“I’m an Auroran citizen. I have the right of disclosure concerning any public action directly involving me, am I correct?”
Investigator Lothas looked uncomfortable. “Yes . . .”
“Then explain to me what this is about or I’ll make it difficult for you to do your job.”
“Ambassador,” he said with evident reluctance, “Clar Eliton has been murdered. He was found dead in his apartment an hour ago.”
24
Mia opened her eyes at the early brightening gloom. She assumed it was morning. Before her the landscape sprawled, a collection of low hummocks strewn with wreckage and a graveyard of unbroken packages. The night had passed in fire and panic and, finally, exhaustion. Now she fixed her gaze on the hulk of the shuttle fifty or more meters away, heeled over to reveal its split belly. Smoke coiled from beneath it. Patches of fire still flickered here and there, plastic and metal so hot it might be another day before it stopped igniting the brush that blew near it in the sporadic breeze.
Someone moaned. Mia looked to her left, at the man beside her. Yalor. Half his face was a blackened wreck. She remembered dragging him away from the wreckage, putting out the fire on his legs, and preparing makeshift bedding for him. He had been unconscious through most of it, which, as far as Mia could tell, had been all to the good. He had broken ribs, ugly bruising on his lower back—which might or might not indicate a ruptured spleen or damaged kidneys—and both his legs were blistered by severe burns. She remembered searching the debris scattered everywhere for medical supplies, the fires from the crash providing uncertain illumination. Finally, she found a container of anesthetics, which quelled Yalor’s screams. Later, she found another package containing hydrators, which she had pumped into him in massive amounts. She had dug an irrigation trench running downhill from his inadequate bed and catheterized him.
Mia leaned over him and carefully raised his eyelids. Somehow, he had avoided a concussion. But he was running a high fever. Between that and the painkillers, Yalor would be insensible for a long time. She doubted he would live through the day, actually, but she prepped another injection of anesthetic and antibiotic.
Her left wrist throbbed as she worked. Her right side ached as well. Mia was reasonably sure she had nothing broken, but she was stiff and bruised. After ministering the injections, she got to her feet and walked toward the wreck. Movement was the only measure she had against incapacity right now. She had found no analgesics in the night search, no histamine recompilers, nothing that would ordinarily work to bypass normal muscle cramps and reduce the effects of deep bruising. She was resigned to being in pain for a few days.
As she made her way through the shards and crates and plowed earth, she grew more amazed at the extent of her efforts from the night before. She paused near the tear in the shuttle and scanned the immediate area. Everything looked different now, in the light of the pewter morning. She vaguely recalled the impact. The lid of the coffin had flown open and all its contents—the gelpacks and her—had erupted through the interior of the shuttle, along with all the other dislodged cargo. She had not gone far, jammed as the hold was, until the final impact that had split the hull. She remembered a kind of montage of black and fire and containers right before a lung-deflating shock against her back.
There. She staggered away from the shuttle to a deep impression in the dirt twenty meters away. As she stood over it, imagining how her shoulders and waist fit the shape, she could not be certain. Here? Elsewhere?
Wherever, she had managed to climb to her feet and go searching for Yalor. She had found him still inside the shuttle, half-buried beneath cargo . . .
Mia looked up at the rise where Yalor lay, in the partial shelter of a slab of rock that projected up at a low angle. A long way, to be sure. Part of Mia was glad she could not remember all of it.
Mia sighed wearily and turned her attention to scavenging. Her stomach tugged at her awareness. Medicine was well and good, but they needed food.
Her aches ebbed as she moved through the field of debris.
“So I really fucked up,” she said aloud. “I made the wrong assumptions. Hm.”
She knelt by a crate and heaved against it to turn it over. She tapped in her access code on the touchpad. The lid unsealed for her—
Something caught her attention, off to the left. She looked. Nothing moved but the wisps of local flora in the light wind. Mia lifted the lid. Clothing. She riffled through it and pulled out a couple of jackets. Bioadaptives, she noticed, the fabric designed to adjust to changing conditions to maintain a constant temperature and humidity level. Expensive and illegal to allow onto Nova Levis.
She pulled one of them on and draped the other over her shoulder. If Yalor lived, he would need one.
Mia hesitated. The landscape did not seem the same, but . . .
She moved to another crate and unsealed it. Optics. Again illegal, but—
She turned around and froze.
Seven people stood nearby, watching her. They ranged out in a loose half circle before her. Large, wide torso, yet they had moved with complete silence. Mia’s pulse quickened. None of them appeared to be armed, but that meant nothing.
As she studied them, though, other details puzzled her. They did not seem . . . healthy. Their faces looked scarred by disease. Their clothing was a congeries of bits and pieces, a lot of it functional—she recognized portable sensors, optams, communications gear—but all adapted, as if built from leftover equipment.
They were all big. A couple of them possessed overly-long limbs.
They stood absolutely still, like robots. Waiting.
Robots . . .
Beyond them, closer to the horizon, she saw a blur of motion. Pieces of the landscape disappeared as she watched. Mia concentrated, unsure of her own sight. Then she made sense of it—more of these people moved rapidly, collecting containers. They moved so fast she had difficulty focusing on them, and they lifted and carried off the crates with evident ease.
Robots.
One of them looked up toward Yalor.
Mia broke into a sprint toward the slab of rock. Obstinately, her legs refused to drive her either effectively or far, and she stumbled.
A hand closed on her right arm. The grip became painful and she tried to jerk away. Her captor hauled her off her feet. Mia half expected to be draped over a massive shoulder; instead, she was set down carefully. She looked up at the face of the one who had grabbed her: It was long, empty of emotion, the cheeks pocked and peppered with dark pinpricks, and wide, oily black eyes surrounded by yellow-brown whites. It raised its other hand and motioned for her to stay where she was.
Three of them huddled around Yalor. Mia ground her teeth, feeling helpless. Somewhere in all this scattered debris there must be her sidearm, but she had no idea where.
Or if it would do any good if she did have it.
As she watched, two of them lifted Yalor with apparent care.
All around her, pieces of the crash site vanished, carried off with antlike efficiency by scores of these—
What? Something about them did not fit the label “robot,” and Mia was left without a handle by which to grasp what they were or what was happening.
The one before her surveyed the activities like a supervisor. Finally, about twenty minutes after Mia had first seen them, the field was visibly policed of debris, and he nodded. He gestured for her to precede him.
Reluctantly, afraid to proceed or protest, Mia made herself walk ahead of him. A loose column of them marched out of the field, toward a dense collection of flora. As she neared, she saw trails cut through it. Within a hundred meters, the growth was higher than her head. She glanced back and found her escort less than a meter behind.
“Shit,” she breathed.
About the time Mia decided to sit down and go no further, she found herself entering a clearing shielded above by camo fabric. Exhausted, she could only guess at the distance they had come—maybe five kilometers, maybe more. Gratef
ully, she limped to a thick stump just inside the wide circle and sat down.
Her escort strode on past and into the clearing.
She spotted Yalor being carried into a prefab hut. She considered going in, but caution dictated she stay put until she understood her situation.
The entire march had been conducted in complete silence. Except for her own heavy, noisy tread, she had heard nothing. These people moved quickly, with unnerving quiet.
She thought of the scars on their faces and the reports on epidemics on Nova Levis.
Makeshift hovels, larger buildings, and tents filled the space beneath the camo. Mia stopped trying to count the number of people she saw. All of them, despite variation in detail, seemed of the same type. Far on the opposite side of the clearing was a large, better-constructed Quonset, the only structure that appeared to have guards before the doors.
Her breath recovered, she decided to try to walk around.
She stood—
—and her escort stopped before her.
Mia’s throat tightened. Too fast, she thought, terrified. They move too damn fast . . .
The giant gestured for her to follow.
She worked to keep up with his long stride, her thighs complaining with each step. The pain in her side had turned sharp, and twinged with each jolt.
As she passed among them, not one gave her a curious look. They all seemed utterly intent upon other things—projects, sitting in small groups together, standing alone as if switched off.
Her escort brought her to a tent and waved her in.
Inside, after her eyes adjusted to the dark, she saw three more of them, staring at her. Her escort took a seat among them and locked a gaze upon her.
Silence dragged tortuously.
Finally, one of them asked, “Do you work for Parapoyos?”
Startled, Mia shook her head. “No. I work for—I’m an officer in the Terran military.”
“The blockade,” another said.
“Does that help us?” her escort asked.
“Don’t know yet.”
“She was sent to die.”
“The shuttle—piloted or automated?”
“Automated,” Mia said. “I was—”
“Parapoyos’ people?”
“What? I don’t understand—”
“Are you an enemy?” her escort asked.
“Of who?”
“Us,” another said.
“I don’t know who you are.”
“Parapoyos, then.”
Mia swallowed. She ignored a wave of lightheadedness. “Please. I’m hungry. I haven’t eaten since—”
“Would you kill Parapoyos if you had the opportunity?”
“I won’t answer any further questions until I get food.”
“We won’t feed you if you’re our enemy.”
“I won’t know if I’m your enemy till you feed me.”
They stared at her. This is absurd, Mia thought. She realized suddenly that she was no longer afraid. She was exhausted, past her limits. Her emotions were shutting down. Very dangerous, she knew, she could be incautious . . . but there was nothing she could do about it. She needed to eat, to drink, to rest. If they killed her now, she decided, it might be the best time, since she really did not care right at this moment.
She sat down and let her head fall forward. Her stomach gnawed and her side hurt. She felt her muscles tremble and vibrate. She rubbed her eyes.
A tap on her shoulder brought her head up. Her escort looked down at her, then pointed at the ground before her.
Several packages of field rations were neatly stacked around a tall canteen. She reached for one, peeled the wrapping off, and silently began eating while her inquisitors watched in absolute silence and rapt attention.
She ate four of them, then drank lukewarm water from the canteen. Capping it, she let herself fall to the side. She stretched out on the ground and within seconds she was asleep.
She opened her eyes to warmer light. She let herself wake slowly. Little by little, her pains came back to her. Carefully, she sat up.
The inquisitors still sat where they had been when she had fallen asleep. They had not moved her, nor, it seemed, had they moved themselves. The empty wrappers from the rations she had eaten were gone, but the rest of the ration bars remained, along with the canteen.
Artificial light filled the tent.
Mia opened the canteen and finished its contents. She waggled it.
“More, please. We can talk then.”
The empty canteen was snatched from her grasp and a new one placed before her. Her heart kicked at the suddenness of the action, and her mind grasped for something solid.
“Do you work for Parapoyos?” one of them asked.
“I already answered that. No.”
“Would you kill him if you had the opportunity?”
“I would arrest him if I could.”
“Arrest?”
“For trial.”
They seemed to consider this. Then her escort said, “He’s coming. He’ll be in Nova City in a few days.”
“Parapoyos? Kynig Parapoyos?”
“Is there another?”
Mia laughed sharply. “Well . . . no, I suppose not. Why is he coming here?”
“He owns this world.”
Mia took a long pull on the canteen, thinking. “Why tell me?”
“We’re trying to find a way to deal with the situation.”
“ ‘We?’ Who is ‘we?’ “
“His products.”
Mia worked the term over, but it made no sense. Not now. She was still tired and now, rested, her fear returned. “My companion, the injured one—”
“Is being tended. We aren’t certain we can repair him. He may die.”
“Do you have a physician here?”
“No.”
“Can you get him one?”
“We could.”
Mia waited. “But?”
“We aren’t decided yet what to do with you. Until then, you’ll stay here.”
“Where is here?”
“The wilderness. It doesn’t have a name.”
“Do you have names?”
“No. Not individually. Not like you.”
“Okay. I have to ask eventually, it might as well be now. What are you?”
“Composite beings. Biocybernetic constructs.”
Mia felt chilled. “I didn’t think such a thing was possible.”
“It may not be, not practically.”
“But—do you have positronic brains?”
“Partially.”
Mia cast about for some memory, some conversation she might have had with a Spacer . . . yes, she had spoken with Ariel once about the possibility. Cyborgs, she had called them. What had she said? Mia could not quite remember. She did remember a talk with her fellow Special Service people concerning possible problems with robotics, and one suggestion had been the physical joining of robot and human. But they had meant an advanced form of mechanical augmentation to an essentially human core, not a blending.
“What are you all doing out here?” she asked finally.
“Surviving,” her escort said.
“I don’t follow.”
“We are failures. Rejects. Discards. We were supposed to be destroyed. Instead, we were simply dumped in the wilderness and expected to die. We may yet.”
Mia covered her dismay with another long drink.
“Damn,” she said finally.
Masid slipped into the dark apartment. He paused, listening. Something was different. Quieter, he decided. He raised an optam—set for infrared—to his eyes and surveyed the room for unusual heat signatures. Nothing but a dull glow from Tilla . . .
Not bright enough. He lurched across the room to the bed.
Tilla lay absolutely still in her mass of pillows and blankets. Utterly peaceful, a deep and long-earned sleep. Hand shaking, Masid touched the artery at her throat. Utterly still.
The sob surprised him. He ste
pped back from the bed and wiped at his eyes. Within seconds, the fit passed, and he managed himself, regaining control.
He went through his morning ritual of drawing blood and running tests on his portable analyzer. He recorded what was left of Tilla’s chemistry, then did a quick physical examination. He estimated that she had died perhaps four or five hours earlier. Her body temperature had been unstable since he had first met her, so it was difficult to be precise. Certain protein and enzyme decay factors might provide an exact time of death, but not here, not now.
Duty completed, he moved to the next, more questionable task. He set up an injection of exotic biologicals and mutable protein mimics, which he pumped into both her brain via the right eye socket and into her pancreas. He had already prepared a recording of a long series of tests that would suggest strongly that, throughout his stay with her, Masid had been using her as a living incubator to cook new anaphages and antivirals.
He policed the apartment carefully, wondering where Kru might be, then slipped out just as dawn began smearing the sky. In his own room, he transferred the final analysis into a hidden cache in his synthesizer, then stashed the disk of the faked experiments in a pouch in his pack which was hard to find but not impossible, convincingly hidden. He checked the time: twenty minutes before his meet with Filoo. He finished his final preparations, feeling bitter and oddly unclean, then headed out the door.
Tilla had known she was dying, there was no surprise. Masid had wanted one last chance to say goodbye. Instead, he took advantage of her death to enable his mission.
“After this,” he said sourly as he descended the stairs, “I may just retire.”
Filoo sat at a cramped, overladen desk, working at a keyboard and flatscreen. He looked up briefly when Masid entered, escorted by three of Filoo’s enforcers. Filoo smiled and nodded toward a couch. One of the enforcers took Masid’s pack. Masid sat down and waited.
Filoo worked in silence for another half-hour. Presently, Tosher entered the office and leaned close to speak into Filoo’s ear. Filoo listened without expression till Tosher finished. Then he nodded and Tosher left, taking the remaining pair of enforcers with him.
Isaac Asimov's Aurora Page 32
