Isaac Asimov's Aurora Page 2

  “So it looks like we’re getting sent home after all.”

  “I am, at least.”

  “No, they’ve been treating us as a package. Every conversation I have with Setaris anymore, it’s ‘Mr. Avery and you’ or ‘Derec, you, others.’ I don’t think Setaris sees us as separate entities. If you’re going home, then I am, too. She just hasn’t told me yet.”

  “She wants to see you as soon as possible.”

  “Of course. Whenever Setaris wants something, it’s now. Has she spo­ken to you?”

  “No, not directly, but I haven’t been able to talk to the liaison here as freely as I used to.”

  “Is that why you called? To see if I knew anything?”

  “Partly. I wanted you to see if, before you were completely shut out, you could at least sign off on Rana’s request for citizenship application.” For close to a year, his assistant, Rana Duvan, had been trying to get Auroran citizenship, partly because she hoped to study at the legendary Calvin Institute there. Mostly, however, it was because the troubles she, Derec, and Ariel had found themselves in had made Earth far too politi­cally hot for her to remain.

  Ariel tried to ignore the spike of irritation. “I thought that was already done. Hofton could take care of it.”

  “Evidently not anymore. I received word that he’s been transferred out of your service, effective last night.”

  “Oh.” The irritation turned to anger, then faded into a kind of hopeless resignation. “I see. So the shaft finishes its long journey into the heart.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Not your fault,” Ariel said.

  “No, but—hell, somebody should apologize and the people who did it to us certainly won’t.”

  Ariel laughed. “Well. Look, thanks for caring. I’ll see what I can do for Rana. I have a few things I want to do before Setaris gives me my travel orders.”

  “Talk to Hofton beforehand, all right? And be careful.”

  “Always.”

  She touched the disconnect and leaned back in the chair. After a moment, she turned. Coren stood in the doorway, watching her, a cup in his left hand.

  “It’s almost over,” he said. “Isn’t it?”

  “I—maybe. Probably.”

  “Setaris is looking for you. Derec’s getting final approval to take his Resident Intelligence up to Kopernik—which means Terran authorities have stopped trying to get him out of Auroran embassy space and just want him gone. And Hofton’s down here, probably looking for you, but reassigned.” He shrugged. “How long do you figure we have?”

  The one thing about Coren Lanra she had yet to really understand was his complete lack of self-deception. He could be sentimental, but he always managed to isolate it from reality. Worse, his refusal to lie to himself forced her to a level of honesty that was immediate and unforgiving.

  How long did they have? Ariel did not know how to judge. She had originally thought her transfer would come within days of being told she was going back. But that had been nearly two months ago. She knew things moved slowly through Spacer bureaucracy, but . . .

  “Couple days,” she said. “At most.”

  He took a drink from his cup, and came toward her. He stopped and brushed his fingers along the line of her jaw. “So what do you want to do?”

  “Do I have options?”

  “I could still make some calls, pull in a few favors, get you a Terran citizenship.”

  “That’s a bit unlikely, don’t you think?”

  “No. Not if you present it to the right people the right way.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I’m—it wouldn’t be comfortable.”

  “All right. Then what do you want to do?”

  Make love, she thought. They had done that nearly every day since Coren’s release from the hospital. She glanced at his right arm. The hair was beginning to grow back where the skin grafts had coated his wrist and forearm. Within, she knew, bone had been rebuilt. He had sustained other injuries from the cyborg Gamelin, but the arm had been the hardest to repair, taken the longest to recover.

  Thinking about Gamelin, she asked, “Have you heard from Rega Looms lately?”

  “No. I’m not on his keep-in-touch list.”

  Coren’s former employer, whom Coren had walked out on, had sent only one communication that Ariel knew about—a large payment Coren assumed was severance pay.

  Gamelin had been Rega Looms’ son at one time, abandoned in infancy, the victim of a chronic disorder for which there was no cure, only certain death after an undetermined length of time. Looms had kept the infant’s existence a secret from everyone, even the sister born a few years later—a sister the reconstructed, transformed, and returned scion had murdered, a sister with whom Coren had been in love once . . .

  Quitting had been the only reasonable option Coren had left. He could not continue being Looms’ head of security when he no longer respected or trusted the man. Ariel thought she understood that.

  But she had stubbornly refused to resign her own position with the Auroran legation after realizing that her own superiors had lied to her and used her and similarly destroyed her respect for them. She could not bring herself to quit. Is that a flaw or a virtue?

  The past year and two months had been hellish. Friends killed, her mission on Earth for Aurora altered beyond recognition, old anxieties about her worth to Aurora resurrected. Cyborgs, of all things, appearing out the miasma of impossibility. The best she could do, the best she had done, was to simply hold on, ride it out, and do her job the best way she knew. Not that it mattered for her own career—any choice she made had put her more and more on the fast track to dismissal.

  What do I want to do . . . ?

  Not go home in disgrace.

  Coren waited patiently. He possessed that ability in more abundance than any man she had ever known. He knew how to wait. He did it well.

  What have I left unfinished? she wondered. Other than my life . . .

  She looked up at him. “I want to see Nova Levis.”

  Coren frowned. “The lab or the planet? There’s nothing in the lab. It’s been closed down for years.”

  “So we were told.”

  He pursed his lips thoughtfully. Finally, he nodded. “Get dressed.”

  They stepped down the ramp from the semiballistic, into the press of the Indones Sector station. Ariel’s nose wrinkled at the sharp aromas. Just outside the transition lounge, vendors in kiosks hawked steaming foods, bright scarves that tied around the waist or across the shoulder, souvenir trinkets, and maps to the sector.

  The concourse arched over them like the ribs of an ancient prome­nade. They made their way through the throngs, bags slung over shoul­ders, to the brightness at the far end.

  Ariel and Coren emerged into a vast terminal. The domed ceiling above glowed with pearlescent light. Queues formed at all the desks, for travel either by tube, semiballistic, surface transport, or local service. Coren led the way to the local transport access and quickly secured a cab.

  “DyNan Manual Industries local offices,” he told the autopilot.

  “I thought you resigned from them,” Ariel said.

  “I did. But I still have friends. I made a couple calls before we left.”

  He opened his pack and pulled out a palm-sized device. He opened it out till it was nearly a meter square. A grid map appeared on its surface. He tapped a glowing green circle.

  “The lab is somewhere in this block of old conversion,” he said. “Not sure precisely where, which is why I needed to make those calls.” He folded up his screen and slipped it back into the bag. “This whole region is constantly under construction. Most of it is underwater.”

  “I know,” Ariel said. “The Pacific Ocean is above us even now.”

  “Not yet. Another few kilometers.”

  Ariel found his hand and squeezed. He turned his hand over and laced his fingers through hers. She had a mental list of things she wanted to say to him. They rode all the way to the D
yNan compound in silence.

  The cab descended several levels, through narrower avenues lined with people and businesses and apartment blocks that seemed to crowd in even more than typically for Earth. The warrens pulsed with activity. Ariel felt a sudden craving. She wanted . . . but could not define what she wanted.

  To stay . . . ?

  Finally, the cab turned down an empty, private lane sandwiched between two high walls. It stopped at the gate at the end.

  “Wait here,” Coren said, and got out.

  Ariel watched him walk up to the gate and insert a card in the reader slot. A moment later, he used a different card. A door off to his right opened. He turned, grinning, and gestured for her to join him.

  Ariel grabbed both packs and slid out of the cab.

  Beyond the narrow entrance, they followed a corridor to another doorway, which opened on a garden area. Glass-walled offices lined the opposite side of the arboretum. A man wound his way along the snaking pathway to meet them.

  “Coren,” the man said, nodding as he stopped before them.

  “Green,” Coren said.

  “Coming back to work, boss?”

  Coren looked surprised. “How’s that?”

  Green looked uncertain then. “We heard you were injured.”

  “You didn’t hear that I resigned?”

  “Rumors . . . nothing anyone took seriously.” He frowned deeply. “Did you?”

  Coren sighed. “I need a favor, Green. Depending on that we’ll see how true which rumors are.”

  “Okay.”

  “I need access to an old section in Teluk Tolo.”

  “I take it you can’t get there through public services.”

  “Let’s say I don’t want to bother anybody about it.”

  Green nodded. “Let’s see what you need.” He glanced at Ariel. “You must be Ambassador Burgess.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Green Honli, branch security chief,” he said, extending a hand.

  Ariel shook it. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “There’s a snake out for you.”

  Ariel blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “How old?” Coren asked.

  “Twelve hours,” Green said.

  “What is a snake?” Ariel asked.

  “One step down from a warrant,” Coren said. “On the quiet, a request for local authorities to locate and return you to your embassy. Nothing public, but a damn nuisance.” He hissed between his teeth. “All we need is a day, Green.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem. Come on, I’ve had housekeeping prep the visitor apartment.”

  Less than a half-hour later, Green took them in a DyNan transport out another exit.

  “We used to have a workforce of nearly three thousand,” Green explained. He gestured out the window at passing apartment blocks. “We housed them here. That’s been a few years. All this is empty. We’ve been negotiating with the local district housing authority for converting it to public domiciles, but we’re having a problem over squatting.”

  “Can’t get them to police it?” Coren asked.

  “Basically. Without guarantees and reversion rights, DyNan’s not about to let the sector have it. Not surprising. Indones reportedly has the worst warren-squatting on the globe.” He shrugged. “Old problem.”

  “So this is all uninhabited?” Ariel asked, gesturing out the window at the passing blocks.

  “A couple businesses rent office and warehouse space,” Green said, “but by and large no one lives here.”

  The transport traveled uncharacteristically empty streets for nearly ten minutes. Green signaled the driver to stop within sight of a boundary wall that shot up to join a tangle of strutwork and supporting columns just below the eaves of a cupola. He gestured for Ariel and Coren to get out.

  Green took a disk from his pocket and handed it to Coren. “This is the guide to the site you want. It’s about ten kilometers from here, but two down,” he emphasized, jabbing a finger toward the pavement. “You might have some trouble actually getting into it. According to sector housing updates, after it was closed it was scheduled to be converted into vat space for waste treatment and gas exchangers. There’s nothing to indicate that the conversion actually took place, which isn’t uncommon here, either, so it may be just sitting there empty.”

  “That was quick,” Coren said.

  “You trained us,” Green said with mock indignity. “Actually, stuff like this is fairly easy. Anytime something is scheduled for a conversion, there’s a civil court file opened on it in anticipation of legal challenges—competing claims, special interest suits, oversight committee interest . . . I’ll tell you, boss, sometimes I wish I could work in the Horn District or Brasil or even in the Persak. The local bureaucracy here is mind-numb­ing. But anyway, you just screen for open court files. If they’re still open pending a hearing, all the relevant data is there.”

  “This should have been resolved eighteen years ago,” Ariel said.

  Green shrugged. “Recently, Imbitek had to rip out an entire distribu­tion center because the file was still open on their license to convert an old hospice center. The center had been abandoned, closed down for twelve years. They petitioned for the space, got preliminary approval, and moved in after waiting a recommended four years to see if anyone would challenge. They neglected to file a claim to seal the approval to amenda­tion. Someone challenged. Now here’s the amazing thing: The court told them to restore the space to its original condition pending the hearing. Imbitek could still win the petition, but it won’t even be heard while they continue to operate.”

  Coren shook his head. “Trust me, Indones doesn’t have a lock on that kind of thing. I could tell you some stories . . .” He glanced at Ariel. “But later.” He slipped the disk into his reader. “So, we have to do this on foot?”

  “Sorry, yes.” Green pointed to the nearest building. “This is the access to the maintenance warrens under here. You’ll find the path through the link stations connecting the housing plant to the civic infrastructure on the disk. This way you can avoid running into anyone. Do the whole thing through the service tunnels. It’ll take longer, but . . .”

  “Perfect,” Coren said. “Thanks. We’ll be back by morning.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  Coren walked away. Ariel followed a moment later, glancing back from the door to the maintenance building to see Green Honli climb back into the transport. The vehicle, nearly silent, circled around and headed back the way it had come.

  The small anteroom was dark, lit poorly by red guide lights on the floor and around the ceiling.

  “Do you trust him?” she asked.

  Coren opened his reader and studied the new grid that scrolled across its surface. “As much as anyone else. There’s nothing to be gained by him lying to us or turning us in. We haven’t done anything illegal and as for Rega—I checked while we were waiting for Green to get us this material and guess what? I am still technically an employee of DyNan Manual Industries. I’ve even been collecting a salary.”

  “So it wouldn’t be practical for him to betray us.”

  “No, it wouldn’t.” He looked at her. She could not see his eyes in the dimness. “Look at it this way: Even if he turned you over to the authori­ties, I still haven’t done anything. He’d have to deal with me, then, and he knows me.” He shook his head. “We have a little time. There’s not much I can do to keep you from having to go back to your people. Let’s do what you want and stop wasting time on fruitless paranoia.”

  “Paranoia is a habit.”

  “Then get over it.” He studied the grid. “This way.”

  He refolded the reader and headed off. For a moment, Ariel considered letting him go and running. It was a peculiar feeling, one she had not experienced in many years. It was fear, she knew, but the kind of fear she had thought long banished from her palette of emotions—fear of finishing.

  Things were coming to an end. Following Coren now guaranteed their
completion.

  And then what?

  She hefted her small backpack and lurched after him.

  They climbed down a series of ladders, through narrower and nar­rower passages, until they reached an ancient walkway. Through the gaps in the lattices Ariel made out vague amalgams of machine-shapes, arti­facts slowly congealing into organic imitations of landscape, coated with the drippings and growths of centuries of inattention. Her nose wrinkled at a pervasively fetid atmosphere which seemed to alternate between sickly-sweet and musty decay.

  The light that surrounded them was a combination of dimming serv­ice lights and phosphorescent growths along the walls. They progressed through long stretches of corridor which possessed no light at all. Coren’s lamp flicked on then and Ariel followed his silhouette.

  He stopped and opened up his reader.

  Around them, distant sounds, wet and metallic and combinations of both, echoed, intimating vast spaces beyond the range of their light and vision.

  In the glow of the flatscreen, Coren’s face looked grim. After studying the map for several seconds, he handed Ariel the reader, unshouldered his pack, and knelt. He took out a handful of tiny devices. He touched each one and, in turn, they glowed faintly. When he dropped them to the ground, they abruptly scattered, scampering off into the darkness.

  Coren retrieved the reader from Ariel and tapped the control pad a couple of times.

  “Now maybe we can see if this leads where it’s supposed to,” he mut­tered.

  Ariel suppressed a shudder and watched the screen.

  One by one, then in clusters, blue markers appeared on the grid, locat­ing each of the little machines.

  The ones scurrying down the path designated by the map stopped. They shifted around for a few moments, then shot off down alternate routes. Finally, one of them blinked red and the others converged on it, running along the new path.

  “Okay,” Coren said. He sounded relieved. “Let’s go.”

  When they reached the spot where Coren’s scouts had stopped, they found that the passage had been sealed off with new construction. Under their lights, the surface of the wall appeared visibly newer than its surroundings.

  They followed the scouts.