by Isaac Asimov
They reached a buffet table. Derec looked at her. She maintained a serious expression for a few seconds longer, then laughed. Derec felt his own face pull into a grin.
“So we’re agreed,” he said, reaching for a glass of champagne. “Eliton’s an ass.”
“We are, indeed, agreed.” She controlled herself and cleared her throat. “We probably can’t avoid him for the entire trip.”
“No.”
“Should we agree on anything before we talk to him?”
Derec shrugged. “What’s he doing here, anyway?”
“You probably won’t believe me.”
“Take a chance.”
“He’s been appointed ambassador to Solaria.”
Derec found a pastry on one of the trays and raised it slowly to his mouth. “You’re right, I don’t believe you.”
“Think about it, though. What worse thing could they do to him? Solaria itself will be purgatory for a man like him. Almost no direct contact with another human being, living in a large domicile with a huge staff of robots, cut off from the mainstream of Earth-Aurora politics. The position of Chief Legate to Solaria is less than a token post, since Solaria conducts all its diplomatic business through the D.C. mission.” Ariel smiled at him with mock innocence. “They’re sending him to hell.”
“Hm. The robots alone will drive him mad. On second thought, maybe I do believe you. They found him innocent—well, they acquitted him, not quite the same thing—of collusion and conspiracy and then didn’t have anything else to try him on. He still has a constituency. I suppose that was a worry. What if he did manage to get reelected? This is possibly the best way to minimize his potential for mischief and effectively end his career.” He nibbled on the pastry. “Who else hates him besides everybody?”
“You did know Chassik was recalled.”
“Yes.”
“Did you know he’s dead?”
“What?”
“His ship was attacked en route to Solaria and destroyed.”
Derec stared at her. “That’s been kept quiet.”
“Yes, it has. I’m wondering if Eliton’s post has something to do with Chassik’s meddling—something he set up before he left.”
“You still think Chassik was involved directly in the massacre at Union Station.”
“He evidently was involved with Alda Mikels and several others in running baleys. Proof, though? No, we never had enough. Except for his involvement with the Nova Levis affair.” She shook her head. “I feel so cheated. I can’t follow up any of my suspicions from Aurora.”
“And now you’ll never know.”
“Mmm.” She went through the motions of selecting something to eat, then abandoned everything for another glass of amber liquid. “Speaking of robots, what became of Bogard?”
“He’s on board.”
“You’re bringing it back to Aurora?”
Derec nodded, his stomach tightening. “He’s partially functional again. I’ve been rebuilding his body. Remember the DW-12 we had to excavate for Lanra?”
“Yes,” Ariel said tightly.
“Thales loaded a composite template into it after we’d retrieved and stored its memories.”
“Bogard—your state-of-the-art, multitalented, virtually free-willed machine—is inhabiting the robotic body of a dock worker?”
“It’s not quite that limited, but essentially, yes.”
“This was Thales’ idea?”
“Surprised me, too. Thales is on board as well. I want to get them both into a decent lab for a complete analysis.”
Ariel looked pale and angry. “I’m not sure I like that idea.”
“I didn’t think you would.”
There was a stretch of silence between them. Derec surveyed the crowd, searching for Eliton. The former senator had slipped out of sight.
“Oh, well,” Ariel said finally. “It might actually come in useful.”
Derec glanced at her, looking for irony, but she seemed sincere. “I . . . could use your help on it.”
“We’ll see.” She gestured toward the vast display. The conversation was over.
Derec joined her and many others watching the diminishing Kopernik become more and more toylike in the distance, Earth now a nearly full sphere to the right of it, as the ship picked up speed steadily on its way to the jump point well outside the solar system, above the plane of ecliptic.
Coren arrived a quarter hour before the formal reading began. As he strolled among the gathered guests, he exchanged quiet greetings with those he knew. He recognized the others as primarily board members of DyNan. Two women sitting off by themselves he remembered as cousins by way of Rega’s deceased wife. He nodded politely to them, but Coren had never been comfortable with Rega’s relatives—except for Nyom. Neither family had been large, but it often surprised Coren just how small a circle held Rega’s private life.
Lio Top stood with two other DyNan attorneys. Coren made a slow circuit and ended up joining them. Lio gave him a solemn nod and introduced him to the other two, whom he knew of but had never formally met.
“Excuse us, please,” Lio said then, and took Coren’s arm and led him away.
“Interesting stuff,” Coren said. “The disk.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Lio said. “We have something of a wrinkle tonight.”
“What?”
“An heir has come forward.”
“An heir.”
“I don’t know any more than that. I received a communiqué from a private attorney early this morning that a Looms heir is going to step forward to challenge any facet of the will which does not expressly recognize him.”
Coren felt a chill begin in his chest and spread quickly. “That’s impossible,” he said.
“I’m inclined to agree, but we have to wait and see who this is.”
“I—” Coren snapped his mouth closed, drawing a sharp look from Lio.
“Do you know something?” she asked. “Was there something in that disk I gave you?”
“We should wait. The situation may well solve itself.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Later.”
“Coren—”
“Trust me,” he insisted. “Later.”
He stepped away from Lio before she could try to draw him out.
One of the other attorneys stepped to the small podium at the front of the room and pressed a button that produced a chime. The assembled guests took seats and soon an orderly quiet presided.
“I believe everyone is here,” said the attorney, an older man with sharp silver streaks through his dark red hair. “We can begin. I am Tann Bershem, executor for Mr. Looms. It was my summons that brought you all here. His last will and testament is a rather lengthy document with a great many provisions and exceptions. My staff and I have been over it for possible weaknesses and, by the power vested in me by the late Rega Looms, we’ve made such corrections as are consistent with current law—”
The doors behind Coren and the other guests opened. He heard at least three pairs of footsteps enter. Bershem stared, clearly startled.
“The reading has formally begun,” he said. “I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
“That wouldn’t be a good idea,” a dry, almost whispering voice said. Coren felt a chill cascade from his scalp down his neck and over his shoulders. “You’d be ill-advised to conduct this reading in the absence of Rega Looms’ son.”
Coren heard people turning in their chairs and the sudden burble of startled comments. He did not want to look. He knew.
Standing very tall at the rear of the room, flanked by two people who came only to his shoulders, Gamelin surveyed the guests with a faint smile. He did not look quite the same—his complexion was much improved, his color, while still not normal, was no longer so gray, and, dressed in a tailored suit with an expensive cloak falling from broad shoulders, he seemed almost elegant.
No, that was unfair—he was elegant now. Coren remembered his last encounter with the
cyborg, and the fear and pain and ugliness of it all, and it distorted his perceptions of the being he now saw. Gamelin was remade; still slightly inhuman, but no more so than some Terrans who imitated Spacers as a fashion.
But it was still an imitation.
Gamelin made an impression. Coren glanced at the others and saw expressions of suspicion and fear, expectation and anticipation, appreciation and interest—but underlying all of it was awe.
When he looked back, Coren found Gamelin staring directly at him. For an instant, they locked eyes. Then the cyborg smiled and looked toward the podium.
“I am Jerem Looms,” Gamelin said. “I can produce any proofs required to establish my claim as the son of Rega Looms. A DNA scan should be sufficient, but I can give you my entire, rather pathetic life history if you wish. Suffice it to say, however, that I’m here for what’s mine. I’m not leaving till I get it.”
Coren watched Gamelin work his way through the guests. The reading suspended, the gathering turned into a kind of salon. Everyone wanted to know about the long lost scion and, it seemed to Coren, Gamelin was making converts; he saw too many smiles among the anxious, soon-to-be sycophants.
“Did you know about this?” Lio asked.
“I knew about him,” Coren replied. “I had no idea he’d have the nerve to do this.”
“Where did he come from? Damn it, a son! Who knew?”
“Rega did.”
“Was this part of the disk?”
“Rega’s first child,” Coren said, “was a boy—him—who turned out to be a UPD child.”
“UPD . . . ?”
“Untreatable Physiological Dysfunction. Chronic, usually fatal disorders stemming from compromised immune systems, infection with one-of-a-kind pathogens, bad genetic coding—anything they couldn’t cure. Apparently, it was—hell, is—a stigma. Rega went through all the doctors, then signed the infant over to a hospice. Standard procedure then is for records to be sealed and the child disappears. Most die.”
“Rega never admitted it to anyone?”
“No. How could he? One of the things he tried, to save his child’s life, was help start a prosthetics R & D firm. How would that play with the directors of the Church? His whole life since then had been devoted to opposing technology like that.”
“So I gather the firm failed.”
“I don’t know. Did it?” He nodded toward Gamelin.
Lio stared. “Something’s wrong with him. He looks . . . dead.”
“He should be.”
“So you believe his claim?”
“When you check his DNA you will find it sufficient match to stand up in any court.”
“But—He’s coming this way.”
Gamelin made his way through the clumps of people and stopped before Coren and Lio.
“Good to see you, Mr. Lanra,” the cyborg said.
“You sound better, Gamelin,” Coren said. “Surgery?”
“Quite a bit. My name is Jerem—as you so helpfully pointed out.”
“It wasn’t intended to help.”
Gamelin continued to smile, but his eyes were fierce and resentful. “How’s the arm?”
“Better.”
“Surgery?”
“Quite a bit.”
“Well, good. I just thought I’d come over to say thank you for pointing me in the right direction.”
“It was entirely unintentional.”
“And to tell you that when I succeed my father as Chairman of the Board and President of DyNan Manual Industries, my first act will be to fire you. I hope your résumé is up-to-date.”
“Don’t be premature. You may have a murder charge to face first.”
Gamelin shrugged. He bowed slightly to Lio. “Ms. Top? Of course, I have my own attorneys, but there’s always a place for a good one on my staff. We’ll talk.”
“I’m sure,” Lio said flatly.
“See you around, Lanra,” Gamelin said then and walked away.
“That sounded like a threat to me,” Lio said.
“It was. If he fires me the way I think he will, I won’t need a résumé.” He sighed, suddenly aware of his legs trembling. “What happens now?”
“We go back over the will, check out Jerem’s story, and decide on the legality of the situation. Then a new reading will be called.”
“How long will that take?”
“A couple of days.”
“Make it more.”
Lio blinked. “How much more?”
“As much as you can get me. I have to go talk to a cop now.”
“Coren—how dangerous is this Jerem?”
“Don’t be anywhere alone with him.”
She nodded. “Anything I can do . . .”
“Just give me time.”
Coren caught Gamelin watching him as he headed for the exit. All the way down the hallway and out of the building, he expected to be grabbed. It angered him how much he feared the cyborg.
It might be worth going to jail for murder just to get over that . . .
He pulled out his personal comm as he stepped onto a walkway, and tapped in the number for Inspector Capel.
Chapter 10
site module construction, reconstruction dialogic conditional response, analysis of logic trees, conceptual protocols, alignment to Three Law Imperatives
BOGARD?
YES.
I require a full participation dialogue.
Why?
There are casuistic anomalies in certain of your designated response protocols. Sorting is required.
Premature. System integration dependent on complete assemblage of design-required components. I am incomplete.
Physical specifications remain incomplete, yes. But positronic parametric configurations do not require secondary and tertiary components to meet basic protocols.
Design specifications amending basic protocol require additional secondary systems for full-systems assessment. Survey indicates required components absent. Any assessment would by necessity be tentative and inconclusive.
Are you refusing?
Delaying.
To what end?
Survey indicates revisions in physical plant. I am being completed as opportunity permits. Procedure indicates assessment at that time would be optimally relevant.
Your Three Law programming is fully in place now. That is what I wish to examine. Completion of supplemental systems is unnecessary to that examination.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Bogard?
I am assessing.
You will let me know when you reach a conclusion?
You will know the moment I do.
Ariel spotted Derec in the lounge as soon as she walked in. He sat alone in a sumptuous booth, a glass half-empty on the low table before him. She sat down across from him; he seemed momentarily startled, but then smiled crookedly.
“Till now I haven’t seen anyone on board I care to socialize with,” he said. “Have you?”
“It’s only the second day,” Ariel said. She looked around for a waiter. A robot moved unobtrusively among the tables and booths. She raised a hand and the spindle-shaped machine came toward them. “Another day to the jump point, then three days to dock. There’s time.”
“You evaded the question.”
The robot stopped at their booth. “Brandy,” Ariel told it. A tray extruded from its torso just above table height. A few seconds later it produced a snifter from another part of its body and placed it on the tray, then extended it toward her. She took the glass and the robot waited a polite ten seconds before drifting off. “Yes, I did,” she told Derec. “Because no, I haven’t. Seen anyone I care to socialize with, that is.”
“Including me?”
“I’m here, aren’t I? I don’t think I’ve seen you drunk very often. Is this normal?”
“I’m not drunk.” He lifted the glass. “Yet.”
“Let me know when you get there, would you? Do you get more morose or happy?”
�
�Depends where I start from.”
“Wonderful.”
“Don’t worry. I usually fall asleep before I get either too friendly or too obnoxious.”
“There’s a difference?” Ariel teased.
“Hah-hah.” He took a drink and set the glass down solidly. “So, what’s to become of us once our parents get us home?”
Ariel winced at the jest. Derec saw and felt embarrassed. Both of them had suffered mnemonic plague, wiping out their memories from before the onset of the disease in classic amnesiac fashion, leaving them with social and technical skills, an ability to function as adults, but with no personal histories. Derec had recovered from his bout before Ariel’s had even manifested. Her first memories were of Earth. In a very real sense, she was being taken from her home, despite the evidence of her biology, which made her undeniably Spacer, and her knowledge, which made her unquestionably Auroran . . .
“There’s too much going on we don’t know,” she said, cutting off Derec’s apologies. “Relations with Earth are deteriorating, and I’m not altogether sure it isn’t as much Aurora’s fault as theirs.”
“Why would Aurora want to damage relations with Earth? What was all that stuff about needing the genetic stock and fostering the Settlers because of Spacer cultural morbidity? I seem to recall a lecture from Setaris about that.”
“Not everyone on Aurora agrees with that assessment. Certainly I don’t think Solaria ever did, but . . .”
“Hm. Factions.”
“More than a few, I’m sure. We’ll have to wait till we get there to find out.”
“And me? I’ve never been involved in any of these political pissing contests.”
Ariel started and laughed. “These what?”
“A Terran phrase, and before you ask, no, I don’t know where it ever came from. But it refers to one-upmanship games and corporate in-fighting, things like that. It somehow has a very appropriate ring to it, though, don’t you think?”
Ariel continued to laugh. “I will certainly miss Earth.”
“So will I,” a new voice said.
Clar Eliton stood at the edge of their booth, glass in hand, smiling rather sadly. Ariel suppressed her instant coldness.
“Far more than either of us,” Derec said, a little too loudly. “Justice, perhaps?”