Mirage

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 backdoors 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."

"Touchй." 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 amp; 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 supported 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?"

"Please, not you, too. No, Mia, it wasn't Looms. Let's not waste time on a false lead. Besides, I'm fairly certain you've looked into enough of the peripheral evidence to have another suspect. Am I right?"

"The assassins were Managins."

"Predictable. You think they did it on their own?"

"No."

Lanra nodded. "They haven't got the resources. The people, sure. The means, no. I'm still trying to figure out how they got inside Union Station with those weapons."

Mia hesitated, wondering how much to reveal, how much any revelation might tell a trained ex-Service agent by what it left out or implied. There was just too little time to be as careful as she wanted.

"The RI was subverted," she said.

He covered it well, kept his expression as neutral as he could, but there was a moment of puzzlement in his eyes, replaced almost instantly by surprise, then masked. He had not known. Lanra, at least, was not part of it.

"That's what we get for playing with this positronic crap." He glanced at his hands for a moment. "I thought it had just failed. So that definitely leaves out the Managins. They were the weapon, not the wielder. So, how are you pursuing this?"

"First, I want to know why you contacted the Aurorans."

"Process of elimination. I knew 'it couldn't be the Managins and I knew it wasn't Looms. Once the TBI started looking at us, I wondered where the Service was. They haven't asked a single question of Looms. When you were killed-" he cocked his eyebrows and grinned "-it started to look like someone on the inside. That meant someone in the Service was involved, so I couldn't go to them. The TBI won't listen, the local authorities could care less once the TBI take over. The official statement from the Spacers is basically wait-and-see, but one of the Aurorans is staying here to try to conduct the conference. I checked on her-a junior member, no experience and almost no authority. The rest of the survivors have returned home, leaving the embassy staffs here to clean up after the mess is finished making. All their actions indicate that they never knew this would happen-confused, disorganized, trying to put a good face on it. I decided not to talk to the Solarians because of their involvement with the RI. The Aurorans are as close to an objective party as we can find right now, and when I asked around to find out who was talking the Spacers living on Earth to stay put and not run, I hear the name Ariel Burgess. Calvin Institute. I started trying to talk to the Aurorans."

"You didn't call Burgess first?"

"No, I started at the top. I wanted to see who would be willing to speak to me as much as anything else."

"What about other corporate security?"

"Our competitors?" Lanra shook his head. "Besides, they're all amateurs."

"Underestimating your enemies?"

"No, keeping a handle on leaks. The biggest problem with amateurs isn't that they aren't good at the job itself, but that they brag about it. Usually to their employers."

"You think it's corporate."

"Don't you?"

"I can't see a motive. As far as I can tell, everyone stood to make a lot of money from this treaty."

"Legally, yes."

"I don't follow."

"You're looking at the wrong flow of capital."

"The piracy?"

Lanra grunted. "One of the things I miss about working for the Service is all the alternate labels the government puts on things. 'Piracy, ' they call it, as if ships in space chase each other, shooting, and the bad guys seize a hapless freighter against its will. Crap. It's tariff dodging, pure and simple, and if the treaty goes into effect, that ends. Frankly, as much as I hate robots, I can't say I'd be sorry."

"You're saying major corporations are behind it?" Mia asked. "There can't be enough money in it to make It worth the risk."

Lanra gave her a mock incredulous look. "Really? Mia, think about it. Earth exports to fifteen of the fifty Spacer Worlds and another twenty Settler colonies. Leaving out the Settlers for now, do you have any idea how much we're talking about? On average, ten to twenty billion credits per world annually. Now that's the legitimate trade. Out of that, the so-called piracy bleeds off about five to eight percent. Just to average that out, let's say that comes up to one-point-two billion a year that never gets to its destination. The current set-up prohibits Earth from directly trading with the other Spacer Worlds-the fifteen we export to are licensed to distribute to them, we aren't-and there's a stiff tariff system in place between them, not to mention the contractual arrangements on those Settler Worlds where there are also Spacer colonies. Black market merchandise easily commands twice to three times its legitimate market value, especially on merchandise not on the approved export list. So that eighteen billion credits' worth of 'lost' merchandise ends up on the black market fetching fifty to eighty billion in sales. And if the Spacers react predictably over these killings, you could see that figure double when they start raising tariffs and putting on more restrictions. And I haven't even mentioned the import black market or the fact that those 'stolen' shipments are insured. In total, I'd guess that you're looking at a two-hundred-plus billion credit illicit trade volume that could dry up if this treaty goes into effect. Now you tell me that profit isn't a motive."

Mia had known the black market was large, but not that large. Officially, it was estimated that the total volume came up to less than thirty billion credits. Still a substantial amount of money, but hardly enough to jeopardize a treaty that would have lowered tariffs and increased exports. But if Lanra's estimates were true, there was simply too much money in it to give it up easily. In fact, worsening the situation would seem even better.

Lanra was nodding sympathetically. "We're too parochial here, we don't see things in terms of entire star systems and trade routes extending dozens of light years," he said, following her thoughts. "It's too much to take in. We're willing to believe the official numbers because we can't imagine past them."

"So how have you managed it?"

"Not easily, I'll tell you. Looms has been wanting it exposed for a long time. It's one more reason, he says, that we don't just turn our backs on space and be done with it. But letting people know how much money can be made at something… that's not always the best way to convince them to leave it alone. So he's been waiting and paying attention. He's got a big file on it."

"Does he have a favorite suspect?"

"No one person could do this. It has to be a consortium, and not just of Terrans."

"Spacers?"

Lanra nodded. "And a few Settlers. "

"The Settler representative-" Mia began.

"The Settlers are getting the worst end of the whole enterprise. A lot of Settler colonies have a real start -over-from-scratch attitude and set up their charters to limit trade with Earth. They aren't well disposed to deal with Spacers, either. As a consequence, a lot of Settler Worlds are austere. The black market for them is like a drug-people buying stuff that doesn't even exist on the open market. It also makes them an easy scapegoat. Most of us believed that the pirates were Settlers."

"You don't think so?"

"A few individuals, I'm sure. Have to have agents on the ground for something like this. But state sanctioned? No."

"How do explain the fact that not one member of DyNan's party was injured?"

"What better way to paint us the villain? It's simple, clear, obvious-all it takes is for someone to point out the fact at the right time in the right way."

"It's too obvious," Mia said.

"For who? You, maybe. A judge? Does it matter? This will be a political trial. It's not too simple for the masses and it has the added benefit of discrediting anything Looms might reveal about the black market before he can say word one."

"You're a cynical one."

Lanra nodded. "I've learned that expediency is the only constant. When you live like that it's easy to lose faith in anything else."

"I don't suppose you have any proof of any of this?"

Lanra pursed his lips. "What is it you're trying to do, Mia? You're supposed to be dead. What can you do?"

"I'm… trying to find out who set us up."

"Someone on the inside, obviously. Do you have a name?"

"Cupra and Gambel."

Lanra's eyes widened briefly. "Well, well. Three surprises in less than a day."

"I don't know them."

"Service all the way. If they're involved, you can be certain someone higher up is, too. I can't imagine them doing this on their own." He opened a drawer in his desk and took out a disk. He slid it toward her. "This is a synopsis of my conclusion from the last three years. My logic trees, my numbers, guesses. I"

He glanced at his desk top and scowled. "Time's up. You need to leave. Now."

"One more question. ",

Lanra glanced nervously at his desktop. "Quick."

"The guns, the assassins. I need a name, a supplier."

"Look at Kynig Parapoyos. Now you have to leave."

Mia tucked the disk inside her jacket and stood. She looked at Lanra an extra moment-an exchange of sympathies, a way of acknowledging a debt without saying anything -then hurried out of his office. running chameleon program, tactical parameters imitate severe motive impairment, isolate memory node to selective disclosure pending coded release, proceed to predetermined retrieval point, avoid undesignated humans, defensive protocols at minimum, corridor uninhabited, continuing continuing continuing, designated humans approaching, two, both armed, assuming wide field, defensive posture "I thought it was vaporized?"

"Well, it's tougher than we thought. Look at it, though-it hasn't worn well."

"Bogard, confirm command recognition, Agent Gambel." processing command recognition, partially impaired protocol, response limited, confirmed voice recognition "c-con-confirrrr-con-firm…"

"Oh, that's good, he'll love this. Listen to it."

"Knock it off. That device should have rendered it down to its component molecules. It's still walking around."

"I'm impressed. Can you imagine body armor made out of this stuff? Bogard, command imperative established, Agent Gambel and Agent Cupra. Confirm?"

"…con-firrrrm-ed…"

"Bogard, you will accompany us. We are your field retrieval. Confirmed?"

"… field… re-field-retrieve-field…"

"Confirm, Bogard."

"Con-firrrmed-field retrie-retrieval."

"Great. Come with us, now, Bogard. We're going to take you back to headquarters for debriefing."

"De-de-debrief-retrieve-rebrief-"

"This is going to be a nightmare."

"Just so long as what we see is what we get, I don't care. Bogard, come with us." command recognition confirmed, Cupra Gambel, initiate secondary protocol, conform to request "That's good, Bogard. Come with us. Everything will be just fine. We have a lot to talk about."