Isaac Asimov's Aurora

by Mark W. Tiedemann

  “Listen,” Ariel said.

  Coren halted. A faint whispering sound penetrated. “Water,” he said.

  The path led down again. Ancient steps, a short ladder—Coren checked the map regularly now, as they were well off the route provided by Green Honli—and finally along a narrow corridor that ended at a cir­cular chamber with a hatch in the floor. Several of Coren’s machines clustered around it.

  He deactivated the tiny vonoomans and scooped them up, returning them to his pack. He checked the flatscreen.

  “Under here,” he said. “Either we’re about to climb into a sewage treatment facility—maybe even a sewage line—or . . .” He shrugged elabo­rately.

  “Open it,” Ariel said.

  It was warm in the small room. Sweat trickled along Ariel’s spine.

  “We’re under ocean,” Coren said as he began working at the security lock on the hatch. “A kilometer up. Maybe three kilometers from the mainland.”

  He tapped code into the lock and waited. When nothing happened, he grunted and opened his pack again. He took out a small device and placed it against the hatch, close to the security keypad.

  “Ah,” he said after a few seconds. He tapped in a new sequence. The seals snapped open with a brittle snik. Coren looked up. “Ready?”

  Ariel waved him to proceed. Coren removed his scanner and stood up. He touched a plate alongside the hatch with his toe and the entire door swung up with a faint pneumatic hiss.

  “Doesn’t smell like sewage,” Coren said, smiling. He dropped a few of his scouts down the opening. He watched his flatscreen. “Clear.”

  He folded up the screen and dropped it into his pack. He climbed down the hatch. Ariel drew a deep breath and followed.

  She reached bottom in nearly total darkness. An instant later, Coren switched on his light and dragged its beam over the walls of the room. Ariel could make no sense out of the fragments illuminated, but Coren grunted suddenly and walked away.

  An instant later, a ceiling light came on.

  They stood in an empty, irregularly-shaped space. Faint outlines on the walls showed where shelves or cabinets had been bolted. Two doors led out in opposite directions.

  Ariel went to the nearest and pressed the handle. The door opened outward easily.

  As she stepped through, lights flickered to life ahead of her, down a short corridor that let onto a balcony.

  Below lay a cavernous space. The floor, under the sharp bluish-white light, was littered with debris. Desks stood here and there, drawers pulled out and empty.

  Coren knelt beside her and ran a finger over the balcony floor.

  “Not much dust,” he said. “This hasn’t been empty that long.”

  “Doesn’t look much like a sewage plant, either,” Ariel said.

  “Can’t believe everything you read.”

  Coren let loose the rest of his scouts. A few minutes later he said, “We’re the only people here.”

  Ariel went to the stairs at the far end of the balcony and hurried down to the main level. Close up she could make out footprints still visible under recent layers of dust. Paper scraps gathered in corners, along with bits of metal and plastic, pieces and parts of objects hastily removed.

  Recently removed . . .

  Beyond this chamber she found a constellation of other rooms, some smaller, one at least much larger. She went through the smaller ones. She could almost tell what each one had been—this one an office, that one a lab of some sort, over there a storage room.

  “Ariel!”

  She followed his voice back through the largest chamber and into a long corridor lined on one wall with doors. Most stood open, but a few were closed. She found Coren in the last room.

  Two walls were filled with storage drawers. Most were pulled out and empty. Label plaques had been ripped from the wall beside each drawer.

  Coren was squatting before a pile of debris. He looked up when she entered and pointed at scattered shafts of pale-yellow vegetation.

  “Grass?” Ariel mused.

  “That’s what it looks like to me.”

  “Odd place for it.” She began pulling out drawers and searching for more traces of what they might have contained. “Did you check the other rooms?”

  “Yes. Same arrangement. A lot of storage capacity here.”

  Ariel yanked a drawer out as far as it would come and peered into the dim recesses. She ran her hand around it and touched a plate set in the top. “Ah-hah. These are stasis boxes. Were, anyway.” She surveyed the banks of drawers. “Sample storage.”

  Coren frowned. “Grass?”

  “Did you touch it?”

  “No . . .”

  “Don’t. Use gloves. It might be worth having it tested.”

  Ariel opened her pack. She had brought a stack of sample bags, in case any biological samples might still be present. She had actually expected to find nothing. She pulled on a pair of bioprophylaxis gloves and carefully scooped most of the grass blades into the bag.

  The facility had been only recently occupied, that much was obvious. The data labeling it as a treatment complex showed a registration and permit date nearly thirteen years old.

  “So what were they still doing here?” Coren wondered aloud.

  They found a few more traces of material that they thought might be worth analyzing, but by and large the previous occupants had done an impressive job of removing evidence of their activities.

  “Disappointed?” Coren asked.

  “A little. I thought perhaps . . .” Ariel shrugged.

  “You thought you might find something that would change Aurora’s decision.”

  She nodded, then looked at him.

  “I still think I could get you Terran citizenship,” he said.

  “For that matter, I could still get you a job with us.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Move to Aurora?”

  Ariel nodded. “Doesn’t appeal to you, does it?”

  “No, I—”

  “It’s all right. Just so you understand.”

  His frown changed to reluctant acceptance. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Ariel gave the place a last look, then followed Coren back to their entry point.

  There was a delay when they returned to the DyNan compound while the limo came to fetch them. Ariel sat with her back to the wall of the small building while Coren did his best not to pace.

  “So what happens next?” he asked finally.

  “I go back to the embassy,” Ariel said. “Setaris tells me how much I’ve messed things up and that in the best interests of Aurora I must be removed from my post. A trip back to Aurora and a hearing before one or more committees trying to understand things I’m not at all sure I can explain fully.”

  “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “I’m a fulcrum. Events shifted around me, using me as a pivot point, and turned . . . inconvenient.” She shrugged. “Mainly, I’m the one who will have to explain how a cyborg could be made and that I did indeed see one.”

  “Derec has the corpse, why can’t he go back?”

  “He will.” She suppressed a smile. “They can’t have two loose cannons out here shouting about monsters. We’re being recalled to find out if we can be trusted as much as anything else.”

  He looked at her for a long moment. “So you might be back?”

  “Could very well be back. As long as Earth doesn’t do anything too reactionary.” She shrugged again. “Even so, the odds are favorable. Why? Would you like that?”

  Coren pursed his lips and slowly nodded.

  The limo appeared. Coren blinked and shook his head.

  The vehicle stopped and Green Honli stepped out. He went quickly up to Coren and drew him aside. Ariel could not hear the words, but she rec­ognized the tone of voice and body language. Coren paled.

  “Come on,” he said.

  Ariel fell into the back of the limo with him. Doors closed and the transport sped back.

  “What is it?”
she asked.

  Coren’s jaw flexed as he stared out the window. “Rega Looms is dead.”

  2

  DEREC AVERY glanced up at the two security officers who entered the lab. The new director, a young woman named Per Alis, met them and they stood together now, talking. Per looked toward Derec briefly and he felt the hairs down the back of his neck shift.

  He returned his attention to the console and the large robot sitting next to it.

  The robot’s torso was open, the breast plate removed. Cables con­nected various components within to the console, on which an array of screens displayed data.

  Most of the robot was a dull brassy color, its surface scarred from years of use. The DW-12 had started existence as a laborer and presum­ably spent most of its early years being used according to its specifica­tions. Eventually it came into the possession of someone who began making upgrades and modifications until it became effectively a more advanced unit, though physically it remained largely unchanged.

  A darker, grayish material comprised its arms and shoulders, part of its waist, and the hips: a recent addition. Derec hoped to be able to com­plete these modifications before—

  The two security officers looked his way. He recognized one of them: Fran Olsin, who had taken over the department after Security Chief Sipha Palen’s death.

  “Thales,” Derec said quietly, “do you know what’s going on that would bring station security here?”

  “There is a restraining order in effect,” the Resident Intelligence replied. “The schedule has been moved up, apparently. You are to be sequestered until travel arrangements are complete, then placed on the first available transport to Aurora.”

  “Did you just learn about this?”

  “In the last ten minutes.”

  “Were you going to tell me?”

  “You instructed me not to bother you unless it was a matter of life and death.”

  Derec felt a stab of annoyance. “You’re not always so literal.”

  “You are not always engaged in a delicate operation.”

  Derec’s irritation turned inward. He had been explicit. Installation of the third tier of positronic buffers required close monitoring. He glanced at the set of oblate components now resting in their new rack within the robot’s guts. Thales was running the final checks to see if they would link properly to the main positronic matrix.

  “Where’s Hofton?” he asked.

  “Earthside,” Thales said. “In the Spacer Embassy, D.C. Sector.”

  “Let him know what’s happening and ask if there is anything he can do.”

  “Ariel has been formally recalled,” Thales said after a few seconds.

  The security officers were approaching him now.

  “How are we with this, Thales? Can I close it up?”

  “Diagnostics indicate no path impedance, optimum through-flow, and matched-specification gate response. You may safely reseal the unit.”

  “Disengage diagnostics.”

  As Derec stood, the cables released themselves from within the torso and retracted into the console. Derec lifted the cover plate from the worktable nearby—heavy, nearly twenty kilograms—and, grunting, hefted it into place on the robot. Instantly, tiny sealing mechanisms grasped the edges of the plate, taking over the labor from Derec, and binding the metal to the body.

  Derec straightened and picked up a towel from the table.

  “Derec,” Fran Olsin said. She looked apologetic.

  “Hi, Fran.”

  She looked at the robot. “How’s it coming?”

  “Not badly. Better than I expected.” He wiped his hands with the towel—a habit, more ritual than necessity—and dropped it on the console. “What’s going on?”

  “Bad news,” Fran said. “We’ve been ordered to confine you till transport is arranged to Aurora.”

  Even expecting it, Derec felt a moment of outrage and despair. It had been coming for a long time. He knew it, Ariel knew it, they had talked about it. But until official word came they had been able to pretend that it might not—would not—really happen.

  “Confine me where?” he asked. “I never leave the embassy area anyway.”

  Fran scratched her chin absently, frowning. “That’s not very clear, so I’m having to make it up on my own.” She looked at the robot. “I suppose technically that robot is yours?”

  “It is now. I have the ownership documents if you’d like to review them.”

  “No, no, I had to verify them, remember?” She stared at the robot for a time. “Look, I get the feeling that my superiors and yours would prefer you didn’t do any new work on it till you’re away from Earth. So I’m going to read these instructions as house arrest orders. Confine yourself to your cabin till we can get you a berth.”

  “That sounds reasonable.” He glanced at the robot. “I think I’ve done about as much as I can here, anyway. Maybe a trip to Aurora is just what I need to finish it.”

  “Good.”

  “I’ll leave the robot in Rana’s possession till departure time. How’s that?”

  “That ought to satisfy just about everybody. Sorry, Derec.”

  He waved a hand. “You’re just doing your job.” He leaned over the console. “Thales, copy all this to Hofton’s attention. Let Rana know Bog­ard’s status. I’ll be in my quarters.”

  “Yes, Derec.”

  “So,” Derec said to Fran. “Do you escort me, or trust me to go to my room?”

  Fran lingered in his cabin. She sent her assistant away and shut the door.

  “Some nasty fam has broken loose,” she said.

  Derec thought for a moment before he recognized the slang. Fam: Freefall Anomalous Matter. A spaceworker term for debris, waste, or other garbage that occasionally got loose, sometimes causing problems in construction sites or with small satellites.

  “Such as?” he asked.

  “We got word a couple hours ago that Rega Looms is dead. Terran Bureau of Investigation is already making enquiries. They paid your Ambassador Setaris a visit.”

  “This triggered the recall?”

  “Sounds like your people want you away from here before more ques­tions get asked about that mess we had over Looms’ daughter. Anyway, there’s bound to be suggestions of Spacer retribution for—well, for everything Looms stood for, really.”

  “You don’t believe any of that, do you?”

  “No. But I have the advantage of a close relationship with human venality,” she said sarcastically. “I just wanted to let you know that maybe this is for your own good. There’s no telling what TBI and Special Service might stir up. Knowing them, it wouldn’t surprise me if you got blamed for Sipha’s death.”

  Derec had witnessed Sipha Palen’s death—and the deaths of several of her officers and who knew how many people aboard the shuttle that had exploded in the docking bay, ripping a hole in the body of Kopernik Station—and had felt absolutely helpless and desolate. Perhaps he deserved some blame. Not that he had caused any of it, but he had been involved in the circumstances that led to it.

  “Maybe,” he agreed. “Maybe it’s time we all get out of here. I don’t think we’re doing any good anymore.”

  “Meaning Spacers?” Fran shrugged. “Won’t happen. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know how deep this could get.”

  “Thanks.”

  Ever since Palen’s death, her people—Kopernik Station security—had taken care of him. They had collectively decided he was a victim, too, and needed watching out for. In a way, he was like a mascot.

  In return, he had helped them upgrade their own AI systems and improved the efficiency of their surveillance net. They had looked out for him. This was likely the last gesture they could make.

  “Rega Looms is dead,” he said. “How? Murdered, I gather?”

  “Why would you assume that?”

  “If the TBI is involved . . .”

  “Ah. Yes, you have a point. However, we don’t have all the details. Word is he was found crush
ed to death in his private quarters.”

  An escort from the Auroran Embassy waited at Coren’s apartment when they returned. Coren suppressed an impulse to challenge them. Ariel had talked it over with him on their flight back.

  “No scenes,” she said. “It won’t do any good anyway, and it might get you more attention than you need.”

  So as their cab pulled up to his building and he saw the embassy limo and the plainclothes security lounging around the area, he squeezed her hand and let her kiss him.

  Last one, he thought, tasting her.

  She grabbed her pack and stepped out of the cab. He stayed within and watched her surrender herself to embassy security. No one came up to him to ask him anything. Ariel climbed into the embassy transport and within seconds the security vanished and the vehicles rolled quickly away.

  He was alone in the back of the cab.

  “Do you wish to proceed to another destination?” the autopilot asked.

  “Yes,” he said after a pause. “DyNan Manual Industries, main headquarters.”

  Coren was surprised that his ID still worked. When he had quit he had expected Rega to deactivate his credentials that very day. They had had a very loud and principled parting—Rega had given in to blackmail and ended his campaign for the senate, and he had done so because the blackmail contained truths, facts he had kept from Coren even while expecting Coren to take care of such matters. The relationship, in Coren’s mind, became untenable.

  Shola Bran met him in the lobby of the main building. She had been one of his personal choices for Rega’s security during his abortive run for the senate. He wondered what position she had moved into since.

  “Mr. Lanra,” she said. “This is unexpected. We thought your hiatus would last longer.”

  “Rega’s death is unexpected as well, I trust.”

  She frowned. “Is that why you’re back?”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “I’ve assumed your duties since . . .”

  Coren glanced around the lobby. A few people worked behind infor­mation desks. He gave Shola a slight shake of the head. “My office.”

  She led the way. When they entered, he was surprised to find it much as he had left it. He closed the doors and went to his desk. He was pleased that it still responded to him. He initiated the security walls Rega would have objected to had he known about them.