by Isaac Asimov
“So you did know he was dead?” Coren asked.
Mikels started to stand again. “I think our talk is over, gentlemen–”
Coren took the folder Capel had brought with him. Before the inspector could stop him, he walked quickly up to Mikels, slid the picture out, and held it before the industrialist. Mikels stared at it for a long time.
“Do you know her?” Coren asked.
“No.” Mikels looked worried now.
“Have you ever seen a body look like that? I’ve seen a few recently. Something–or someone–crushed them. Must be an incredibly painful way to die.”
“What does this have to do with me?”
“Whoever did this can slip in and out of secured areas undetected. Some kind of military-grade masking tech. I even know of one victim who was in jail, and no records exist of her death. None.”
Mikel’s eyes flicked to Capel.
“Why don’t you sit down again, Mr. Mikels,” the inspector said.
Mikels sank back to the chair.
Coren turned to Capel. “Here’s what I think. I think Mr. Mikels has been paying his way through Customs by way of Wenithal and Brun Damik. I think Myler Towne found out about it when he took over and started straightening Imbitek out.” He turned back to Mikels. “I think you did a quick estimate of how much this was going to cost you in future revenue and decided to oust Towne. It’s backfiring, though, and he’s more popular now than ten months ago, when he took over. So you’ve been cleaning up all the loose ends that could tie you up in litigation and further prison time if they come to light. You ‘re shutting down the baleys before he does, and you’re doing it so that it looks like it was his fault, because, after all, Imbitek is the one in charge of them, isn’t it? And you’re in jail, so how could you be doing any of it?”
“You have no proof,” Mikels said haltingly.
“Oh, but it gets better. When it looked like there was no way you could win a shareholder vote, you arranged to take over part of Imbitek, the part most profitable off Earth. You used the same people you used to funnel baleys all these years to fund the purchase of Captras Biomed. Towne tried to block the sale when he found out who was behind the purchase, but he couldn’t. To cap it off, you tried to kill him. Leave Imbitek headless and, after you get out of prison, leave the planet. Imbitek falters, you use Captras as a plat form through which to buy it out, and you end up owning it outright.” Coren grinned wolfishly. “Stock transactions leave a pretty good trail for those who can read it.”
Mikels grunted. “You have an excellent imagination. Why should any of this cause me to help you?”
“Because I think you may become a loose end yourself. All this is going on and the profits are rolling and you’re still in jail. Someone is going to be thinking pretty soon that you’re superfluous.”
“Why would they think that?”
“Because it just might occur to them that they already have Captras Biomed. What do they need you for? To run it? At this point, you’re waging a private war, against Myler Towne, to hurt a company that your backers no longer want. This isn’t good for profits.”
Now Mikels reacted nervously.
“The only thing that bothers me,” Coren continued, “that I don’t understand, is where all the baleys are going and what Nova Levis has to do with any of this?”
“What does Rega want to know this for?” Mikels demanded.
“Why do you think?”
Mikels shook his head. “I don’t know. He’s been out of it for years. Why now?”
“Maybe,” Coren said slowly, taking a gamble, “it’s a family matter.”
Mikels grew still. Only the sound of breathing filled the room. When he did not answer, Coren leaned close to his ear.
“This isn’t Rega,” Coren said. “This is me. I want to know.” He leaned closer still and whispered. “Your little vendetta killed a friend of mine. A good friend. This is personal for me.”
“Just because you and Damik served together–”
Coren straightened. “Not Damik! But if you know that, then you know the rest. You killed Nyom Looms, you fuck. “He snarled. “I’m sure you know about Nyom and me. She’s dead.”
“Lanra!” Capel bellowed. “Back off–now!”
Mikel’s eyes widened. “I see. That’s unfortunate, Ms. Looms’ death, but...”
“Cyborgs,” Coren said flatly.
Mikels started. “What?”
“Cyborgs. What do you know about them?”
Mikels wiped a hand over his mouth. “May I give you some advice, Mr. Lanra? You should let this go now. You won’t help Nyom Looms anymore. All you could do would be to put yourself, your friends, and your family in danger.”
“Not really a problem. I don’t have any friends and I’m an orphan. Just like Damik.”
Mikels sighed and shook his head. “I don’t have to talk to you. But Wenithal knows everything. You can ask him. I’ve never been directly involved.”
“Is that why you’ve gone to all the trouble to buy Nova Levis?”
Capel grasped Coren’s arm. Coren shrugged him off.
Mikels looked startled, then laughed. He stood, then. “My, but you are impressive. If I thought you’d accept it, I’d offer you a job.” He walked toward the door. “If you know that much, then you know the rest. You figure it out.”
“Why infants?”
Mikels stopped. “Excuse me?”
“The thing I can’t figure out–why infants?”
Mikels shook his head. “This interview is over.”
Mikels rang the bell for release. A few moments later, the guard took him away, leaving Coren and Capel alone.
“Damn,” Coren hissed.
“What do you want to do now?” Capel asked sarcastically. “Is there anyone else you want to roust tonight before I get the full story?”
“I don’t know.” Coren stared at the door, then looked at Capel. “Don’t wait for an apology.”
“I won’t. I just wish I understood what just happened here.” He pressed a hand against Coren’s chest. “You can explain it to me, can’t you?”
“Maybe. Where do you want me to start?”
“First things first,” Capel said. “Given Mikel’s reaction to it–what’s a cyborg?”
Coren flashed a half-smile. “Well, as I understand it....”
Twenty-Five
THE CORPSE ON the table smelled cloyingly sweet. Baxin, Sipha Palen’s pathologist, directed a squad of devices while speaking aloud his findings for the recorders.
“–lungs are permeated by clusters of nodes which seem to function as storage systems for long-term oxygenation. Secondary vascular system routed through what appears to be a secondary spleen suggests waste gas disposal follows complimentary pathways for storage in... what the hell is that?”
He fidgeted nervously and glanced at Derec and Palen, who watched from the other side of the isolation screen. Baxin was perspiring slightly. His fingers worked a keypad, and the small scavengers moved on and through the body of the cyborg.
“The muscle structure is a complex interleaving of polymers and protein. Molecular bonding seems to be cyclodextrous... we have polyamide bonding along single-chain amine nitrogen... looks like it uses adipic acids to facilitate the protein interactions...”
Baxin looked at Derec and shook his head.
“I have no idea what I’m looking at,” he said. “This thing looks like it’s made of nylon and nylon analogs.”
“Myralar?”
“Yes, I’m finding a lot of that in the joints and the valves. A second pancreas that looks like an organic polymer factory... it’s producing hexamethyline diamine instead of insulin... I don’t even know why it was brought here.”
“This doesn’t look like the being in the recovered memories,” Palen said. “The skin looks... normal, I suppose.”
“Oh, that,” Baxin said. He took a pair of forceps and lifted a layer of skin from one pectoral. Instead of the red and gray of or
ganic tissue, the underside looked like graphite. “There’s a layer of composite that seems to be electrolytically active. If I run a small charge through it, the material shifts to the exterior derma.” He dropped the layer and shook his head. “It causes problems–skin irritation and infections from the look of it. That’s the source of the rough complexion.”
“In your opinion,” Palen asked, “is it at all human?”
Baxin shrugged elaborately and surveyed the body. “Sure. There’s blood, oxygenation, amino acids... I’m seeing some alternate building blocks in part of the DNA, like fluorotryptophan... but it’s at least as much a machine... a very odd machine...” He grabbed a hand and held it up. “The musculature in key areas has an underlying carbon isotope structure that responds to pressure by forming a kind of sheathe. The best comparison I have is calcium deposition in bones under stress. But that takes days or months. According to the projections I’ve got here–” he pointed at his monitors “–this responds instantly by creating a kind of exoskeleton which can be reabsorbed.” He shook his head. “In my opinion, the only thing that would define this as primarily organic is that you’d have to grow all this. You couldn’t add it onto an already extant organic structure.”
“Not at all?” Derec asked. “I mean, how early would you have to start?”
Baxin sighed and glanced at the readouts on the bank on monitors beside him. “Well, there are some problems. I’ve got an organ here that looks like a gall bladder, but as far as I can tell it’s strictly for the isolation of ammonia, which seems to be produced as a byproduct of a polymerization process. The ammonia would still be toxic if released generally, so it’s flensed from the system and fed back into the one of the spleens for venting. It’s not a perfect system–I’m seeing excess carbonic carbonyl in the duodenum that seems to be ingested to compensate for an imbalance. I’m thinking that most of this secondary polymer system was introduced before puberty, probably in infancy. You could overcome some of these problems by starting with a base genetic template and growing one from scratch, but I wouldn’t be able to tell you how. Probably the rate of breakdown would overwhelm it at that stage, so starting later might compensate for some of the flaws.”
“You don’t sound too certain, “Palen said.
“There’d have to be certain preconditions,” Baxin said. “I’m not good enough for this, Chief. I’m guessing. You need someone who understands sequencing and gene therapy.”
“What about the brain?” Derec asked. “Is it wholly organic?”
“No... well, yes... I mean, it’s oxygenated, but what I’m seeing is the presence of protonated oxygen. That would limit cell absorption considerably, except that there’s a monomer fiber strung along the vasal matrix that’s drawing particles from a small isotopic shunt in the hypothalamus.”
“What kind of particles?” Derec pressed.
“Positrons.”
Derec sensed Palen looking at him. “All right,” he said. “When you finish, I want the brain sent to the positronics lab.”
“The whole thing should’ve been sent there to begin with,” Baxin complained. “Sorry. I’ll let you know when I’ve completed my autopsy.”
“Thanks, Doctor,” Palen said. “By the way, the masking ability–”
Baxin laughed sourly. “That’s the only thing that’s easy to explain. The clothing. It doesn’t have it built into itself. It just wore military tech.”
Derec walked away from the theater. Masid leaned against the wall by the exit, arms folded over his chest. Derec heard Palen’s heavy tread catching up to him.
“Your assistant, “Masid said, “just called to say you should come to the lab ASAP.” Derec nodded in response.
“So, just what is that thing?” Palen demanded as the three of them stepped into the corridor outside the morgue.
“A cyborg,” Derec said. “What I was afraid of.”
“Where did it come from?”
“I have no idea.”
“Are there more of them?”
“There’s no reason to think this one is the prototype. Why use it for something as risky as slipping into a police station to murder someone if it’s the only one? No, there are others. “He glanced at Palen. “What did your Brethe dealer find that got her killed by one?”
Palen glared at Masid. “I don’t know,” she said. “We didn’t get a chance to debrief her.”
“Where was she when you picked her up?” Derec asked.
“Settler section, dockside,” Masid said. “She used to keep a flop there, in the service section.”
“Has anybody looked at it since she died?”
Palen nodded. “It had been tossed, pretty thoroughly. None of her associates shed any light on what she was into.”
“Was she actually dealing Brethe?” Derec asked.
“Absolutely,” Palen said. “Only way to keep her cover valid.”
“Who was her supplier, then?”
Masid nodded. “A local boss named Metresha, who also has a finger or two in the baley traffic.”
“Has anybody talked to her?”
“Not yet,” Palen said. “She’s offstation right now. I didn’t want to move on her till we had some solid information about these deaths.”
“Does anybody know when she’s coming back?”
Masid shrugged. “Metresha is rather hard to keep track of. No one is really sure what she looks like–she tends to work through intermediaries a great deal. I gather the docks are being watched?”
“The Settler ship that was supposed to pick up those baleys is in dock now,” Palen said. “Metresha always shows up when a cargo is being moved.”
“Have you heard from Lanra?”
“Not since yesterday.”
“I want to talk to Ariel,” Derec said.
“I want to know where that robot is,” Palen said.
Derec glared at her. “You might want to ask your new prisoner about the cyborg. He knew its name, after all.”
“We’re letting him think things through a while longer,” Palen said. “Do you want to be there when we question him?”
“It might be useful to have someone there who knows a little about robots,” Derec said sardonically.
The three of them took the next shunt to the Spacer quarters in stony silence. Derec found himself slightly in the lead as they strode toward the lab. Agent Harwol and one of his people stood outside the lab, talking quietly. When he spotted Derec, he came forward.
“We have a situation, Avery–”
“Talk to the ambassador,” Derec said irritably, brushing past the TBI agent.
“Avery–”
Derec entered the lab and stopped abruptly.
The DW-12 stood in the center of the space, most of the resident techs standing in a loose circle around it. Director Polifos sat, arms folded indignantly, before the robot. When he saw Derec, his scowl deepened and he tried to stand. The robot placed a hand on his shoulder and urged the director back into the chair.
“Damn it, you cannot do that!” he shouted. “What is wrong with this robot? Doesn’t it know that it has to take my orders?”
“It knows it has to keep you here,” Derec said. “For your own protection.”
“I’m in no danger!”
“Then, why were you running?”
“I wasn’t.”
Derec looked at the robot. “Thales?”
“The Director had booked passage on a Settler transport,” the robot said. “I found him in a dockside tavern in Section Forty-nine, carrying a pack of personal belongings.”
Polifos glared up at the robot.
“What is this thing?” he asked quietly.
“Never mind that,” Palen said. “Why don’t you tell us where you were going? And why?”
Polifos looked at her, anger and fear working at his expression. He shook his head.
“What ship?” Palen asked.
“The Reyatta,” Thales answered.
Palen pulled out her comm and
stepped away, speaking softly. A few seconds later, she came back.
“Interesting choice of ships, Director,” Palen said. “The Reyatta is a known blockade runner. Where were you going, Director Polifos?”
Polifos shook his head and studied the floor.
Derec searched the lab until he saw Rana over by the workstation they had been using. She waved him over.
“Ariel needs to talk to you,” she said.
Derec stepped up to the console. “Thales, are we secure?”
“Yes, Derec. I have traced all the gates in place. One of them fed directly to Director Polifos’s quarters. Another went to Chief Palen’s office. One, however, I have a location for but no identification, in the Settler’s section.”
“Where’s Ariel?”
“Back in the embassy,” Thales said. “But not for long. There have been developments.”
“Connect me.”
Derec stopped before Polifos and waited for the man to look up. “Director.”
Polifos frowned.
“What kind of work did you do for Nova levis?”
Polifos blinked and went pale.
Derec turned to Palen, who had been talking intently with Masid, away from the others. “I want to bring him down to the morgue.”
Palen looked intrigued. “All right.”
Thales/Bogard urged Polifos to his feet. Harwol and two of his agents came forward. “What are we doing?” Harwol asked.
“A demonstration,” Derec said. “Thales?”
“Please follow Derec Avery,” the robot said.
“Agent Harwol, if you could have your people guard our flanks on the way down...?”
Reluctantly, Harwol agreed. The entourage emerged from the lab and headed back down to Palen’s morgue.
Baxin still worked on the body. He looked up at the approach of this new group, his brow knitting. Derec glanced at Polifos.
When the director saw the corpse, he stopped, then tried to back up. Thales/Bogard blocked his escape. Derec reached for him, took his shirt sleeve, and dragged him close to the transparency.
“What do you think of that, Director Polifos?”
“I–” He shook his head. “Please.”
“Recognize it? Perhaps some of it is your own work?”