Asimov's SF, June 2006

by Dell Magazine Authors

  The hand of death, José thought. That's what it looked like, with its black gleaming surface and five pincer-like landing gears. The hand of death descending on Regence.

  “Do you ... do you know why they've come, sir?” the attendant asked.

  The edge in the man's voice was palpable. Ah, yes, it's already begun, José thought. This was what the Agents did, bringing out the fear in those who should have nothing to fear. He watched the ship touch down, then turned to the young man behind the counter. He could have been looking at a mirror image of himself, albeit one three moon-downs younger: a small man with a slender build, black hair, and deeply bronzed skin. He was a Regence native, just like José. What was his name? He should remember. He had met this man before, and he prided himself on remembering people. It was one of the reasons he had risen to Constable at such a an early age.

  He smiled when the name came to him. “My dear Philippe,” he said, “you know as well as I, that I could not tell you even if I knew."

  “Yes, sir,” Philippe said. “Thank you, sir. It's just ... Well, you know, sir. No one ... well, no one wants them here. It is not a good thing. It is granza."

  José nodded. Granza. A bad omen. If his years at the university at Kelton had not burned out his superstition, as well as created a distaste for Regence's common tongue, he might have been inclined to agree.

  He lifted his hood and pushed through the glass doors. He felt the scorching slap of the sun even through fabric designed to shield him from the heat. A few steps and the landscape tinted. UV iris adaptation was a cheap mod, something anybody with even a bit of money could do. His salary as Constable did not allow him to afford the more expensive dust-repellant mod, however, so he squinted as he walked into the dust. He held his breath, but still he could taste the bitterness of the dirt on his lips. The ship's landing elevator was already humming down, three figures visible in the shadowy area beneath the ship.

  As he approached, he thought he caught the silver gleam of the Bal'ani's teeth, and he forced himself to continue without hesitation. He could not show weakness. If he ever hoped to be hired off of Regence by the Unity Defense, he could not have a bad report from an Agent on his record. And if he was lucky enough, by the end of the day, to be personally thanked by one that was a Bal'ani—a race that considered praise, from one of their own, the highest compliment one could receive—it would certainly serve him well.

  “Agent Korin?” José said. Despite his best efforts, his voice still cracked.

  “Only a fool would assume otherwise,” the Bal'ani said, emerging from the mist.

  José had memorized a greeting in the Bal'ani's language, but one look at his visitor and the words were lost. He had of course seen the alien on the vid when they had spoken the previous day, but, in the harsh sunlight, the creature looked so much more ... terrifying. It was as if someone had taken two human faces, stretched them until the skin was about to tear, then smashed them against one another. There were four beady black eyes and two snout-like noses, each placed on the misshapen head as if by accident. Then there was the mouth. It was the Bal'ani's most defining feature, taking up half of its face, easily big enough to engulf a child's head in a single bite. The two fangs, encased in metal sheathing, as was the Bal'ani custom, extended past the stubbled chin. The alien wore a red robe that completely hid its lower body, leaving only the head and the gnarled, three-fingered hands exposed.

  Norslim. The word sprang into José's mind. When he was a boy, there was a story, circulated among the children, of a monster that emerged at night and dragged orphan children from their beds, muzzled their mouths with its clawed hands, and hauled its victims deep into the desert to bury them alive. He had not thought of the story in years, though at one time he trembled under his sheets at every creak and groan in an ancient building that produced endless creaks and groans.

  Norslim ... It was nothing but a foolish word. A Regence word. The Bal'ani may have been terrifying, but he was still an Agent. And Agents may have been terrifying, themselves, able to stretch the law to fit their dark whims, but as much as they stretched it, they could not break it—at least as long as one remained vigilant.

  The two other figures were security robots of some kind, sleek bipedal things; each had a single red-glowing eye and massive shoulders. They were not like the awkward, jerky robots José was used to seeing. Despite their girth, these machines walked with grace.

  “Welcome to Regence,” José said, deciding to ignore the Bal'ani's condescending tone. “I am Constable Valcorez, and I'd like to offer my—"

  “Let us assume we have exchanged the necessary pleasantries,” Korin said, walking past him. “I assume you have a pod waiting?"

  The robots had no trouble keeping up with Korin's brisk pace, but José did. “I have transportation,” he said. “It is around the—"

  “Here is my coded authorization card,” Korin said, producing a thin blue wafer from within his robe. “I assume even on your world they are required?"

  José took the wafer, slipping it into the inner pocket of his jacket. He knew right away that his hand-held was too out of date to process such a recent card, though he did not want to admit it. It was likely the desk units in the terminal would also be out of date, much to his embarrassment. “Thank you,” he said. “Now would it be possible to tell me why you have come to Regence?"

  “Not by my own choosing, of course,” Korin said, both of his noses wrinkling. On someone else this gesture would have been comical; on the Bal'ani it was deeply disturbing. “It is hard to imagine there are still worlds with not a single Stepdock. To fly here was a considerable inconvenience."

  “I'm sorry for that,” José said. “We are a poor world with few resources, but there are plans to put a Stepdock—"

  “Surely this is not the pod,” Korin said.

  They had rounded the terminal to the parking area, an open dirt lot empty except for José's six-wheeled vehicle, the wrap-around window cracked, the gray exterior spotted with rust. It was a true pod only in the sense that it could hover for short distances, but it was primarily a land vehicle, and a tiny one at that. It could hold all four of them, but it would be a tight squeeze considering the size of the Bal'ani and his robots.

  “I'm afraid it's the only one I have,” José said.

  Korin looked at him. Just for a moment, the Bal'ani's cool exterior fell away, exposing a murderous rage. It lasted a half second at most, but it was enough. There was no doubt in José's mind: if he gave the Bal'ani enough cause, and a few moments in a dark alley when the confining laws of the Unity Defense could be conveniently forgotten, Korin would kill him.

  José felt his body go cold, but he maintained his composure and waved his hand over the hood of the pod.

  “Access,” he said.

  The door on the side of the pod swung upward, cranking rhythmically. José started to back away to allow his guests to enter, but Korin was already pushing past him, the robots following. Korin took one side, the robots the other.

  José had hoped he could sit next to a robot, but he wasn't about to say so. He squeezed into the pod, doing his best to melt against his side of it, but still his knees brushed against the Bal'ani's. He moved his legs away, but not before he felt himself shudder.

  “Are you racist?” Korin asked.

  José realized Korin had noticed the reaction, though there was nothing to do now but play ignorant. “I'm sorry?"

  “You should be sorry,” Korin said, “even if it is understandable. One does not expect civilized behavior from one of your upbringing."

  José swallowed. “I really don't—"

  “Of course you do,” Korin said, “though it is irrelevant to our present situation. I will say this for your benefit, however, and I advise you to listen carefully. If you desire to ascend from your lowly beginnings, you must rise above your savage instincts. It is the only chance you have."

  Even as his face burned, José bowed his head. They were only words. When he got o
ff this dust speck, he would do his part to rid the Unity Worlds of the Agents, but for now he would bear the slight. “I'm sorry,” he said, “I meant no—"

  “Let us be on our way,” Korin said. “Our destination is the Harmani Orphanage."

  José flinched as if he had been pricked. It was the very place where he had been raised. “The Harmani?"

  “Is there something wrong with your hearing, Constable?” Korin asked.

  Feeling a bit shell-shocked, José spoke the address to the pod. The door clamped down, and then the pod, humming, rose up on its springs. Cool air hissed through the ceiling vents, somewhat masking the Bal'ani's strong, musky odor. The pod headed straight into the main thoroughfare, jostling when it fell into the deep ruts. They were soon in the heart of the city, the mud-stained buildings casting their hard-edged shadows on shirtless children playing alongside the road. The children, and the dour-faced women watching from the glassless windows, gawked at them as they passed. They were so poor that even a dented old pod was the sign of great riches, and José couldn't help but feel ashamed of them. At least their brown skin made it harder from a distance to see the dirt and grime they were never able to wash away—no matter how hard they tried.

  “Surely there can't be anyone you're seeking there,” José said.

  “Oh?” Korin said. “You are so certain? You are privy to information that has escaped the Agents?"

  “No, I was only—"

  “In my profession one does not rule out any possibility when searching for traitors, Constable. Do you know of a man who operates under the name Henry Wolheim?

  José could instantly visualize the sallow-cheeked old man as if he were sitting next to them, his white hair fluttering, a worn leather book under his arm. Books. There were probably less than a hundred actual printed books on Regence, and half of them were owned by a gardener—one of the man's many paradoxes. Henry Wolheim had come to Regence during José's last year at the orphanage, and José had spent hours in Wolheim's garden as punishment for his constant misbehavior. He had always hoped that if he misbehaved badly enough, they would hold him back a year. It was the old gardener, and a non-native at that, who made him see the benefit of getting an education. Of using that education to do something meaningful with his life. José used to visit with the old man at least a couple of times a year, though it had been some time since his last visit.

  “Yes,” he said. “But certainly you're not insinuating—"

  “Did your law enforcement ever perform a genetic scan on him?"

  José pulled out his handheld and punched in Henry's name. “That was before my time, of course, but it looks like we had no reason. His authorization card checked out."

  Korin wrinkled his twin noses. “A pity. You see, if you had, we would have caught him the day he arrived. When his genetic sample was recently sent to Earth, our interceptor identified him as Henry Thomas. I assume you know of whom I speak?"

  José shook his head. “I'm afraid—"

  “If you stayed current with the Registry, you would know he is a notorious computer hacker who was of great assistance to the terrorists attempting to undermine the Unity Defense. He earned the nickname Tiger Thomas because he left a digital holo of a tiger in whatever system he hacked—and he hacked many. In fact, if not for his interference, we surely would have destroyed the terrorist networks years ago."

  José found it hard to believe the kindly old man he knew could have been part of the terrorist group—or the Resistance, as they were known among those who sympathized with their cause. José did not despise them as so many of the pro-Unity Worlds crowd did, because he truly believed they had a point, that the Unity Worlds were only a means for the rich and powerful to control the poor and powerless. But he also didn't believe their methods were justified. They had killed in the name of their cause, targeting politicians mostly, but innocent bystanders had been killed as well. He could not see Henry, not gentle Henry, participating in such acts.

  José turned to the window. They were passing through one of the worst neighborhoods—there were no good neighborhoods on Regence, only bad and worse—and the haggard, emaciated people sitting listlessly in the doorways watched him with shadowed sockets. It was like being watched by the dead. Why would a man like that come to Regence? He could have hidden anywhere. “There must be a mistake,” José said.

  “I do not make mistakes,” Korin said. He paused. “I have, of course, read your file. I know you were at the Harmani Orphanage. Though your file does not specify it, I conclude based on your response that you developed some attachment to Wolheim. Perhaps he was some sort of father figure?"

  The comment, both in its bluntness and it's utter accuracy, made José stiffen. He had never thought of Henry as a father, at least not consciously, but it was fair to say that he had treated him as such. Like many of the children, he had referred to the gardener as valda, meaning old, lovable man, a term that often was used when speaking of one's father. José felt a flash of anger at the Bal'ani for making him remember something that now embarrassed him greatly.

  He decided to deflect Korin's question by changing the subject. “You said a genetic sample had been sent to Earth. Why?"

  “Irrelevant,” Korin said. “What is relevant is that we have located a traitor to the Unity Worlds, and he will be convicted and tried accordingly. And, of course, I expect your complete assistance."

  There was a tone that José didn't like, as if Korin was implying José might be a hindrance.

  “I will of course do everything within the law to make sure justice is done,” José said curtly.

  They arrived at the Harmani a few minutes later. The orphanage, and the Church of Unification across the street, were some of the oldest buildings on Regence, boxy stone-and-mortar structures built by the earliest settlers. The monks had worked tirelessly over the years to make sure the buildings remained respectable, and the fresh blue paint and bright flowers under the windows spoke to their efforts. But the many cracks in the walls, like wrinkles under heavy makeup, were dead giveaways to the true state of the buildings.

  Some orphanage boys—distinct in their blue uniforms—were playing flipdisc in the street, and they scurried away as the pod parked in front of the wooden door. When José stepped out into the heat, raising his hood, the front door opened and a portly man in a yellow-and-blue Unification robe stepped out to greet him. He was shaved bald except for his white sideburns.

  “Hello, Father Jansen,” José said.

  "Trenda!” the monk exclaimed, smiling. “My boy, José! It is so good to see you.... “His voice, as well as his smile, faded when he saw who else was emerging from the pod. He swallowed. “Who are your guests?"

  “I am Agent Korin,” the Bal'ani said, stepping up next to José, his shadow engulfing the monk. “These are my sentries, unsentient robots who do not need to be referred to directly. Please take us to Henry Wolheim."

  Jansen looked at José, confusion in his eyes. “Henry? But why?"

  “That is not your concern,” Korin replied, before José had a chance to answer. “Can you lead us to him, or should my sentries search the premises?"

  “Please, father,” José said, “we don't want to alarm the children."

  “Well, I imagine he's in the back garden, as he always is,” Jansen said, turning back to the door.

  José followed the monk into the building, Korin and the robots following. They walked down a narrow hall lit by candles, the robots’ metal feet clicking on the cobblestone floor. The place, especially its familiar musty odor, brought back a flood of memories for José. A few boys appeared at the other end of the hall, stopped dead in their tracks when they saw who was approaching, then scurried back the way they had come.

  Though José could have easily taken them to the garden himself, he allowed Father Jansen to lead them to the double glass doors. The glass was opaque, but the green color was everywhere. They stepped through the doorway into a garden surrounded by ugly brown buildings. It shou
ld not have been a place where plants could grow—the shadows were far too deep—and yet the place was brimming with plants, the air heavy and moist, the smell of life invigorating. A red brick path wove its way through the rich soil.

  A man was humming. Jansen led them to the source of the voice, and there was Henry, down on all fours planting violet flowers along the back wall. His hair was a bit whiter, his shoulders a bit bonier, but otherwise he was as José remembered: a spindly man who was more arms and legs than torso, his skin much paler than a native's.

  “Henry,” Father Jansen said, “there are some people here to see you."

  The gardener continued humming, working on his flowers as if he had not heard. José noticed that his green jumpsuit, spotted with dirt, appeared to be on backward.

  “We have no time for such foolishness,” Korin said. He looked at his sentries. “Apprehend him."

  “Wait,” Father Jansen said.

  But the robots had already moved, one on each side of Henry, and together they grabbed his arms. Henry cried out as he was hauled to his feet. As the robots turned him around, Henry struggled.

  “Monsters!” he cried. “There are monsters in my garden! Let me go! Trenda! Ipsin!"

  The hysterical behavior startled José. He had never seen Henry behave this way. The man had always been the epitome of calm, regardless of the circumstances.

  “Don't hurt him,” Father Jansen pleaded. “He doesn't know what he's doing. He's..."

  The monk trailed off, as Henry's body had suddenly gone slack. He was staring at José, his gaze so fixated that José felt his cheeks burn with shame. He hated that he was doing this.

  “My boy,” he said. “I know you. Yes, yes.... They say I have forgotten, but I have not forgotten you."

  All at once José understood why Henry's genetic sample had been sent to Earth, and he felt a sinking feeling in his stomach when the realization hit him. He looked at Jansen. “Trident's?” he said.