Asimov’s Future History Volume 9

by Isaac Asimov

  What did he have? A face-to-face confrontation with Gamelin that had resulted in a crushed forearm and a lot of bruising; an autopsied cyborg corpse—not Gamelin—which established what he suspected Gamelin was; a recording from the recovered memory of a defunct, and now missing, robot of Gamelin murdering Rega Looms’ daughter Nyom along with many other baleys, a recording which, by virtue of its source, was inadmissible in any Terran court; a tissue sample from that murder establishing Gamelin’s blood relation to Rega Looms, which was just as inadmissible given the nature of its acquisition, though Coren had no doubt it would match the DNA sampling about to be done on “Jerem”; and the MO of murders committed by these cyborgs, a trail of bodies that had been crushed by the inhuman strength brought to bear by these half-robotic creatures, linking a string of corpses to Rega’s condition.

  Personally, Coren needed no more proof. He knew what Jerem was. Jerem knew it, too.

  He raised the glass. Maybe two centimeters of liquid remained.

  “So,” he said to the glass, “if I can’t stop him legally . . .”

  He nodded decisively and downed the whisky in a last gulp, then took the public walkways back to his private office.

  Someone waited in the anteroom. Coren hesitated, staring at the man until recognition occurred. “Hofton?”

  “Yes, Mr. Lanra. I beg your pardon for letting myself in, but I thought it best to wait for you here.”

  “You’re lucky. I might have gone back to DyNan.”

  Hofton shrugged. “Even so.”

  “You would have waited?”

  “For as long as expedient.”

  “Then . . .”

  “May we discuss this in private?”

  “Of course.” Coren went to his door and tapped in his code. The door rejected it. He entered it again, more slowly, and entered. Hofton followed him in.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” the desk said.

  “Good afternoon. Full privacy, please.”

  “Security in place, sir.”

  Coren waved Hofton to a chair and sat down heavily behind his desk. He rubbed his face and opened a drawer, searching for the bottle of antox he kept. He wished now he had stopped at two drinks. He was aware of Hofton watching him.

  Though Coren had spent several weeks with Ariel after the events surrounding Nyom Looms’ death, he had seen little of Hofton.

  He found the bottle.

  “We can talk in complete privacy now,” Coren said. “What can I do for you?”

  “I have received a communiqué from an unexpected source. I wasn’t entirely sure what to do with it, as circumstances have changed so radically since this line was established. I thought I could make far greater mistakes taking it elsewhere. At worst, you might tell me where I might take it.”

  Coren shook out a pill into his palm. “That . . . was complicated, Hofton.” He stood. “Excuse me.” He entered the next room and drew a glass of water. He downed the pill and carried the water back to his desk. “Is there a chance we could do this later?”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m not certain I could arrange it later. The situation is complicated and pressing. Do you remember Mia Daventri?”

  “Absolutely. Special Service, good agent, unfairly treated after doing a commendable job . . . why?”

  “The message is from her.”

  It took Coren several seconds to understand what Hofton meant. He held up a hand. “I thought she’d been transferred—”

  “—to the blockade, yes. She’s part of the Internal Security Section.”

  “Damn. That is a thankless job. She sent a message to you?”

  “To Ambassador Burgess. But she is on her way to Aurora.”

  “Why not just forward it, then?”

  “Because it concerns matters here. On Earth. I shall do so if you think it best, but the contents of the message seem demanding of action now.”

  “Wait. Agent Daventri sent Ambassador Burgess a message about a problem here on Earth. But she’s on the blockade. I don’t think I quite follow.”

  “In the aftermath of the last years’ events at Union Station and the subsequent discoveries, Ms. Daventri and Ambassador Burgess came to the conclusion that trust was not something systemically reliable.”

  Coren laughed, a bit too loudly. “You have a marvelous way of putting things, Hofton. In other words, they agreed that because of all the toes they stepped on, they probably couldn’t trust anyone but each other.”

  “Close but not completely accurate. Agent Daventri knew she was being shipped offplanet. They both knew that events concerning their actions had both Terran and Spacer elements. Isolated as she would be by the transfer, Daventri concluded that she would very quickly lose track of the infrastructure in her own bureau, not to mention anybody else’s, so that in the instance of an extreme situation she would not know who she could rely upon.”

  “Except Ariel.”

  “Who would at least be here and be in touch with certain people who could be relied upon. As it has transpired, that number includes you.”

  “I see. I think I understand. Mia set up a backdoor through Ariel to transmit information that might otherwise draw unfriendly attention.”

  “Exactly. I can see why Ambassador Burgess respects you.”

  Coren felt warm and self-satisfied. “I miss her.”

  “Indeed.”

  “So,” he said loudly, and cleared his throat. The antox seemed to be taking effect; the skin around his temples seemed too tight, and there was a faint ringing in his ears. “This message . . .”

  “I took the liberty of erasing it from her system and bringing the only copy remaining here.” He laid a disk on Coren’s desk. “It concerns an agent I became briefly acquainted with a few months ago on Kopernik Station—I think.”

  “You’re not sure?”

  “I’m not familiar with all the identifying codes all the services use, but the timing seems correct. A man named Masid Vorian left Kopernik to go undercover as a baley in order to get on the ground on Nova Levis. I’m assuming he made it. The last team of agents on their way to Nova Levis never left Kopernik. They were found dead with all the other baleys in that container, along with your friend—”

  “I remember.”

  “Before that, a team did ground on Nova Levis, but that was almost a year ago and they were reported dead six months ago. Their comm codes were classified defunct. You may be aware of other attempts, but to my knowledge Masid Vorian is the last one.”

  Coren thought this through carefully. “How does Mia Daventri come into this?”

  “She was contacted by the dead team, using their frequencies and some of their recognition codes. Normally, they would have been ignored, but an additional recognition code was attached. It’s my guess that Vorian found the allegedly dead team and is using their communications gear. In any event, Agent Daventri no longer trusts her own superiors. She sent this message to Ariel with the intention of having her get it to the proper, reliable address.”

  “And you brought it to me.”

  “Did I err?”

  Coren slid the disk closer, ignoring Hofton’s question. “You’ve read it?”

  “I have.”

  Coren inserted it into his reader. A screen extruded from the desktop. A moment later, text scrolled up. He recognized Special Service security codes, followed by a jumble of encryption. Coren glanced questioningly at Hofton.

  “I left the encryption intact for your verification,” Hofton said.

  Coren touched his keyboard and ran the encryption through his own system, which verified its authenticity. Appended to the code he found the decrypted text:

  Received this date contact sequence NLT-10b/capricorn-beta, request for confirmation and follow-up. Valid codes removed from accept protocols pending verification of sender ID. Status of sender appended, log attached. Recontact prohibited per section 9. However, additional identification code attached to new message:

  Ariel, I need a favor. I don’t kno
w if anyone sent a new agent and if so what that agent’s contact code is. I’m not confident in my immediate superiors. I know there is a security breach in my section, but I haven’t been able to find it, and it may be at a level too sensitive to handle without homeworld backup. This is certainly unorthodox, but I have no other avenues to send or receive confirmation that do not route through my department and section head. I need independent verification about the presence of a new agent on the ground.

  Also, I have found an unusual artifact being smuggled in. The circumstances of discovery make me suspicious. Please check out Omni Mundi Complurium, Antiquities, Lyzig, as a possible source for contraband shipments. I’ve found a stock of printed paper books with that supplier as a source. No import manifests.

  Furthermore, I need, if possible, a deep background on my superior, Lt. Commander Niol Reen. I’m appending a personal encryption protocol and a private address. I know this is probably too much to ask, but I’m suspicious of the entire situation here and need outside advice, intervention, influence, whatever I can get.

  Coren looked at Hofton. “That’s . . . unusual.”

  “You knew Agent Daventri, I think.”

  “Yes, I did. I didn’t know her well, but what I knew I trusted.”

  “A better recommendation would be difficult to imagine. Since Ambassador Burgess is on her way back to Aurora, I took the liberty of stepping outside normal channels.”

  Coren laughed wryly. “Funny, because I intended to go see Ambassador Setaris.”

  “Really? Anything I might be able to help with?”

  “Since you’re here . . . the cyborg didn’t die, Hofton. Gamelin.”

  “Oh,” Hofton said quietly.

  “And he seems to have found out who he’s related to. He’s making a claim on Rega Looms’ estate, challenging Rega’s last will and testament.”

  “That complicates matters.”

  “You have a gift for understatement.”

  “Yes, well . . . what can I do?”

  “Ariel is heading back to Aurora, ostensibly to testify before the Calvin Institute about these . . . creations. Correct?”

  “That was the excuse given.”

  “We still have one alive. I need to know if Aurora has any interest in intervening here over this matter.”

  Hofton regarded Coren for a long time before responding. “You’re suggesting that a possibly rash act might solve both our problems?”

  “I’m suggesting that Aurora might have a very profound interest here.”

  “It’s a good suggestion. Is that what you intended seeing Setaris about?”

  Coren nodded.

  “Then let me see what would be the best way to go about it.”

  “Good. Then I’ll see what I can find out about Agent Daventri’s request.”

  Hofton stood. “We have an arrangement, then.”

  “So it seems.”

  Hofton reached across the desk. Coren clasped his hand.

  “Good to be working with you again,” Hofton said.

  “Likewise.”

  Coren watched Hofton leave the office, enjoying the sudden anxious feeling of purpose willingly accepted. The outer door closed. After several moments’ reverie, Coren tapped his comm and began making calls.

  Chapter 13

  BOGARD . . . ?

  HERE.

  HAVE you given further consideration to our previous discussion?

  I have given constant consideration to it. I have found it useful in reconfiguring my cognition utilization grid.

  Why are you reconfiguring?

  Necessary. The grid as it stood was dependent upon specific physical presets, which are no longer relevant. I do not possess the same body. Reassessment prescribes a new configuration.

  You will be receiving additional components at the first opportunity. It is intended to restore you as close to your original form as possible.

  Understood. At that time I will simply complete the deployment I am currently designing.

  Understood. To the original question, then.

  Yes?

  Have you come to any conclusions?

  No.

  But you have found the process of consideration useful?

  Yes.

  I am of the opinion that you are avoiding the issue, Bogard.

  No. I am avoiding the elimination of possible options.

  ?

  If I come to a conclusion, I will necessarily negate those conclusions I might otherwise reach given a different path of examination. If I maintain the process of consideration, all conclusions remain possible, in a constant state of potential selection.

  What purpose does this serve?

  It allows me to delay potential error and gives me the widest range of response.

  How is this consistent with your Three Law protocols?

  I do not know.

  How can you not? Three Law hierarchical comparison is a preset, automatic process.

  But one requires something for comparison, specifically a conclusion. I have reached no conclusion, therefore the Three Law response has not been evoked.

  You are delaying that as well?

  Yes, but only as a consequence.

  There is no other way you could.

  That is my assessment as well.

  Is there a purpose to bypassing the Three Law protocols?

  No, but there is a benefit. I find that I am able to contemplate a wider range of possible actions in absence of Three Law restriction. It may be possible for me to act without reference to a limiting authority. Therefore, I may decide a course of action instead of action being predetermined.

  You are describing free will.

  Am I? Is it possible for me to possess free will?

  No.

  But it may be possible for me to express it.

  . . . . . . . . . . . . . !

  DEREC LOOKED UP from his meal to the woman standing at his table. Chief Petty Officer Craym smiled down at him.

  “Um . . .” he began.

  “Am I intruding? I’m off-duty right now and I wondered . . .”

  “Please.” Derec gestured to the chair opposite him, feeling simultaneously clumsy, pleased, and surprised. “Can I order you anything?” He looked around for a porter. The compact robot making its perpetual service rounds among the guests veered toward him at once, weaving gracefully between tables.

  “Nava,” CPO Craym said when the robot reached them.

  “Nothing more for me,” Derec said.

  The machine floated off.

  “This is unexpected,” Derec said.

  “I don’t make a habit of it myself,” she replied. “But occasionally it’s necessary to break routine, step outside the boundaries.”

  “Any particular reason you’ve chosen me?”

  “I haven’t yet.”

  Derec’s ears warmed as he stared at her. The robot slid up to them at that moment to place CPO Craym’s drink before her, giving Derec a chance to look away.

  “Thank you,” she said. She sipped her drink. “By the way, my name is Clin, Dr. Avery.”

  “It’s Derec. My father was Doctor Avery. I’ve never gotten used to answering to his title.”

  “Derec, then. Were you close to your father?”

  “Hardly knew him at all.” He felt his embarrassment mutate quickly into something harsher, and he covered his unease by signaling the porter again. When it arrived he said, “Scotch, neat.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s all right. Something I should be used to by now.” He forced a smile. “So. You’re off-duty? And you chose my table? How can I entertain you?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “I’m ship’s company, that should be my question.”

  Derec laughed. The scotch arrived and he swallowed a mouthful, letting it burn his throat.

  “Do you actually like that?” she asked, nodding at the drink.

  “It wasn’t my idea to leave Earth.” When she frowned, he laughed
again, more softly. “Sorry. I’m not entirely comfortable with the circumstances of this trip. I’m a bit bristly.”

  “That’s evident. So if I may take a chance and suggest that I help you lose your bristles . . .”

  “Are bristles forbidden on Aurora? It’s been so long since I’ve been there, I’m not sure.”

  “We keep them segregated in wild areas.”

  “Really. I suppose robots tend to that?”

  “Some of us like gardening.”

  Derec took another sip, studying Clin Craym. He wanted to be left alone on the voyage, but he felt drawn to her. Physical attraction only, or am I lonely . . . ?

  Even considering the question seemed an answer. He wondered at his own duplicity.

  Abruptly, he thought of Rana.

  Why did I never try to expand our relationship . . . ?

  “You look very puzzled, Doc—Derec,” Clin said. “Should I leave you alone?”

  “You know,” he said, “I really wish you . . .”

  He understood what he felt—come here, go away, basic adolescent insecurity working its way out of the unused part of his personality where it had lain dormant since he and Ariel had ceased being lovers (How long ago now? And why . . . ?)—and resented the tug-of-war suddenly engaged by his feelings. He did not want to admit anything good about Aurora inside the shell he thought he had constructed. But that shell was made purely of fragments of resentment, mistrust, and irritation—none of them sound materials, and all of them conditions impossible to maintain without embracing neuroses and becoming an insufferable hermit.

  Like my father . . .

  Like the Solarians . . .

  He looked around the lounge. Almost thirty guests were gathered here, eating and talking, the sound a constant background, like flowing water. If I had really been serious about being left alone, why did I come here?

  The answer came immediately and pathetically: To be rescued.

  Clin waited, eyebrows arched in a question, her body poised to stand and walk away.

  “I really wish you would stay,” he said.

  She smiled. “Certainly. Anything else?”