Asimov’s Future History Volume 8

by Isaac Asimov

  “I could never be a cop,” Ariel said, shaking her head. “It must drive you crazy to suspect everyone all the time.”

  “Oh, it’s not that bad. I don’t suspect you.”

  Ariel grinned. “Thanks. It would help if we knew why this happened.”

  “Motive. Both those firms have motive. Positronics could directly impact their markets, and in DyNan’s case there’s a moral aspect.”

  “I don’t believe anyone seriously thinks positronics will ever have the presence on Earth it once had. I’ve talked to Alda Mikels a couple of times. He’s far too sensible to think that way.”

  Mia gestured at the crate with the positronic brain. “What about that?”

  “Certain people will always buy things that are illegal, just to be daring. There’s no doubt that Earth has enough of a market to sustain an illicit trade in positronics, but it would never support a legitimate traffic.”

  “But it would have an impact on interstellar trade, wouldn’t it? I mean, Mikels wants to export his products. Competition with positronics isn’t a big deal here, but on Settler worlds and Spacer worlds?”

  Ariel pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Hmm. But the conference would have addressed those issues.”

  “If he trusted the outcome.”

  “And Rega Looms?”

  “He doesn’t even think we should be in space.”

  Ariel fell silent, deep in thought, and Mia turned her attention to the datum. The ambulance log Ariel and Derec had retrieved gave little enough information, but it was sufficient for them to construct the scenario. The false ambulance team arrived, got hold of Eliton’s body, and took it back to the garage. The travel time recorded allowed for no other possibility. So they at least knew that the body lying in the morgue adjacent to Reed Hospital Complex was not Eliton’s.

  But, then, where was the real body?

  Or was Eliton really dead?

  Mia cleared her throat. “There’s something else. I did a public data search on the connections between the various people in this and...” She hated her own reticence. “I found something that shouldn’t be. Derec mentioned that Imbitek was doing the refit at Union Station. They started the next morning, after the attack, which is incredibly fast. I thought it had been an emergency appropriation that had been rushed through to meet the crisis, but I checked and found that the contract for the refit was part of the original deal for Union Station. When the contract was drawn up two years ago, Imbitek was the first company signed for work. There’s a clause that gives them exclusivity in case of a failure.”

  “That sounds unbelievably foresighted. Or...”

  “Or collusive. Senator Eliton–it was his committee that vetted the contract.”

  “Of course,” Ariel said.

  “It turns out that Eliton and Mikels have another connection. Mikels’ son died in the military. At Ganymede. Eliton was the Brigade commandant on that action.”

  Ariel’s eyebrows rose. “I had no idea that Eliton had been in the military.”

  Mia nodded. “Eliton and Mikels knew each other then. Eliton had arranged for Mikels’ son to be transferred into his unit. Shortly afterward, Mikels gave him a significant share of stock in Imbitek. As far as I have been able to determine, Eliton never divested. There are nondisclosure restrictions on private actions dating back over fifteen years.”

  “Convenient. So Mikels and Eliton knew each other. And Eliton got Mikels’ son killed. So what is this? Revenge?”

  “I suppose that depends on whether or not Eliton is still alive. But if they hated each other, why would Eliton give this kind of a concession to Imbitek on Union Station?”

  “Blackmail?”

  Mia shrugged uncomfortably. “Which reminds me. You have an appointment to make.”

  Ariel looked at her quizzically. “Hmm? Oh, your acquaintance. Coren Lanra?”

  “Correct.”

  Ariel went to the com. “Tell me about him.”

  “He used to be Special Service. He quit last year in protest over Senator Eliton’s pro-positronic leanings. He’s a committed anti-robot humanist.”

  “‘Flesh, not steel‘?”

  “He wasn’t quite there when he quit, but he works for Looms now.”

  “Why do you think he contacted me?”

  “That’s what we need to find out.”

  Ariel entered Lanra’s code and waited.

  “Lanra.”

  “Mr. Lanra, this is Ariel Burgess again.” Mia started at the sound of Ariel’s voice; she was making it rough and gravelly. “Where would you be comfortable meeting?”

  There was a long pause. “Are you sure you want to? Your voice sounds–”

  “It’s been a long day and I’ve been talking most of it, Mr. Lanra. That’s the kind of job I have. Now, if you please?”

  “I see. All right. Um... do you know Sullivan’s?”

  “Very well.”

  “In... four hours?”

  “How will I know you?”

  “I know you. I’ll meet you.”

  The connection broke and Ariel cleared her throat.

  “Why’d you do that?” Mia asked.

  “You and I don’t sound that much alike. Now what?”

  Mia looked at the assortment of devices Ariel had gotten, some from a specialty dealer Mia knew, others from her own embassy security people, and wondered if it would be enough. She picked up a transceiver pair and rolled the small beads around in the palm of her hand. They were good for several kilometers. She sighed and held them out to Ariel.

  “We meet him at Sullivan’s.”

  Sullivan’s occupied three floors of the Lexington-Coriolis Hotel and offered a view of the Mall just south of the ancient Lincoln Memorial. Mia could not remember now if the Memorial was one of the reconstructions or the original. A good part of the old Washington D. C. had been destroyed in the Riot Years, during which, among other things, robots were banned from Earth. It looked crowded and out-of-place beneath the enclosing roof that now covered all urban habitats on Earth. The Mall itself was an anachronism, a holdover of a time known now only to professional historians and a few antiquarian enthusiasts. It served more as a reminder that there had been a past than what that past meant.

  Mia sat by the terrace on the second level, alone at a small table. She had been terrified when she stepped out of the embassy. Her leg still ached, but Ariel had gotten her painkillers and an adrenal analog in case she needed to move faster than she should. Still, she was not one hundred percent and she felt open and vulnerable.

  But the terror subsided and it felt good to be out. She was Doing Something and it surprised her how much she had missed that feeling.

  She absently scratched her left ear and pressed the small bead more firmly in. Ariel wore the other of the pair as a pin on her jacket.

  The other tool Mia had brought along rested inside her jacket–a short, blunt tube that projected a jolt of electricity, enough to stun. She had wanted to bring a sidearm, but decided against it–this time.

  “Ms. Burgess?” said a male voice through the transceiver.

  Mia casually looked toward Ariel’s table, in the center of the main dining room. Lanra stood there now, introducing himself.

  “Yes?” Ariel said.

  “I’m Coren Lanra, chief of security for DyNan Manual Industries.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” Ariel gestured for him to sit.

  “I appreciate you coming to talk. I realize that you’ve got a busy schedule.”

  “I do, Mr. Lanra, so please make the time count.”

  Lanra grinned slightly, apparently surprised by Ariel’s abruptness. “Yes, well. My employers are concerned at the reaction over the Union Station incident. Certain charges are being made. They fear arrests are imminent.”

  “And why would that be?”

  “You saw the recordings? No one from our group was injured. Every other group suffered casualties, but not one of our people was shot.”

  “You make that s
ound like a bad thing.”

  “In this instance, it is. We look very culpable.”

  “Are you?”

  “No.” Pause. “You don’t believe me.”

  “I think I could accept that you aren’t culpable, Mr. Lanra, at least not directly,” Ariel replied. “But Looms has been railing against Spacers and robots since I’ve been here and, I’m assured, long before that. He’s been very explicit in his desire to cut off all contact between Earth and the Spacer worlds and to stop the exodus of Settlers. Now, on the eve of a conference which would strengthen all those ties and possibly enable an even freer exchange of immigrants and ideas, he and his entourage are the only ones untouched by assassins, who themselves may be affiliated with a group in sympathy with Mr. Looms’ own Church. Tell me that doesn’t make a persuasive case against him.”

  Lanra nodded. “It does. It’s almost perfect. And that should tell you that it’s not true. How often does reality match up so well with appearances?”

  “You have a different view, of course.”

  “Looms is on record as being opposed to any kind of technology that isolates people from direct control.”

  “True.”

  “Then why would he use that very technology to commit a crime for which he’d be likely to be implicated? And where would he get the expertise to implement it?”

  “Expertise can be bought,” Ariel noted.

  “To what end? Close down a conference that might give him the best platform he’s ever had from which to be heard?”

  Ariel shook her head. “All you’re doing is arguing motive, Mr. Lanra. There is as much motive to implicate him as there is to exonerate him.”

  “All right, what do you think was accomplished by this assassination? What was there in this conference that was so threatening that someone would commit murder to stop it?”

  “A lot of tradition, a lot of credits, a lot of territorial imperative.”

  “All that, yes. But it’s the money. Now ask yourself: what part of the proposed treaty was most likely to pass that would cost the most money.”

  “Cost who?”

  “Answer the first, you answer that.”

  “There were a lot of elements”

  “Let me give you a hint. Tiberius.”

  “The boarding incident?”

  Lanra nodded. “That almost triggered a war, yes.”

  “I’m not sure I follow, Mr. Lanra.”

  Lanra leaned toward her, folding his hands on the table. “A year-and-a-half ago, Mr. Looms was approached by a group of industrialists to join an investment portfolio being funded by certain shipping lines. Mr. Looms declined, since he disapproves of interstellar settlement and, although the money looked very good, he could not afford to appear hypocritical on this issue. Most of his own investors are members of his church and they invest in DyNan as much from ideological conviction as out of the hope for potential profit. The fact is, DyNan doesn’t perform nearly as well as its closest competitors, so that loyalty is significant. We make a lot of money, but our profit margins are narrower than average. This group assured him that his participation would be entirely anonymous. In fact, all of their participation in it was anonymous and completely off-record. The profits were funneled directly into the mutual fund, loaned out, and returned as interest free payments, at which time the funds could go into any account without the hint of taint. When Mr. Looms inquired into this shipping line through other channels, he found no such line existed. Officially.”

  “Black market,” Ariel said.

  “Exactly.”

  “The pirates.”

  “Who are not, strictly speaking, pirates,” Lanra pointed out. “The thefts are all prearranged. The part of the treaty that would put a damper on it was the clause concerning robotic inspection of all ships, coming or going, to any recognized colony or Spacer world.”

  “I’d considered that, of course. How does this let Looms off?”

  “He has no investment in this enterprise and, in fact, would not mind seeing such inspection. He feels that Terrans would resent it so much that it would significantly reduce trade. In time, it could curtail colonization. Hurt both enough, and you might see the day when Earth can extricate itself from involvement with Spacers and Settlers.”

  “That seems a bit optimistic, don’t you think?” Ariel asked.

  “Maybe. All I’m concerned with here is that it reduces Rega Looms’ culpability.”

  “Disrupting the conference could accomplish the same thing, though. Give me something more concrete.”

  Lanra shook his head. “I can’t. I’m looking into it, but right now I can’t. I needed to see you to find out what you intend to do.”

  Ariel raised her eyebrows. “Me?”

  “Spacers.”

  “We’re hardly a monolith, Mr. Lanra. My own people are taking a wait-and-see approach. When and if the Terran authorities make arrests, then we can see.”

  “They’re likely to arrest Rega Looms. What then?”

  “It’s a question of evidence.”

  “Look,” Lanra said. “Mr. Looms is not especially liked here, either.”

  “What do you mean, ‘either’?”

  “Like Spacers. See, people want stability, they want comfort, they want reassurance. They don’t want disruption. Change scares them. The way things are right now, it’s fairly comfortable. Both you and my employer advocate changes. Whoever is setting this up will give the people something they want–two avenues of unwelcome change closed down. Who’s going to be on Rega Looms’ side in this when he’s been telling people for years what lazy bastards they’ve been because they won’t peel their own potatoes or make their own clothes? He sees the average technological environment today as no better than one with positronics. People resent it–enough to not care that he might not be guilty.”

  “He’s the perfect scapegoat, in other words,” Ariel said.

  “As you say.”

  “You still haven’t given me an alternative.”

  “Alda Mikels.”

  “Imbitek? Why would he?”

  “You should look at his finances. And you should look at your own people. This didn’t happen entirely here on Earth. The black market exists to serve Spacers and Settlers as well as Terrans.”

  “You’re very good at making broad claims that you can’t back up,” Ariel said dryly.

  “There’s a very, very old saying on Earth, Ms. Burgess: ‘Follow the money.’”

  Lanra stood then. “Thanks for meeting with me. I hope it wasn’t fruitless.”

  Mia watched him cross the dining room. Halfway toward the entrance, he did a casual turn, sweeping the room. A very professional move, one she should have seen coming, but did not. She froze in place as his gaze swept past her, then returned, briefly. She thought she saw a faint frown of puzzlement, followed by a quick smile.

  Then he was gone.

  Twenty-Two

  THE EMBASSY LIMO pulled into the Phylaxis garage. Derec told it to wait and ascended to the main level to see who was present. He found Rana in the cafeteria, making coffee.

  “Anyone here?” Derec asked.

  “No. Stu came by today, filed his reports, then went home. No one else. Listen, this has been quite a day so far. You received a call you will not believe and the work-ups on that stuff you found–”

  “Later. Prep Bogard’s niche.”

  She blinked at him, momentarily uncomprehending. Then her eyes widened. “Right.”

  Derec returned to the limo.

  “Bogard, come with me.”

  The robot unfolded out of the rear seat, its body flowing liquidly and resuming its standard form alongside Derec. Derec told the limo to return to the embassy. He watched it back out of the garage and drive away. The door closed and Derec led Bogard up to the lab.

  “Do you remember this place, Bogard?”

  “Yes, Derec. I was constructed and programmed here.”

  “That’s correct. Do you know why I’ve br
ought you back?”

  “Debriefing and recalibration.”

  “Correct. Are you aware of a gap in your primary memory?”

  “Y-yes–yes,” the robot stammered.

  “Fine, Bogard, don’t focus on it,” Derec said calmly. “That gap represents a potential conflict. That’s what we’re going to fix.”

  “Y-esss, Derec.”

  The abrupt distortion in Bogard’s speech execution worried Derec. He had expected a slight hesitancy, not such a clear sign of imminent collapse. It had been over four days since the Incident, so perhaps it was not unreasonable to expect problems like this.

  “Oh, my.” Rana stood at the door to a separate chamber, staring at Bogard. “I thought–”

  “I know,” Derec said quickly. “Is everything prepped?”

  “Uh, yes.”

  Derec led the robot through the doorway into the small room. The space contained two workstations, cousins to those in the main lab. Against one wall stood a robotic niche, modified to link to a third console off to the left. A wide table hung from the right-hand wall; tools and half-constructed components covered it.

  Rana went to one of the workstations, Derec the other.

  “Bogard, please enter the standby module,” Derec said.

  Bogard obediently backed into the niche. Derec activated the module. The niche extruded hundreds of wire-fine I/O probes and linked Bogard into the system.

  Derec relaxed then, surprised at the amount of tension he had carried all the way from the embassy. He realized at that moment that he had been uncertain of Bogard’s cooperation. Perhaps Ariel was right and tinkering with absolute Three Law restrictions was a mistake.

  Too late...

  “All right,” he said to Rana, “start the alignment. Bogard’s buffer is holding a major conflict at bay. I think the internal barriers are about to yield to the diagnostics.”

  “It’s been what? Four, five days?” Rana asked, working her console.

  “Close enough. I thought we might have a little more time, but it’s already showing symptoms of collapse.”

  Derec watched the screens at his station. The buffer transfer was the most complicated part of the debriefing. A duplicate positronic brain received the contents of Bogard’s buffer, allowing for a full assessment of its impact. Simultaneously, a simple memory cache received a verbatim record of those same contents.