Asimov’s Future History Volume 10, Page 2

  Dr. Jinis stopped abruptly. “Her condition has improved. She’s past the worst of it. But if I say to end the visit, you will listen to me.”

  “Of course.”

  He opened the door and let Ariel in first.

  It was, with the exception of the state-of-the-art biomonitor unit against one wall, an ordinary, though well-appointed, apartment. Broad windows let in the warm Tau Ceti light.

  Ariel recognized the woman sitting by that window, gazing out. Recognized her until she turned her face toward Ariel. Then there was a disjointed moment in which Ariel knew she had made a mistake, that this was a different Benen Yarick, followed by another wherein she saw that the face was nominally that of Benen Yarick, but something was wrong, it had been changed.

  Ariel took a step forward. The woman stood and came toward her, a frown tugging at her brow even as she made a polite smile. Her eyes flicked toward Dr. Jinis.

  “Doctor? I’m...”

  “This is Ariel Burgess, Benen,” Dr. Jinis said. “From the Calvin Institute.”

  “Yes...?”

  “Ms. Yarick,” Ariel began. “I — Do you recognize me?”

  “No. Should I?”

  “When you were on Earth.”

  Benen Yarick started, then laughed. “I’ve never been on Earth, Ms. Burgess. You’re mistaken.”

  “I see. Yes, I suppose you’re right. I must be thinking of someone else.”

  Benen looked mildly distressed. “I apologize. Did I — Doctor? Is there something I should know about this?”

  “No, Benen,” Jinis said. “We thought —”

  “You thought I might remember something. I see.” She looked at Ariel closely. “Earth. That might explain a few things. Was I on Earth, Doctor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Perhaps that’s where it happened.” She narrowed her eyes at Ariel. “But I don’t remember. It might as well be someone else. I’m sorry.”

  “May I ask, though,” Ariel said, quickly, “if you know Tro Aspil?”

  Benen shook her head. “Would he have been on Earth, too?”

  “At the same time you were. Yes.”

  “No.”

  Ariel nodded. “I’m sorry to bother you.”

  “You may come back and visit, though,” Benen said quickly. “I don’t know very many people anymore. It would be nice to add to the list.”

  “If I can,” Ariel said, “I will.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ll see you later, Benen,” Dr. Jinis said.

  In the hall, Ariel rounded on him. “Mnemonic plague?”

  “End stage. She’s through the fever, well into recovery now.”

  “‘Recovery.’ I always thought that was an overly-optimistic label for it. You never recover, Doctor. You never get your life back.”

  Jinis looked at her. “You?”

  “A long time ago. Long enough that I now have a life to remember, so it doesn’t affect me the same way anymore. When did she become symptomatic?”

  “About three months ago.”

  “Then —”

  “She did not contract it on Earth, no.”

  “How many cases have there been in the last year?”

  “Fifteen. The year before that, nine. Before that, none. All originating here, on Aurora. But we haven’t been able to trace the vectors. This is not public knowledge. I’m relying on your discretion as a public servant, Ambassador Burgess.”

  “Are there any common factors?” she asked, ignoring the implied threat.

  “Do you mean in work, or where they live, or their associates? All of them had traveled offworld, but none of the destinations were the same — the times suggested no pattern.”

  “Could I see their profiles?”

  Dr. Jinis frowned. “I’m not comfortable —”

  “This could very well turn into a criminal investigation, Doctor. If you help me now, I might be able to circumvent major inconvenience to your patients. I suppose that you are handling most of the cases, since it hasn’t become public knowledge? There could only be a very small pool of physicians working on this to keep it secret this long, and I imagine you’re all sharing data.”

  “I am head researcher, yes.” He pursed his lips. “I can arrange it. Where shall I send the data?”

  “To Dr. Rolf Penj.”

  Jinis nodded. “I’ll see to it.”

  “I...” She sighed. “I understand what you were trying to do, springing us on each other that way. You wanted a spontaneous reaction. I resent it, but I understand it. Burundi’s Fever doesn’t work that way, though. Once those pathways are closed down, it’s forever. Thank you for your time, Doctor.”

  Before he could say anything, Ariel turned and walked away. She had her anger under control by the time she reached the promenade.

  So, are you responsible, Tro? she wondered. Or whoever you are...

  She emerged from the complex and started across the plaza to the walkways. A trio of Aurorans accompanied by four robots and a collection of remotes intercepted her near the gate.

  “Ambassador Ariel Burgess?” one of the Aurorans addressed her.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Investigator Lothas from Public Safety. I must ask you to accompany us.”

  Ariel frowned at the robots, which did not move, and at the other two officers, who flanked her. “Am I under arrest?”

  “No, not unless you refuse to come with us.”

  Ariel smiled at the distinction. “What is this about?”

  “We must ask you some questions concerning Ambassador Clar Eliton.”

  “What about him? I’ve filed a report as part of my ambassadorial office regarding him. There’s not much else to add —”

  “Please, Ambassador. This has nothing to do with your report.”

  “I’m an Auroran citizen. I have the right of disclosure concerning any public action directly involving me, am I correct?”

  Investigator Lothas looked uncomfortable. “Yes...”

  “Then explain to me what this is about or I’ll make it difficult for you to do your job.”

  “Ambassador,” he said with evident reluctance, “Clar Eliton has been murdered. He was found dead in his apartment an hour ago.”

  Chapter 24

  MIA OPENED HER eyes at the early brightening gloom. She assumed it was morning. Before her the landscape sprawled, a collection of low hummocks strewn with wreckage and a graveyard of unbroken packages. The night had passed in fire and panic and, finally, exhaustion. Now she fixed her gaze on the hulk of the shuttle fifty or more meters away, heeled over to reveal its split belly. Smoke coiled from beneath it. Patches of fire still flickered here and there, plastic and metal so hot it might be another day before it stopped igniting the brush that blew near it in the sporadic breeze.

  Someone moaned. Mia looked to her left, at the man beside her. Yalor. Half his face was a blackened wreck. She remembered dragging him away from the wreckage, putting out the fire on his legs, and preparing makeshift bedding for him. He had been unconscious through most of it, which, as far as Mia could tell, had been all to the good. He had broken ribs, ugly bruising on his lower back — which might or might not indicate a ruptured spleen or damaged kidneys — and both his legs were blistered by severe burns. She remembered searching the debris scattered everywhere for medical supplies, the fires from the crash providing uncertain illumination. Finally, she found a container of anesthetics, which quelled Yalor’s screams. Later, she found another package containing hydrators, which she had pumped into him in massive amounts. She had dug an irrigation trench running downhill from his inadequate bed and catheterized him.

  Mia leaned over him and carefully raised his eyelids. Somehow, he had avoided a concussion. But he was running a high fever. Between that and the painkillers, Yalor would be insensible for a long time. She doubted he would live through the day, actually, but she prepped another injection of anesthetic and antibiotic.

  Her left wrist throbbed as she worked. Her
right side ached as well. Mia was reasonably sure she had nothing broken, but she was stiff and bruised. After ministering the injections, she got to her feet and walked toward the wreck. Movement was the only measure she had against incapacity right now. She had found no analgesics in the night search, no histamine recompilers, nothing that would ordinarily work to bypass normal muscle cramps and reduce the effects of deep bruising. She was resigned to being in pain for a few days.

  As she made her way through the shards and crates and plowed earth, she grew more amazed at the extent of her efforts from the night before. She paused near the tear in the shuttle and scanned the immediate area. Everything looked different now, in the light of the pewter morning. She vaguely recalled the impact. The lid of the coffin had flown open and all its contents — the gelpacks and her — had erupted through the interior of the shuttle, along with all the other dislodged cargo. She had not gone far, jammed as the hold was, until the final impact that had split the hull. She remembered a kind of montage of black and fire and containers right before a lung-deflating shock against her back.

  There. She staggered away from the shuttle to a deep impression in the dirt twenty meters away. As she stood over it, imagining how her shoulders and waist fit the shape, she could not be certain. Here? Elsewhere?

  Wherever, she had managed to climb to her feet and go searching for Yalor. She had found him still inside the shuttle, half-buried beneath cargo...

  Mia looked up at the rise where Yalor lay, in the partial shelter of a slab of rock that projected up at a low angle. A long way, to be sure. Part of Mia was glad she could not remember all of it.

  Mia sighed wearily and turned her attention to scavenging. Her stomach tugged at her awareness. Medicine was well and good, but they needed food.

  Her aches ebbed as she moved through the field of debris.

  “So I really fucked up,” she said aloud. “I made the wrong assumptions. Hm.”

  She knelt by a crate and heaved against it to turn it over. She tapped in her access code on the touchpad. The lid unsealed for her —

  Something caught her attention, off to the left. She looked. Nothing moved but the wisps of local flora in the light wind. Mia lifted the lid. Clothing. She riffled through it and pulled out a couple of jackets. Bioadaptives, she noticed, the fabric designed to adjust to changing conditions to maintain a constant temperature and humidity level. Expensive and illegal to allow onto Nova Levis.

  She pulled one of them on and draped the other over her shoulder. If Yalor lived, he would need one.

  Mia hesitated. The landscape did not seem the same, but...

  She moved to another crate and unsealed it. Optics. Again illegal, but —

  She turned around and froze.

  Seven people stood nearby, watching her. They ranged out in a loose half circle before her. Large, wide torso, yet they had moved with complete silence. Mia’s pulse quickened. None of them appeared to be armed, but that meant nothing.

  As she studied them, though, other details puzzled her. They did not seem... healthy. Their faces looked scarred by disease. Their clothing was a congeries of bits and pieces, a lot of it functional — she recognized portable sensors, optams, communications gear — but all adapted, as if built from leftover equipment.

  They were all big. A couple of them possessed overly-long limbs.

  They stood absolutely still, like robots. Waiting.

  Robots...

  Beyond them, closer to the horizon, she saw a blur of motion. Pieces of the landscape disappeared as she watched. Mia concentrated, unsure of her own sight. Then she made sense of it — more of these people moved rapidly, collecting containers. They moved so fast she had difficulty focusing on them, and they lifted and carried off the crates with evident ease.

  Robots.

  One of them looked up toward Yalor.

  Mia broke into a sprint toward the slab of rock. Obstinately, her legs refused to drive her either effectively or far, and she stumbled.

  A hand closed on her right arm. The grip became painful and she tried to jerk away. Her captor hauled her off her feet. Mia half expected to be draped over a massive shoulder; instead, she was set down carefully. She looked up at the face of the one who had grabbed her: It was long, empty of emotion, the cheeks pocked and peppered with dark pinpricks, and wide, oily black eyes surrounded by yellow-brown whites. It raised its other hand and motioned for her to stay where she was.

  Three of them huddled around Yalor. Mia ground her teeth, feeling helpless. Somewhere in all this scattered debris there must be her sidearm, but she had no idea where.

  Or if it would do any good if she did have it.

  As she watched, two of them lifted Yalor with apparent care.

  All around her, pieces of the crash site vanished, carried off with antlike efficiency by scores of these —

  What? Something about them did not fit the label “robot,” and Mia was left without a handle by which to grasp what they were or what was happening.

  The one before her surveyed the activities like a supervisor. Finally, about twenty minutes after Mia had first seen them, the field was visibly policed of debris, and he nodded. He gestured for her to precede him.

  Reluctantly, afraid to proceed or protest, Mia made herself walk ahead of him. A loose column of them marched out of the field, toward a dense collection of flora. As she neared, she saw trails cut through it. Within a hundred meters, the growth was higher than her head. She glanced back and found her escort less than a meter behind.

  “Shit,” she breathed.

  About the time Mia decided to sit down and go no further, she found herself entering a clearing shielded above by camo fabric. Exhausted, she could only guess at the distance they had come — maybe five kilometers, maybe more. Gratefully, she limped to a thick stump just inside the wide circle and sat down.

  Her escort strode on past and into the clearing.

  She spotted Yalor being carried into a prefab hut. She considered going in, but caution dictated she stay put until she understood her situation.

  The entire march had been conducted in complete silence. Except for her own heavy, noisy tread, she had heard nothing. These people moved quickly, with unnerving quiet.

  She thought of the scars on their faces and the reports on epidemics on Nova Levis.

  Makeshift hovels, larger buildings, and tents filled the space beneath the camo. Mia stopped trying to count the number of people she saw. All of them, despite variation in detail, seemed of the same type. Far on the opposite side of the clearing was a large, better-constructed Quonset, the only structure that appeared to have guards before the doors.

  Her breath recovered, she decided to try to walk around.

  She stood —

  — and her escort stopped before her.

  Mia’s throat tightened. Too fast, she thought, terrified. They move too damn fast...

  The giant gestured for her to follow.

  She worked to keep up with his long stride, her thighs complaining with each step. The pain in her side had turned sharp, and twinged with each jolt.

  As she passed among them, not one gave her a curious look. They all seemed utterly intent upon other things — projects, sitting in small groups together, standing alone as if switched off.

  Her escort brought her to a tent and waved her in.

  Inside, after her eyes adjusted to the dark, she saw three more of them, staring at her. Her escort took a seat among them and locked a gaze upon her.

  Silence dragged tortuously.

  Finally, one of them asked, “Do you work for Parapoyos?”

  Startled, Mia shook her head. “No. I work for — I’m an officer in the Terran military.”

  “The blockade,” another said.

  “Does that help us?” her escort asked.

  “Don’t know yet.”

  “She was sent to die.”

  “The shuttle — piloted or automated?”

  “Automated,” Mia said. “I was —
”

  “Parapoyos’ people?”

  “What? I don’t understand —”

  “Are you an enemy?” her escort asked.

  “Of who?”

  “Us,” another said.

  “I don’t know who you are.”

  “Parapoyos, then.”

  Mia swallowed. She ignored a wave of lightheadedness. “Please. I’m hungry. I haven’t eaten since —”

  “Would you kill Parapoyos if you had the opportunity?”

  “I won’t answer any further questions until I get food.”

  “We won’t feed you if you’re our enemy.”

  “I won’t know if I’m your enemy till you feed me.”

  They stared at her. This is absurd, Mia thought. She realized suddenly that she was no longer afraid. She was exhausted, past her limits. Her emotions were shutting down. Very dangerous, she knew, she could be incautious... but there was nothing she could do about it. She needed to eat, to drink, to rest. If they killed her now, she decided, it might be the best time, since she really did not care right at this moment.

  She sat down and let her head fall forward. Her stomach gnawed and her side hurt. She felt her muscles tremble and vibrate. She rubbed her eyes.

  A tap on her shoulder brought her head up. Her escort looked down at her, then pointed at the ground before her.

  Several packages of field rations were neatly stacked around a tall canteen. She reached for one, peeled the wrapping off, and silently began eating while her inquisitors watched in absolute silence and rapt attention.

  She ate four of them, then drank lukewarm water from the canteen. Capping it, she let herself fall to the side. She stretched out on the ground and within seconds she was asleep.

  She opened her eyes to warmer light. She let herself wake slowly. Little by little, her pains came back to her. Carefully, she sat up.

  The inquisitors still sat where they had been when she had fallen asleep. They had not moved her, nor, it seemed, had they moved themselves. The empty wrappers from the rations she had eaten were gone, but the rest of the ration bars remained, along with the canteen.

  Artificial light filled the tent.