by Isaac Asimov
“By whom?”
“Agent Otin Cupra, pending verification.”
Derec slammed his fist down on the console. “Damn! That son-of-a–” He took a deep breath, exhaled raggedly. “Bogard, did the RI lose track on Senator Eliton at the time of its last amendation?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t understand,” Rana said. “What’s going on?”
“Bogard was linked into the RI during the entire assault.
When the RI went off-line, it took Bogard with it.”
“That’s not possible–Bogard wasn’t slaved to it. Besides, Bogard claims the RI communication net went down.”
“True, but until that happened, for all practical purposes, at least half of Bogard’s sensory net was being used by the RI. It was sharing data realtime. Bogard never got drawn completely into the illusion that took the RI off-line, but it was sufficient to impair Bogard’s ability to sort out reality, at least for a short time. Long enough. Bogard was relying on the RI to keep informed of everyone’s whereabouts. And why not? One positronic brain to another, what was there to worry about? They both had the same interests, the same standards, the same basic imperatives. Why would the RI intentionally distort data? So when Bogard lost track of Eliton–”
“It was because the RI had,” Rana concluded. “Then the link went down and all that remained was the last amendation. But what about this command that Eliton gave? That doesn’t make any sense. Bogard didn’t know he was within the enshieldment, but still accepted the command? And how did Eliton know it? The primary should never know how to do that, otherwise what good is it having an incorruptible agent as bodyguard. That was the whole point–”
“Rana, it’s me, Derec. I know. I designed it.”
“But none of this is making any sense. Who’s Agent Otin Cupra?”
“One of the pair that threw us off the job at Union Station.”
“What authority did he have issuing protocol instructions to Bogard? And why would Bogard accept that instruction when it didn’t have to?”
“That’s a damn good question. Agent Daventri had field control of Bogard, but within Special Service I suppose anyone could give it orders that don’t run counter to its priorities.” Derec sighed heavily. “It could take months to sort out all the numbers, but I think Bogard had become–for an instant–part of the game the RI was absorbed in. The command could have come from anywhere. Since Bogard couldn’t locate Eliton, it only made sense for it to shift priority to another primary. Left to its own, it might have realized its mistake and covered Eliton again. But it was given a new primary.”
“And failed to protect her.”
Derec nodded. “At which point Bogard was probably in the process of severing its connection to the RI. Then it found Eliton.”
“And failed to protect him.”
“And should by any normal expectation have collapsed on the spot. If Agent Daventri hadn’t had the presence of mind to reset its priority again–”
“Daventri. The one that died in the hospital later that night?”
“She didn’t die. Bogard got her out. Bogard performed faultlessly in protecting her.”
“If she’s not dead, why are they claiming that her body is in the morgue?” Rana asked.
“Who’s claiming that?”
“I saw it on subetheric, oh, yesterday? Newsnet program. The usual interviews with officials, meaningless answers. They did, however, suggest a conspiracy between renegade agents within the Service and the Managins.”
“Managins...” Derec winced. “Well, there’s a conspiracy, all right, but Daventri isn’t part of it. That’s why she was killed.”
“You said she wasn’t.”
“It’s not her body in the morgue. I know. I saw them both. I also saw Eliton’s body, with three wounds in it. But at Union Station he only received one wound.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that Eliton didn’t die at Union Station... if he died at all.” Derec looked toward the ceiling. “Thales, did you record all that?”
“Everything, Derec. How much longer do you wish me to maintain the receptor’s integrity?”
“Talk to it until you’re satisfied you have everything of use from it, then let it go.”
Rana looked pale. “Now what?”
“Now we get Bogard back up to spec. I have to call Ariel. I think I have a job for it.”
“You might want to answer the call you got today.”
“You did say something about that. Sorry. Who was it from?”
“Alda Mikels of Imbitek.”
external diagnostic complete, buffer nodes P-Seven and p-Eight purged, protect encryption reset, internal overrides reset, initiate internal diagnostic for corrupted sequencing, system purged, internal diagnostic complete, potential First and Second Law violations negated, memory download complete as nonvolitonal data, status report generating, complete, initial task designation as personal security to Senator Eliton, Clar, terminated due to death of subject–
death of subject Eliton, Clar, analyze relevant data, resume status report
death of subject Eliton, Clar, occurred during task designation, responsibility primary, analyze
associational data relevant to death of subject Eliton, Clar, indicates a potential Three Law conflict, buffer nodes purged, memory secondary, function secured, analyze context
death of subject Eliton, Clar, primary responsibility per initial data analysis
death of subject Eliton, Clar, conditional pending analysis of all contextual data
death of subject Eliton, Clar, nonverifiable, responsibility secondary
death of subject Eliton, Clar, result of conflicting priority, responsibility tertiary pending verification and validation of coded instructions
report complete, death of subject indeterminate, responsibility potentially primary pending location of subject, context of disappearance, condition of subject upon recovery, conclusion must determine circumstances of primary failure and disposition of subject
end report
Twenty-Three
MIA WATCHED BOGARD stumble away from the transport and felt a twinge of optimism. The plan did not amount to very much, an act of desperation, but it was action nonetheless, and after days of waiting for her body to recover, hiding out in Ariel’s apartment, it seemed to her the zenith of plans.
Bogard moved hesitantly, as if uncertain that it could or should walk. The scarring and pitting over its shell, the way one arm hung inoperatively at its side, gave a convincing account of the aftermath of horrible trauma. Its coppery gleam was mostly hidden under a charred black. Anyone seeing it would know that it had been through a conflagration.
Even so, it looked new compared to the ancient walls, columns, and beams of the alleyway. Graffiti formed palimpsests over the corroded, mildewed surfaces, attesting to the centuries of ambivalent residence. Pocked walls, undifferentiated litter softening corners and accruing in shallows mounds, half-open doors, and a smell born of machine, stale breath, yeast, and sweat accentuated the lack of attention the district received. Most of the buildings here stood empty, long abandoned. They were deep in the sublevels of D. C., near where Bogard had brought her on that first night’s flight from the infirmary.
Bogard staggered against a wall, turned with comic grace on one foot, and lurched toward the opposite wall. Mia found herself inexplicably worried for the robot, even though it was a machine just doing what it was told.
What Derec had told it to do.
“You’re sure it’ll be all right?” she asked.
He gave her a curious look, then shook his head. “It’s risky. Any number of things could go wrong. TBI could pick it up, local police, a corridor gang, even a salvage crew. Are you changing your mind? You said this was the only way to get inside.”
“Yes... it is. Only...” She glanced at her feet, avoiding his gaze. Only Bogard is the only thing I feel absolutely confident in right now... She sighed. “All my b
ackdoors into the Service databases have been shut down, all my passwords have been discontinued. We need access.”
Derec nodded, then touched the com unit on their vehicle’s dash.
“Ariel,” he said, “we’re ready. We let it off in Corridor 93, sublevel ten, MacMillan Sector.”
“Got it,” Ariel replied. “I’ll wait two minutes, then call it in.”
“Good.”
Bogard disappeared around a corner and Derec started the transport. “Car, proceed to second preset destination.”
The transport–an ordinary maintenance vehicle from an embassy garage, unmarked and anonymous–pulled away from the alleyway.
“Don’t worry,” Derec said to Mia. “The least we can do is fail.”
“Hah! Mattu used to say that failure wasn’t even part of our vocabulary.”
“Mattu was your team leader?”
“Since the first day I was assigned personal security for Senator Eliton. He and Gel had been working as a team for four years. I replaced a retiring agent, Starns. She’d been team leader. Mattu was next in line. He was very good, Mr. A very.”
Mia looked at him and saw surprise in his face and wondered how harsh she had sounded. Her eyes burned; time to stop talking about it.
“You feel guilty,” he said quietly. “You’re alive, they’re not. Bad enough if it had been some bunch of mad fanatics, outsiders, but you don’t know how to make sense of it being your own people.”
“Are you a frustrated psychoanalyst?” He laughed briefly, without humor. “That would be convenient. No, I just–I don’t really understand human nature that well. I try. I pay attention. It seems that’s more than most people who don’t believe they have a problem with it do.”
“Is that why you work with robots?”
“I told you–”
“You told me why you built Bogard.”
“Touché.” Derec looked out the opposite window for a time, and she thought he intended to drop the subject. But then, not looking at her, he said, “I’m the son of a genius. I lost... memories. I’ve made up for a lot of them, but I can never know how much I’ll never recover. I don’t know why I’m as good at robotics as I am. Parental influence? Maybe. Probably. But that answer is common, easy, and unsatisfying. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I work with robots to... to understand.” He turned to her. “They make more sense than people do. Most of the time.”
Mia felt uncomfortable under his gaze, as if he expected more confession or perhaps confirmation.
The transport turned onto an ascending ramp.
“Do you think Senator Eliton is alive?” she asked.
He blinked at her, surprised again. He nodded, though, accepting the change of subject. “If he is, then where is he?”
“I’m more interested in why. If we know why he’s still alive, then we can figure out the rest. Why will give us who.”
“Maybe we can find out from Bogard.”
“From the Service database? Why would it be there?”
“Two agents, a senator, who knows who else?”
“I can’t accept that the entire Service is culpable. Can you?”
“Can you accept that Eliton might be part of it?”
“I don’t know.”
Derec shrugged. “This is Earth.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“When something inexplicable happens, Spacers like to say ‘Must be Terran.’ It’s a joke. A bad one. But there’s some truth in it. Something inexplicable happens here, they say ‘This is Earth.’ Less of a joke.”
“What is so inexplicable about Earth that isn’t about Spacers?” Mia asked.
“Hate. Hatred is a tradition here. Terrans hate robots. Most of them have never even seen one except in bad vids with rampaging robot villains, but they hate them anyway. It doesn’t make sense, but it’s the truth. Even sensible people hate them. How can you tell the difference between them and the fanatics?”
“We don’t have a monopoly on hatred.”
“No. But it seems to be better done here than anywhere else.”
Mia fought with her resentment, surprised at her sudden anger–it proved his point, after all, especially since she found it impossible to disagree with him.
“If hate is driving this,” she said, “then why the pretense of a conference at all? Why not just reinforce the restrictions already in place and shut the Spacers out even more?”
“Too much money at stake to stand on principle,” he said.
“For some, not all.”
“Like Rega Looms?”
Mia nodded. “He’s one example.”
“Maybe. But it may still be a money issue. If the conference succeeded, what would that do to DyNan’s P & L statement?”
“You’re suggesting he’s the one most motivated to see it fail because of profit?” Mia shook her head. “Even without Spacer competition, he would never be able to outperform the others. Imbitek could buy DyNan out of petty cash.”
“Then it’s hate.”
“Coren Lanra suggested that it’s the black market. The pirates.”
“Greed again. Take your pick. Hate versus greed. In the middle, Eliton.”
Mia found it too simple. Credits dictated life throughout the vast moral middleground of Terran politics and industry, yielding at the edges to the passions. But she had never known a truly passionate fanatic who could move in those middle terrains and not be seen clearly for an outsider. Even Looms, radical as his personal philosophies made him, gave unto Caesar and was deemed dependable by all the rest. Somehow, he did not fit this crime.
But she found Derec’s simplistic reasoning compelling. What had she learned at the academy? The simplest motives explain the most? Complex behaviors could often be rendered down to very basic emotions. The complexity only obscured the driving force.
So what was it? Hate or money?
Or both?
The transport pulled onto a broad, brightly-lit thoroughfare. Derec climbed into the back and returned wearing a stylish blue jacket.
“Personally,” he said, “I’m hoping it’s greed. That can be understood as a matter of logic, simple numbers. If it’s hate–”
“Then why would Alda Mikels personally invite you to see him?”
“One can only wonder. Wish me luck.”
“Luck better have nothing to do with this.”
He grinned at her. Presently, the transport pulled off the main road and slowed to a stop in a service corridor. Derec opened his door and stepped out.
“Be careful, Agent Daventri. After all, you’re supposed to be dead.”
“The dead are tough, Mr. A very,” Mia said. He started to close the door. “Derec.” He paused, waiting. “Good luck.”
“Thanks. You, too.”
He closed the door and she watched him cross the corridor in front of the transport. They had stopped half a kilometer from the corporate offices of Imbitek.
Derec and Ariel were not professionals and although so far everything they had done had turned out well, Mia wondered how much longer they could operate without incident. Now they were confronting people, digging where they could be discovered. This would have been a difficult enough investigation with trained agents, but with amateurs...
She would have to get used to it, there was no choice. When Derec was out of sight, she touched the contact on the dash.
“Car, proceed to destination three.”
The transport rolled on.
DyNan Manual Industries maintained a large suite of offices far out in the Arlington District, away from the majority of its fellow corporations. Looms evidently believed in making statements whenever possible, and his choice of location spoke of his deliberate dissociation from everyone else.
Coren Lanra, however, kept private offices closer to the heart of D. C., on the fourth floor of an old but well-maintained structure just off the Southwest Corridor, at the outskirts of the Infant District. The area was popular for lawyers and lobbyists and support
ed a large community of service industries that catered to the wealthier residents. In the mix one found research agencies, professional witnesses, independent forensics labs, physicians, therapists, a variety of technical experts, and private security firms. Mia had never learned why it was called the Infant District.
The transport parked in the garage opposite, and Mia stepped out onto the pavement. Her leg hurt like an old bruise, but she could walk normally again. The only thing holding her back was fear.
She crossed to the entrance, sweeping the immediate area for any sign of Service attention.
Lanra’s office was in the middle of a row of eight along the hallway. No one sat behind the reception desk. Mia stood very quietly in the middle of the foyer, listening for signs of occupation, and slowly searching for evidence of an arrest. But everything was orderly, as if those who worked here had simply stepped out for a few minutes.
She went to the door marked COREN LANRA, I. S. I. and nervously pressed her hand against it. The door swung in soundlessly.
Seated behind a desk, Coren Lanra watched her, a vague smile on his lips. Casually, he gestured for her to enter, then put a finger to his lips.
When the door closed behind her, Lanra reached across his desk and pressed a contact.
“There,” he said. “Now we’ve got maybe ten minutes before their AIs untangle my encryption.” He smiled, a combination of genuine pleasure and opportunistic anticipation. “It’s not every day the dead walk. How are you, Mia?”
“I’ve been better.”
“I don’t doubt it. Please, sit down. Since we’re on a timer, we should skip the reminiscence and move to the important issues. Agreed?”
“Agreed. I have one question.”
“Only one?”
“The only one there is. Who killed Senator Eliton?”
Lanra spread his hands, then folded them together. “I wish I knew. The TBI wants to hang it on Looms. They’ve always had a fondness for morally committed outsiders.”
“You’re sure Looms had nothing to do with it?”