Isaac Asimov's Aurora Page 7

  Derec pulled on his jacket, shouldered the case containing his per­sonal datum and a few other items, including passport—newly-issued—and ticket. The ticket was merely a nod to dignity—there was no question of his leaving Kopernik; all that had been taken care of without his consent. He had rarely felt so powerless.

  “I’m ready,” he said.

  Leri walked beside him. The security officers stationed outside his cabin followed, three paces behind, and the robot brought up the rear.

  Derec could not stop looking pointedly at everything they passed, as if this were the first time he had seen any of it. It was likely the last time he would see it, though there was nothing remarkable about the place. It was a station, like any other found throughout settled space, though fla­vored by Terran taste. It was possible he would never see this particular station again. Ever.

  They entered a larger concourse. The few people they encountered gave them a wide berth, staring at the guards and the robot with open curiosity and dismay. Derec avoided direct eye contact, self-consciously keeping his expression neutral.

  Leri and one guard boarded a shunt with Derec, the rest of the entourage following in a second car.

  “I’d like to express our gratitude again for the work you did here,” Leri said. “Unfortunate consequences aside, you saved the branch mission itself from any undeserved blame.”

  “It was a pleasure to work,” Derec said. “Glad I could help.”

  “Yes, uhm . . .”

  Derec let Leri fumble and lapse into silence. He did not care to indulge in polite conversation. Not during his eviction from Earth territory.

  The shunt came to a halt and they emerged onto the broad plaza outside the customs station. Derec could see the boarding gate on the far side. Small collections of people loitered around the shunt platform. A short line passed slowly through the customs archway.

  The second shunt arrived and the remaining guard and the robot joined them.

  “I’ll walk you through, Mr. Avery,” Leri said, gesturing toward the arch.

  Derec glanced at the shunt monitor to see if another car were about to arrive. It showed none, so, disappointed, Derec walked alongside Leri toward the line.

  “I wish . . .” Leri began.

  “So do I, Ambassador,” Derec said. “But you’ve been an excellent host. I have no complaints.”

  Leri smiled quickly at one of the traditional compliments of Aurora. “Thank you, Mr. Avery. And you’ve been a perfect guest.”

  They reached the gate. Leri stepped behind the desk and spoke quickly to the attendant.

  “Pass through, sir,” she said.

  Leri stepped through to the other side. He clasped Derec’s hand. “Safe journey, Mr. Avery. I hope we have the opportunity to meet again.”

  “Given time, I’m sure.”

  The robot stopped beside him.

  Leri handed Derec a disk. “Give this to the bosun as you board. He’ll see you to your cabin personally.”

  Derec nodded. He cast a final look back toward the shunt platform, expectantly. A shunt arrived, opened, and four people he did not recog­nize got out.

  No Rana.

  “Take care, Ambassador,” he said then, and strode toward the loading gate.

  A short umbilical took him into the liner’s boarding lounge. A brightly-uniformed crewman greeted him just inside the enormous hatch. Derec handed over the disk from Leri, which the crewman slid into his hand reader.

  “Yes, sir,” he said. He looked across the chamber and signaled another uniform.

  The flashings at the collar of her equally bright blue uniform differed from the crewman’s. She looked over the reader and nodded.

  “Mr. Avery, I’m Chief Petty Officer Craym. I’ll take you directly to your cabin. Is this your robot?”

  “No, the station’s. That is my luggage.”

  “Let me get another porter.”

  CPO Craym made the arrangements quickly and efficiently and within minutes she was leading Derec through the narrow corridors of the liner, past other crew and passengers, to a small but comfortable cabin amidships.

  “Are you familiar with interstellar travel, Mr. Avery?” she asked as the robot porter deposited his luggage on the deck. It began stowing the bags in the row of cabinets set in the bulkhead, beneath a wall-size subetheric screen.

  “I’ve done some traveling,” he said.

  “So I need not go over every little detail? Emergency stasis couch is here, menu to shipboard activities and personnel available here, food processor here. We encourage dining in one of the three public commons, but you may easily take your meals in private.”

  “Sanitizer?”

  She crossed the cabin and pressed a contact. A vertical tube swiveled out from the wall. “We recommend decontamination prior to first jump, but as long as you use it before entering Spacer territory it’s up to you. How long has it been since you’ve flown?”

  “A few years.”

  “There have been improvements. It takes slightly less time now, and isn’t nearly so invasive.”

  “But still necessary.”

  She smiled helpfully.

  “That’s fine,” he said. “Can I find a list of fellow passengers on this?”

  “Except for those who have purchased privacy, yes.”

  The robot finished and whisked silently from the cabin.

  “Anything you cannot find listed in the menus, feel free to ask.”

  The particular pitch of her voice made Derec look at her more criti­cally. She met his gaze with Spacer ease and a faint smile that seemed slightly warmer than standard politeness. When she did not look away or move toward the door, Derec felt an awkward uncertainty.

  “You?” he asked.

  “Barring other duties, that would be fine.”

  “Thank you.”

  She smiled more brightly, and left the cabin. The door sealed. After a few moments, he decided that his imagination was working too hard.

  Colluding with my loneliness?

  He stood then, still, listening to the distant and ubiquitous thrumming of the ship as to the blood flow of a somnolent beast, absorbing the final­ity of his position.

  It’s done . . . I’m going home . . . whatever that means . . .

  He shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over the high-backed chair nestled against the small comm station opposite the bed. He sat down and waited.

  Three hours. A light winked on above the subetheric screen and a polite, androgynous voice announced:

  “The Star Liner Wysteria is now leaving Kopernik Station. Please remained seated or reclining until we have reached initial cruising veloc­ity. We will inform you when we will be approaching jump. Thank you for traveling with us. We hope you have a pleasant voyage.”

  Derec lay back on the narrow bed, arms at his sides, and tried to feel the surge of the engines and the change in g from acceleration. He could not tell—it seemed the background sound changed pitch—so he picked a point at which he could tell himself I’ve left. I’m gone. I’ll arrive . . . soon enough . . . .

  Coren entered the pavilion atop Looms’ Kenya District home, where, per Looms’ last wishes, the services were conducted under a transparent geo­desic dome that was the only concession to the endemic agoraphobia the visitors exhibited in varying degrees. Coren swallowed hard as he walked out of the shelter of the arcade that rimmed a third of the dome. Ariel’s influence showed in his growing ability to cope with rooflessness, but he still felt a profound vulnerability when Outside.

  Above, faceted by the thread-like braces of the dome superstructure, gleamed an intense blue and cloudless sky. Its light set the air aglow within the pavilion. Coren estimated perhaps sixty people gathered. Oth­ers filled the drawing rooms and halls below, in the labyrinthine main house, unwilling to venture out from the protection of ceilings. Perhaps because of his newly-acquired tolerance, Coren felt the beginnings of contempt toward them.

  Subetheric recorders floated
around, each sphere colored and marked according to the service to which it belonged. Coren did not see any reporters, though. He could not tell which, then, were personal cameras belonging to any of the guests and which were news feeds.

  As he neared the bier and the closed onyx and ebony casket upon it, Coren saw two people he would never have expected here. Myler Towne, the CEO of the newly reformed Imbitek Industries Incorporated, stood off to one side with three of his aides. He nodded slightly at Coren.

  The other stood alone by the casket. Coren walked over to greet him.

  “Inspector Capel,” Coren said as he stopped alongside the police detective. “A little far from your district.”

  Capel kept his chin tucked down, like most of the Terrans unaccus­tomed to the Open. “Lanra. Maybe. Looms kept a residence in my juris­diction, I figure that gives me a small reason to be interested. That and the fact that he died there.”

  A holograph of a recumbent and cosmetically perfect Rega Looms hovered above the casket.

  “I thought you weren’t working for him anymore?” Capel asked.

  “So did I,” Coren admitted. “Somewhere along the line, he forgot to tell anyone else that I quit. I’m still on salary.”

  “Is that like him to forget?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see the crime scene and autopsy images?”

  “No. I’ve been occupied. I only came back when I heard he was dead.”

  “I’ll show them to you later. I’d like your opinion about something.”

  That surprised Coren. “Certainly. I’d appreciate that.”

  “It won’t be for free,” Capel said. He patted Coren’s shoulder and wan­dered off.

  Coren stared at the holograph of his former employer. He resisted the urge to pry open the coffin and look inside.

  “My condolences, Mr. Lanra.”

  Coren turned toward the voice. Myler Towne stood near, hands clasped behind his back. He was a large man, easily twenty-five centime­ters taller than Lanra and at least thirty kilos heavier, most of it in his shoulders and chest. He made an unlikely-looking CEO, but there was no question that he made an immediate impression.

  “Thank you,” Coren said. “And before you ask, I’m still thinking about it. Events have conspired to delay my final decision regarding your offer of employment.”

  “Oh, unquestionably. I would have it no other way. I trust you intend to find Rega’s murderer? Do so. Any assistance I can render, call.”

  “That’s generous.”

  Towne’s mouth turned down slightly. “Generous. Mr. Lanra, there was nothing to be gained by anyone I know of in killing Rega. This threatens us all. This isn’t generosity—it’s absolute self-interest.”

  “If I need anything, I promise I’ll ask for it.”

  Towne nodded, apparently satisfied. “What will happen to DyNan now? I understand there are no heirs.”

  “The will is to be read in two days. We’ll all know then.”

  “You have no guesses?”

  “After Nyom—after his daughter died, I was unaware of any contin­gencies. If he had a back-up plan, he never confided it to me.”

  “It will be interesting.”

  “Indeed.”

  Towne bowed slightly. “If you’ll excuse me . . .”

  Coren watched Towne retreat to the company of his aides. They exchanged a few words, then one left, wending a path toward the arcade.

  Coren continued to let his gaze drift over the gathered mourners. He saw furtive looks, worry, a few expressions of genuine regret and pain. More than a few overly-pointed looks directed at him.

  He worked his way back through the crowd, stopping to speak to people, share a few stories about Rega with old acquaintances, and gen­erally blend in with them. He hated being the center of attention—it was anathema to his job, an impossible position from which to carry on any kind of delicate inquiry.

  An hour and a half later, he found himself back beneath the arcade. He took a drink from a passing tray and went down the stairs into the main house.

  A wide central corridor led down the center of the butterfly-like superstructure. Doorways opened on large rooms, staircases up and down, alcoves, and other passageways. There were even hidden rooms behind false walls. Nyom had shown him many of them, but he was sure there were several even she had not known about. The house was a vast architectural playground, the ideal hide-and-seek environment for a playful personality few would have guessed Rega to possess.

  This was Rega’s proudest possession, this manor. Contrary to tradi­tion—and, in some parts of the globe, the law—he had built it “above ground.” Rebuilt, in fact, the new layered atop an already-existing structure that predated the expulsion of robots from Earth. It rested in the middle of several thousand acres of natural preserve, accessible by aircraft or a single tube that connected it to Bassa District. There was also an aircar pad, complete with a collection of obsolete and mostly nonworking aircars from previous centuries. Coren had intended bringing Nyom here during Rega’s scuttled senate campaign, after get­ting her away from the baley runners with whom she had been work­ing. Except that she had gone with the last group and given him no chance to extract her from the situation. Her death afterward and the threat of blackmail had ruined Rega’s chances for a senate seat. His unwillingness to let Coren proceed with the investigation to find Nyom’s killers had driven a wedge between them that had kept Coren away.

  Till now, when it was too late to help.

  Rega Looms was dead. Coren could not help but feel responsible.

  He found Capel in one of the galleries just off the main hall. The detec­tive stared at an ancient abstract painting that Coren had long ago decided was a perversely distorted winged woman trying to fly out of a volcano.

  “Enlightenment must be earned,” Coren quipped.

  “Hm. I’m working at it.”

  “You want to show me something?”

  Capel nodded. “Somewhere we can go?”

  Coren pointed, then led the way to one of several offices scattered throughout the multilevel structure.

  “I keep wondering,” Capel said as Coren locked the door behind them, “what it must be like to have money. Real money. Like this. Considering the cost, I’m glad I don’t know.”

  Coren went to the desk and started up the reader. A flatscreen extruded from the desktop.

  “This material is better viewed holographically,” Capel said, holding up a disk.

  “Not available here,” Coren said. “One of Rega’s prejudices.”

  Capel grunted, but handed over the disk.

  Coren slipped it into the hopper and tapped the keypad.

  A wide image of a spacious apartment bedroom appeared on the screen. The pale walls and expensive furniture bespoke considerable wealth. Coren recognized it as Rega’s Baltimor District residence, where, apparently, Rega had sequestered himself for the last several weeks, com­municating exclusively by comm.

  Someone lay stretched out on the bed.

  The next image was a full-length shot of the body.

  It was naked, bruised from neck to ankle, horribly purpled with splotches of yellow and green. The face stared blankly at nothing, the tongue swollen, forcing open the mouth.

  “This was thirty-six hours after death,” Capel said. “Your ex-boss wasn’t a complete luddite. He had a pretty up-to-date biomonitor system in place. It had been subverted—we figure the reprogramming took place six, seven weeks ago—but one thing it still did was record Rega Looms’ actual living presence. Once that ended without any other indications that he had simply left the apartment, an alarm was triggered.”

  “Subverted . . . why?”

  “We found evidence that a second person was living in the apartment. All the biomonitor recorded was one. Our people are looking into how the system was hacked. But the catastrophic trauma alarm had been com­pletely switched off. Autopsy showed that Looms had been beaten and tortured continually for most of the last
four or five weeks.” Capel waved a hand at the screen. “Look familiar?”

  “Yes . . .”

  Coren had seen three other corpses with that same kind of bruising, as if someone had systematically crushed their bodies, bursting capillaries, pulverizing bone, bursting organs. Slowly, one area at a time, but not so slowly that the bruising could heal anywhere. He had felt the grip that could inflict this sort of damage. Absently, he rubbed his right forearm where the cyborg had held him, crushing the bone and muscle.

  “Gamelin?” Capel prompted.

  “Probably. We never recovered the body. It was a mistake to declare him dead, but the TBI were afraid of panicking people.”

  “So we have to assume he’s at large again. Where would he go?”

  “I don’t know. The baley network he used before is gone, most of the people he worked for are in jail or dead. He could hide in the warrens, I suppose. But sooner or later someone would report him.”

  “If he was living with Rega, how come none of your people found out?”

  “That’s a good question,” Coren said.

  “Are you looking into this?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “You’ll share data with me?”

  “When I get it. Can you leave this disk?”

  “Sure.”

  Coren switched the view off. “It’s possible he could link up with a part of the network we didn’t shut down. But for now I’d say he’s on his own. Tell your people not to take chances. Use only lethal force if they encounter him.”

  “I’m going to have another talk with Alda Mikels.”

  “Do you think he’ll tell you anything?”

  “Not really,” Capel admitted. “But I don’t have anyone else to interro­gate. Who knows, he might slip.”

  “Hm.”

  “What do your Special Service people think about all this?”

  “How would I know?” Coren asked, surprised.

  “I heard you were reinstated.”

  “An honorary thing, just for the duration of that last investigation. I suppose I could ask.”

  “I’d be interested.”

  “I’m sure you would.”

  Capel almost smiled. “Call me.” He left the office.