Chimera

Two

When he returned to the hostel, all Coren wanted to do was fall into bed and sleep. He leaned against the door of his room, eyes shut, feeling his bruises and weariness. He had been beaten up once before, years ago, but the brain did not remember the pain.

He forced his eyes open. The clock above the bed said NINETEEN-TEN LOCAL.

"Damn. Five hours. "

He lurched to the small desk and pulled a briefcase from beneath it. He threw off his overcoat and tapped in the release code on the case, then took out his personal datum. He jacked it into the room comm and entered a string of numbers. He sat down then, anxiously watching while the link assembled itself through a secure channel.

"Come on…come on…"

"Palen here," a voice crackled sharply from the comm.

"It's Coren, Sipha. The package is on its way up."

"Already tracking it. We'll have it in the bay in…two hours and a bit. Where have you been? I expected your call-"

"I'll tell you later. I was delayed unavoidably."

"You still coming up?"

"As soon as I get clean. I'll be on a shuttle in an hour."

"If we get the package in station before you get here?"

"Can you delay opening till I'm there?"

"Within limits."

"I'm moving as fast as I can, Sipha. Thanks. "

Coren entered a new number and read over the shuttle schedules that scrolled onto the screen. Hand trembling slightly, he booked one, and closed down the link. He considered trying to contact the data troll who had told him about tonight's clandestine emigration, but that could scare her. She had been nervous anyway; their meeting had not gone smoothly. Coren had been in too big a hurry to question her anxiety, but now he wondered about it. He unjacked his datum and put it away.

He assembled his luggage quickly, then stripped off the grimy clothes. He showered, depilated his face, and dressed in tailored black and dark blue. The overcoat and coveralls went into the recycle chute.

Coren snatched his briefcase and single duffle, gave the cubicle a last look, gaze lingering on the bed. I really need sleep, he thought. On the shuttle, he decided, and left for the port. Coren gripped the armrests, unable to make himself relax. He knew the shuttle was in motion and, though he felt nothing, the knowledge made him sick. He forced himself not to slouch, grateful that the nausea was not worse.

"Big brave policeman," he muttered sourly, "scared of a little spaceflight. "

He glanced at his fellow passengers. One man slept soundly by induced coma-an option Coren found more repellant than the flight itself -and the only others he could see clearly seemed to be Spacers, tall and elegant and gathered together in one section in the front of the cabin, talking animatedly, unfazed by the fact that they were hurtling through space with less than thirty centimeters of hull between them and vacuum.

Coren closed his eyes and tried to think about what had happened to him.

It was possible that Nyom had hired someone to cover her back and that the panhandler had been her muscle. Possible, but inconsistent with Nyom Looms-at least, not the Nyom Looms Coren thought he knew.

Perhaps he no longer really knew her. He had made an assumption, relied on old data, and gotten hurt.

But assuming for the moment that the panhandler had not been her man, then who was he? Coren's shoulder and neck throbbed; the bruise would be spectacular.

Definitely have to have a talk with that data troll, he thought. The idea that he had been set up troubled him, but it was not unlikely. Baley running attracted an undependable variety of conscience, people committed to various causes but with a weakness for money that worked against their revolutionary principles. The few True Believers were unapproachable in any ordinary sense-those from whom Coren could extract information were, by definition, untrustworthy.

The troll who had supplied him with the data for last night's shipment-a woman named Jeta Fromm-should have been more reliable. Coren used a clearing house for people like her: Data Recovery Systems, Ltd. An innocuous name, considering how much borderline illicit trade they dealt in. But they guaranteed the work of their operatives-sometimes in heavy-handed and unpleasant ways-and would not take it well to learn that one of their people had betrayed a client. Still, he had not gotten that impression from Jeta Fromm. She did not seem like the sort who would indulge in doublecrosses. She had been anxious, but the data she supplied had been accurate. If anything, she had seemed preoccupied. Coren relied a great deal on his intuition about people-he had occasionally been wrong, no system is perfect-and he thought he had judged her correctly. Perhaps he had and something else was involved. It would not do to act before he knew, which meant he had to find her on his own and not go through the clearing house. They might misunderstand. At best, he could cost her employment. At worst…

The other possibility was that Number Sixteen third shift dockworker who had met with Nyom. But Coren had not seen him clearly and with his optam stolen he had no images to work with. Perhaps he could find out who he was through the ITE office in Baltimor. He knew someone there. It would be interesting in any case to find out what connection existed between that branch and a Petrabor baley-smuggling operation.

At least he knew he could rely on Sipha Palen and accomplish his mission.

Nyom would be furious with him.

No matter, so long as she was safely back on Earth and out of circulation for a while. Rega owned a villa in Kenya Sector where he often went to be alone-Coren himself had overseen its security. It was the safest place he knew to tuck Nyom away while the election ran.

"Your attention please, " an automated voice said. "We will be docking at Kopernik Station in fifteen minutes. Please be sure your safety field is on and secured and any personal objects are stowed in the appropriate compartments. Remain in your seats until the green debarkation light is on. Thank you."

Coren sighed gratefully. Fifteen minutes. Good. He looked up at the group of Spacers and briefly caught one's eye. For a moment he thought he recognized an expression of sympathy. But it passed and she laughed at a joke from one of her companions.

He shifted uncomfortably. His safety field had stayed on the entire trip. His skin prickled slightly from the faint pressure. His shirt stuck to him from the sweat; he would need another shower as soon as he debarked.

He felt a brief lurch and clutched desperately at the armrests.

"We have completed docking at Kopernik Station, Bay two-one-seven. Please remain seated until we are ready for debarkation. We hope you have enjoyed your flight and we thank you for traveling Intrapoint."

Coren bit back a snide comment and concerned himself with shutting down the safety field. His legs hurt from the constant tension.

A row of green lights winked on overhead the length of the cabin. An attendant came through to help anyone who might need assistance. Coren stood, thankful his legs did not shake. He pulled his briefcase from the cubby beneath his seat and made his way to the exit. As he walked down the white-walled tunnel away from the shuttle, he began feeling more confident. He emerged into the brightly-lit, cheerily-colored, close-ceilinged reception lounge feeling a bit foolish about his fear. He slipped on his jacket while he scanned the waiting crowd.

Sipha Palen stood off to the left and gave him a nod, then strolled off. Coren checked in at the security desk and retrieved his duffle. He caught up with Sipha halfway down the concourse and fell into step beside her.

Sipha stood at least twelve centimeters taller than him, with broad shoulders tapering into what she called a "swimmer's build"-slim-hipped and sinewy. Pale amber eyes stood out sharply against her brassy-brown skin; she wore her copper hair in a thick queue than hung to just between her shoulder blades. Her ivory suit hinted at "uniform " without being obvious. She smelled of hot metal and flowers.

"How was the flight?" she asked nonchalantly.

"Don't, " he said.

She gave him a wry smile. "You should fly more often. You might learn to like it."

"It's good to see you, Sipha," he said, ignoring the jab.

"Likewise. The package arrived four hours, twenty minutes ago. We have the bay secured-just my people. Do you want to go right there or tidy up first?"

"Let's get it over with. Maybe I can enjoy the rest of my stay afterward. "

Sipha made a dubious noise, but increased the pace slightly. She led him to an in-station shuttle car.

"By the way," he said as he strapped in, "there are two robots in there. One looks pretty ordinary, but the other one was invisible to my optam."

"Masked?"

"I can't think of another explanation. So let your people know to be careful."

They made the transit in silence, Coren staring at a spot just above Sipha's right shoulder. The car slowed to a halt and Sipha stepped lithely out. Coren followed her down a service corridor into an immense bay.

The security people standing around straightened when they saw Sipha. She strode across the pale gray floor toward the cargo bin sitting near its center. Coren's heartbeat quickened upon seeing it-relief, he realized. It was here, safe, and soon Nyom would be on her way to even more safety.

It is still personal…he thought.

A pair of uniformed techs, expressions tight, approached Sipha. They spoke in low, terse tones.

"Open the damn thing now!" Sipha shouted.

She sprinted the rest of the distance to the bin. Coren dropped his luggage and ran after her. Techs, galvanized, lurched into motion.

People converged on the bin. Coren stopped outside the huddle of technicians working to open it and waited, impatient and anxious.

The seal parted and the door folded down.

Coren shouldered his way through the uniforms.

Sipha entered the bin first.

"Get me some light in here!" she called, her voice hollow.

Coren bumped her, stopped at the edge of darkness. The spillover from the bay lights picked out disconnected details of a squat bulk just before them and lines that might be the edges of shelves or cots. Coren heard a faint, rhythmic buzzing.

"What-?" he began.

Techs came up behind them with hand-held floodlamps. They switched them on and raised them.

Coren blinked at the sudden glare.

The air smelled faintly burnt…

"Shit," Sipha breathed.

Racks of couches crowded the walls all around, three deep, with barely a meter between levels. Each pallet contained a body. None of them moved; Coren detected no breath pushing at clothing, no hint of life. Dead bodies, an umbilical running from each facemask to the large apparatus in the center of the cramped open space directly before Sipha and Coren.

On the opposite side of the big machine, Coffee knelt, motionless.

Coren's ears sang with blood. Sparks teased at the periphery of his vision and he felt cocooned, separated from his surroundings. He made himself step forward. He looked in at the nearest corpse. She had been strapped into the couch. Her hands had clutched spasmodically at the fabric beneath her.

The couch above her held a child, its eyes staring blindly.

He made his way around the apparatus, stepping carefully over the tubes running from its base, up the railings, and into the couches.

Coffee's hands were frozen on a control panel. Coren bent over to see what the robot was touching. DISENGAGE. Coren glared at the robot. He felt his hands curl instantly into fists.

"You piece of-"

"Coren."

He looked up at Sipha. She still stood at the entrance. She pointed up.

Coren looked.

Dangling from the ceiling of the bin was another body. Hanging, suspended, it shifted ever-so-slightly right to left and back in the movement of air coming from the bay. It was a woman, her head angled sharply to the left. Her eyes were wide, tongue extruded between her lips.

Nyom. The tea in his cup had gone cold as Coren watched Sipha's people remove the bodies. The air in the office cubicle was a few degrees too cool. He stared fixedly through the window at the forensic dance around the crime scene.

Nyom would be brought out last, he knew, because her condition was so different.

Sipha entered the office and sat down heavily behind the small desk.

"Fifty-two bodies," she said. "We don't have the facilities to store them in our morgue. I'm having stasis units moved into an equipment locker nearby. Best we can do till we know how to handle this."

Coren looked up. "Fifty-two? There were fifty-one baleys."

"We've got fifty-two now."

"All human?"

Sipha nodded. "Maybe one was already in the bin. Who knows?"

"What about the other robot?" Coren asked.

"No second robot. Just the one. Sorry."

"I saw it enter the bin with them. You 're telling me it got out?"

"You saw it get in at the warehouse dock. After that, who knows? Once on board its shuttle, it could have left. Or it might not have even gotten on the shuttle." She grunted. "We could ask the one we do have, but it's collapsed."

"How convenient," he said. "What ship was this bin scheduled for?"

"It's not even in dock yet, won't be for another three days. A Settler cargo hauler, slated for a direct run to an orbital facility owned by a company called the Hunter Group. "

"Three days…" Coren shook his head.

"So," Sipha said after a time, "what do you think happened?"

Coren shuddered briefly and set the cup aside. He folded his hands in his lap. "The other robot. It must've glitched or malfunctioned or…something. It killed Nyom, then suffocated the others by switching off the rebreather unit."

"What about Nyom's robot? Why would it have allowed that to happen?"

"They must've been in it together. "

Sipha said nothing. Coren turned his chair to face her. She wore a skeptical expression.

"That's what you want to believe," she said.

Coren nodded. "Trouble is, I don't have a viable alternative. Do you?"

"No. But I'm not sure I can accept that one robot could kill. You want me to accept that two of them were cooperating in a mass murder. "

Coren grunted. "Since when have you gone Spacer?"

She frowned. "Since when have you lost the ability to think?"

Coren glared at her.

"We partnered for two years in Special Service," she said. "I thought you were more reasonable than that. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe working for Rega Looms has loosened your grip on objective reality. What do you think?"

Coren worked himself back from anger and tried to think it through. Sipha had come into the Service directly from the military, a different path than his more direct route of applying to the Academy for Civic Defense, Forensics, and Criminal Interdiction. Despite their divergent backgrounds, Coren had come to trust her. He still did. It had surprised him when, after he had left the Service, she had taken this position as head of security for Kopernik Station.

But it put her in almost daily contact with Spacers and Settlers, both factions of whom had embassy branches on the station.

Nevertheless, he trusted her. That, he recognized, had not changed.

"All right," he said slowly. "Tell me your reasoning."

"That robot is collapsed. Positronic nervous breakdown. Something happened to cause it, and if it could break down like that then it could not have harmed any of those people. If it were still walking around, calmly trying to do its business, then I might agree with you." She sat back. "I've been up here five years, Coren. I've learned a little bit about robots. Have to, when you deal with Spacers who won't leave home without them. I had to learn to discount my own prejudices a long time ago if I wanted any chance of running my department efficiently and doing my job honestly. It wasn't easy-I still don't like them-but I know their limitations. It wasn't the robot. Not that one, anyway. And I doubt it was this other one-there's no in-built compunction that prevents a robot from harming another robot, especially in the defense of humans. As far as we've been able to tell, that second robot wasn't even on board when this happened." She gestured toward the bay. "Besides, what motive? Suicide? Bringing along a robot would have been the best way to fail to commit suicide. They're programmed to save our lives for us, whether we want them to or not."

Coren nodded. "All right, that's all logical. As far as it goes. Sorry about the remark. "

"Forget it. So-how do you want to proceed?"

"Why do I get a say? Isn't this official now?"

Sipha pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Maybe." She seemed to consider carefully. "See, this bay is Settler. When you contacted me about this little favor you wanted, I called in a few favors of my own. Right now, this whole business exists in an official vacuum. No one knows but you, me, and my immediate staff. " She stabbed a finger in the direction of the cargo bin. "And whoever killed all those people."

"You'll have to make it official sooner or later."

"True. But maybe by then we can figure this out."

Coren studied her for a moment. Something in her expression teased at him.

"There's something else," he stated.

Sipha still pondered, then nodded. "I agreed to do this for you because I need you. "

"I'm flattered. But I'm also private now."

"Oh, I think we can change that if we need to. But…I have a problem I can't take to my superiors. I'm not even sure who among my own people I can trust with it. I need outside help. I didn't know how I was going to get it till you called."

"Is it related?"

"I wouldn't be surprised. Probably. It has to do with baleys, at least. Dead ones, too, though this is the first load of corpses to show up on my station. "

Coren raised an eyebrow in amusement. "'Your' station?"

Sipha smiled wolfishly. "Oh, yes, old partner mine. Never doubt it. My station. It has trouble and I want it fixed." She gazed past him, into the bay. "As I say, this is the first load of corpses. The occasional body has been turning up from time to time. The sorts of people who easily get crushed when they learn the wrong thing, or know too much, or who just show up where they shouldn't. Most of them have been thoroughly professional kills…till about three months ago."

Coren waited. She seemed to come to a decision and activated the datum on the desk. The paper-thin screen extruded and winked on. She worked intently for a couple of minutes, then crooked a finger at him to have a look.

"We found this in one of our detention cells," she said.

On the screen Coren saw a body, laid out on a morgue table. It had been a woman-the basic shape was still intact-but he had never seen a body so thoroughly bruised: blue, green, and sickly yellow marks ran from the scalp to the toes. Faint red laceration marks interrupted the mottling here and there.

"What was it? Explosive decompression? Something fall on her?"

"In a detention cell?" Sipha asked wryly. "She was alive when we put her in there. Small-quantity Brethe peddler, nothing major, ever-public nuisance, more than anything else. She was supposed to be, you see, because she worked for me."

"Regular cop?"

"No, she really did used to deal in black market. I made her a better deal. It worked out. She worked the Settler section for me."

Coren felt himself smile. "And when there was something really important to report…?"

"She got herself arrested. This hadn't been the first time she'd visited one of my cells. The next shift, we found her like this. Very simply, every bone in her body had been broken. A lot of them were crushed."

"What was she reporting?"

"I don't know. She came in 'under the influence.' I was tied up with arranging all this for you and didn't get a chance to talk to her."

"No one heard or saw anything?"

"Evidently not. That's why I'm not really sure about my people. Can you think of a way that could happen and no one on watch would know about it?"

Coren shook his head. "What about surveillance?"

"Blank for that section. I suspended two of my officers for negligence, but I honestly don't think they were the ones who did it. Someone with a bit more expertise fiddled the recorders. The problem with that is, I have at least five people on my staff who could have done it, but none of them has a motive." Sipha gestured toward the image on the screen. "Besides, look at that and tell me how it was done. A couple of adjusters with clubs? I don't think so."

"But since you don't really suspect your two discipline cases, you have an idea. "

Sipha nodded. "During autopsy we came up with this. " She tapped the keypad. "The bruising is uninterrupted over the entire body and none of the fractures are consistent with blows. "

The screen changed, showing an image of a shoulder, blackened like rotting fruit. Sipha adjusted the scan and one shape emerged, slightly darker than the surrounding bruise. Coren stared at the vague outline of a hand. An odd hand, to be sure, the fingers too thick and short, the spread too wide.

"Was it clear enough for any kind of prints?" he asked.

"No prints. Perfectly smooth except for a couple of joints. And the bone beneath this impression had been ground nearly to powder. No, partner mine, this isn't a human hand."

"A robot?" He shook his head. "But you said-"

"I said that robot-" she pointed out at the bay "-didn't do it. But that's still my best guess. And if a robot did this-" she gestured at the screen "-if a robot-maybe your second mystery robot -got into my cells and did this, then I have a serious problem." She looked up at him. "Will you help me?"

"I-" Coren began.

The door opened. One of Sipha's men leaned in. "Chief, you need to see this. " "Couple things," the older man-Baxin, Sipha's staff pathologist -said when Sipha and Coren entered the bin. He pointed at the rebreather unit. The umbilicals had all been disconnected and had retracted into the unit. "That's a standard Fain-Bischer rebreather. About six years old, out of date, but still in good working order. No reason it won't last another hundred years once it's been cleaned out."

"Cleaned out of what?" Sipha asked.

"We don't know yet, but it's evident from the postures of the deceased that they've been poisoned. Something in the rebreather, we assume. Something clever, too. The filtration system should have blocked it, but it didn't." He nodded sharply. "That's one thing. The other…" He pointed up.

Nyom's body had been taken down and now they could see how she had been suspended. The roof had a crack in it, about half a meter long and perhaps five to eight centimeters at the widest. The metal around it was discolored, heat-scored.

"The bin was pressurized," the tech explained. "The air leaked out through that crack. My guess is that the body was drawn to it during freefall. The fabric of her pants got caught in it. "

"Did decompression kill her?" Coren asked.

"No. A broken neck did that. She was dead before she got stuck in the ceiling."

Coren looked down at the rebreather. "Why? If everyone else was poisoned…" He looked around. "Where's the robot?"

"I've got it in an impound locker," Baxin said. "I didn't know where else to put it."

Sipha extended her hand. "Give me the tag. I'll take care of the robot. How long on autopsies?"

"Fifteen, twenty hours," Baxin said. "A few preliminaries sooner than that maybe. "

"What made the crack?" Coren asked. "It looks intentional. "

"It is," Baxin said. "Heat induction, industrial grade drill or welder, crystallized the metal, made it brittle."

"What kind?"

"We don't have it. There's nothing in here that would do that."

"Not even the robot?"

"No, I don't think so. Specialized tool, in my opinion."

Coren gave the hole in the roof a last glance, then left the bin.

When Sipha joined him, he said, "Doesn't make sense. Who broke her neck if Coffee didn't?"

She glanced at him. " 'Coffee'?"

"That's what she called the robot." He saw Sipha's expression. "Don't ask me, I don't know why. But who else could have broken her neck?"

"We'll check the bodies to see if time of death matches in all cases. But I still think you're wrong about the robot. Maybe it knew they were being poisoned-that's what it was trying to stop."

"How did it know? And who-"

"I know, who broke Nyom's neck. Maybe the same one who crushed that Brethe dealer?"

"And which one would that be? Which dead one in that bin who had never been to Kopernik before would that be?" Coren asked sarcastically. "Oh, wait, I know. The same one who cracked a hole in the bin with an inducer that no one can find. "

Sipha snarled at him. "I don't damn well know, Coren. So I repeat: will you help me?"

He nodded. "Oh, yes. I'll help you. No question." He mulled his options for a few seconds. "I'm going back down. You can handle the autopsies without me. Also, I'll need ID on all of them."

"What's down there?" Sipha frowned. Clearly, she had thought they would be working together for a few days.

"I have a couple of people to talk to. For one, the data troll who put me onto Nyom in the first place. I want to find those people Nyom was dealing with, and she's my best chance right now." He drew a deep breath. "And we're going to need a roboticist."

"There's a lab full of them here-"

"Do you trust them?"

Sipha scowled, then shook her head. "Not till I find out who killed my Brethe dealer. "

"I'll see if I can take care of that, then."

"I suppose you know a roboticist?"

"Of one, yes. I think it's best to stay away from anyone involved directly with the Spacer sector on Kopernik."

Sipha nodded. "I'll get you on the next shuttle back to D.C."

"No, not D.C. Lyzig District-that's where my informant lives. I'll take the suborbital back to D.C. after I talk to her. Send me the autopsy data when you have it."

"What are you going to say to Looms?"

Coren shook his head. "I'll worry about that when I see him."