door behind them, “what it must be like to have money. Real money. Like this. Considering the cost, I’m glad I don’t know.”
Coren went to the desk and started up the reader. A flatscreen extruded from the desktop.
“This material is better viewed holographically,” Capel said, holding up a disk.
“Not available here,” Coren said. “One of Rega’s prejudices.”
Capel grunted, but handed over the disk.
Coren slipped it into the hopper and tapped the keypad.
A wide image of a spacious apartment bedroom appeared on the screen. The pale walls and expensive furniture bespoke considerable wealth. Coren recognized it as Rega’s Baltimor District residence, where, apparently, Rega had sequestered himself for the last several weeks, communicating exclusively by comm.
Someone lay stretched out on the bed.
The next image was a full-length shot of the body.
It was naked, bruised from neck to ankle, horribly purpled with splotches of yellow and green. The face stared blankly at nothing, the tongue swollen, forcing open the mouth.
“This was thirty-six hours after death,” Capel said. “Your ex-boss wasn’t a complete luddite. He had a pretty up-to-date biomonitor system in place. It had been subverted—we figure the reprogramming took place six, seven weeks ago—but one thing it still did was record Rega Looms’ actual living presence. Once that ended without any other indications that he had simply left the apartment, an alarm was triggered.”
“Subverted . . . why?”
“We found evidence that a second person was living in the apartment. All the biomonitor recorded was one. Our people are looking into how the system was hacked. But the catastrophic trauma alarm had been completely switched off. Autopsy showed that Looms had been beaten and tortured continually for most of the last four or five weeks.” Capel waved a hand at the screen. “Look familiar?”
“Yes . . .”
Coren had seen three other corpses with that same kind of bruising, as if someone had systematically crushed their bodies, bursting capillaries, pulverizing bone, bursting organs. Slowly, one area at a time, but not so slowly that the bruising could heal anywhere. He had felt the grip that could inflict this sort of damage. Absently, he rubbed his right forearm where the cyborg had held him, crushing the bone and muscle.
“Gamelin?” Capel prompted.
“Probably. We never recovered the body. It was a mistake to declare him dead, but the TBI were afraid of panicking people.”
“So we have to assume he’s at large again. Where would he go?”
“I don’t know. The baley network he used before is gone, most of the people he worked for are in jail or dead. He could hide in the warrens, I suppose. But sooner or later someone would report him.”
“If he was living with Rega, how come none of your people found out?”
“That’s a good question,” Coren said.
“Are you looking into this?”
“Absolutely.”
“You’ll share data with me?”
“When I get it. Can you leave this disk?”
“Sure.”
Coren switched the view off. “It’s possible he could link up with a part of the network we didn’t shut down. But for now I’d say he’s on his own. Tell your people not to take chances. Use only lethal force if they encounter him.”
“I’m going to have another talk with Alda Mikels.”
“Do you think he’ll tell you anything?”
“Not really,” Capel admitted. “But I don’t have anyone else to interrogate. Who knows, he might slip.”
“Hm.”
“What do your Special Service people think about all this?”
“How would I know?” Coren asked, surprised.
“I heard you were reinstated.”
“An honorary thing, just for the duration of that last investigation. I suppose I could ask.”
“I’d be interested.”
“I’m sure you would.”
Capel almost smiled. “Call me.” He left the office.
Coren sat down at the desk then. After a few minutes, he opened the disk again and studied the images.
Chapter 6
THE CABIN LIGHTS flared brightly and Masid squinted, coming sluggishly awake. He lurched to a sitting position and blinked furiously at the chronometer across the room; he had only been asleep a few hours.
“What—”
“Get your kit together, Vorian,” Anda said. “You’re leaving.”
Masid’s eyes adjusted. Two robots stood on either side of the cabin hatch. Anda, hands on hips, loomed over Masid.
“Tired of my company so soon?”
“Come on, we don’t have much time. A day at the most. I’m getting you to Nova Levis.” He held up a capsule about two centimeters long and four wide. “Take this.”
“What is it?”
“Implant. Immune system augment.”
Masid came fully awake then. He studied Anda’s face for signs of jest. Seeing none, he accepted the capsule and headed straight for the hygienic. “Talk.”
“I’ve been ordered to turn over the ship and its cargo, including baleys, to blockade command. We’re rendezvousing with a ship in less than thirty hours, the Coredon. I know that
ship. We’ve suspected for a long time that it’s affiliated with blockade runners. Never had any solid proof, though, and since it’s a Terran ship we haven’t been able to convince our own command to challenge. The Terrans, of course, insist that none of their captains are involved, but that if any should be, then it will be a matter for Terran Internal Security, thank you all very much for your concern.”
Masid filled a cup with water and swallowed the capsule. The lump slid down his throat painfully. He opened his pack and pulled out the clothes he had been wearing when Anda took the transport. “Why are you required to abide by Terran authority?”
“Partly logistical. We don’t have the space for you all, frankly, so we have to hand the baleys off soon, anyway. We requested a Theian transport, but that request got routed to the blockade and the Coredon was dispatched. We’re closer to the blockade than any other colony or station anyway, and all the Theian ships manning the ring are like this one.”
“And the other part?”
“Aurora wants it this way. Make nice with the Terrans so we can straighten out the mess between us. Normally I wouldn’t accommodate this policy, it’s still my discretion. But I’m doing you a favor.”
Masid zipped up and began assembling the rest of his belongings. “Why take the baleys to the blockade? I mean, is that standard?”
“Earth doesn’t want them back. They end up being parceled out to other Settler colonies. There’s a lottery for them. Our job is to just keep them off Nova Levis.”
“What do you think my chances are of passing as a baley after you so conveniently separated me from them?”
“Pretty good. As soon as you told me what you were doing, I pulled a dozen more out. You won’t be the first one put back in with them, but you aren’t the last. Just be your usual charming, convincing self and you’ll be fine.”
“Hm. So what happens if I end up in this lottery instead of going right through?”
“Send me a thank you note when you get wherever you end up.”
Masid laughed grimly. “What’s up with the augment I just took?”
“We have fairly reliable intelligence that Nova Levis is a stew of communicable disease. What I just gave you is the latest thing in prophylactic biotech. It’ll set up a small lab in your endocrine system and boost your natural immunity by a couple of orders of magnitude. Still might not keep you entirely healthy, but maybe it will keep you alive long enough to do some useful work.”
“So,” Masid said, hoisting his pack. “I imagine you’d be happy to get some kind of corroborative evidence about the Coredon while I’m at it?”
“The thought had occurred to me.” Anda held up a hand. “If you get there . . . before all this turned to the mess it is, I had a friend who went to Nova Levis.”
“You had a friend?”
“Keep it up and I’ll send you through in a bag.”
“Sorry.”
“She’s a doctor. Was a doctor. I have no idea if she’s still alive. She was part of the civic health program on Nova Levis, attached to the Fifty Worlds liaison group.”
“You mean the embassy?”
Anda shook his head. “Because of Solaria’s involvement, there were no other formal Spacer embassies. Just a representative presence with no authority. Advisors. Anyway, she stayed. She never got out. Knowing her, she probably thought she could do something.”
“Did she have a name?”
“Shasma. If she’s still there, maybe she could help. Or you could.”
Masid waited. Anda seemed to work with his feelings. Finally, he looked up. “It might be useful. If you find her, ask if she remembers Calinas Ridge.”
“Calinas Ridge . . .”
“Save some time if she knows I sent you.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” He hesitated. “Um . . . are you getting physical with your interview subjects?”
Anda scowled. “Please. We’re Spacers.”
“Ah, yes. The civilized ones. I forgot. Sorry. Just wanted to make sure you send me back like everybody else.”
“Are you ready?”
“No, but let’s do it.”
Thirty-four hours, Masid thought acidly. Anda lied. I must remind him of that . . .
Secured in a restraining transport cocoon, Masid was barely able to turn his head to see the gang of men coming down the line of imprisoned baleys. He recognized Terran blue-grey space service uniforms, but the sudden glare of flashlights obscured their faces. Masid flinched as the brilliant beams struck him.
“Have they been scrubbed?” one of them asked.
“Surface only,” Masid heard Anda reply. “We don’t have the capacity on this ship to do this many whole body cleanings at once. So we just store them down here until we can deliver them to a better-equipped facility.”
“Just as well, then. We can tailor the job for the colony they end up going to.”
They walked past Masid and the beams of light left his eyes. In the dimness he saw Anda give him an encouraging half-grin and a very slight nod. Then they were gone.
Half an hour later, robots entered the long stowage and began carting the cocoons out. Masid felt himself pulled away from the bulkhead and tilted back horizontally. Then all he could see was the ceiling as it rolled by.
He stopped moving. He heard shouting, equipment being maneuvered, echoing footsteps. Something metal slammed into something plastic. The queue stood still for several minutes. Masid felt the cocoon lurch to one side.
Finally, the ceiling began moving backward once more. The rim of a lock passed above him and he was sliding down a long ship-to-ship umbilical.
“In here, come one now, bring ’em in here!”
“Excuse me, sir,” the smooth androgynous voice of a robot said, “but this chamber is far too small for safe transport of this number of humans. I am required—”
“You are required to shut up and move these cocoons where I tell you to.”
“I am sorry, sir, but it cannot be permitted—”
“Don’t interrupt me, tinhead—”
“What’s the problem?” another human asked.
“Your robots don’t like where we’re putting the cocoons.”
“Let me—”
“This is my ship and I don’t like being told how to run it. Now get—”
“Sir—”
“Please, Captain, let me take care of this.”
“Fine, handle it.”
Masid could not hear the rest of what was said, but soon the storage proceeded.
An hour or more passed. Then:
“Now that we’re alone,” the Terran commander said loudly in the cramped, overly-warm chamber, “and those overly-solicitous machines are gone, we can prep you for the rest of the trip. Just so you know, you’re being taken to the Nova Levis blockade where you’ll be processed for further transit. This ship doesn’t have much more room or resource than that Spacer hull you just left. But we’re not going to sweat that. The voyage is less than three days. You won’t have to worry about anything because you’re all going to sleep through it. That saves us all a lot of worry.”
The baleys began mumbling unhappily. Masid heard the soft sounds of aerosols, though, and one by one the voices stilled.
A face loomed above him suddenly, masked, and a hand came up holding a nossle.
“Wait—” he began.
Darkness.
He awoke thirsty, blinking furiously at the crusting on his eyes, and shivering. A tube was poked at his mouth until he closed his teeth on it and sucked. Lukewarm water flowed.
Eventually he got his eyes open, enough to see the shapes around him. He lay on a deck, in a line with several others. Above them, in the darkness, machines bulked. Masid saw readylights, could hear their patient hum, and realized quickly that the water tube extended from one of them. Biomonitors, field units, military.
The shivering subsided. He flexed his fingers, drew his legs up and stretched. Everything began to ache. He had been in one position too long.
Unused muscles complained.
Two people knelt by him. One pushed his eyelids up and shone a light into his pupils. The other prodded his torso. It was then he knew he was naked.
“Cough,” one of them said, cupping his testicles.
Masid let go of the tube and cleared his throat.
“Cough,” the other said and thumped him on the diaphragm.
He hacked loudly.
“Looks good,” the first said, standing. A moment later, he said, “This one’s not Terran.”
“Oh?”
“He’s macro-enhanced . . . look at this . . .”
The other stood and joined the first. Masid strained to look back, above his head, and saw them studying the readouts on the biomonitor. One of the pair glanced down at him.
“So what are you, friend?” he asked. “Ex-military? Fugitive?”
Masid could not speak. He groped for the water tube again and sucked on it.
“Spy?” the other opined.
“And leave this in place? I don’t think so.” He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”
He knelt beside Masid again and patted his cheek with mock affection. “You’re healthy enough to survive the drop, my friend, so whatever you are, you get your wish.”
They laughed then and moved to the next baley on the deck.
Masid continued to draw water, shuddering from time to time.
Hours later, he sat up. A drone trundled by slowly. Masid smelled hot food and reached for it. The drone stopped automatically and a door on its featureless body snapped open, revealing stacks of prepared meals. Masid snatched one out, his fingers stinging from the heat. He snapped the spoon from the side of the rectangular platter, peeled back the cover sheet, and hungrily shoveled the nameless food product into his mouth. The drone moved to the next person, who still lay curled fetally to Masid’s right. The person after that reached out and the drone stopped.
As his hunger abated, he looked up and down the row of baleys. Some still stretched out, but most were sitting up, many of them eating.
They were in a cargo bay as far as Masid could tell, refitted to receive the living. The temperature was still too low to be comfortable, but he found he could control the shivering now, especially with a hot meal in his belly.
