Asimov’s Future History Volume 9, Page 3

  When he reached the locker room, he punched a code into the palm monitor. All the little machines he’d released throughout the warehouse began to eat themselves into dust. Nothing would be left to analyze, if anyone ever found them. Just minuscule piles of refuse.

  He checked the time, estimated that he had about six hours before that bin reached dockside on Kopernik. He could even clean up before he made his call...

  He recovered the small button he had placed in the exit and stepped into the alley. He saw no one and quickly bounded across to where he had been hiding when the nightshift crew had left. He fished one more device from an inside pocket and opened it. He tapped in a code and waited for the comm to upload for him.

  The screen remained blank. He ran a diagnostic. LOCALITY ERROR scrolled across the small screen. Coren hissed, annoyed. Something around here was interfering with the link. He should have tested it first. Probably being this close to the port was causing problems. He closed up the comm unit and headed down the alley.

  He splashed through the accrued seepage and hunched his shoulders against the random drops of condensation from the unseen ceiling high overhead. He rounded the next corner and headed up a broad alleyway littered with abandoned shipping crates, refuse dumpsters, old and broken transports, and the scraps of traffic.

  “Hey, gato.”

  Coren glanced to his right, at the source of the throaty voice. A tall man came out of the shadow of a receiving bay and loped toward him, hands in the pockets of a long overcoat. Coren’s hand moved for the stunner he carried in his jacket. The stranger coughed heavily, a phlegmy hack Coren recognized as one of the recent strains of sublevel tuberculosis. Not contagious usually, but Coren liked to keep his distance.

  “Not tonight,” he said.

  “Hey, that’s not sapien,” the man said. “Just wanting a share, you know.”

  Coren reflexively pulled out a few credits from his pocket and tossed them.

  The man scooped them up with more alacrity than Coren would have guessed.

  “Thanks, gato,” he said and touched a finger to his hat.

  Coren turned away.

  A hand clenched around his throat between one breath and the next. Coren grabbed the wrist and pushed forward to relieve the pressure, but the hand held. The wrist, wrapped in a thick sleeve, seemed like steel. Coren tried to turn away from the encircling arm and drive an elbow back. He missed, tried again, and then dropped to his knees under a sharp blow to the left shoulder.

  He choked. Sparks danced around the edge of his vision. He tried to sweep a hand around to catch the knees of his attacker, but he was too off-balance.

  He closed his eyes, and the pain went away.

  Coren came awake lying on damp pavement, his throat burning as he choked on the sourness in his mouth. His shoulder throbbed and would not support his attempt to push himself up. He rolled over and stared up at dark walls, too close. He had been moved. He lay still for a minute or more until the acid subsided and his breathing calmed. He managed finally to sit up.

  He was about three meters from the end of a narrow hallway, but still in the same general area of Petrabor, from what he could see beyond. His head spun and his legs trembled as he got to his feet. He needed to get to a medical unit, he knew, but not down here; no telling what kind of treatment he might get from the quacks practicing in the sublevels. He needed to get to a comm sooner.

  He patted his pockets. His stunner was gone, as were his optam, palm monitor, and comm unit. But they had missed his ID, and he still had a few credits in a calf-pouch.

  Coren tried to figure out what had happened. He was not a small man, and he had been trained well during his years with Special Service, but whoever had attacked him had handled him as if he were a child. Possible, but not the panhandler. Surely not.

  He sighed heavily and coughed.

  Later, he thought, stumbling from the hallway. Figure it out later....

  Two

  WHEN HE RETURNED to the hostel, all Coren wanted to do was fall into bed and sleep. He leaned against the door of his room, eyes shut, feeling his bruises and weariness. He had been beaten up once before, years ago, but the brain did not remember the pain.

  He forced his eyes open. The clock above the bed said NINETEEN-TEN LOCAL.

  “Damn. Five hours.”

  He lurched to the small desk and pulled a briefcase from beneath it. He threw off his overcoat and tapped in the release code on the case, then took out his personal datum. He jacked it into the room comm and entered a string of numbers. He sat down then, anxiously watching while the link assembled itself through a secure channel.

  “Come on... come on...”

  “Palen here,” a voice crackled sharply from the comm.

  “It’s Coren, Sipha. The package is on its way up.”

  “Already tracking it. We’ll have it in the bay in... two hours and a bit. Where have you been? I expected your call–”

  “I’ll tell you later. I was delayed unavoidably.”

  “You still coming up?”

  “As soon as I get clean. I’ll be on a shuttle in an hour.”

  “If we get the package in station before you get here?”

  “Can you delay opening till I’m there?”

  “Within limits.”

  “I’m moving as fast as I can, Sipha. Thanks.”

  Coren entered a new number and read over the shuttle schedules that scrolled onto the screen. Hand trembling slightly, he booked one, and closed down the link. He considered trying to contact the data troll who had told him about tonight’s clandestine emigration, but that could scare her. She had been nervous anyway; their meeting had not gone smoothly. Coren had been in too big a hurry to question her anxiety, but now he wondered about it. He unjacked his datum and put it away.

  He assembled his luggage quickly, then stripped off the grimy clothes. He showered, depilated his face, and dressed in tailored black and dark blue. The overcoat and coveralls went into the recycle chute.

  Coren snatched his briefcase and single duffle, gave the cubicle a last look, gaze lingering on the bed. I really need sleep, he thought. On the shuttle, he decided, and left for the port.

  Coren gripped the armrests, unable to make himself relax. He knew the shuttle was in motion and, though he felt nothing, the knowledge made him sick. He forced himself not to slouch, grateful that the nausea was not worse.

  “Big brave policeman,” he muttered sourly, “scared of a little spaceflight.”

  He glanced at his fellow passengers. One man slept soundly by induced coma–an option Coren found more repellant than the flight itself–and the only others he could see clearly seemed to be Spacers, tall and elegant and gathered together in one section in the front of the cabin, talking animatedly, unfazed by the fact that they were hurtling through space with less than thirty centimeters of hull between them and vacuum.

  Coren closed his eyes and tried to think about what had happened to him.

  It was possible that Nyom had hired someone to cover her back and that the panhandler had been her muscle. Possible, but inconsistent with Nyom Looms–at least, not the Nyom Looms Coren thought he knew.

  Perhaps he no longer really knew her. He had made an assumption, relied on old data, and gotten hurt.

  But assuming for the moment that the panhandler had not been her man, then who was he? Coren’s shoulder and neck throbbed; the bruise would be spectacular.

  Definitely have to have a talk with that data troll, he thought. The idea that he had been set up troubled him, but it was not unlikely. Baley running attracted an undependable variety of conscience, people committed to various causes but with a weakness for money that worked against their revolutionary principles. The few True Believers were unapproachable in any ordinary sense–those from whom Coren could extract information were, by definition, untrustworthy.

  The troll who had supplied him with the data for last night’s shipment–a woman named Jeta Fromm–should have been more reliable.
Coren used a clearing house for people like her: Data Recovery Systems, Ltd. An innocuous name, considering how much borderline illicit trade they dealt in. But they guaranteed the work of their operatives–sometimes in heavy-handed and unpleasant ways–and would not take it well to learn that one of their people had betrayed a client. Still, he had not gotten that impression from Jeta Fromm. She did not seem like the sort who would indulge in doublecrosses. She had been anxious, but the data she supplied had been accurate. If anything, she had seemed preoccupied. Coren relied a great deal on his intuition about people–he had occasionally been wrong, no system is perfect–and he thought he had judged her correctly. Perhaps he had and something else was involved. It would not do to act before he knew, which meant he had to find her on his own and not go through the clearing house. They might misunderstand. At best, he could cost her employment. At worst...

  The other possibility was that Number Sixteen third shift dockworker who had met with Nyom. But Coren had not seen him clearly and with his optam stolen he had no images to work with. Perhaps he could find out who he was through the ITE office in Baltimor. He knew someone there. It would be interesting in any case to find out what connection existed between that branch and a Petrabor baley-smuggling operation.

  At least he knew he could rely on Sipha Palen and accomplish his mission.

  Nyom would be furious with him.

  No matter, so long as she was safely back on Earth and out of circulation for a while. Rega owned a villa in Kenya Sector where he often went to be alone–Coren himself had overseen its security. It was the safest place he knew to tuck Nyom away while the election ran.

  “Your attention please, “an automated voice said. “We will be docking at Kopernik Station in fifteen minutes. Please be sure your safety field is on and secured and any personal objects are stowed in the appropriate compartments. Remain in your seats until the green debarkation light is on. Thank you.”

  Coren sighed gratefully. Fifteen minutes. Good. He looked up at the group of Spacers and briefly caught one’s eye. For a moment he thought he recognized an expression of sympathy. But it passed and she laughed at a joke from one of her companions.

  He shifted uncomfortably. His safety field had stayed on the entire trip. His skin prickled slightly from the faint pressure. His shirt stuck to him from the sweat; he would need another shower as soon as he debarked.

  He felt a brief lurch and clutched desperately at the armrests.

  “We have completed docking at Kopernik Station, Bay two-one-seven. Please remain seated until we are ready for debarkation. We hope you have enjoyed your flight and we thank you for traveling Intrapoint.”

  Coren bit back a snide comment and concerned himself with shutting down the safety field. His legs hurt from the constant tension.

  A row of green lights winked on overhead the length of the cabin. An attendant came through to help anyone who might need assistance. Coren stood, thankful his legs did not shake. He pulled his briefcase from the cubby beneath his seat and made his way to the exit. As he walked down the white-walled tunnel away from the shuttle, he began feeling more confident. He emerged into the brightly-lit, cheerily-colored, close-ceilinged reception lounge feeling a bit foolish about his fear. He slipped on his jacket while he scanned the waiting crowd.

  Sipha Palen stood off to the left and gave him a nod, then strolled off. Coren checked in at the security desk and retrieved his duffle. He caught up with Sipha halfway down the concourse and fell into step beside her.

  Sipha stood at least twelve centimeters taller than him, with broad shoulders tapering into what she called a “swimmer’s build”–slim-hipped and sinewy. Pale amber eyes stood out sharply against her brassy-brown skin; she wore her copper hair in a thick queue than hung to just between her shoulder blades. Her ivory suit hinted at “uniform “without being obvious. She smelled of hot metal and flowers.

  “How was the flight?” she asked nonchalantly.

  “Don’t, “he said.

  She gave him a wry smile. “You should fly more often. You might learn to like it.”

  “It’s good to see you, Sipha,” he said, ignoring the jab.

  “Likewise. The package arrived four hours, twenty minutes ago. We have the bay secured–just my people. Do you want to go right there or tidy up first?”

  “Let’s get it over with. Maybe I can enjoy the rest of my stay afterward.”

  Sipha made a dubious noise, but increased the pace slightly. She led him to an in-station shuttle car.

  “By the way,” he said as he strapped in, “there are two robots in there. One looks pretty ordinary, but the other one was invisible to my optam.”

  “Masked?”

  “I can’t think of another explanation. So let your people know to be careful.”

  They made the transit in silence, Coren staring at a spot just above Sipha’s right shoulder. The car slowed to a halt and Sipha stepped lithely out. Coren followed her down a service corridor into an immense bay.

  The security people standing around straightened when they saw Sipha. She strode across the pale gray floor toward the cargo bin sitting near its center. Coren’s heartbeat quickened upon seeing it–relief, he realized. It was here, safe, and soon Nyom would be on her way to even more safety.

  It is still personal... he thought.

  A pair of uniformed techs, expressions tight, approached Sipha. They spoke in low, terse tones.

  “Open the damn thing now!” Sipha shouted.

  She sprinted the rest of the distance to the bin. Coren dropped his luggage and ran after her. Techs, galvanized, lurched into motion.

  People converged on the bin. Coren stopped outside the huddle of technicians working to open it and waited, impatient and anxious.

  The seal parted and the door folded down.

  Coren shouldered his way through the uniforms.

  Sipha entered the bin first.

  “Get me some light in here!” she called, her voice hollow.

  Coren bumped her, stopped at the edge of darkness. The spillover from the bay lights picked out disconnected details of a squat bulk just before them and lines that might be the edges of shelves or cots. Coren heard a faint, rhythmic buzzing.

  “What–?” he began.

  Techs came up behind them with hand-held floodlamps. They switched them on and raised them.

  Coren blinked at the sudden glare.

  The air smelled faintly burnt...

  “Shit,” Sipha breathed.

  Racks of couches crowded the walls all around, three deep, with barely a meter between levels. Each pallet contained a body. None of them moved; Coren detected no breath pushing at clothing, no hint of life. Dead bodies, an umbilical running from each facemask to the large apparatus in the center of the cramped open space directly before Sipha and Coren.

  On the opposite side of the big machine, Coffee knelt, motionless.

  Coren’s ears sang with blood. Sparks teased at the periphery of his vision and he felt cocooned, separated from his surroundings. He made himself step forward. He looked in at the nearest corpse. She had been strapped into the couch. Her hands had clutched spasmodically at the fabric beneath her.

  The couch above her held a child, its eyes staring blindly.

  He made his way around the apparatus, stepping carefully over the tubes running from its base, up the railings, and into the couches.

  Coffee’s hands were frozen on a control panel. Coren bent over to see what the robot was touching. DISENGAGE. Coren glared at the robot. He felt his hands curl instantly into fists.

  “You piece of–”

  “Coren.”

  He looked up at Sipha. She still stood at the entrance. She pointed up.

  Coren looked.

  Dangling from the ceiling of the bin was another body. Hanging, suspended, it shifted ever-so-slightly right to left and back in the movement of air coming from the bay. It was a woman, her head angled sharply to the left. Her eyes were wide, tongue extruded betwe
en her lips.

  Nyom.

  The tea in his cup had gone cold as Coren watched Sipha’s people remove the bodies. The air in the office cubicle was a few degrees too cool. He stared fixedly through the window at the forensic dance around the crime scene.

  Nyom would be brought out last, he knew, because her condition was so different.

  Sipha entered the office and sat down heavily behind the small desk.

  “Fifty-two bodies,” she said. “We don’t have the facilities to store them in our morgue. I’m having stasis units moved into an equipment locker nearby. Best we can do till we know how to handle this.”

  Coren looked up. “Fifty-two? There were fifty-one baleys.”

  “We’ve got fifty-two now.”

  “All human?”

  Sipha nodded. “Maybe one was already in the bin. Who knows?”

  “What about the other robot?” Coren asked.

  “No second robot. Just the one. Sorry.”

  “I saw it enter the bin with them. You ‘re telling me it got out?”

  “You saw it get in at the warehouse dock. After that, who knows? Once on board its shuttle, it could have left. Or it might not have even gotten on the shuttle.” She grunted. “We could ask the one we do have, but it’s collapsed.”

  “How convenient,” he said. “What ship was this bin scheduled for?”

  “It’s not even in dock yet, won’t be for another three days. A Settler cargo hauler, slated for a direct run to an orbital facility owned by a company called the Hunter Group.”

  “Three days...” Coren shook his head.

  “So,” Sipha said after a time, “what do you think happened?”

  Coren shuddered briefly and set the cup aside. He folded his hands in his lap. “The other robot. It must’ve glitched or malfunctioned or... something. It killed Nyom, then suffocated the others by switching off the rebreather unit.”

  “What about Nyom’s robot? Why would it have allowed that to happen?”

  “They must’ve been in it together.”