by Isaac Asimov
“So he’s a bright boy. What happens when Mikels gets out?”
“That’s what we’re all waiting for,” Kelvy said. “Already there’s been nervous trading. Towne might have to pull another magic trick to keep the company from devouring itself in a proxy war if he decides to fight Mikels. He has managed to replace two of the board members with his own supporters. The others... well, you just never know how these people will jump. Towne has proven himself. Mikels is bringing a lot of baggage to the table and may be unable to reclaim the chair.”
“Do you think there will be a war?”
“Towne is ambitious, Mikels is the old bull. You tell me. The psychology is certainly volatile.”
Coren considered. “So how far has Imbitek stock fallen since Mikels’ release was announced?”
Kelvy grinned at him appreciatively. “Eighteen points. Not a disaster. Yet.”
“Still. Is Towne buying?”
She shook her head. “Not that I know of. Imbitek has started slowing down some its outside investment, too. Odd. As of a month ago, their regular cash allocations for new stocks virtually dried up. If I didn’t know better, I’d say they’re having serious cash flow problems.”
“Why do you know better?”
“Two months ago, Imbitek sold off one of its subsidiaries for an enormous profit. They haven’t paid a dividend on it yet because it was the beginning of the quarter, so all that money is just sitting somewhere. Towne gave himself and everyone on the board merit increases–modest ones, not the sort you see when a company is in trouble and the management is salting away the spoils before the end.”
“In other words, their expenses haven’t risen substantially.”
“Right. So I doubt they actually have a problem with cash. They even paid back a couple of longterm loans.”
“War chest.”
Kelvy frowned.
“Myler Towne wants to keep his new position, “Coren said. “He’s preparing for a war. What are Alda Mikels’ people doing while all this is going on?”
“A lot of them left the firm. A lot of them were asked to leave. Those who left have been drumming up support among the shareholders, advocating Mikels as the better choice as Chairman.”
Coren tapped his fingers on the armrest. “What subsidiary did they sell off?”
“Captras Biomed.”
“Who bought it?”
“A consortium of private investors. I’d have to do some prying to find out who. They bid anonymously.”
“Could you, please? I’m very interested.”
Kelvy nodded, frowning.
“One more thing. Do you remember a bio research company called Nova Levis?”
“Sounds familiar. Old, gone now?”
“Yes. It shut down several years ago. I wondered if it might be possible to get a list of its investors.”
“That would be a matter of public record.”
“Not the real names,” Coren said. “A lot of investors go on record through a front. The fronts are public. I want to know who really owned shares.”
“All right. How soon do you need it?”
“Same time I need to know who bought Captras.”
Kelvy smiled. “Ah-hah. Yesterday. Do we have time, then, for dinner?”
“I’d like that...”
“... but not tonight.” She shrugged. “Oh, well. I’m just your broker, not anyone special. Your future lies in my hands every day, but you shouldn’t be over-felicitous on that account.”
“Have I ever pointed out that you use a very questionable technique?”
“Several techniques, under the proper circumstances. I hope to show you more of them sometime.” She smiled. “It’ll be worth the wait. I’ll get you this information by tomorrow morning. Soon enough?”
“That will do nicely. Thank you.”
Kelvy pointed a finger at him. “We have plans?”
Coren grinned. “We have plans.”
“Shoo, then. I have work to do.”
Coren left her office. The plaza fronting the brokerage was filling up with second-shift on its way to work. Coren crossed to the walkways and stepped smoothly to the third lane.
He commed his office.
“Has Jeta Fromm contacted me yet?”
“No,” replied the Desk.
Damn! “Any other messages?”
“Ambassador Ariel Burgess wishes you to call her as soon as possible. Mr. Doppler from Data Recovery Systems wishes you to contact him at your convenience.”
Doppler...? Data Recovery Systems was the clearing house that had originally supplied him with Jeta Fromm. Coren closed the link to his Desk and tapped in Doppler’s code.
“This is Lanra.”
“Mr. Lanra, forgive the intrusion,” replied a smooth, androgynous voice. “There has been a... complication with our recent service. We’ve been trying to repair any possible harm that has resulted.” Doppler’s hesitancy made it clear that he felt embarrassed. “I wish to confirm that our service to you was acceptable. The operative your office has been attempting to locate–”
“Jeta Fromm.”
“Yes, sir. Um... this is quite awkward...”
“You haven’t been able to find her,” Coren guessed.
“In fact, we haven’t even tried. She has become no longer available, having ended her association with us three months ago. We are trying to determine a chronology so that service to our clients is not compromised.”
“Three months. That was before I retained her.”
“Yes, sir,” Doppler confirmed.
“You ‘re telling me that she wasn’t even working for your company when she initially responded to my commission. And no one thought to inform me?”
Doppler seemed to clear his throat. “Regrettably so. I realize that excuses fail to compensate in this circumstance, but our system suffered an... intrusion... which kept us from monitoring certain files adequately. It wasn’t until recently that we were able to restore the data and determine the nature of all the errors. I hope you understand.”
Coren briefly felt cold. “I do, indeed. Am I the only person she contacted after she broke her ties with you?”
“No, sir, there were several others. I am not, of course, at liberty to discuss their files.”
“Of course not. Discretion is your reputation.”
“Something like that. I also wanted to warn you that, under these unusual circumstances, whatever data you received from Ms. Fromm would be highly questionable. Our usual reimbursement policy is in effect, of course, but we will not guarantee the quality of the product.”
“That’s... problematic. Thank you for the call, Mr. Doppler.”
“I hope this will not put you off using us in future.”
“Of course not.”
The link broke. Coren pocketed the comm. Jeta Fromm was dead. The question was when. Had he even met with her to begin with?
He watched the warrens pass by–shops, offices, home kitchens, girders, plazas, balconies. Block upon cube upon struts, mounding up to a hazy murk high above. The lights shone brilliant blue-white through the mists that formed near the upper elevations, delimiting the volume by showing everyone the ceiling of the cave. Inside. Tunnels, corridors, a maze of interconnected structure, involuted and self-cannibalizing over time, filling and refilling, home to billions, contained, giving the illusion of safety and accessibility. So easy to get from one place to another, it was all In Here, and the ways all clearly marked. No part of the world was cut off from any other. You could in principle reach anyone, anytime, by any of ten or a hundred pathways.
But not if they were dead.
If he had not lost his optam, he would have at least had something visual to run through–especially the humans that had accompanied the stealth robot. Odd, he was beginning to think of the robot as having been in charge.
Going through Damik had been the only way he could think of to find the people Nyom might have gone through, but that had led him into areas that
seemed unrelated to Nyom’s death.
So why pursue them? he wondered.
Because it felt connected. Because he saw Rega Looms’ name on a list of investors of a company that he would today condemn as a morally questionable enterprise, a company with the same name as the colony his daughter had been murdered while trying to emigrate to. Because Looms had made the same remark as a man Coren had never even heard of till today. Because all these unrelated details felt related. He just could not see how. Yet.
The rule by which he had always worked was, when stuck for the next move, ask more questions.
Why did Damik go see Wenithal?
Coren certainly had names from the Wenithal connection, but not the ones he had expected and none he could do anything with, at least not immediately.
Unless I just can’t see it...
He glanced at his watch, then pulled out his comm again.
A few connections later, Ariel Burgess answered.
“Coren Lanra, Ambassador.”
“Mr. Lanra, thank you for returning my call. I think we need to talk.”
“I couldn’t agree more. In person?”
“That would be best.” She paused. “Are you busy this evening?”
“I have no way of knowing yet. What did you have in mind?”
“I’ve been invited to an embassy dinner this evening. I have the option of bringing a guest of my choosing. Would you be interested?”
“At your embassy?”
“The Auroran embassy, yes.”
Coren hesitated. This sounded like a complete waste of time, but he had no other ideas past talking to Damik. “Um...”
“There will be other Terrans present, Mr. Lanra, it isn’t that sort of dinner. I believe it could be very interesting. Even informative. It would be a favor to me if you’d agree.”
“Will Ambassador Chassik be there?”
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“Something I stumbled on today. I suppose this will be formal?”
“Of course.”
“I have an errand to run up in the Baltimor District. I’m not sure how long that will take and I’ll have to change before I meet you.”
“We have an excellent tailor on the premises, Mr. Lanra.”
“Two, three hours then?”
A pause. “I can make that work. There will be an escort in the main lobby to bring you to my apartment.”
“Then I’ll see you later this evening.”
“Thank you.”
The link broke. Dinner with the enemy? he mused. He laughed softly to himself as he headed for a commuter station.
Brun Damik’s apartment was on the fourth level of an expensive block in what had once been an exclusive warren. Though other parts of the urban complex now superseded it as the place to live, it still bespoke class and elegance, and far more credit than Damik ought to possess.
Police lounged in the corridor. Coren felt a sudden hollowness. One of the officers approached him, hand on the butt of her department-issue stunner, and Coren automatically held up his ID with the investigator’s license appended.
“Inspector Capel is in charge, Mr. Lanra,” she said, gesturing through the door.
The living room contained little furniture, but all of it looked expensive. Coren glimpsed the label on the entertainment array and quickly calculated the significant fraction of his annual income the system would have eaten. Forensic recorders drifted slowly over the stone-tile floor. A huddle of plainclothes police stood with their backs to a wall-length image of black, white, gray, and ivory blocks of various proportions that gradually exchanged places. The detectives stopped talking when Coren approached.
“Coren Lanra,” he said, showing his ID again. “I’m looking for Inspector Capel?”
One of the men took his ID and examined it casually. He was slightly shorter than Coren, grayish hair a fine dusting across his broad skull. His eyes were a bright, almost artificial green. “Private security,” he said, handing it back. “Do you have business here?”
“I’m not sure yet. I’m an acquaintance of Brun Damik.”
The inspector blinked twice, then nodded. “Come with me,” he said. “I’m Capel.”
He led Coren to Damik’s bedroom. Coren surveyed it quickly, noting the pair of uniformed police going through the wall-length closet and the bank of drawers. The bed was enormous, cobalt blue sheets rumpled. Coren saw no sign of blood.
“In here,” Capel said, continuing on to the bathroom.
Damik sat propped on the toilet, hands dangling. Coren stared, shocked at the condition of the body. Bruises covered most of Damik’s torso and thighs; his eyes were swollen shut, lips black and inflated. The head sat at an odd angle and Coren noticed the thick line of purpling around the neck. The only blood came from the holes where Damik’s ears had been attached.
“They’re in the sink,” Capel said, guessing Coren’s question. “These apartments are completely soundproofed. Surveillance shows no one entering or leaving. before or after Brun Damik came home last night. Preliminaries indicate that sixty to seventy percent of his bones are broken–the spine is holding him up, if you’re wondering–and several major organs are ruptured.” Capel wheeled on him. “Your card says Special Service, so I’m not even going to try to be clever with you. Let me ask right out: what are you doing here?”
Coren closed his eyes. He had never grown the callouses other veterans claimed came after seeing enough dead bodies, but the nausea he once experienced no longer reached the point of muddling his thinking. The hollowness he felt upon seeing police here acquired a sour tang, and his conscience suggested that this was his fault for having visited Damik recently. He drew a deep breath.
“My employer is running for office,” he said. “Rega Looms. I’m following up possible embarrassments.”
Capel nodded as if Coren had just passed a test. “What could Brun Damik have done to embarrass Rega Looms?”
“Nothing, directly.”
“But...?”
“But...” Coren glanced over his shoulder as to make sure he and Capel were out of earshot. He stepped closer. “Looms’ daughter has been known to play at smuggling from time to time.”
“Baleys. We know. So you’re covering for him by trying to find his daughter.” Capel pursed his lips. “Could this be the result of your investigation?”
“I honestly can’t see how.”
Capel stepped closer to Damik’s body. “He was tortured. Somebody did this over a four-or five-hour period.” He looked up. “How well did you know him?”
“We worked together in Special Service several years ago. He was competent. His tastes ran a little rich, though.”
“Rich enough to accept perks?”
Coren made an inclusive gesture, indicating the opulence of the apartment. Capel grunted, agreeing.
“Was he supposed to have some information for you?”
“I don’t know. I spoke to him yesterday. He wasn’t very helpful. I was coming back to try again.”
“Somebody beat you to it.” Capel sighed. “I don’t expect to get everything you might be able to tell me, Mr. Lanra, and I don’t doubt you have a very good attorney, working for Rega Looms, so I won’t even think about detaining you. I’m going to rely on your integrity as a former cop to tell me what I need to know. I’m not naive enough to believe I’m even going to get that, so we’ll pretend for the moment that we’re actually working on the same side and that you wouldn’t obstruct my investigation.”
“Believe me, Inspector, I don’t have a clue who did this. Or why.”
Capel nodded. “It is excessive, especially for baleys. But who knows? This is politics, right? Maybe someone knows something about Looms’ daughter that could hurt him.” He shrugged. “It’s a stretch. But all the other ideas I have don’t explain this any better. Some sadistic shit tortured this man. That transcends jealousy, crime of passion, payback on a bad debt. Nothing explains it. Not even politics, really, unless he knew something.�
�
“Torture is not a very reliable way of getting useful information.”
“That’s true. So we’re left with revenge or someone sending a message.”
“A message?”
“The question is, from whom to who? And why? Does Rega Looms know Brun Damik?”
“I seriously doubt it.”
“And I doubt Rega Looms knows the particulars of your work right now. He’s busy campaigning.”
“Correct.”
“So could this be a message for you?”
Coren studied Damik’s corpse. If this was a message, it failed. Graphic, certainly, but the intent was buried in the bruises.
“If it is,” he said, “I can’t interpret it. There is a third possibility.”
“Yes?”
“Pleasure. Someone enjoyed doing this.”
Capel shuddered. “I do not even want to consider that. Not yet; hopefully, not ever.”
Coren understood. A truly sick mind was one of the most difficult to track down, and when caught, it was difficult to know what to do next. But he agreed with Capel–this was a message.
“May I look around?” Coren asked.
Capel stared silently at Damik for a long moment, till Coren thought he had not heard. Then: “Sure. You know better than to touch anything and so forth.”
“Thank you.”
He backed out of the bathroom and looked across the bedroom at the police still riffling through the immense closet. Not sure where to begin, Coren walked around the bed and immediately touched something.
The sheets were expensive. Imports, Coren guessed. Damik would have been in an ideal position to help himself to whatever black market goods came through. Who would challenge him, especially if he was reasonably careful and not too greedy? He was not selling anything, as far as Coren knew. If he had been, he would have been living in a private enclave, with better security. No, Damik was not that corrupt. It had been clear even in Special Service that Damik was interested only in personal comfort, not the extra work illicit business would bring. He was a taker, not a dealer. It did not appear to Coren that he could have affected anybody’s bottom line. Not enough to warrant an assassination.