Isaac Asimov's Aurora

by Mark W. Tiedemann

  “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 studied 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?”

  “I never found any of the services adept at style or sensitivity.”

  “How did you get down?”

  “I’m a baley.”

  She thought for a moment. “That crashed drone two weeks ago?”

  “Yes.”

  “I heard no one survived.”

  “No one else apparently did. I heard others. There were survivors of the crash. I haven’t seen any of them since.”

  “Standard,” Tilla said. “I don’t think any baleys have grounded, intact and free, in over a year.” She drew a deeper breath. “What was that, stim?”

  “New variant, yes.”

  “I’m going to crash hard?”

  “You’ll sleep.”

  “That would be a change.” She pushed herself straighter. Her color was a bit better. “What I’ve got is entirely local and there are no known antigens. Kru keeps trying to find something, but . . .”

  “Kru is native?”

  “As much as anyone is here.”

  “Who’s your contact in the blockade?”

  “We were going through a Commander Reen, head of Internal Secu­rity. But I got the distinct feeling that someone was intercepting his com­munications. We started routing through a secondary blind, codenamed Ixpess. Then Filoo killed Dressl and the rest of us got sick.”

  “Why did Filoo kill him? Does he know who you are?”

  “No. We’d all have been killed if he did. Dressl . . . he made the greatest mistake of any agent in the cold.”

  “He got involved?”

  “The black market situation here is obscene. Two thousand percent mark-up on essentials, but you can get pleasure items for almost half market value. It drains community reserves, saps the will, and chokes the people. You’ve been dealing ’biotics to blend in? Then you know what the cost factors are. And none of it’s pure, it’s all cut, which is worse than none at all. Dressl got angry, tried to step in and do something. The rest of us went to ground, but then we contracted one of the tubercular vari­ants. It works faster on some than on others. Polen died three weeks ago.”

  “When were you cut off?”

  “Just after Dressl died.”

  “You’re sure Filoo didn’t know who you were?”

  “No. I think it was a mistake. Dressl’s death got reported—a lot of death notices do get transmitted offworld, even if there isn’t a response—and somebody stupidly assumed it meant the whole team was terminated. Well, they turned out to be right, but . . .”

  “I’ve seen that kind of assuming before. We were always lectured about that, though, and the lecture never seems to take.”

  “To assume,” Tilla quoted, looking ceilingward in mock reverence, “is to make an ass out of u and an ass out of me. Since thee is like me and I am no ass, then who could that mean?”

  Masid laughed softly. “Do you still have your comm?”

  “Of course, but I don’t have the recontact codes—”

  “Let me take care of that. Tilla, I need a briefing. What is going on here?”

  She looked at him sadly. “Do you have a lifetime? It might take that long to understand it.”

  “Can you give me the academy version?”

  “I’ll try. Did I hear right? You brought coffee?”

  “The real stuff. From Verita.”

  “Oh, my. Then I will do my very best for you.”

  Mia finished her workout and went gratefully to the shower. The strenu­ous routine did little to stop the insanely cascading thoughts.

  Was Reen’s presence at Jons’ cabin a coincidence?

  He had questioned her about any unusual items found in Corf’s cabin. At the time, nothing had struck Mia as odd about it, but now, having seen Reen with a book tucked under his arm, leaving Jons’ cabin . . .

  She toweled her hair dry and dressed. Everything was circumstantial. It seemed ridiculous to think that Reen was part of anything illegal; he was such a by-the-code officer, so strict and formal, that he sometimes seemed more robot than human.

  Dressed, Mia went to her office. Her body felt warm and ready after her exertions, joints loose, muscles pleasantly stressed. Only two junior lieutenants were on duty
in the security operations room this shift, nei­ther of whom worked directly with her. She passed through, taking in the status displays, and entered her small private workspace.

  For several seconds she sat at her desk, staring at its surface—the con­trol contacts, the readouts, the screens extruded in a kind of semicircle facing her—and, seeing nothing, her vision turned inward. She had been on the blockade for slightly over ten months now, in this department, and had spent almost all that time running from one leak in the embargo to another, never quite finding the controlling authority that caused those leaks in the first place. Not really that different from the way it was on Earth, but her expectations had changed upon arrival. She had thought—based on no evidence or received wisdom, just an assumption—that it would be easier to do her job here. After all, ninety-five percent of the personnel were military, there was a clear chain of command, everyone stationed on the blockade knew their duty, maintaining discipline was one of the primary principles of life here rather than just a by-product of haphazard law enforcement—

  And with each new leak, her frustration grew. Sometime in the past six or seven weeks, Mia Daventri had decided that, in fact, it was worse here than in a civilian population. The orders of the day, rules of engagement, standard protocols, and uniform codes of conduct gave those who chose to a clear and well-marked path through which to violate the mission. The near-dictatorial power the officer corps possessed made it simpler for smugglers and black marketeers to avoid the plainly visible pitfalls. While the process of arrest and conviction was simpler, the trade-off was in a higher success at evasion by the criminals.

  It made no sense on the surface. It was, as one of her instructors had put, counter-intuitive—a real pisser.

  So, she thought, fixing her attention on the desk, I should stop behav­ing like a military officer and start doing my job like a cop . . .

  She had two messages in her comm buffer. Mia touched the ACCEPT. The first was from Sturlin.

  “I may have a line on those items we discussed,” she said. “See me.”

  The second had no address. When it opened, a string of alphanu­merics flowed across her screen.

  “What the . . .”

  She immediately initiated a trace. Within seconds, on the screen beside the comm message, a chain of communication ports spread from her desk, back through eight receiving ports on the station itself, and finally out to a relay satellite in geostationary orbit above Nova Levis. She recognized the satellite, and the moment she did she understood the nature of the message.