“Right,” Alfred said, his tone still mournful, though whether because of the possible need to destroy the creations of USR or because he worried for his staff, Susan could not guess. “And you, too, Susan. You, too.” A note sounded from Jake’s Vox as Alfred disconnected.
Pal’s expression darkened, and he glared at Jake. “Weren’t you just leaving, Detective?”
Susan nudged Pal with her elbow. She knew Jake could get on people’s nerves; only the previous day, she had wanted to slap him. “Be nice.”
Pal’s glance was all innocence. His brilliant blue eyes made him look almost childlike. “I am being nice, Susan. I didn’t punch him in the nose. I’m not yelling. You should have heard the things he said to me.”
Susan considered asking, but she did not want to start another vehement argument between the men. “It’s probably best if you go, Jake. I’ll contact you when my Vox is fixed.”
Jake headed for the door and opened it, then stopped, giving Susan an earnest look. He clearly wanted to say something, needed to make her understand a point he considered urgent but refused to speak in Pal’s presence. Suddenly, his gaze went to Nate, who had remained silent throughout all the exchanges. “Quick! Get me a teaspoon.”
The response was immediate. Unable to ignore a direct order, Nate sprang to his feet and ran toward the kitchen. Pal took a menacing step toward Jake, who rushed through the open door, slamming it behind him. A moment later, Nate emerged with a teaspoon in hand. He glanced around the room, clearly looking for Jake.
Susan caught the robot’s arm and said tiredly, “Put the spoon away, Nate.”
Looking crestfallen, Nate headed back toward the kitchen. “I made a mistake, didn’t I?”
“Nothing you could have helped,” Susan tried to reassure him.
“He knows,” Pal pointed out, unnecessarily. “The bastard!”
“It would appear he figured it out.” Susan hoped so, anyway. She did not want to believe that the last thing she might remember about Kendall was that he had broken her confidence. “What exactly did Jake accuse you of that’s making you so angry?”
Pal lowered his well-shaped buttocks to the love seat, scowling. “He said I isolated you from your friends for most of a year, and that made me a controlling monster. He said I’m too . . . um . . . attractive”—he lowered his head and his voice, apparently uncomfortable with the compliment—“not to be cheating on you, that a man of action like me would never settle for a woman of intellect like you. He accused me of using you, of having ulterior motives.”
“Do you?” Susan found herself asking, then wished she had not.
Pal looked aggrieved. He reached out a hand and patted the seat beside him.
Susan came over, snuggling against him. She still felt tired, a bit foggy, and his closeness soothed her. “Obviously, he’s wrong. I isolated myself long before I met you. The only chance you had to cheat on me was yesterday afternoon, and there’s no way you had enough time.” She added hastily, “Even if I believed you would do such a thing.” Pal’s annoyance at Jake seemed contagious. “And I don’t like it when a friend suggests I’m too plain to bag a real man.”
“You’re beautiful,” Pal said without hesitation, his tone sincere. “And I’d love to prove it with the best hay roll you or I have ever experienced.” He continued reluctantly. “However, if Jake knows about Nate, and he obviously does, he’ll be back with a search warrant. We need to get your Vox fixed and Nate hidden ASAP.”
Susan could hardly deny it. “Give me a few minutes to clean up and dress.”
“Hurry,” Pal said.
Susan headed for the bathroom, her mind gorged with new information that she needed to consider in depth and as quickly as she could manage. She glanced at her Vox while she walked. It was still blank, empty. She felt the same way. Kendall is dead. Dead. She knew shuffling off to the store and then hiding Nate were not enough. She had learned so much just in the last few minutes, things that she ought to be able to assemble despite the murkiness of her thinking.
Once in the bathroom, Susan closed the door and splashed cold water on her face. That shocked her system a bit, waking up parts of her mind that had, a moment earlier, seemed entirely inaccessible. Questions followed: Why would the SFH use a deadly weapon and training rounds simultaneously? What purpose could that possibly serve? Susan could not think of a logical explanation, so she knew she had to reconsider. Why would anyone use a deadly weapon and training rounds simultaneously? She threw another handful of water at her face. A strange possibility inserted itself, the only logical answer. Someone who wanted to kill one person in a group and frighten, but not risk killing, the others.
Susan shook her head, reaching for her toothbrush. She thought about the study patients with CSF nanorobots whom the SFH had equipped with bombs that could have taken so many innocent lives. The SFH never used to worry about collateral damage while making points. Someone wanted me dead and for Jake and Kendall specifically to live. Susan added paste to the brush and set to work on a mouth that seemed full of cotton wool.
That line of thought did not seem to be taking her anywhere useful, so she tried another tack. Itai itai disease. Susan racked her brain, wishing she could consult her Vox. The name was familiar enough that she must have learned all about it at one time. Itai itai. It sounded foreign, probably Asian. Susan scrubbed furiously at her teeth, trying to shake loose the memory along with any particles of food and bacteria.
Susan managed to dredge up a fuzzy memory of Introduction to Clinical Medicine, ICN, her easiest and most interesting class. The students looked forward to it every Friday afternoon as a break from the more intense subjects vigorously taught by no-nonsense instructors in the auditorium. Dr. Holland had familiarized the class with scurvy and beriberi, kuru, and other deficiency and disease states from the ignorant past. Though conquered, they left a historical path that needed to be remembered and consulted, especially when some fad diet or style brought dangerous inadequacies or potential nightmares roaring back.
Itai itai. Susan could remember Dr. Holland’s reedy voice, the familiar smell of the laid-back ICN classroom, the chatter of her classmates. Then, gradually, the details filled her memory: Itai itai means “it hurts, it hurts.” It occurred in Japan in the early and mid-twentieth century, causing a large number of people who lived near a specific river to develop osteomalacia, softening of the bones, and kidney failure. Susan slowed her brushing motion as she considered. The cause was . . . She froze, brush still in her mouth. Cadmium poisoning.
Adrenaline shocked through Susan, and the last of her exhaustion fell away. Jake had talked about Kendall’s autopsy, but it was way too soon for any results, assuming anyone had even started it. There had been no autopsy yet, and it certainly had not shown itai itai. It all became clear in that instant. Jake was trying to tell me that Cadmium, not the SFH, killed Kendall. She realized something more. It was the ammunition that cued Jake, bullets available only to the military and the Department of Defense.
That changed everything. Cadmium wants me alive, hence the training rounds. Whoever shot Kendall was a professional. Susan suddenly understood. The murderer didn’t miss his target. Kendall was the target!
Susan spat out the toothpaste, then put more on her brush. Her mouth still did not feel clean. She could think of no reason Cadmium or the Society for Humanity would want Kendall dead, other than to terrorize her. Guilt prickled at the edges of her conscience, but she could not spare it any thought. She crushed it down ruthlessly, determined to examine the entire scenario in this new light.
Pal’s voice through the door startled Susan. “I don’t mean to rush you, honey, but we don’t want Nate here when the police come calling.”
Susan lowered the toothbrush, her heart racing. “Give me a few more minutes, please. I need to finish brushing my teeth. Then I’ll change quickly. I promise.”
“Okay,
” Pal replied. “I’ll get Nate ready.”
“Thanks.” A thought entered Susan’s head, and she nearly choked on her own saliva. Kendall was killed because . . . he recognized Nate? Because he tried to drive a wedge between me and Pal? Only Pal knew Kendall had identified Nate, and only Jake knew Kendall did not like Pal. Jake, and anyone who had overheard them in the restaurant. Another important thought entered consideration. The government changed the atomic batteries in their robots just hours before the recall went out. Only she, Pal, and Alfred knew what they had planned to do.
There was only one common thread, and Susan did not want to believe it. Pal? A sense of terrible foreboding clutched her heart, accompanied by unbidden tears. Her mind went back to their meeting: Pal had appeared exactly when she needed a competent man with a gun and a means of escape, shooting three men whose bodies were never recovered. Pal? It seemed impossible. She had a nearly infallible knack for reading people, everyone knew. No one could have fooled her that well for that long. It can’t be Pal. It’s not Pal. I don’t want it to be Pal!
Susan felt as if she might melt into a puddle on the bathroom floor. The toothbrush remained in her mouth, and she found herself rooted, unable to move, incapable of thought for several precious moments. Gradually, she realized she had a lethal blind spot. Her experiences with romantic love, with courtship, were so pitiful, so tiny, and her desperate need to believe herself lovable so overwhelmingly strong. Pal, too, was a professional when it came to human emotion. Clearly, he had studied her, had played into her weakness with schooled and practiced perfection.
Susan cursed herself, swore no one would ever toy with her emotions again. No man was worth the anguish she had suffered over the past two years, the grief tearing at her guts like a swallowed animal. She had no choice but to believe; now that she knew, the evidence had become irrefutable. The disappearance of the men Pal had “shot” had little to do with mopping up and everything to do with nonlethal projectiles, which explained the bystanding woman’s unexpectedly light injuries in Central Park as well as her own. It had all been a setup for Pal to gain her trust. Cadmium had murdered Dr. Goldman and framed not only Nate, but also the SFH, even leaving a tool they had probably stolen from the mostly defunct antirobot group.
Instinctively, Susan reached for her Vox, confronted, once again, by its glaringly black screen. This was no accident, either. Pal disabled my Vox on purpose. He knew my friends were growing suspicious, and he needed to cut me off from anyone who might alert me. She doubted Jake had said the things Pal ascribed to him, either. More likely, Cadmium had been spying on her, Jake, and Kendall at the restaurant, and Pal had parroted back Kendall’s concerns, knowing that Susan, having just heard them from Kendall’s own mouth, would believe it and be angered by it. Far from a way to assist her, his endeavors to get his hands on the robot code were purely selfish.
The more Susan considered the details in this new light, the angrier she became. The urge to storm through the bathroom door, kick Pal in the groin until he collapsed, and demand answers seized her, but she knew enough to stifle it. She could not fight a warrior trained for special operations alone, and her best weapon against Cadmium was surprise. Without Jake’s itai itai clue, one Pal would never understand, she would probably still be pondering the meaning of the training rounds. Alfred had shrugged off the exchanged robotic batteries as badly timed coincidence, so Pal would have no reason to believe anything or anyone had blown his cover.
Susan rinsed her toothbrush, put it away, and headed for the bedroom. She needed a brilliant and immediate plan, but it eluded her. Jake and Alfred could help, but she had no way to contact them. Surely, any store to which they took her Vox would either declare it beyond repair or insist on keeping it overnight or longer; Cadmium would see to it. Nor could Susan be content with ditching Pal. She had to nail whoever had killed Dr. Goldman, to exonerate Nate and Lawrence, and to ensure Cadmium never bothered her or Jake again.
Methodically, Susan exchanged her dirty khakis and torn shirt for fresh red jeans and a matching blouse. She looked around for her palm-pross, with no success. Either Pal had hidden it, or she had left it in the living room. It appeared she had become helpless and wholly dependent on Pal, a situation she could not tolerate and had to rectify. But how? Uncertain what to do or how to do it, Susan opened her dresser drawer. She found a pen and a nail clipper, placing both into her pocket along with Kendall’s quarter. The only other potentially useful item she discovered was a used Post-it Note from the garbage.
Pal tapped on the bedroom door. “Ready?”
Susan opened it, forcing a smile. She could not afford to make him suspicious, and she hoped he would attribute any nervousness to concerns about Jake returning with a warrant. “Ready,” she returned, feeling anything but.
Chapter 15
Susan focused on her normal routine of leaving the apartment, pausing to check that the door had locked, that her Vox was in its proper place on her wrist, and doing a swift mental check over whether she had turned off everything. Finally, she gave Pal her most genuine smile and took his hand into her own, hoping hidden anxiety did not manifest as sweating palms. If Pal suspected Susan had changed her feelings about him, he gave no sign.
Nate accompanied them, dressed as Layton Campbell in fresh clothing and carrying Pal’s backpack. Susan knew it contained any clothing Jake might associate with Layton, plus a new disguise. Susan had not actually seen the contents, but Pal had described them as a blond wig, a trendy cap, different sunglasses, and clothing more suited to a New York native, cut and padded to make Nate appear bulkier.
Pal discussed the situation as the three trotted down the staircase. “It’s possible they’re watching us now, so we have to make this appear legit.”
Susan nodded cautiously, hoping concern over the police would explain any slips in her casual façade. She kept her breaths slow and deliberately regular, hoping her heart rate would take the cue. She doubted Pal could feel it pounding through her fingers and made certain not to rest her wrist against his arm, particularly not the thenar side where the radial pulse might be easily palpable.
Susan had to guess what Pal meant. “There’s nothing suspicious about fixing a broken Vox, so I’m assuming you mean how we send”—Susan avoided the name, in case of an auditory bug, instead tipping her head in Nate’s direction—“him on his way.”
Pal nodded. “I’m thinking USR’s too obvious. We need to give the impression he’s headed to the airport.” He kept his voice low but did not seem to be guarding his tongue.
Susan took Pal’s lead. “Won’t it be obvious he didn’t actually board the plane? Surely, the police can get a passenger list.”
They reached the bottom of the stairs, and Pal removed his hand from Susan’s, stopped at the external doors, and placed his back against them. “The police can’t legally plant a bug in a private residence without a warrant, but once we’re outside, there’s no reason they can’t sweep up our voices using a scanning amplifier. We need to finish this discussion here.” He glanced at his Vox, frowning. “And quickly.”
As she had asked the last question, Susan merely waited, head tipped to one side. “Passenger list,” she reminded. Her mind, though, was onto other concerns. She wished Jake had arrested the two of them when he had come to the apartment, but she understood why he had not. He had had no real proof of a crime until he had sent Nate scurrying for the spoon, and even that was circumstantial. An arrest at the apartment would have turned ugly, especially before Susan realized Pal’s deception. Clearly, Jake was waiting for her to come to him, but she had no safe way of doing so. Yet.
Pal frowned, considering. Finally, he said, “I have a friend who owes me a favor.” He added carefully, “A MARSOC friend, so I know he’s good for it. He has . . . certain connections. He may be able to arrange Layton’s name getting onto the proper lists.”
Susan had no doubt Pal could swing it, but it ha
d nothing to do with MARSOC and everything to do with Cadmium. She wondered if he had ever even served in the U.S. Marines, if he had a mother, if his name was really Paladin Buffoni. “So we just need to get him on the proper glide-buses to reach the airport where he can slip into a restroom, change his disguise, and head back to . . .” Susan tried to guess Pal’s thoughts. “USR?”
Pal bobbed his head. “That’s probably best, don’t you think? They’ll know how to hide him amidst all those robots.”
Susan felt certain Nate could gain access to USR, even after hours. Another thought came to her, a spark of a plan that she needed to consider carefully, to fan into a bonfire. She wished she had an hour to mull the possibilities during which Pal and Cadmium would not become suspicious, but that luxury did not exist. She tried to stall. “Yeah, that would be the smartest way to handle it.” She paused. “You don’t think Kendall might have told Jake about Nate, do you? Especially after he promised me—”
Pal cut Susan off with a gesture. “It doesn’t matter how he figured it out, or if someone told him. He knows, and he’s a cop, so we have to work quickly. There’s no time for speculation; we need to detach ourselves from the robot without appearing suspicious. And we can’t stand here jawing about it because we’re probably being watched. I’ve already warned Nate not to tell anyone how he escaped from the police or evaded them for this long. He’s not to mention his time with us in any fashion.”
Susan continued to try to gain some time. “Maybe I’d better reinforce that. You have to know how to command robots, how to phrase things, and you don’t have my experience.” Susan suspected he probably did, but she should not know that and he could not admit it to her.
Isaac Asimov's I, Robot: To Preserve Page 30