“You’re curious if we had anything to do with shoving you out of the way.” Mikels shrugged. “Depends how you look at it, Mr. Avery. We’d been lobbying to displace positronics in Union Station since the proposal to go that way first came up. Now, I understand as well as you that having positronics there was political, not practical, so our lobbying was directed at those people in government responsible for deciding such things. Good business. When it failed, Imbitek wanted to be able to take advantage of it.”
“You were certain it would fail. That’s why you convinced Senator Eliton to write you into the contract two years ago, so you could step in at once.”
Mikels looked momentarily surprised. He smiled. “We’d already warned the Senate that positronics would not work there and that when it went wrong it would go very wrong, either technically or politically.” He frowned. “We had no idea it would be this costly.”
“You don’t blame positronics for Eliton’s death, do you?”
“Being a non-Terran yourself, perhaps you wouldn’t understand. Yes, indirectly or otherwise. Without positronics--the issue and the fact--Eliton would never have made himself a target.”
Derec was surprised at Mikels’ bluntness. He stared at the man, wondering what would follow such an observation.
Mikels smiled again. “But that’s politics. No one does it successfully without making enemies, and Clar was very successful.”
“I suppose it’s also difficult losing a friend this way.”
Mikels blinked at him. “I knew Clar, certainly. We were as close to being friends as two people in our positions can be. We had lunch at least once a week. He was the main target of our lobbying efforts.” He finished his brandy and poured another. “He’ll be missed.”
The words came out flat, empty of emotion. A mistake, Derec realized.
“So, how can I help you now, Mr. Avery?”
“Can you get me inside Union Station to look at what you’re doing?”
Mikels looked surprised for a moment, then laughed. “What do you need me to do that for?”
“I’ve been barred by Special Service.”
“In that case, why would I risk their displeasure to help you?”
Derec shrugged. ”Just a thought. You asked.” He drank his water and set the glass down, half-finished. “Who do you think engineered the assassinations?”
“Fanatics. Zealots. Patriots.”
“Former employees?”
“And why would you say that?” Mikels asked.
“You aren’t the only one with lobbying interests, Mr. Mikels.”
Mikels nodded as if he had just had something confirmed.
“Since you’re here, Mr. Avery, can I offer you a tour? Do you know much about imbedded technology?”
“Honestly, no, I don’t.”
“Well, let me show you. I think you’ll find it amazing.”
Mikels crossed to his desk and leaned over it. He spoke briefly, his words indistinct to Derec, then smiled and gestured for Derec to follow.
Derec’s scalp tingled. I should leave now, he thought.
Instead, he let Alda Mikels take him by the elbow and lead him into his empire.
“This,” Mikels declared, one arm outstretched, as they stepped out of a transport cubicle, “is our bench test lab. One of them, anyway.”
Derec slowed as he approached the enormous window that ran the length of the oversized hallway. Beyond stretched a maze of tables laden with equipment, tended by dozens of people in pristine white coveralls, working under shadowless light. It dazzled; he found it difficult to focus on anyone point, all of it fascinated him. No sound came through the glass.
“I understand your main manufacturing facilities are elsewhere,” Derec said, as much to break the long stillness as anything.
“Our largest factory is in Kiev, but it’s not much larger than the ones in Denver and Singapore. R and D happens here, and we build the prototypes. There’s some jobshopping that gets done as well--special requests, custom-fitted pieces, things like that.”
This was what Aurora and Solaria had hoped to obtain from the new treaty, Derec knew--the methodology to do manufacturing on such a scale. The Fifty Worlds were wonderful places and their tech was awesome in many respects, but in a way they were simple tinkerers compared to Earth. Here, humans knew how to create places where tools and machines could be made in the millions. The ability to do so, to conceive of the techniques and construct the mechanisms, both human and machine, to produce in those quantities was an art that somehow had never made the transition from Earth to the stars. Aurora built excellent robots, but in small lots of a hundred or less. If Earth decided to build them they could flood the trade lanes with absolutely identical models by the tens and hundreds of thousands. Spacer tech was “handmade” compared to the mass manufacturing culture of Earth.
Current trade law forbade the exportation of key technologies. It gave Earth an edge. Even black marketeers would be inclined to want it to stay that way. Their profit came from inequities in systems.
“I didn’t realize the need to do new research was so important,” Derec said. “I mean, the basic design of a positronic brain has remained largely unchanged for--”
“And the culture stagnates, doesn’t it?” Mikels interjected. “Nothing new, nothing grows. Why change perfection? But perfection is only real for a given time, place, and person. Tomorrow, it’s not perfect anymore, is it? And usually never for your neighbor.” He smiled at Derec, enjoying himself. “But don’t take offense. The basic idea of imbedded tech hasn’t changed for almost as long. I like to think it began with burnt toast.”
“Pardon me?”
“Way back when, people had to toast their bread over an open fire. Lay the slices on a plate, suspend it over a flame, and watch it so they could turn it at the right time. Too little time, it was just warm bread. Too much and it was blackened grit. Had to be a better way. So someone devises a box with heating coils and a thermostat attached to a springlock that retracts when enough heat has been applied. The box knows exactly how much heat is necessary and toasts the bread the same way every time. Imbedded tech. Since then, if people want something done and they don’t want to tend to it with one hundred percent of their attention, someone else has found a way to make a device that will do it for them. It finally got so sophisticated that some of these devices are the intellectual equivalent of small children. Then they got so that they weren’t even visible and hardly ever broke. Paradise.”
“Perfection?” Derec chided.
“Not at all. People change, needs change, technology has to keep up. Take that toaster. It’s so good now that it even makes the bread, assembling molecules in just the right way and shaping the result before heating it. But what if you also want it to make sweet bread? Or cake? It doesn’t have the programming for that and the device simply isn’t important enough--or expensive enough--to warrant having a reprogrammable feature. What do you do?”
“Throw it out and buy a better model. “
“Wasteful. But we’ve gotten around it.” Mikels waved at the lab. “Penetrating polycollates.”
“I’m not familiar with the term.”
“Not many are. We can introduce augmentation through the surface of the device, reprogram it the same way a virus reprograms a healthy cell. It’s a complex filtration system that can work its way through the interstices of a material”
“Like a zeolite.”
For the second time in their talk, Mikels seemed surprised, although he masked it well. “Yes, that’s right. You’re familiar with zeolites, Mr. A very?”
“Only slightly. I’ve seen some work done on positronic matrices with them.”
“Indeed. That’s very interesting. Where was this?”
“Aurora.”
“Now that’s surprising. I wouldn’t have thought Spacers would have much need for such primitive tech.”
“Is it primitive?”
“The idea is.”
“Like your imbedded devices?”
This time Mikels’ smile did not seem warm, but predatory. He studied Derec for a few seconds, then turned his gaze toward his lab, his left hand playing absently with the cuff of his right sleeve.
“You have an interesting perspective, Mr. A very. Have you ever considered--”
“Mr. Mikels.”
Derec started, surprised. An aide stood behind Mikels, leaning forward slightly at the waist, solicitous and apologetic. Mikels frowned at him.
“Sorry to disturb you, sir, but you’re needed in Section Four.”
“What? Damn.” Mikels sighed loudly. “Forgive me, Mr. Avery. I have to tend to something. Kobbs here can finish the tour for you. It has been a pleasure making your acquaintance. Perhaps we can get together another time.”
Mikels gripped Derec’s hand firmly and shook it twice.
“Thank you for taking the time,” Derec said.
Mikels gave him a last cordial smile and stalked off, leaving Kobbs waiting for Derec.
“There really isn’t an emergency, is there, Kobbs?” Derec asked. “You just came to rescue him. What did he do, summon you somehow? His cuff?”
Kobbs looked uncomfortable. “If you’d like to follow me, sir, we can continue the tour in--”
“No, thank you, Kobbs. I feel that I’ve already gotten the tour. If you’d just show me the way out...?”
Tathis Kedder lived just north of the Navy District, off the Southeast Corridor in the Garfield District. Derec left the strips near the apartment complex a little before twelve, an hour early for his appointment with Kedder. He had given himself plenty of time.
The complex was a collection of blocks arranged at different levels, heights, and orientations. Walkways, stairs, and balconies threaded throughout the mass like complicated three-dimensional mazes. Derec had once considered taking rooms here. It was an enclave for midlevel professionals like Kedder. He had been unsurprised to discover that Joler Hammis also lived here.
After receiving Hammis’s resume, Derec had been unable to get in touch with the man. He had left messages asking Hammis to call him back, let him know if he had found other employment, or just to talk. Ariel’s insistence that no one at the Calvin Institute had issued any such directive about “transition errors” made Derec curious about where those orders had come from. Kedder had obviously not questioned them, but Hammis had struck Derec as the sort who might question anything.
He went to Hammis’s apartment first. He mounted the steps and went up to the third level of Hammis’s block, found the number, and pressed the bell. He waited nearly a minute before pressing it again.
“It’s probably available if you want it.”
A man stood at the open door of the next apartment, a few meters further down the walkway. He was neatly dressed and carried a small case, large enough for a custom datum. Derec thought: Lawyer.
“Mr. Hammis is no longer living here?”
“Moved out three days ago,” the man said, punching a code into his own door. “He complained about the job market, but Joler didn’t strike me as the type to stay unemployed for long. He probably found something and swee--” he made a flying gesture to go with the half-whistle “--gone. Check with the housing authority.”
The man smiled and walked past Derec to the steps and descended out of sight.
Derec punched the code for the complex housing authority into the scanner beside the door. The small screen came up with a bright pink MAY I HELP YOU? Derec entered the apartment number and pressed ENTER. A menu came up: RESIDENT, AVAILABILITY, OTHER. Derec touched AVAILABILITY.
NOT CURRENTLY AVAILABLE.
Derec stared at the door for a time, debating if it would be worth the trouble to break in. He checked his watch--he still had forty minutes till his meeting with Kedder--and pulled out his decrypter.
Within two minutes, the device unlocked the door. Derec did a reflexive inspection of the walkway, then entered Hammis’s apartment.
It did not look vacated so much as abandoned. Clothes lay scattered over the floor, a plate with days-old remains set beside a cup with a few centimeters of coffee on a table covered with disks and scraps of paper. The comline contained several calls in the message queue. Even to Derec it was obvious that Hammis had not moved out.
He walked from room to room, stepping quietly and carefully, touching nothing.
The place was disheveled, but it did not quite look ransacked. Derec returned to the living room and examined the scattered paper on the table. He recognized algorithms, a few scribbled notes on pathways--could be positronic, could be N--and a pair of pamphlets half-buried under the disks. He eased one out and opened it.
Derec felt his scalp tingle coldly as he read.
ORDER FOR THE SUPREMACY OF MAN AGAIN
The ancient and honorable struggle to free Humankind from its own delusions and the chains such delusions become has never been more difficult and demanding as it is today. Now the battle must be fought with information systems and the very tools we have created to aid us in overcoming nature itself. To this end, OSMA has dedicated itself to the cause of resisting wherever possible, and by whatever means seem most appropriate, the subjugation of humans by machines, systems, or the seductive and pernicious ideologies such seeming-innocuous constructs require to come into existence in the first place.
Derec dropped the pamphlet back on the table and looked around the room for any other sign of Managins. After a few minutes, he picked the paper up again, folded it, and slipped it into his pocket.
He checked that no one was on the walkway when he left, then headed quickly to the other side of the complex, to his appointment with Kedder. The two had worked together. Maybe Kedder knew something about Hammis. Perhaps he suspected Hammis of being the method by which the Managins had gotten into Union Station with weapons. In any case, Derec felt relieved to be out of Hammis’s apartment. He made himself walk at a normal pace, conscious of his quick, adrenalized strides.
Calm down, he told himself, it could mean anything. Millions of people probably have these pamphlets, it doesn’t mean they’re all Managins.
But what did it really take to be one? Perhaps most people were not officially members of OSMA, but certainly most of people on Earth sympathized with them--at least where it concerned robotics.
He was still ten minutes early when he knocked on Kedder’s door. The scanner came on.
“Yes?”
“Derec Avery, Mr. Kedder.”
“Oh. Um, yes. One moment.” The door slid aside and Kedder blinked at him. He was barefoot and looked as though he were still waking up. He smiled sheepishly at Derec, then stood to one side.
“Please.”
Derec stepped into the apartment. It was much neater than Hammis’s.
“Your coworker seems to have moved out, Mr. Kedder,” Derec said. “He lost his job, I understand.” Derec turned.
Hammis stood by the door, looking frightened and apologetic. Beside him were two men, dressed in black, hoods covering their heads.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Avery,” Kedder said.
Derec bolted for the back of the apartment and the rear exit.
Something caught his shins just through the first doorway and he slammed heavily onto the floor. Before he could stand, bodies crushed him. He struggled until something cool touched his neck and numbness spread throughout his body.
_
TWENTY-FIVE
Ariel disliked using Derec’s robot. She made the call to Special Service--anonymously, routed through a comline far from the embassy--with misgivings. They were sending a robot to lie to humans. There was no other way to look at it and her absolutist soul chafed at the idea.
Hofton looked briefly surprised when she walked into the reception area, the crate with the contraband brain under her arm. He smiled and followed her into her office.
The door closed. “The keeper visits the zoo,” he said. “I trust you’ve been well?”
Ariel looked at him
. “It’s been busy?” She placed the crate under her desk. She was not really sure why she had brought it, other than she did not feel comfortable leaving it in her apartment anymore.
“Moderately.”
“I’ve been handling some of it from home,” she said, sitting down behind her desk. It had only been a couple of days and yet it seemed much longer. “What have you got?”
“Setaris has called at least eight times a day. Most of her questions I’ve been able to handle, primarily to do with the migration of Aurorans off Earth.”
“How many?”
“Nearly six hundred in the last two days.”
Ariel stared at him. “I thought”
“It seems that the TBI interrogated a few of our key citizens. They decided to leave immediately after. Others, not unexpectedly, followed.”
“Who in particular?”
“I have a list...” Hofton fussed briefly with Ariel’s terminal. “There. And at the top--”
“Guviya Tralen. Damn!” She stabbed at her comline. “What business did the TBI have interrogating her?”
“Her complaint was quite specific. They wanted to know who she knew among ‘her kind’--I quote--who would want to disrupt the conference.”
“Get me a schedule of everything else I need to tend to, Hofton. This call is private.”
“Of course.”
Hofton retreated from the office and Ariel stared in rage at the screen until a secretary appeared.
“I want to speak to Jonis Taprin.”
“I’m sorry--” the secretary began.
“This is Ariel Burgess from the Auroran Embassy. He will want to take this call. Trust me.”
“One moment, Ms. Burgess.”
TBI...? I thought Special Service had assumed complete authority? Well, never assume anything on Earth...
Nearly two minutes elapsed before Jonis appeared; even at that, Ariel was surprised. Under other circumstances, she would have been pleased.
“Ariel,” he said, smiling broadly. “How very good to hear from you, I’ve been--”
“What the hell is going on, Jonis? The TBI is rousting Aurorans.”
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