Isaac Asimov's I, Robot: To Preserve

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Susan got right to the point. “My name is Dr. Susan Calvin. I’d like to speak with Detective Jacob Carson, please.”

  “Carson,” the woman repeated, brows furrowing. She glanced at a console in front of her, clicked a few keys, then frowned. She called to a clerk behind her, “You know a Detective Carson?”

  A faint voice wafted to Susan, “Jake? He got flopped to CoD FIAU.”

  “Flopped?” Susan repeated.

  The woman flinched ever so slightly, then met Susan’s gaze again. “Transferred.”

  Susan guessed the unfamiliar word meant more than that, at least connotatively, but she did not press. Even the most unpleasant medical slang usually made it to the global Net, but police held their jargon a bit closer. She would need to ask Jake. “Where can I find him?”

  The woman kept her tone even, bland. “Chief of Detectives Field Internal Affairs Unit. It’s at 34½ East Twelfth Street. That’s between Broadway and Fourth.”

  Susan knew the location, at least by report. It also housed the police athletic league where she had sent more than a few troubled teens and children. She wondered about the reason for the transfer and what it meant to Jake. He was the consummate cop: committed to the only job he had ever wanted, competent, physically fit with good intuition and an eye for detail. After assisting Susan, he had worried about his future in law enforcement. She remembered the conversation in the hospital where he had stated that, assuming he still had a job, he would not be “out on the streets, especially with a gun, for a very long time.” When a colleague of Susan’s had referred to him as “a hero,” Jake had added, “I’m what’s known in the trade as a shit magnet. Something about me makes people want to shoot me, and that’s not a liability any police department wants or needs.”

  At the time, his explanation had made little sense to Susan. It was her, not Jake, the killers had wanted. He had fired back in order to protect her. Had he not done so, she would have been dead several times over. But Jake pointed out that it would not matter to his supervisors. They would only consider that he had been involved in four shoot-outs in a three-day period, “probably a record” he had called it. She and her colleague, Kendall Stevens, had done their best to explain the situation to his superiors, but apparently it had not stopped them from transferring him. Flopping him, Susan reminded herself, now believing she understood the term. They had sent him out of the bureau to some “hole-in-the-wall” assignment, perhaps even demoted him.

  Susan glanced at her Vox. It now read 4:47. She could never make it in time. Time? Time for what? She suddenly realized she had been assuming a nine-to-five work schedule. Her own hours bore little resemblance to those, and she wondered why she expected cops to have a regular workday, either. Clearly, they worked all hours and probably had shifts similar to the nursing staff at Hasbro. A quick scan of the global Net revealed standard patrol hours of eight to four, four to twelve, and twelve to eight. Even if Jake had still worked here, she would have missed him.

  “Thank you,” Susan managed before leaving the police station. She had no idea where to go next. She needed to talk to Jake; and, while she had his Vox number, she still wanted to speak to him in person without giving him time to prepare for her arrival, to toe the thin blue line. She knew her emotional state had caused her to make a mistake. She should have gone directly to USR, turned over Lawrence’s personal effects, informed them of the situation, and learned more details about the workings of the positronic brain. Now she could never arrive there before closing. She had met some of Lawrence’s coworkers but knew none of them well, and the only Vox number she had was his. She would have to wait until tomorrow.

  Except Susan could not wait. The idea of spending the next sixteen hours alone and impotent repulsed her. She could not sleep until she had at least a cursory, workable plan to rescue Nate and Lawrence. There’s no getting around it; I have to talk to Jake tonight. Susan raised her Vox, prepared to call him, despite her concerns. Then, another thought occurred to her. A year had passed since her favorite colleague and closest friend, Kendall Stevens, had finally recognized his homosexuality. Jake, on the other hand, had outed himself at their first meeting. During their last conversation together in the hospital, Susan had realized Kendall had developed an attraction to the dynamic and courageous detective, one she probably would have shared, if not for Jake’s sexual orientation.

  Susan could not imagine the two men getting together in any sense of the word, but she knew Kendall would try. At the least, he had surely found excuses to meet with Jake in the year since she had spoken with either of them. Kendall had not shared any medical rotations with her since the shootings. Only now Susan came to the conclusion that the residency program had probably kept them apart deliberately, for reasons as flimsy as the “shit magnet” excuse the police had, apparently, used to “flop” Jake. Whenever she and Kendall worked together, people got blown up and shot. That it had nothing to do with their association did not matter. Peace had reigned when the powers-that-be placed them on different rotations.

  It all seemed so ridiculous until Susan realized she had subconsciously followed similar reasoning, making it that much easier for their supervisors. Nothing else could explain why she had avoided her best friend for so long, nor why she had not visited or contacted Jake, not even to buy him the dinner she had promised him while he convalesced in the hospital. She could not blame the men. Kendall had tried to bring the three of them together, using the meal as a pretext, on multiple occasions. Susan had always blamed the extra hours she had to maintain to catch up for the time she missed during the residency, her weeks of mourning and recovery. And it was true, but only to a point. Susan knew anyone could make time for anything if it truly mattered. The inner workings of her brain had made a superstitious and logically faulty connection between her association with Kendall and Jake and her loved ones dying.

  Susan reached to punch the Kwik-set key sequence to call Kendall, when her Vox buzzed. She tapped it without bothering to read the name. “Hello?”

  Kendall’s familiar voice greeted her. “Susan Calvin, as I live and breathe.”

  Susan glanced at her Vox, where Kendall’s name flashed. Certain she had not yet managed to hit the Kwik-set key, she stared at it. “How did you do that?”

  “Get you to answer my call? Yes, that is a miracle, but you’ll have to tell me how I accomplished it.”

  Susan shook her head, though he could not see the gesture. “No, I mean . . . I was just about to call you.”

  “Psychic link?” Kendall suggested. “I’m calling to find out if the rumors are true. Did you really spit in old Savage’s face and tell him to shove his residency up his—”

  “No!” Susan interrupted in horror. “I did quit,” she admitted, “but not in a discourteous or disrespectful manner.” She realized Kendall was probably baiting her; he had a wicked sense of humor.

  “They’re saying Goldman’s murder rendered you . . . um . . . temporarily batshit crazy.”

  The mischaracterizations irritated Susan. “Who’s saying these things?”

  “I am,” Kendall announced. “I saw you handle Dr. Mitchell Reefes, remember? The oaf.”

  Susan had no interest in reliving their last assignment together at the Winter Wine Dementia Facility. She had barely completed a week there before clashes with a lazy attending and the murder of her father had intervened. “I didn’t ‘handle’ Aloise Savage. We had a civil discussion, and I chose to leave for reasons all my own.” Not liking the conversation, she took it in a whole new direction. “Kendall, did you know Jake got transferred?”

  A brief paused followed; then Kendall blasted her. “Of course I knew Jake got transferred. It happened a year ago, and it was, essentially, our fault.”

  Susan glanced up, only then recognizing her location. She had been walking without concern or notice, from long habit heading toward her father’s apartment. She stopped su
ddenly. He no longer lived there—or anywhere for that matter. He was dead. Murdered. “And you wonder why I don’t answer your calls.”

  “I’m sorry,” Kendall said, sounding it. “It’s just been so long. . . . I have so much pent-up . . .”

  “Venom?” Susan supplied.

  “Emotion,” Kendall amended. “Cold and distant doesn’t suit you, Susan. I . . . miss you.”

  They had been close. While police investigated the killing of John Calvin, Susan had lived with Kendall. She had even surrendered her virginity to him, a coupling they now both realized had been a mistake. “It’s not you,” Susan assured him. “It’s everything that’s happened. I’m dealing with it the best I can.” She expected Kendall to point out that avoiding the very people who understood the situation did not constitute dealing with it, but he did not. Apparently, he had prodded her as much as he dared.

  “You are coming back to Hasbro, aren’t you?”

  “Only to collect my things.”

  Brief silence followed, then Kendall said, “I believe Savage would accept an apology. We all know you’re under duress. . . .”

  “No, Kendall.” Susan did not want to discuss the matter any further, at least not at the present time. She could not imagine doing as he advised; her future, she now felt certain, lay with USR. She returned to the matter at hand. “Kendall, I need to meet with Jake.”

  He asked the obvious questions. “When? Why?”

  Susan answered them in order. “As soon as possible. Tonight, even. I’d prefer to discuss the reasons in person, which is why I didn’t just call him instead of you.” She added challengingly, “Can you make that happen?”

  “I know where he lives, if that’s what you’re asking.” Kendall had also changed. Previously, he would have made a joke, no matter how difficult or odd. He had handled all of his discomfort in that manner. “But I don’t think we should just drop in without warning.”

  “That would be rude,” Susan agreed. “But if I picked up some food, and you called to let him know we’re coming . . . ?”

  Kendall hesitated, then said, “Yeah, all right. That should work, assuming he doesn’t have other plans.” He spoke slowly, as if considering each word. “You do owe him a dinner.”

  Susan suspected Kendall’s hesitation came of thinking about the situation in general rather than what he intended to say. “We owe him a dinner.”

  “No,” Kendall corrected. “I paid my share a long time ago. Took him to Les Trois Capitaines right after his discharge from the hospital.”

  It was a classy French restaurant. Susan made a sound usually associated with romantic interludes.

  “I wish,” Kendall said ruefully. “We spent most of the time discussing your absence.”

  “So no wedding bells in your near future?”

  “Nothing like that.” A bit of discomfort seeped through the connection, and Kendall lowered his voice almost to a whisper. “I’ve only been gay for a year.”

  “You mean, you’ve only admitted it for a year.”

  “I’ve only realized it for a year.”

  The semantics did not really matter. “And you’re still, clearly, not wholly comfortable with it.” Physicians had a term for it: ego-dystonic sexual disorder, characterized by having a sexual orientation at odds with one’s idealized self-image, causing anxiety. Kendall had diagnosed himself.

  “Well how could I be?” Kendall said, with clear accusation. “My psychiatrist refuses to talk with me.”

  “Me?” Guilt descended upon Susan, and she discarded it. “I’m not the only psychiatrist in the city.”

  “Just the best.”

  She laced her reply with sarcasm. “Please.”

  “And I deserve the best.” Kendall added, less facetiously, “Besides, you’re my friend and confidante. I don’t feel comfortable discussing it with someone who might serve as my attending or a fellow resident.”

  “Like me?”

  “Friend and confidante,” Kendall repeated. “You already know.”

  “There are plenty of psychiatrists in private practice,” Susan pointed out. “Ones unaffiliated in any way with Hasbro.”

  “I want you.” Kendall added determinedly, “I deserve you.”

  Susan could not counter that argument. “We’ll talk about this later, Kendall.”

  “Will we?” It was a clear dig at Susan’s long avoidance.

  “We will,” Susan promised. “For now, what kind of food should I bring, and where should I take it?”

  Kendall had a ready answer. “Deli. Get two turkey pastrami and Swiss on nine-grain with lettuce and tomato. Mustard on one, mayo on the other. Plus whatever you want, of course. Lots of pickles and whatever mix of veg-chips you prefer. Fizzy juice,” he used the generic term. “Whatever brand or flavor. Doesn’t matter. Where are you?”

  “Near my old apartment.”

  “Your old . . .” A hint of alarm entered Kendall’s tone. “Why?”

  “Wallowing in the past,” Susan said.

  “What!?”

  “That’s what you were thinking, wasn’t it?” Susan did not wait for an answer to her rhetorical question. “Actually, I swung by the Tenth Precinct to try to catch Jake.”

  “Leave the sarcasm to me,” Kendall said sullenly. “You suck at it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ll grab the number four. If I don’t see you at the station, I’ll get off and wait for you there.”

  “Thanks,” Susan repeated, this time meaning it. It occurred to her that Kendall had surprisingly detailed knowledge of what Jake would want to eat, but before she could question him further, he broke the contact.

  Susan headed for the nearest deli.

  • • •

  Jake Carson met the two psychiatrists at the door to the boxy, twenty-six-story apartment complex in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn that had served as his home for the last six years. Susan liked the exterior: clean aside from the usual smudges and fingerprints on the glass doors, notices confined to a corkboard, the rows of buttons appearing fresh and functional. The detective ushered them through the security doors by inserting his left thumb into the proper reader, then up a musty flight of concrete stairs to his apartment on the second floor. Again using a thumb-lock reader, Jake opened the door to number 203 and gestured for his guests to precede him.

  Susan entered first, quickly followed by Kendall, who strode past her without hesitation into a neatly kept living room. A plush, beige couch took up most of the far wall, a matching love seat beside it at a jaunty angle across from a well-worn recliner. A coffee table still smelling faintly of cedar took up most of the space at the center of the seating arrangement. It currently held nothing but three clean, empty plates, each with a folded napkin and silverware. Shelves filled the wall behind the couch, containing a few decorative pieces, mostly figurines of police and firefighters, and an assortment of small electronics.

  The opposite side of the room consisted mostly of an entertainment center that formed a perfect set with the coffee table. Among smaller players and speakers, it held an enormous video screen and stacks of discs and cubes. A spotless blue carpet set off the furniture and revealed highlighting flecks in the otherwise drably painted walls. An overhead fixture with a bladeless fan the same color as the carpet bathed the room in light. Patterned curtains completed the image, displaying the colors of every wall, floor, and stick of furniture in geometric triangles. Jake had impeccable taste in home décor, as well as shocking cleanliness for a bachelor with short notice of visitors. For the first time, Susan truly believed he might have told the truth about being gay.

  Without waiting for an invitation, Kendall walked directly to the couch and took a seat on the cushion closest to the recliner, as if from habit. Susan set the cooler bag of food on the coffee table, then sat beside him. The cushion molded to fit her,
soft and comfortable. Carefully securing the door, Jake perched in the recliner. “So, Susan, what can I do for you?”

  Susan looked at Jake. He appeared much as she remembered: sinewy and agile, sleek and stylish with quick hazel eyes. He wore his hair a bit longer, the straw-colored strands now touching the nape of his neck, crowding his ears, and flopping over his forehead. Though still functionally short, it little resembled the spiky crew cut he had sported the day she met him. She suspected he had grown it out to hide the scars from when Cadmium had shot him, with the announced intent of killing him. Shot him in the head so he couldn’t protect me. Susan felt the familiar stirrings of guilt, and that jolted her back to his question. She chuckled nervously. “You can eat this fabulous dinner I brought you.”

  Jake made no move to open the bag. “Susan, I’m a detective, remember? After promising to keep in touch, you ignore me for an entire year. Then, someone gets killed at the hospital where you work and, suddenly, you can’t wait to see me. Now what can I do for you?”

  Susan studied her hands, lacing them in her lap. “I’m sorry,” was all she could think to say.

  No one moved or spoke, so Susan continued. “I didn’t mean to offend you.” She glanced at Kendall. She had already apologized to him on the glide-bus ride to Brooklyn, but Jake had not heard it. “To offend either of you.” She explained for what seemed like the millionth time. “I had a lot of work time to make up, so they had me doing double and triple shifts. In my rare off-time, I was sleeping . . . or crying.” She added softly, “Plus, I now think I subconsciously worried spending time with you, even just speaking to you, would bring . . . it all . . . back.”

  Jake’s tone softened, but he did not let her wholly off the hook. “We could have helped you through it.” He added unexpectedly, “Kendall helped me.”

  Susan gave Kendall a look of unbridled irritation. “Really? He didn’t mention that to me.”