Isaac Asimov's Aurora

by Mark W. Tiedemann

  And he was gone.

  Masid’s heart pounded. He expected troops any second, barging in to search for the missing weapon. It felt heavy against his leg.

  When the ship lurched forward, he almost shouted.

  No one in the dark hold spoke; everyone paid attention only to the sounds of the ship moving on its cradle, toward the bay doors.

  A huge roar filled his ears as g-force slammed against him. The ship bolted from its dock. Almost immediately the engines cut off and Masid’s stomach seemed to buoy up within him, crowding his heart and lungs. He coughed, nearly vomited. He had been through this before, but not so violently.

  It’s a drone . . .

  They were falling toward Nova Levis pilotless, he knew then, packed into a cargo drone. It made perfect sense, of course, being shipped down with so-called humane relief goods. All around them, therefore, were pharmaceuticals or special foodstuffs or environmental malleables—items excluded from the lists of banned goods kept out by the blockade because to exclude them was considered fundamentally inhumane.

  Or—the thought followed fast—it was all contraband, as were they.

  If we ground safely we’ll never know what we’ve been packed in with . . . if something goes wrong, we might know right before we die . . .

  Masid closed his eyes then and curled his fingers into fists.

  “Shit,” he breathed.

  He tried to remember the relationships of the various blockade ele­ments to the planet. There was a wide net at the half billion kilometer radius which policed the entire system, but then there was a series of inner nets closer to Nova Levis itself. He had no way of knowing which station they had just launched from. It made a difference between several days’ trajectory and a few hours.

  One initial thrust, he thought desperately, now freefall. They couldn’t do that from the outer line, has to be one of the inner stations, not enough air in a drone, these restraints are for short haul . . . unless they never intended us to reach Nova Levis alive, but then why not kill us on the sta­tion where they can harvest organs or . . .

  The drone shuddered. The body of the ship creaked and popped and he recognized the telltale of fast cooling. They were being shot at—blasters, maybe particle beams, microwaves possibly, but—

  Another strike, a heavier shudder. A loud crack echoed through the chamber.

  People began weeping loudly. The stress finally overwhelmed them.

  Masid bit his lip.

  G-force pressed against him again. The drone itself had responded and changed delta-v.

  Freefall again.

  Masid groped for his pack. In the dark he fumbled for one of the hidden compartments, hoping that, indeed, everything had been left alone. He found it and rubbed his fingertips against the seam. His skin oil trig­gered the fabric and the seam parted and he yanked out the breather mask. He adjusted it against his face quickly, drew three deep, quick breaths to activate it, and resealed his pack.

  Another blaster strike rocked the ship.

  Minutes later he felt a different kind of jarring. The drone kissed upper atmosphere, skipped, then plunged into air.

  A faint whistling built into a ragged screaming. The hull had been breached, though their compartment still held atmosphere. The ship rat­tled and vibrated. The cries of his fellow baleys combined with the roar of descent and superheated air beyond their small chamber into a Faustian protest, becoming one din.

  The impact came almost as a welcome relief, bringing a sudden change from screaming to tearing and a thunderous grinding—

  Light flooded the compartment as the torn hull opened above them. Dirt and rock poured through the hole. Masid covered his head with his pack as earth rained down on him.

  He pushed his way through the layer of loam. Around him, in the half-buried chamber, he saw dead baleys. Suffocated, most of them, though a few had taken fatal blows from rock. One or two moved, half-conscious.

  Hanging onto his pack, Masid managed to get himself out of the dirt. The sky visible through the ripped hull was a flat, lifeless gray.

  He could reach it with a small jump. He pulled himself up through the hole, brought up a leg to prop himself back against the sheared edge. From here he could see most of the immediate landscape.

  Trailing behind the drone lay an open wound in the terrain, the path of the drone. Masid sighed heavily. At least they had come in at some kind of a landing vector instead of nose down straight into the litho­sphere. The landing scar was rimmed by broken trees and mounded black soil. Stretching away on either side spread a landscape dotted with low, broad-penumbral trees, most of them lacking anything that resembled a leaf.

  Masid shifted position and looked forward.

  A city rose in the distance. He estimated three, four kilometers away.

  He dropped back into the chamber and made for the hatch. He hesi­tated at the sound of moaning but did not look back. His impulse was to help, but he knew he had no time and he did not believe—especially now—that freedom was an option for the baleys arriving here.

  The hatch opened and dirt spilled out into the corridor, carrying him with it. He scrambled out of the flow and hurried along the passage to the next hatch.

  Within, he found another storeroom, this one filled with nacelles. A pungent, alcohol-and-cotton smell permeated the chamber. He began unsealing the nacelles.

  Pharmaceuticals.

  The light was bad. He groped in his pack for a light.

  Within a few minutes he had identified and stored several packets of antibiotics, antivirals, and antifungals in his pack. He resealed what he could, then scrambled from the drone.

  The sound of ground-effect rotors rumbled rhythmically. The owners were coming to salvage their property.

  Masid bolted for the trees, kept running, and did not look back.

  7

  ARIEL WALKED through the vacant apartment one last time, certain she was forgetting something. The furniture already wore the protec­tive layering that would clean it, refresh it, and keep it till the next occupant took over the rooms. The grayish lumps suggested the trappings of a life till now based here, but they lacked all human familiarity.

  She stopped at the kitchen for the third time and realized that R. Jen­nie was absent. She had been looking for the robot, even though she knew Jennie had been packed up and forwarded to the station for trans­fer to Kopernik, and then to the liner that would take them both home.

  Identifying the uncomfortable nagging at the back of her mind, Ariel set it aside and left. The door snicked shut behind her, the access code now changed, locking her out.

  Her luggage was already on its way—Hofton had seen to that hours ago. She had made the rounds, saying good-bye to what staff remained in the embassy that meant anything to her. A few new faces watched her with mild curiosity, but what greeted her mostly were empty offices, vacated stations. The mission was in trouble and people were abandoning it or being sent home. When Ariel left there would only be Setaris with ambassadorial rank. She tried not to care.

  The Spacer Embassy seemed immense with so few people. Fully-staffed, there had been a closeness to it, like a village, but now it simply sprawled. A couple centuries ago, she knew, Spacers had left Earth, exiled by terrified and intolerant Terrans. Then they had occupied an actual city, Spacetown, built on the very surface soil of the planet. It had been the only spaceport on Earth then, the only access Terrans had to the stars, before they once again ventured out into space in the full flood of the Settler Movement. She wondered if it had looked the same as Aurorans and Theians and Keresians and Ptolemaics packed up and left them.

  Spacetown remained, even to this day, a museum mostly. Ariel had never visited it, uninterested until today in that first failed attempt at bridging the gulf between Spacer and Terran. She wondered now why it had happened, how Spacers had become so estranged in the first place. Spacer settlement had happened—begun and ended in less than two gen­erations—so long ago that to Terrans it was a peri
od more mythic than real. Many Terrans still had difficulty making the connection that once Spacers had been like them, short-lived, from Earth, before it had built a blanket and covered itself over in fear of the stars and the sky and the possibility of expansion. Maybe they had been afraid everyone would leave Earth, empty it out with insufficient population to keep it running as a viable home for human beings.

  Now the Spacers were leaving again, being pushed off, and for the first time Ariel wondered just what had happened so long ago . . .

  Hofton waited in the lobby, alone.

  “Ambassador Burgess,” he said, bowing slightly.

  “Hofton. Is everything ready?”

  “Everything that can be.” He gestured toward the doors. “I have a lim­ousine waiting.”

  Ariel felt a moment of tension wrap around her chest as she walked out of the embassy. She took several deep breaths; her thighs and upper arms tingled as she entered the limo. Hofton climbed in beside her. The near-vertigo faded, unrealized, as the transport pulled away.

  “Derec?” she asked.

  “He’ll be boarding within a few hours. I’ve cleared a direct shuttle for you, bypassing Kopernik altogether. Your personal items have already shipped up.”

  “I nearly forgot. Derec wanted me to ask you to try to get Rana’s visa—”

  “I already took care of that. Some time ago, in fact. Ms. Duvan left for Aurora nearly eight days ago.”

  “Oh. Very good, Hofton.” Ariel frowned. If Rana had already departed, why would Derec have asked about her visa? She shrugged. It had prob­ably slipped his mind. Considering the pressure he was under—they were all under—he’d probably immersed himself in work and missed Rana’s departure.

  They rode on in silence for a time. As Union Station came into view at the end of the long thoroughfare that connected it to the ancient Mall District, Ariel reached across the seat and grasped Hofton’s hand, not looking at him. He tensed but did not pull away.

  “You’re wonderful, Hofton. I’ll miss you.”

  She glanced over and saw him reddening, his eyes resolutely forward. Finally, as the limo pulled onto the apron of the passenger entrance, he nodded once, slowly, and said, “I have tried to earn your respect. You’re one of the few people I’ve known whose respect I craved. Thank you.”

  Then he was out of the limousine, waiting for her.

  When they entered Union Station, Ariel stopped. A huge crowd filled the cavernous expanse, all being held back by a police line. She recog­nized the angry, almost hateful timbre of the mob, bubbling with barely-restrained resentment.

  “Hofton.”

  “I had no idea,” he said. “I’ve already cleared you through Customs.”

  “We don’t run, Hofton. No matter what, we don’t run.”

  “Walking a bit faster than usual would not be a bad idea, though.”

  “Agreed.”

  She took the van by a pace and walked along the concourse provided by the police line. Halfway down its length, she looked over at the throng.

  No one seemed to be paying her any attention. She slowed.

  “Ariel—” Hofton urged.

  “No, wait.”

  Then she saw a couple of banners.

  FLESH NOT STEEL, FAITH NOT TREASON

  ABOLISH IMMUNITY FOR TRAITORS

  PRISON NOT POSITION! TRY, CONVICT, AND JAIL ELITON

  “Eliton . . .”

  “Please, Ariel.”

  She continued on.

  Suddenly, a few people focused on her.

  “—Spacer—”

  “—Auroran—”

  “—tinhead advisor—”

  “—Burgess!”

  Hofton placed a hand at her back and gently urged her forward. They reached the gate to the shuttles. Hofton leaned past her and handed a card to the attendant.

  “Yes, Ambassador,” the woman said. “Go right through.”

  Ariel hesitated. “What is this?” she asked, gesturing at the crowd.

  “Clar Eliton is supposed to be coming through here today,” the atten­dant said flatly, as if that explained everything.

  “I see,” Ariel said. “Thank you.”

  She walked up the ramp.

  “I no longer trust the authorities to protect someone like yourself,” Hofton said. “Forgive me if I exceeded my position.”

  “No, that’s fine. Eliton is coming through here?”

  “I understand he’s being shipped out. He’s been given an appoint­ment. The Terran government wants him offworld.”

  “I haven’t been keeping track. I didn’t realize he was so . . . controver­sial.”

  “I think ‘hated’ is the word you want.”

  Ariel grunted. “I suppose there isn’t much worse than breaking a trust.”

  “Oh, I think so. Breaking a trust that gets people killed.”

  Ariel looked back at Hofton, but as usual his face was stonily unreadable. Just before she looked away, though, he cocked one eyebrow at her.

  At the head of the passageway a small car waited. Hofton tapped a code into the little vehicle’s processor. “Have a safe trip, Ambassador.”

  “Don’t overstay your welcome here.”

  “I’m already timing my departure. As soon as Ambassador Setaris is done with me, I think I’ll be following you.”

  “I’ll look forward to that.”

  “Oh, by the way.” He pulled a disk from his jacket pocket. “A partial analysis of the grass you asked me to have assayed. There are some pecu­liarities, but apparently it’s not much more than some rare Terran grasses. I’ll continue having it analyzed if you like, there may be something more to those peculiarities. Lack of time, though—”

  “Thank you. I understand.” She took the disk and tucked it into her own jacket. “See you on Aurora, Hofton.”

  He bowed again.

  Ariel stepped into the car and sat down. A canopy snapped into place and the car started up its magnetic track. She strained to keep Hofton in sight as long as she could.

  Coren found messages waiting in his office at DyNan headquarters when he returned from the funeral. One was a note from Ariel. He left it unopened, thinking he knew what it said and not wanting to deal with it just now. The second was from Inspector Capel, inviting him to visit his offices—sooner rather than later. A third was from Lio Top, one of Rega’s lawyers and his former campaign manager during his run for the senate. The last two got attention first: Willis Jay, the biologist he had given the grass samples to, and Shola Bran, current security supervisor.

  He tapped Shola’s code. “You wanted to see me?”

  “Boss, I—” The voice-only comm frustrated Lanra sometimes; he could not see faces, only guess from vocal inflection the state of mind of the person on the other end of the link. He had necessarily gotten fairly good at it—like now, he heard self-consciousness and embarrassment, hesi­tancy—but he never felt certain of his judgment.

  “Come see me,” he said quickly, and broke the link. He tapped Jay then. “You have something for me, Doctor?”

  “You should drop things off for me to do more often, Mr. Lanra,” Jay said. “I haven’t seen anything quite so interesting in a long time. If you don’t mind, I’d like you to come down to see this.”

  “Give me an hour.”

  Shola rapped at his door and he waved her in. She approached his desk with visible reluctance.

  “Sit,” he said, then waited till she did.

  “Boss, I don’t know how—I mean—”

  “What security arrangements did Rega request in the last couple of months?”

  “That’s just the problem. He refused security. He said now that he no longer threatened anyone in government, he didn’t need it.”

  Coren considered. “Well, that’s not unlike him.”

  “But you always knew when to listen to him and when to ignore him. I didn’t know how to handle that.”

  “Rega never permitted personal surveillance in his residence. That was al
ways a standing policy.”

  “And you always abided by that?”

  “Absolutely. So if you’ve been beating yourself up because you think you should have done something, stop. Rega was stubborn, obdurately independent, and the most private person I ever knew. His company, his rules. What do you think you should have done?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s been on my mind. I don’t know how to shake it.”

  “You shake it. You never forget it, but you do your job. You figure out what happened and how to prevent it from ever happening again. You find out who did it.”

  Her eyes narrowed sharply. “Who did—what?”

  “Rega was murdered. You didn’t think that was natural, did you?”

  “No, but—”

  “What have you been doing to follow up?”

  “We did a survey of his apartments, went through his personal transaction logs to find possible witnesses or perpetrators. I’ve started talking to all employees who had any contact with him since he ended his election bid. The usual.”

  “Good. Then your job right now is to keep me posted on your progress.”

  “You are back, then?”

  “I am most definitely back, and we will find out who did this.” He watched her for several seconds while she thought over what he had said. “Okay?”

  “Yes.” She stood. “Thanks.”

  “If it helps any, there probably wasn’t anything I could have done, either. You’re not at fault.”

  She managed a forced smile before she left. Coren leaned forward and began entering instructions into his desk system. In seconds he discov­ered that his oversight program was still in place. He directed it to copy Shola’s files extending back to the day Coren had quit Rega Looms, then to identify and copy the related files of other operatives working with her on Rega’s death. That would take some time to get around Shola’s private safeguards.

  He opened Lio Top’s message, then: “Coren, I need to speak to you regarding Rega’s last will and testament. Call me earliest, please.”

  “What will?” he said caustically. His daughter dead, Rega Looms had no other family, and damn few people Coren could think of would merit any posthumous aid from him. Maybe he intended to set up a board of directors or a trust or a grant program—