Asimov’s Future History Volume 9

by Isaac Asimov

  She stepped off the lift in Jons’ section. Wide corridors, softly carpeted, warm light.

  She reached the end and, as she began to turn down the left corridor, she heard voices ahead. She hesitated, then took a step back.

  Jons’ cabin was the fourth one from the corner. Mia could see someone’s back, halfway out of the cabin door. She eased around the corner and waited.

  The person laughed, then came all the way out into the corridor. Mia swallowed hard, her pulse quickening.

  Reen stood there, holding a bound book, grinning.

  Without thinking, Mia immediately retreated to the lift.

  Chapter 11

  MASID DESCENDED THE stairs from his small domicile, rain pounding the fabric awning above. Murky liquid spilled through holes worn or ripped in the tough material and splattered on the steps, making them treacherous for the incautious. The run-off sluiced into and down the narrow alleyway. More openings in the roof high overhead added to the stream that flowed the length of the alley. As he reached the foot of the stairs, wind heaved through the passage; Masid looked up to see the heavy support ribbing of the ceiling sway and rattle.

  He dodged the larger waterfalls as he sprinted to the end of the passageway, hunched within his generous black overcoat. He turned sharply left into the arcade that ran the length of Cobrina Street. Puddles gathered along the path, spillover from the street beyond, but the arched covering here was intact. Rain danced heavily, the sound magnified by the shape of the arcade.

  The street sprawled in glistening ugliness, the extruded composite material looking like grey-black leather under the sheen of water. Open to the sky, rain made a dense, milky curtain, obscuring the far side. Every ten meters, stanchions rose out of large pedestals. The plan, Masid gathered, had been to complete a roof over the entire town of Noresk, but no new construction had happened since the blockade.

  Noresk itself was a new town, less than five years old. In the past twelve days, Masid had learned its grid, understood the plan to which it had grown, and seen the frustration in the faces of its residents that their town-one-day-to-become-a-city could go no further until events completely beyond their control were resolved.

  The frustration, though, was only one factor distorting the faces of Noresk.

  As he walked, Masid saw few people. They hurried, heads down against the rainfall even where they walked dry. Overcoats and cowls were the fashion, making everyone a caricature of a human. They hurried, but only in short spurts, pausing after a dozen meters, steps hesitant. No one exchanged looks of any kind unless they met intentionally, by prearrangement. Coughing punctuated the droning percussion of the rain. He counted the robust, the healthy, easily, because they represented a minority.

  He reached the end of Cobrina Street and paused at the corner, where Panis Street crossed. The enormous storm drain in the center of the crossroad thundered as water tried to fill it. The far corner was a vague collection of shadows and geometries. Masid drew a lungful of air and ran.

  Each step came down ankle-deep in cold water. He made the opposite corner in thirteen long strides and caught himself against a wall, air bursting from his lungs. He ran his fingers through his sopping hair, fluttered his overcoat, and continued on up Panis.

  The arcade cover was damaged in spots, letting in the thick rainfall. People automatically dodged them and each other. Traffic grew heavier as he made his way to Novagi Avenue. Voices joined the cacophony now—the surge and flow of haggling.

  A huge tent had been erected over the intersection of Novagi and Panis. Rain funneled off the corners, flowed into the arcades. People crowded beneath the tent, voices mingled in sing-song hawking and shouted replies. Masid stepped in, feeling his pulse quicken at the almost palpable urgency of the market and the knowledge of how risky it was for him to mix with so many sick people.

  Within a minute, people identified him as a dealer and began shouting requests for specific drugs, mostly antifungals, but also a number of high-grade antibacterials. Masid knew his inventory and had to turn away most requests. People scowled, disappointed, and immediately sought out another vendor. A few, however, asked for treatments he possessed, and the haggle began. He had learned quickly the art involved—barter and bargain, but not too greedily, or they just went away. Repeat customers received preferential treatment. Never act like there was plenty more to be had. And never interrupt another dealer’s pitch.

  Within ten minutes he sold six treatment packets to people who approached him, seeking cures for various conditions. In one instance what he gave the buyer was only a pain reliever; he knew there was no cure and, he felt certain, so did the customer. It was an easy rhythm—the contact, the request, the haggle, and the sale—much of it taking on the patterns of ritual.

  While he worked, he watched the other dealers, searching for any special attention they might pay him. Besides the same kind of wary scrutiny he gave them, Masid detected nothing unusual. This was his fifth day in the market since finding a dom in Noresk, and the other dealers had accepted him as no particular threat. The only law of which he was aware stood outside the market, under the eaves of a sidewalk café: Marshal Toranz. She sat watching the surely illegal transactions, an ugly rifle conspicuous on the table, and a completely ambivalent expression on her puffy face. They had yet to exchange words, and Masid doubted they ever would until he forced the issue. Word was she took graft from Filoo. Her only reason for being here was to make sure the clientele did not get greedy and start looting the dealers.

  He worked the crowd for another hour, through four more transactions, and decided it was time to quit for the day. The rain had slackened to a light drizzle, and he was hungry.

  Someone tugged at his sleeve.

  “Doctor?” a pale woman with reddened eyes asked. Masid nodded curtly. “Anthrocyclomal,” she said firmly, the consonants softened by the phlegm in her throat and chest.

  Masid reached inside his capacious coat to the proper pouch. “You done that before?” he asked. “It’s a one-time. More than that, you risk collateral resistances through plasmid transmission.”

  “I know, I done the work-up,” the woman said, scowling with impatience. “How much?”

  “Rare stuff. Two thousand credits.”

  Her eyes reflected her shock. “Take it in kind?”

  “What—?”

  She stepped marginally closer. “In kind. Something warmer . . . personal . . .” One too-thin hand fluttered at the flap of her cloak.

  Masid laughed, startled. “No. Do I look crazy?”

  “I don’t have two thousand.”

  “Ah, well.”

  Her face contorted again in a rictus of frustration. “Look, one dose and I’ll be clean, then maybe—”

  “No. Anthrocyclomal is not universal, it’s specifically for pleuretic tubercolomiasis.” He smiled wanly. “I don’t deal what I don’t know about.”

  “Then you know it’s fatal.”

  “Madam, this whole planet is fatal. All this is short term.”

  “Then why’re you worried about living forever?”

  “I’m not. Just past next year.” Masid glanced around, agitated now by the woman and her condition. “Seventeen hundred.”

  She licked her lips. “Grotin sold it for a thousand.”

  “So you’ve done it before? I told you, this is one shot—”

  “No! I got it from Grotin for somebody else. Now I need it. He sold it for a thousand.”

  “When he had it. Grotin doesn’t have it anymore, am I right? Price has gone up. Seventeen.”

  “Twelve.”

  Masid turned away.

  “I can give you a new supplier.”

  Masid hesitated. “Use it yourself?”

  “Can’t. No codes . . .”

  “Codes to what?”

  She blew a ragged breath, and Masid automatically held his own. She said, “I know someone with a synthesizer, but I don’t know how it works.”

  “I’m sure.” He stud
ied her skeptically. “A synthesizer. Why would you know someone like that, and why aren’t you buying from him?”

  “Her.” She looked around nervously. “She doesn’t have the program for what I need. Besides, she doesn’t like selling it. I can maybe transact something that could change her mind . . . ?”

  “For you, anyway.” He leaned forward. “You show me. This is anything less than vertical—”

  “I’m squared, this is legitimate.”

  Masid checked those nearby. “All right, I’m about to find food. You know a place called Davni’s? Good, here’s what we do. How much you have?”

  She fished a couple of fifty-credit chits from her pocket.

  Masid dug out an ampule of general purpose AB. “You buy this, go away satisfied. Meet me at Davni’s in an hour. We go from there.”

  “How do I know you’ll be there?” she asked even as she handed over the credits.

  “Because I’m hungry and that’s the only place I know that screens their food before they serve it. Here.” He gave her the antibiotic and pocketed the chits. “Leave.”

  He watched her disappear through the crowd, which seemed now to be dwindling. Masid milled around until he transacted one more deal, then left the tent.

  He took a long route to the kitchen, checking for shadows, doubling back, stopping in other shops—of the few that were still open—and finally finding his way through the arched doorways into the heady odors of Davni’s locally famous stew and bread. He drew a plateful and a half loaf, filled a tall mug with the sharp local ale, and sat at the table he had begun to think of as his own, near the access to the bakery, facing the main entrance.

  Davni’s was busy, but by no means full. People came here hoping to get in, but a biomonitor at the entry screened them for any of nine infectious conditions, and those who screened positive were escorted back out and barred from returning. Davni, a burly man in his late sixties, kept his place’s reputation by draconian means. Those who dined at Davni’s were still healthy. At least, mostly so.

  He finished his plate and chewed on the hardcrust bread while sipping his ale, watching the door. A few more regulars came in before the woman appeared. She did not pass through the door, but stood just outside, peering in.

  Masid drained his mug and slipped the rest of the bread into a pocket. No one paid excessive attention to him as he left the kitchen and walked past the woman. She trailed after him by a few meters until he rounded the next corner.

  It had stopped raining entirely now. Through gaps in the high awnings, the sky had turned from dull ash-grey to almost silver. At the end of the block, the street opened into a broad plaza. Trash had accumulated against the foundations of the buildings that formed the circle. One citizen lay against the uncompleted fountain in the center, his cowl drawn, and a harsh, tubercular snore oozing from his mouth. Masid skirted the plaza until he came to a storefront with an inset entryway. He backed into its shadows and quickly checked the location of his weapons—a blaster and a stunner.

  He waited nearly a minute. When she did not wander by, he palmed the stunner and stepped up to the edge of the entryway.

  He sensed the movement before he saw anything clearly and jerked back. A body swung around the edge of the entryway, filling his vision as he came heavily against the door. Masid brought the stunner up and fired. The solid thump! of the discharge seemed thunderous in the confined space. The attacker grunted, seemed to stop briefly in mid-charge, then fell against him.

  Masid kicked the limp body over and rushed into the plaza, drawing his blaster. He dropped and rolled, waiting for the sounds of gunfire. When he fetched up against the fountain, he spotted two more men hurrying at him out of the street he had come from. He waited until they were within five meters, then brought each one down with the stunner.

  He bolted for the street. The woman was running away. He caught her easily and shoved her against the wall. She slid, sobbing, to the pavement.

  “High marks for trying,” Masid said, showing her the barrel of the blaster. “Now. Was that shit about a synthesizer a lie?”

  She shook her head. “No, I—please—”

  “Then you take me,” he said, pulling her to her feet.

  “I shouldn’t have told,” she said. “I won’t get anything anymore.”

  “That could be a moot point anyway.” He gripped her arm, showed her the blaster once more, and pushed. “Lead.”

  She took him back through the plaza, past her unconscious companions, and down another alleyway. Masid could not be entirely sure they had not been followed. The trail ambled through various neighborhoods, most of which were incomplete, part of the construction that had come to a halt when the blockade closed around them. Tents, lean-tos, and other makeshift add-ons showed that people did live here. Smoke from fires drifted up through chimneys, gathering in a pall above the shanties.

  They passed through the area into an older, completed neighborhood, then down a cramped gangway into a courtyard. Stairs connected three levels. The woman took him to the top floor, around the circumference, and knocked on the door, then opened it. He hustled her through.

  The apartment was dark. The smells of pure alcohol, cooking oil, and fresh-baked bread filled the air.

  “Tilla?” the woman called.

  “Kru?” a weak voice answered from another room.

  Masid indicated that Kru go on ahead. Nervously, she pushed through a half-closed door into a bedroom. Masid came in behind her.

  The room was dominated by an enormous bed which dwarfed the woman lying in it. Her pallorous face peered at them, framed by huge, stained pillows. A nightstand on the left overflowed with bottles, glasses half-filled with water, and an incongruously clean blending injector, the tube snaking into the bed, the pistol-shaped head on the pillow next to the woman’s head. Masid took the rest of the room in sufficiently to satisfy himself that no one else was present and that no automated defenses seemed in place.

  “Tilla,” Kru said meekly, “I brought company. I had to, but . . . he’s a doctor . . .”

  “You mean a black market drug dealer,” Tilla said, smiling ruefully.

  “He’s got anthrocyclomal.”

  Tilla’s eyes widened speculatively. “Really? Do you, Doctor, or did you just tell Kru that to get her help? Or have sex with her? Or . . . ?”

  She did not finish the sentence. Masid brought Kru over to the head of the bed and made her sit down. He then closed the bedroom door and went through all the drawers.

  “Who were the three bullies?” he asked.

  “Friends,” Kru said.

  “You told them I had treatments they couldn’t get?”

  Kru did not answer, only looked guilty.

  “Can I help you find something?” Tilla asked.

  “Your ID.”

  “Which one?”

  Masid looked at her and smiled. “There was a Tillama Drisken came here eight months ago, part of a team of four. The others were Grenj Hollaro, Polen Maks, and Dressel Jacom. Anything sound familiar?”

  Tilla regarded him with an expression more tired than wary.

  “Don’t tell me you’re the relief,” she said.

  Masid lifted the injector nozzle, then knelt to inspect the blender. “This is state-of-the-art. I imagine any of them that might have been here before the blockade were confiscated by the governor or the local bosses. This came in after that.” He looked at her. “Kru tells me you have a synthesizer.”

  After a long pause, Tilla nodded.

  “And what would a lone, very sick woman be doing with a synthesizer?” Masid asked.

  “Trying to stay alive,” Kru snapped.

  Tilla lifted a hand and patted Kru’s leg. She looked at Masid. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Masid Vorian.”

  “I’ve heard of a man named Vorian. Freelance. Proclas?”

  “I was born on Proclas, yes.” He straightened and pulled a device from one of his pockets. He attached a pair of patches to her
arm and switched it on. “Freelance, too.”

  “I don’t trust freelancers.”

  “Right now it doesn’t seem to me you have a lot of choice.” He watched the small displays. “DNA match. You are Tillama Drisken.” He switched to a different program and let the little monitor run. “What happened to the rest of your team?”

  “Dead. One was killed outright by one of Filoo’s people, the other two succumbed to the local variant of plague.”

  Masid watched the monitors. When the numbers finished, he shook his head. “I can’t save you. You’re too far gone for one thing, and for another there are some indicators that don’t make any sense. Mutations?”

  “Most likely. Darwin reigns in this particular hell.”

  Masid took out some ampules. “I can, however, make you feel a bit better.”

  “Don’t waste it,” Tilla said.

  “I’m not. I need you alive long enough to fill me in.”

  “Oh. So this isn’t for my sake at all?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Tilla studied him narrowly. Then she smiled. “Bullshit.”

  Masid shrugged and administered the drugs. He looked up at Kru. “Do you have any coffee?”

  Kru shook her head.

  Masid took out a small packet and tossed it to her. “Now you do. Make us some, would you?”

  “Do it, love,” Tilla said. “This one is a doctor.” When Kru left the room, Tilla looked at him and said in a near whisper, “If she believes that, she won’t sell your name to Filoo for a while.”

  “Even if she does,” Masid said, “that would suit me. I’ve been looking forward to meeting this Filoo.”

  “You’re an idiot, then. Damn. I’d hoped they’d send someone smart.”

  “None of the smart ones volunteered.”

  She smiled at that. Then: “You know who I am, I don’t really know who you are. I’m not exactly in a position to get in your way, regardless.”

  “Ask yourself if anyone here would go to this kind of trouble for you.”

  “They might, if they thought I could still communicate with the blockade.”

  “You can’t?”

  “No. Not for months. I was reported dead. They change all the codes when that happens. I’d have to report back in person or be confirmed dead by on-ground inspection. Lovely way to put that, isn’t it?”