Isaac Asimov's Aurora

by Mark W. Tiedemann

  “From the way you’re treating it, I might suspect you’re lying.”

  Sturlin looked startled. “That’s in jest, isn’t it? I’m a quartermaster, Agent Daventri. I take that seriously.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Sturlin regarded her stonily for another few seconds, then shrugged. “It must be frustrating for you. It is for me.” She sighed. “I grew up with a houseful of books like this. My parents were antiquarians. My father belonged to the Church of Organic Sapiens.”

  “That must have been awkward when you joined the service.”

  “You have no idea. I might as well have told them I was emigrating to Solaria. I could never see why the two worlds couldn’t coexist. But I’ve come to understand them since coming out here.”

  “Really? Tell me, then. I still have a hard time reconciling having Spacer friends with being a Terran.”

  “Have you been forced by circumstances to choose?”

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

  “Assume you meet a Spacer with whom you want to form a bond. Where do you live? His world or yours? Whose friends do you give up? Believe me, you’d have to choose. The question is, which half of these choices is the more important? Which would make you less by leaving behind and which would harm you the least by keeping?”

  “It wouldn’t be that either/or.”

  “You think not? Well, perhaps. Some people are strong enough or devoted enough or lucky enough not to have to give up what they don’t want. But what if what you want changes? If who you are is defined partly or largely by your wants, then are you different if they change?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then what you don’t want would have the same effect.”

  “That follows, I guess.”

  “So if you say, ‘I don’t want to live this way’ or ‘I don’t wish to live without these things,’ then you have changed who you are from when those wants didn’t matter. It becomes then a matter of who you want to be.”

  Sturlin was leaning forward, her face intent. Mia could almost feel her intensity. This was a subject very close to Sturlin.

  “All right,” Mia said.

  “And if what you want to be is at odds with those you live with, divergent from what they want you to be, then you have to choose.”

  “But the things themselves shouldn’t be in conflict.”

  “Things are metaphors, Mia. They represent ideas. If you say, ‘I want to be a Terran,’ that means a certain set of ideas. One of which is that you live without robots. If you say, ‘I want to live with robots,’ then you’ve chosen something which says that you’re not Terran.”

  “Then the definition of Terran is at fault.”

  Sturlin smiled broadly. “And if you change that, then you change everything. You make everyone else give something up in order that you be able to give nothing up. Consequently, you lose the very thing you thought you were preserving, because it doesn’t exist anymore.”

  “That’s sophistry.”

  “Contradict me.” Sturlin laughed. “My parents accepted a set of limi­tations as part of their concept of who they were. I wanted things that didn’t fit within those boundaries. I couldn’t be like them anymore. By accepting me, they had to accept, at least in principle, that I had made choices that were somehow right. They weren’t going to do that. I didn’t want them to hate me. The best thing for us all was for me to leave all that they were behind.”

  “Was that possible?”

  “I’m not sure. If not, then Spacers are in some sense still Terrans. Do you know any Terran, even a liberal one, who accepts that idea?”

  “No.”

  Sturlin held out a hand as if to say, “So there.”

  “Spacers are different,” Sturlin added then. “I’m not even sure they know how different they are . . .” She glanced at her screen. “Ah. I’m get­ting a reply.” She leaned toward the screen, then nodded slowly. “The books were purchased six months ago by a buyer in Petrabor. Let me see if there’s an associated tree with any of our bibliophiles . . . hmmm . . . three possibles, none of them senior staff. Corf is not one of them.”

  “Since they got on the station without anyone finding them . . .”

  Sturlin glanced at her, scowling. “Finding the recipient could be very difficult. There’s some possibilities. Six months ago, they were on Earth. There’s a window to look through, at least. Here are the three officers who have done business with that bookseller in the past. I’ll see if I can link the buyer in Petrabor to any of our already neutralized freelance importers.”

  Mia took the slip of paper from Sturlin. In her precise hand, Sturlin had written them out. Sometimes, they both knew, writing things down gave the best security.

  “Thanks. Let me know as soon as you find anything more.”

  “I will.”

  Mia finished her tea and set the glass by the samovar. She hesitated at the door.

  “So, what have you become?” she asked.

  “I don’t know yet,” Sturlin said. “I’m still choosing.”

  The three names did not mean anything to Mia until she matched them against Corf’s comm logs. One came up regularly, a Lt. Illen Jons. Mia pulled up her file.

  Lt. Jons was a liaison officer to the Keresian contingent. Her counterpart was a Commander Togla Ulson, aide to the Keresian fleet com­mander, Commodore Palis.

  Mia opened several of the communications between Corf and Jons, wondering what the Terran-Keresian liaison might have to talk to essen­tially a glorified stores clerk.

  Books. Mia found lists of titles. Jons was checking on shipments of books and Corf was assuring her that, though the shipments were late, they were indeed on their way. Further down the stack of comms were confirmations of deliveries, new requests, notes of thanks.

  Mia sat back. Books . . . ?

  Corf’s records showed no batch numbers, no tracking codes, nothing that would give Mia anything to trace back through legitimate channels. She requested a cross-reference by date from her own records. Her datum told her to wait, that it had to access external files.

  “While you’re at it,” she muttered, tapping in new instructions, “check if anyone else made similar requests to Corf.” Almost as an afterthought, she activated one of her personal encryption routines, which she knew would slow the process considerably. But these were now command-level people, even though Jons was only a lieutenant. Mia could not know where her trace might take her, and she did not want anyone tracing back to her until she got what she wanted.

  WORKING

  Mia shrugged out of her jacket and went to her locker. She pulled out one of the bound volumes and settled down to wait.

  She glanced at the spine: War and Peace. She grunted. What else is there? she wondered sardonically, and opened the book.

  9

  DEREC ENTERED the Wysteria’s Grand Parlor at the last minute before departure. He had intended to stay sequestered in his cabin, disinter­ested in the actual vista of leaving, and leery of the celebratory gath­ering traditional upon casting off. But he disliked self-pity more than self-abuse and, with little time to spare, found himself sprinting down the corridors.

  The Grand Parlor sprawled beneath a dense canopy permeated with photoenhancers interlaced with polarized particle-deflectors to shield the guests from radiation. The enhancers adjusted the resulting filtered light to add back the parts of the color spectrum occluded by the shielding. It was an expensive and temporary vanity, used twice during a voyage like this, once at the beginning and again at the end, so everyone could view docking if they wished by the “actual” light of the new sun. Derec thought it a ridiculous idea, since even then some of that light was lost due to the filtering, so what was being watched was no more authentic—no more real—than if they all watched on screens.

  Tables rimmed the roughly teardrop-shaped chamber, bearing a bewildering array of foods—Terran, Spacer, and Settler. Drifting from one part to another took him through aromatic
mixtures that inspired everything from ravenous hunger to mild nausea. Clusters of passengers tended to gather around their cuisine of choice, leaving unpeopled gaps all across the deck. Derec wandered across these empty places, looking alternately at the guests and up at the view.

  The view . . . Impressive, he thought grudgingly. If I were doing this willingly, I might say spectacular . . .

  At one time in the distant past, Kopernik Station might have been a triple-ring configuration. But the additional components, new sections, expanded docks, warehousing environs, entire smaller stations attached, and the new construction—for purposes which Derec could only guess—obscured nearly all trace of that early design, turning it into the imita­tion-organic agglomerate he now saw through the Wysteria’s Grand Parlor canopy. Perhaps an archaeohistorian could see the faint shadow of the original construction through all the growth, but if he had not known in the first place, Derec could never have imagined it.

  The starship moved away from Kopernik at a considerable speed, so that the station shrank visibly, giving more view of the illimitable space around it.

  “How does it make you feel?”

  Derec started at the familiar voice and looked around. Ariel stood beside him, staring up. She held a glass in her left hand. After a moment, her free hand found his. She laced her fingers through his and for several seconds kept a gentle pressure, palm heel to palm heel. The moment passed, and she released his hand.

  “What deck are you on?”

  “Twelve, forward,” Derec said.

  “One below mine. At least they didn’t put us back with the group rates.”

  “They wouldn’t dare.”

  Ariel smirked. “No? Setaris couldn’t wait to get me out of the embassy. If the only flight available had been as cargo . . .”

  “Is Hofton with you?”

  “No, unfortunately. Setaris retained him. She knows talent when she sees it.”

  “Too bad. I like Hofton.”

  Ariel lapsed into silence, and Derec felt a mounting frustration, unable to think of anything further to say. He wished he had thought to get a glass so he could at least have something to occupy the awkward lull.

  “Shit,” Ariel whispered.

  Derec followed her gaze across the Parlor. At first he saw nothing that might have caused Ariel’s reaction. He started to ask her what she had seen when a face caught his eye.

  “You’re kidding,” he said.

  “When I arrived at Union Station,” Ariel said, “there was a mob protesting him. I had no idea he was traveling with us.”

  Former Senator Clar Eliton stood with a small group of Spacers—Kere­sians, by the look of their clothing, heavy in the Solarian manner—carry­ing on an apparently lively conversation. He laughed, gestured—it was easy, even at a distance, to understand Eliton’s political success. Derec pointedly began walking the other way.

  Ariel caught up to him in moments.

  “I take it you don’t wish to see him, either?” she asked.

  “I can’t think why I would.”

  “Oh, no reason at all to avoid him. He only lost you your company, got both of us in trouble with the TBI, nearly fomented a diplomatic break between Earth and Aurora . . . nothing to hold a grudge about.”

  “He did lose his senate seat.”

  “To someone who has turned out to be just as rabidly anti-Spacer as apparently he was.”

  “But more honest and open about it,” Derec said sardonically.

  They reached a buffet table. Derec looked at her. She maintained a serious expression for a few seconds longer, then laughed. Derec felt his own face pull into a grin.

  “So we’re agreed,” he said, reaching for a glass of champagne. “Eliton’s an ass.”

  “We are, indeed, agreed.” She controlled herself and cleared her throat. “We probably can’t avoid him for the entire trip.”

  “No.”

  “Should we agree on anything before we talk to him?”

  Derec shrugged. “What’s he doing here, anyway?”

  “You probably won’t believe me.”

  “Take a chance.”

  “He’s been appointed ambassador to Solaria.”

  Derec found a pastry on one of the trays and raised it slowly to his mouth. “You’re right, I don’t believe you.”

  “Think about it, though. What worse thing could they do to him? Solaria itself will be purgatory for a man like him. Almost no direct contact with another human being, living in a large domicile with a huge staff of robots, cut off from the mainstream of Earth-Aurora politics. The position of Chief Legate to Solaria is less than a token post, since Solaria conducts all its diplomatic business through the D.C. mission.” Ariel smiled at him with mock innocence. “They’re sending him to hell.”

  “Hm. The robots alone will drive him mad. On second thought, maybe I do believe you. They found him innocent—well, they acquitted him, not quite the same thing—of collusion and conspiracy and then didn’t have anything else to try him on. He still has a constituency. I suppose that was a worry. What if he did manage to get reelected? This is possibly the best way to minimize his potential for mischief and effectively end his career.” He nibbled on the pastry. “Who else hates him besides everybody?”

  “You did know Chassik was recalled.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you know he’s dead?”

  “What?”

  “His ship was attacked en route to Solaria and destroyed.”

  Derec stared at her. “That’s been kept quiet.”

  “Yes, it has. I’m wondering if Eliton’s post has something to do with Chassik’s meddling—something he set up before he left.”

  “You still think Chassik was involved directly in the massacre at Union Station.”

  “He evidently was involved with Alda Mikels and several others in running baleys. Proof, though? No, we never had enough. Except for his involvement with the Nova Levis affair.” She shook her head. “I feel so cheated. I can’t follow up any of my suspicions from Aurora.”

  “And now you’ll never know.”

  “Mmm.” She went through the motions of selecting something to eat, then abandoned everything for another glass of amber liquid. “Speaking of robots, what became of Bogard?”

  “He’s on board.”

  “You’re bringing it back to Aurora?”

  Derec nodded, his stomach tightening. “He’s partially functional again. I’ve been rebuilding his body. Remember the DW-12 we had to excavate for Lanra?”

  “Yes,” Ariel said tightly.

  “Thales loaded a composite template into it after we’d retrieved and stored its memories.”

  “Bogard—your state-of-the-art, multitalented, virtually free-willed machine—is inhabiting the robotic body of a dock worker?”

  “It’s not quite that limited, but essentially, yes.”

  “This was Thales’ idea?”

  “Surprised me, too. Thales is on board as well. I want to get them both into a decent lab for a complete analysis.”

  Ariel looked pale and angry. “I’m not sure I like that idea.”

  “I didn’t think you would.”

  There was a stretch of silence between them. Derec surveyed the crowd, searching for Eliton. The former senator had slipped out of sight.

  “Oh, well,” Ariel said finally. “It might actually come in useful.”

  Derec glanced at her, looking for irony, but she seemed sincere. “I . . . could use your help on it.”

  “We’ll see.” She gestured toward the vast display. The conversation was over.

  Derec joined her and many others watching the diminishing Kopernik become more and more toylike in the distance, Earth now a nearly full sphere to the right of it, as the ship picked up speed steadily on its way to the jump point well outside the solar system, above the plane of ecliptic.

  Coren arrived a quarter hour before the formal reading began. As he strolled among the gathered guests, he exchanged quiet gre
etings with those he knew. He recognized the others as primarily board members of DyNan. Two women sitting off by themselves he remembered as cousins by way of Rega’s deceased wife. He nodded politely to them, but Coren had never been comfortable with Rega’s relatives—except for Nyom. Nei­ther family had been large, but it often surprised Coren just how small a circle held Rega’s private life.

  Lio Top stood with two other DyNan attorneys. Coren made a slow circuit and ended up joining them. Lio gave him a solemn nod and intro­duced him to the other two, whom he knew of but had never formally met.

  “Excuse us, please,” Lio said then, and took Coren’s arm and led him away.

  “Interesting stuff,” Coren said. “The disk.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Lio said. “We have something of a wrinkle tonight.”

  “What?”

  “An heir has come forward.”

  “An heir.”

  “I don’t know any more than that. I received a communiqué from a private attorney early this morning that a Looms heir is going to step forward to challenge any facet of the will which does not expressly recog­nize him.”

  Coren felt a chill begin in his chest and spread quickly. “That’s impos­sible,” he said.

  “I’m inclined to agree, but we have to wait and see who this is.”

  “I—” Coren snapped his mouth closed, drawing a sharp look from Lio.

  “Do you know something?” she asked. “Was there something in that disk I gave you?”

  “We should wait. The situation may well solve itself.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Later.”

  “Coren—”

  “Trust me,” he insisted. “Later.”

  He stepped away from Lio before she could try to draw him out.

  One of the other attorneys stepped to the small podium at the front of the room and pressed a button that produced a chime. The assembled guests took seats and soon an orderly quiet presided.

  “I believe everyone is here,” said the attorney, an older man with sharp silver streaks through his dark red hair. “We can begin. I am Tann Bershem, executor for Mr. Looms. It was my summons that brought you all here. His last will and testament is a rather lengthy document with a great many provisions and exceptions. My staff and I have been over it for possible weaknesses and, by the power vested in me by the late Rega Looms, we’ve made such corrections as are consis­tent with current law—”