Asimov’s Future History Volume 9

by Isaac Asimov

  Coren Lanra shuddered, from weariness and despair.

  Nyom...

  The Hunter Group owned the warehouses. They owned Kysler Diversified, which now owned Nova Levis. Apparently they also owned the colony Nova Levis–or Cassus Thole, whichever name it went by. Alda Mikels owned a good piece of that.

  Coren rubbed his eyes and looked down the avenue to the innocuous entrance at the T-crossing. Myler Towne lived behind that door. Coren fished a pill from another pocket and popped it into his mouth. He had waited till he knew what he wanted from Towne before taking the stim. Now he was ready. He waited for the clarity and temporary strength and the illusion of rested power.

  It came like a coolness over his skin, a slight increase in hearing sensitivity, and an internal rush in his muscles. He pushed away from the wall and started down the street.

  Towne wore a deep green dressing gown and sat in an enormous wingbacked chair that he still managed to dwarf.

  Del Socras stood within arm’s length of Coren. He had supervised a very thorough search of Coren before bringing him to see Towne. Coren felt uneasy without any weapons.

  “Unusual hour for you, Mr. Lanra,” Towne said. “Or maybe not. It is for me, certainly.”

  “Sorry if this is inconvenient for you,” Coren said. “But I think we need to talk.”

  “I agree. Have you given my proposal further consideration?”

  “Some. I’m afraid I have to turn you down for the most part.”

  Towne raised his eyebrows. “‘The most part’? Intriguing choice of words.”

  “I find that I’ve done work for you in the course of doing my job. I need to know a few things, though, to be sure.”

  “Are you suggesting I owe you compensation?”

  “I may send you a bill. But for now, let’s just see how much what I’ve done is worth to you.”

  Towne waved his hand as if to say “continue” and eased further back in his chair.

  “Alda Mikels is trying to oust you from the chairmanship of Imbitek. He may also be trying to kill you, but he’s certainly trying to frighten you.”

  Towne frowned and glanced at Socras. Coren felt the bodyguard’s presence fade. When he glanced back, Socras was gone.

  “How did you arrive at this conclusion?”

  “Circuitously. Someone killed Rega Looms’ daughter. I’m trying to find out who.”

  “Do you think Mikels is involved in that?”

  “Directly? No. But it was his people.”

  “And who are they?”

  “I don’t have names... yet. But they all work for the Hunter Group, in one way or another. So does Mikels.”

  Towne steepled his fingers below his chin and stared at Coren for a long time. “You are either very diligent or very lucky, Mr. Lanra. The Hunter Group wants to buy Imbitek. I’ve no doubt Alda is behind the attempt. Even for them, we’re a bit too large and perhaps too dangerous.”

  “Who are they?”

  “On Earth? They own shipping companies and warehouses, that’s about it. Off Earth, however, they are one of the largest consortiums in the Settlers’ worlds. Fewer rules, more places to move things when the law tries to compensate for the newness of the colonies. They own a little of every kind of industry. No one worried about it two or three centuries ago, before Terrans began to go out to space once more, and only Spacers existed away from the homeworld. It’s fairly brutal business out there now. Mind you, I don’t quite understand why Hunter wants us–they own comparable firms on several worlds. Maybe it was a prize for Alda.”

  “He got them Captras Biomed.”

  Towne sighed and dropped his hands. “You are very well informed. That’s disappointing. I spent a lot of money trying to keep that news from spreading.”

  “Why did you want to get rid of Captras in the first place?”

  “No real applications. I’m trying to consolidate Imbitek, streamline the company, get us back to our base product. Most of the things Captras produces have no use here–they’re all exports.”

  “There’s money in that.”

  “There was money in it for Alda, he had the connections. We’ve been running into higher and higher losses.”

  “Hunter?” Coren asked.

  “It’s my opinion that Hunter is the legitimate face of the pirate consortiums. Alda has been doing business with them for years, perhaps decades. Alda wants the chair back, but I won’t give it to him. I have the shareholders on my side.”

  “But he has Hunter.”

  “Exactly. So I thought, just to irritate him and give us a better position in the field, it would be smart to get rid of our albatrosses. I set up a sale for the company with what I had thought was an independent group of investors. Too late I found out that Hunter was backing them.” He shrugged. “I still got my price, Imbitek shares increased in value, and the last poll among shareholders showed a higher degree of confidence in my leadership.”

  “So now he’s trying to kill you.”

  “It appears that way.” Towne narrowed his eyes. “What did Nyom Looms have to do with all this?”

  “She was running baleys.”

  Towne’s face went slack. “I see. That’s unfortunate.”

  “You hired a data troll to find some minutes of old board meetings Mikels chaired. She was threatened when she started looking, so she planned to leave Earth. The group of baleys she intended going with was murdered–including Nyom.”

  “Then I can only say that she was collateral damage. I can’t imagine anyone would want to kill her. Not anyone involved in all this.”

  “No? Did you know Rega Looms was an initial investor in Nova Levis?”

  Another shock registered on Towne’s face. “No, I did not. I know almost nothing about Nova Levis.”

  “But you know which one I’m talking about.”

  Towne shrugged. “The colony holds no interest for me.”

  “It’s interesting that you don’t have more concern for Nova Levis, though. Your mother was also a primary shareholder.”

  “So? That doesn’t mean I was ever privy to the company’s workings.”

  “The company’s material became Captras Biomed.”

  Towne pursed his lips. “A little knowledge... The minutes I hired the troll to find concerned exactly that transaction. I know what products Captras started out with, but there was more to Nova Levis than that, and those records were missing by the time I joined Imbitek. Captras was Alda’s pet project, and apparently it has returned to its owner.”

  “The minutes?”

  “Concerned several topics of a clandestine nature, but none of them Nova Levis. Quite a bit concerned Hunter.”

  “Oh? What connection was that?”

  “Weapons, apparently. Hunter deals in arms among the colonies.”

  Coren nodded. “And now they have a very good bioweapons company.”

  “They already had one.”

  “Decompilers.”

  “You saw the results of one such misapplication the other day.” Towne heaved himself out of his chair. “So. Are you working for me now or not?”

  “I’m working for myself at the moment. When I’ve finished, maybe we can talk.”

  “Good. What changed your mind about Mr. Looms?”

  “I don’t take well to being lied to,” Coren said.

  “I see. Then, with that in mind, let me tell you this: One of Imbitek’s many... subsidiary interests... is in baleys. I learned upon assuming the chairmanship that we–plus two or three other firms–run illicit trade through a variety of avenues. Nothing direct, purely through ancillary personnel, many of whom do not even know they work for us. I’ve been looking into shutting all this down, but not fast enough. Alda’s people have been attacking several of our illicit ventures, including the baley running. In the last ten months we’ve lost eighteen shipments of baleys. We recovered three of them. They were all dead.”

  He stepped closer to Coren. “Your Mr. Looms’ daughter was apparently using one o
f our egresses. The murderers were attacking me, Mr. Lanra.” He blinked furiously. “I’m... sorry.”

  For a few seconds, Coren felt something like pity for Towne. He believed that the man truly was sorry. “I appreciate your honesty, Mr. Towne.”

  “One more thing, then. I didn’t acquire those minutes through the data troll I hired–she never returned to me with the requested information. I used another source to obtain them. I have no idea where that troll went.”

  “Her name was Jeta Fromm.”

  “Yes.”

  “How long ago did you hire her?”

  “Almost four months ago.”

  Coren nodded. “That’s useful to know, too.”

  “I hope we can do business soon, Mr. Lanra.”

  Coren walked away from the warren, hands in his pockets, unsatisfied. He knew more now, but, though it made sense on the surface, he felt he still did not know enough.

  Where did Nyom’s brother come into all this?

  He stopped across from a walkway access and looked around at the nearly-deserted plaza. Third shift would be ending soon and people would be filling the moving walks and the corridors and their way home or to work.

  His comm chirped.

  “Lanra.”

  “Ariel, Coren. Where are you?”

  “Um...”

  “You need to come here. Things have changed. Your friend Palen is no longer in charge, and the TBI have assumed command of the investigation on Kopernik. Derec’s in detention.”

  Coren sighed. “I need sleep. Do you think that can be arranged?”

  “As long as you do it quickly.”

  “I’ll do what I can. I’ll be there soon.”

  Twenty-Three

  DEREC OPENED HIS eyes in the half-light of sleep mode. The lights had dimmed shortly after Masid had left his cell. Derec lay awake for some time, mulling over what Masid had told him, and had gradually drifted off to sleep.

  He raised himself on his elbows and stared across the corridor to Masid’s cell. Masid seemed still asleep on his cot. Derec sat up and rubbed his eyes, wondering what had awakened him. He yawned. He went to the bowl in the corner and relieved himself.

  He turned around, resealing his pants, and started at the shape staring at him through the cell door.

  It was tall, broad across the shoulders, with long arms that hung to the sides. A pale halo outlined a bald head but left the face in darkness. It wore a long overcoat that fell nearly to its ankles.

  It. Derec could not consider it otherwise. His subconscious labeled it as kindred to what Coffee had witnessed in the cargo bin, even though it bore no overt resemblance.

  Derec swallowed hard.

  It walked away from the door. Derec rushed forward and pressed his face to the mesh. He saw it walking toward the far end, to the cell of the new inmate.

  “Hey!” Derec shouted. “Somebody! Intruder!”

  With startling speed, it spun around and returned to Derec’s cell. Derec staggered back.

  It placed a hand against the door, fingers splayed. The air suddenly smelled faintly of ozone. The door slid open with a sudden crack.

  “Shit,” Derec breathed.

  It seemed to fill the cell, head nearly brushing the ceiling. Derec wanted to yell, to argue, deny it the right to do this. He imagined slipping past it, breaking into the corridor, and fleeing; he was smaller and it seemed to be moving so slowly. Coolness spread over his thighs, down his calves, then across his shoulders, up his neck and across his scalp. He felt the beginnings of quivering somewhere around his spine.

  It raised one arm and opened a hand, took another step forward. Derec could make out details in its face now and he thought he recognized it. Human face, but wrong, damaged...

  “Looking for me?” Masid suddenly called out.

  It frowned, then whirled about and stepped toward the cell door.

  A brilliant scalding flash erupted around it. It dropped to one knee, staggered, and started to rise. Another flash. Derec flinched and backed up against the wall. The ozone smell was gone, replaced now by burning. He heard a roar, deep-throated and grainy, as if sound were being forced through too small a larynx, and heard the crackle then of a blaster, saw the reddish glow through closed eyelids. Dark ness. Crackle, glow... and stillness.

  “Derec.”

  He blinked furiously, trying to focus on the voice. Masid. Derec looked at the door of his cell. A man stood there now, the angled shape of a weapon in one hand.

  “Are you all right?” Derec asked.

  Masid snorted, amused. “I’m supposed to ask you that.”

  “Um...” Derec pushed away from the wall. His legs felt slightly disconnected from his hips, but he could walk. Glad I pissed first, he thought, and laughed at himself. “Sure. I’m... not hurt...”

  He caught the edge of the cell door and gripped it tightly.

  Masid smelled faintly of sweat. He nodded toward a shape on the corridor floor.

  The cyborg lay crookedly sprawled, its coat spread out beneath it like a pool of blood in the half-light. Smoke wafted from its shoulders and chest.

  “My apologies,” Masid said. “I was asleep till you yelled.” He frowned. “Was it coming for you?”

  “No, it...” Derec swallowed again and gestured toward the far end of the block. “It was heading for the new inmate.”

  “That’s not what was supposed to happen,” Masid said grumpily. “We expected someone to come for me.”

  The lights came full-on then.

  The sound of running feet filled the corridor. Masid turned suddenly and hissed.

  “Well, my cover’s blown,” he said sotto voce to Derec.

  Derec pointed at the corpse. “They can see it now.”

  People flooded around them. Palen stopped at the foot of the dead thing. Harwol stared from a few steps back.

  Derec managed to walk toward it. The quivering centered now in his chest, along his sides, and over his pelvis, but he could move reasonably well.

  Masid had shot it four times. Each hit was clear by the ugly burn on left shoulder, sternum, right side of the neck, and scalp. Bloody red patches mingled with ashen black. Fibers curled out of the wounds. Cloth and skin were seared together and blue, gray, and worm-white veins shot through the bubbled centers of the patches. Derec felt acid at the back of his throat, but swallowed it back.

  The eyes were open. They looked strangely perfect, like exquisite copies of real eyes. No moisture, no veins in the whites, and now the irises were slightly different sizes. But the radial patterns of the dull gray pupils seemed precisely symmetrical.

  The skin showed irregularities, like acne scars or old injuries that still contained fragments of whatever had done damage.

  “Is this like the thing we saw in the recovered memories?” Palen asked.

  “I–” Derec had to swallow again. “I wouldn’t be surprised. It opened my cell door by shorting out the lock.”

  Reluctantly, he lifted the hand that had done the job and turned it over. Wires showed, spread over the palm. Derec pushed back the sleeve; the wiring ran up the arm.

  “It shouldn’t have been able to open it,” Palen said.

  “Was your Brethe dealer’s door shorted?”

  Palen nodded. “We reprogrammed them then to remain shut in the event of a short.”

  “What did you see on surveillance?”

  “Nothing. Until your door opened. Then Masid came out of his cell. But this...” she gestured at the body between them. “Nothing.”

  “It would be interesting to know how...”

  Derec pulled the coat back from its shoulder. A small control box was attached to the shirt.

  “Damn,” Agent Harwol said.

  “What?” Palen asked.

  “That,” Harwol pointed at the box. “You said masking technology, Mr. Avery. That’s it. Military spec, alternating wavelength... stolen.”

  “Black market?” Palen asked.

  Harwol nodded solemnly.

>   “Stolen military tech isn’t the worrisome part,” Derec said. “Whoever supplied it is also dealing in cyborgs.”

  They all stared at him, expressions carefully neutral, the studied look of law enforcement unwilling to show worry when they were likely more than a little scared. Derec tasted acid once more and walked away, willing himself to not throw up in front of such pointless professionalism.

  He stopped, staring at the cell at the far end. The man there sat on his cot, watching, face pale. After a few seconds, Derec went up to his cell door.

  “So, who are you?” Derec asked. This close, he looked familiar.

  “Who wants to know?” the man snapped back.

  The voice, combined with that face... It took a few seconds for Derec to put it all together.

  It was the dockworker from Petrabor. The one shown in the memories of the DW-12.

  “Why was Gamelin coming to kill you?” he asked.

  The man’s face turned even paler. He stood abruptly and went to the back of his cell.

  “What’s going on?” Masid asked, coming up alongside him.

  Derec gestured at the inmate. “This one worked the dock in Petrabor, middleman to those dead baleys. Who is he?”

  “Yuri Pocivil,” Palen said, joining them. “Coren sent me his records. He’s been looking for him. We picked him up in the Settler section.”

  “You mean, “Masid said, with mock indignation, “that thing was coming to kill you and not me? All my careful planning and baiting went for nothing?”

  Pocivil just glared back at them.

  “We have to talk, “Masid said to him. “What did you do to piss these people off?”

  “I’m not saying anything to you,” Pocivil said.

  “Then maybe we should just release you now,” Palen said, “and let you take your chances.”

  Pocivil looked away. Suddenly, he lurched to his toilet and began heaving. The sound reminded Derec of his own urge. He walked quickly away.

  He managed to suppress it, though he kept walking. No one called out or tried to stop him from leaving the cell block. He emerged into the security station. Everyone had gone into the corridor, leaving the consoles untended. Derec sat down before a bank of monitors, grateful to be off his feet.