I didn’t know, he blurted.
I don’t believe you, Davis. It was an extremely subtle deception; and one which must have been planned right from the very start. In other words, it was Penny Maowkavitz’s idea.
His jaw worked silently, then he slowly lowered his head into his hands. ‘Oh God, you’ve got this all wrong.’
So put us straight, I said.
It was never for personal gain. It was all for Boston, everything she did was for us.
She was going to reveal the existence of the precious metal stockpile after independence, I said. Then it could be used for Boston’s buyout of JSKP shares.
You know? he asked in surprise.
It seems logical.
Yes. It was all so beautifully simple. Only Penny could be this elegant. Nobody has ever attempted to extract precious metals from asteroid rock before. Sure, precious metals are present in the O’Neill Halo asteroids, but the quantities simply aren’t large enough to warrant building specialist extraction units onto the existing furnaces. Given the mass of ore involved, it isn’t cost-effective. But in Eden’s case it costs nothing for the digestive organs to extract them from the ore. Like you said, she never told the JSKP board the metals were being automatically refined; and nobody ever thought in those terms. The board never expected to receive gold from Jupiter.
And what you don’t know, you can’t act upon, I said. Neat.
She just wanted what was best, he insisted staunchly.
How many other people knew? I asked.
Only the four of us. Penny thought that it would be a very hard secret to keep. People would be tempted.
I expect she’s right. So you and she knew; who were the others?
Antony Harwood and Eric McDonald.
Not Bob Parkinson? He is Boston’s leader now, after all.
Davis Caldarola let out a contemptuous snort. No way! She said she didn’t trust him any more. Not since this row over the timing. She said he was showing his true loyalties now the crunch was coming. I know she didn’t want him as a trustee any more, she was going to replace him.
OK, I know Harwood. Who’s Eric McDonald?
He used to be in charge of the Cybernetics Division, before JSKP brought in their management whizz-kid Steinbauer. Eric is still up here; he got shunted sideways into the cloudscoop operation, supervising the microgee industrial stations which produced the pipe.
Steinbauer didn’t know?
No. Hell, he’s not even a Boston member.
I looked enquiringly at Shannon. I’d guess that Penny Maowkavitz had been checking up on Steinbauer. If anyone was likely to find out about the stockpile, it would be him. Blowing that subterfuge to the JSKP board really would guarantee his promotion.
Most likely, yes, boss.
So what was the last file Maowkavitz reviewed?
She consulted one of the screens. Now that’s a funny one; strictly speaking it isn’t a Cybernetics Division file. It’s the maintenance log for a Dornier SCA-4545B two-man engineering capsule. JSKP has about sixty of them up here, tending the industrial stations and the He3 operations. But, boss, this log hasn’t got the UN Civil Spaceflight Authority codes; I’d say it was some kind of bootleg copy.
The data on the screen didn’t mean anything to me. Run the gold search program, I told her.
Her finger stabbed down on the enter key.
Bingo.
*
Can you actually see Steinbauer yourself? I asked Rolf.
Yes, sir; he’s in his office, two down from the one I’m using.
What’s he doing?
Using the computer, I think. He’s sitting at the desk, anyway.
OK, under no circumstances are you to approach him. I turned the jeep onto one of the main roads running the length of the habitat. At the back of my mind I was aware of Eden clearing all other traffic from the road ahead of me, and diverting people away from the cyberfactory cavern where Steinbauer had his office. I twisted the accelerator, pushing the jeep up to fifty kilometres an hour, top speed.
Boss, Shannon called, I make that over two hundred and twenty modifications to the capsule systems; he’s been replacing everything from wiring to thermal foil.
Have they all been substituted?
Yes.
OK, thanks, Shannon. Nyberg?
Yes, sir.
What’s your ETA?
We’re leaving the station now, sir. We should be there in eight minutes.
I saw a mirage of three police jeeps pulling out onto the street, each with five officers dressed in black lightweight flex-armour. The trouble was, people were huddled on the pavement watching the little convoy speed past. They would be telling their friends, who would tell their friends. The whole habitat would be blanketed with the news in a matter of minutes. Someone was bound to inform Stein-bauer in all innocence. And there wasn’t a thing I could do about it.
What worried me was the kind of weapons the armed response team might be facing. Steinbauer could have built
anything in that bloody factory, from a neutral beam rifle to a guided missile. We wouldn’t know until he hit us with it.
I toyed with the idea of just calling him and telling him we knew, point out that he couldn’t escape. It might save lives, especially if he panicked when the team crashed into the office. But then again he might just use the time to prepare. Command decisions, what I get paid for.
Eden.
Yes, Chief Parfitt?
Can you see anything which might be a weapon in Stein-bauer’s office, or anywhere else in the cyberfactory for that matter?
No. But I’m still reviewing the mechanical objects whose function isn’t immediately clear to me.
Shunt the images straight to Rolf, he ought to be able to speed up the process.
Sir, Rolf said. Steinbauer has just asked me what’s happening. I’ve told him it’s just a readiness exercise.
Shit. Is he buying it?
He is asking me to confirm, Eden said. Which I have done.
I looked through the sensitive cells in Steinbauer’s office, seeing him sitting at his desk, frowning out at the ranks of machinery in the cavern. He gave Rolf a concerned glance, then stood up.
A wave of trepidation from Rolf flooded back to me. If he makes a move towards you, I’ll tell him the response team will be issued with shoot to kill orders, I told him.
Thanks, sir.
Steinbauer was leaning over his desk, typing furiously on his computer console.
Hey! Rolf protested.
What is it?
The computer memory is erasing. God damn, he’s wiping the whole Cybernetics Division system clean.
Steinbauer picked up a small box, and left his office. Outside, the machines were coming to a halt in a crescendo of squealing metal. Red strobes began to flare in warning, turning the whole cavern into a lurid grotto of oscillating shadows. Trolleys braked suddenly, some of them spilling their loads. Alarm klaxons added to the din of abused machinery.
Rolf’s hands gripped the armrests of his chair. I could feel the tendons taut in his forearms as Steinbauer walked past the glass wall in front of him.
Eden, are there any servitor chimps in the cavern?
No, Chief Parfitt, I’m afraid not, the noise and machinery upsets them.
Damn. I had thought we could send a scrum of them to overpower him.
Steinbauer had reached the back of the cavern. The sensitive cells showed me tiny beads of sweat pricking his forehead. He opened the box and took out the Colt .45 pistol. It was the one we had asked him to build.
‘Bugger,’ I spat. My jeep had just reached the start of the causeway. Eden, did he make any bullets for it?
Yes. You did ask for a complete evaluation.
Rolf, get out. Now. Eden, pull everyone else from the cavern; steer them clear of Steinbauer as they go.
I watched impotently as Steinbauer checked the revolver’s barrel, and pulled the safety catch back.
Steinbauer?
&n
bsp; No answer, although he did cock his head to one side. He carried on walking along the rear wall.
Steinbauer, this is pointless. We know about the gold and the Dornier capsule. Put the pistol down. You’re not going anywhere. This is a habitat, for Christ’s sake, there’s nowhere to hide.
Steinbauer stopped in front of a circular muscle membrane in the wall. He stood there with both hands on his hips, glaring at it.
He has ordered it to open, Eden said. But I won’t allow it.
Where does it lead to?
It is one of the entrances to the inspection tunnels which run through my digestive organs.
I was abruptly aware of the tunnels, a nightmare topology which twined round the titanic organs. The entire southern endcap was riddled with them. Steinbauer tilted his head back, peering curiously at the polyp roof. Then the image vanished from my mind, colour streaks imploding like a hologram screen that had been fused.
Eden, what’s happening?
I do not know, Chief Parfitt. My input from the sensitive cells at the rear of the cavern has failed. I cannot account for it. Something seems to be affecting my interpretation routines.
‘Christ!’ The jeep had reached the entrance to the cavern. A dozen cyberfactory staff were milling round outside, uncertainty etched on their faces. I braked sharply, and tapped out my code on the small weapons locker between the jeep’s front chairs. The lid flipped open, and I pulled out the Browning laser carbine.
Everybody back, I ordered. Get on the next tram, I don’t want any of you left on this side of the circumfluous lake.
Rolf was elbowing his way through them.
Have you seen Steinbauer? I asked.
No. He hasn’t tried to come out.
I gave the entrance to the cavern a jaundiced look; it resembled a railway tunnel that had been lined in marble. There were no doors, no way of sealing it. Eden, how many entrances to the inspection tunnels are there?
Eleven.
Oh great. OK, I want the entire southern endcap evacuated. Get everyone back across the lake. Nyberg, I want the response team distributed round all the tunnel entrances. If Steinbauer emerges without warning, they are to shoot on sight. Christ knows what he’s got stashed away in the tunnels.
Yes, sir, she acknowledged.
Rolf, get the rest of our people kitted out with armour and issued with weapons. I think we might have to go into those tunnels and flush him out.
I’m on it, sir, he said, grim-faced.
Chief Parfitt, Eden called. I am losing my perception inside the inspection tunnel leading away from the back of the cyberfactory cavern.
There’s over eighty kilometres of tunnels, Rolf exclaimed in dismay. It’s a bloody three-dimensional maze in there.
Clever place to hide, I said. Or perhaps not. If he can’t consult Eden about his location, he’s going to wind up wandering round in circles. I started to walk into the cavern, the Browning held ready. Red light was flickering erratically. The chemical smell of coolant fluid was strong in the air.
Wing-Tsit Chong?
Yes, Harvey, how may I help you? I have been informed that armed police have been deployed in the habitat; and now Eden tells me it is suffering a disturbingly powerful glitch in its perception routines.
That’s where I’d like your advice. Wallace Steinbauer has come up with some sort of disruption ability. Presumably it’s based on the same principles he used to fox the chimp’s monitoring routine. Have you and Hoi Yin come up with any sort of counter yet?
Wallace Steinbauer?
Yes, the Cybernetics Division manager. It looks like he’s Penny’s murderer.
I see. One moment, please.
I edged round the corner of the assembly bay closest to the entrance, and scanned the long aisle ahead of me. Several trolleys had stopped along its length, two of them had collided, producing a small avalanche of aluminium ingots. There was no sign of Steinbauer.
Eden, can you perceive me?
Only from the sensitive cells around the entrance, the rest of the cavern is blocked to me.
OK. I crouched low and scuttled along the aisle. The flashing red light made it hellish difficult to spot any genuine motion on the factory floor. Funnily enough, the one thing which kept running through my mind as I made my way to the rear of the factory was the thought that if Steinbauer had murdered Penny Maowkavitz, then Hoi Yin was in the clear.
Incredibly unprofessional.
Harvey, Wing-Tsit Chong called. I believe we can offer some assistance. The dysfunctional routines Steinbauer leaves behind him can be wiped completely, and fresh ones installed to replace them.
Great.
However, the ones in his direct vicinity will simply be glitched again. But that in itself will enable us to track his position, to around fifteen or twenty metres.
OK, fine. Do it now.
A blinked glimpse of the placid lake beyond the veranda. Hoi Yin bending over towards him, long rope of blonde hair brushing his knee rug, her face compressed with worry. His thin frame was trembling from the effort of countering Steinbauer’s distortion, a heavy painful throbbing had started five centimetres behind his temple.
I am regaining perception of the cavern, Eden informed me. Steinbauer is not inside. He must be in the inspection tunnel.
I started running for the rear of the cavern. The muscle membrane was half-open, quivering fitfully. As I approached it the lips began to calm.
It is not just the perception routines Steinbauer is glitching, Wing-Tsit Chong said with forced calmness. Every segment of the personality in the neural strata around him is being assaulted.
A wicked smell of sulphur was belching out of the inspection tunnel. I coughed, blinking against the acrid vapour. What the hell is that?
The muscle membrane promptly closed.
It must be a leakage from the enzyme sacs, Wing-Tsit Chong said. The duct network which connects them to the organs is regulated by muscle membranes. Steinbauer is wrecking their autonomic governor routines.
Christ. I stared helplessly at the blank wall of polyp. Have you located him yet?
He is approximately two hundred metres in from the cavern, thirty metres above you, Eden said.
Rolf, do we have gas masks?
No, sir. But we could use spacesuits.
Good idea, though they’re going to restrict—
The cry which burst into the communal affinity band was awesome in its sheer volume of anguish. It contained nameless dread, and loathing, and a terrified bewilderment. The tormented mind pleaded with us, wept, cursed.
Wallace Steinbauer was standing, slightly stooped, in a cramped circular tunnel. It was illuminated in a gloomy green hue, a light emitted by the strip of phosphorescent cells running along the apex. Its polyp walls had a rough wavy texture, as if they’d been carved crudely out of living rock.
He was retching weakly from the appalling stench, hands clutching his belly. Lungs heaved to pull oxygen from the thick fetid air. The floor was inclined upwards at a gentle angle ahead of him. Wide bugged eyes stared at the tide of muddy yellow sludge which was pouring down the tunnel. It reached his shoes and flowed sluggishly around his ankles. Immediately he was struggling to stay upright, but there was no traction; the sludge was insidiously slippery. Cold burned at his shins as the level rose. Then blowtorch pain was searing at his skin, biting its way inwards. His trousers were dissolving before his eyes.
He lost his footing, and fell headlong into the sludge. Pain drenched every patch of naked skin, gobbling through the fatty tissue towards the muscle and bone beneath. He screamed once. But that simply let the rising sludge into his mouth. Fire exploded down his gullet. Spastic convulsions jerked his limbs about. Sight vanished, twisting away into absolute blackness.
Coherent thoughts ended then. Insanity blew some tattered nerve impulses at us for a few mercifully brief seconds. Then there was nothing.
Minds twinkled all around me, a galaxy misted by a dense nebula. Each one radiating profound
shock, shamed and guilty to witness such a moment. The need for comfort was universal. We instinctively clung together in sorrow, and waited for it to pass.
Father Cooke was quite right: sharing our grief made it that much easier to endure. We had each other, we didn’t need the old pagan symbols of redemption.
*
The fifth day was mostly spent sorting out the chaos which came in the wake of the fourth; for the Governor, for the newscable reporters (in a confidential report), for the JSKP board, for the police, and for the rest of the shocked population. Pieter Zernov and I organized a combined operation to clear the inspection tunnels and recover the body. I let his team handle most of it – they were welcome to the job.
Fasholé Nocord was delighted the case had been solved. The general public satisfaction with my department’s performance added complications to Boston’s campaign. We had proved beyond any shadow of doubt the effectiveness and impartiality of the UN administration. Not even a senior JSKP employee could escape the law.
Congratulations all round. Talk of promotions and bonuses. Morale in the station peaked up around the axial light-tube.
The one sour note was sounded when Wing-Tsit Chong collapsed. Corrine told me he had badly overstressed himself in helping us overcome Steinbauer’s distortion of Eden’s thought routines. She wasn’t at all confident for his recovery.
All in all, it allowed me to, quite justifiably, postpone making any decisions about Jocelyn and the twins.
*
I used the same excuse at breakfast on the sixth day, as well. Nobody argued.
At midday I took a funicular railway car up the northern endcap, and headed down the docking spindle to inspect Steinbauer’s dragon hoard. The pressurized hangar I had requisitioned was just a fat cylinder of titanium, ribbed by monomolecule silicon spars, with an airlock door at the far end large enough to admit one of the inter-orbit tugs. A thick quilt of white thermal blankets covered the metal, preventing the air from radiating its warmth off into space. Thick bundles of power and data cables snaked about in no recognizable pattern. I glided through the small egress airlock which connected the hangar to Eden’s docking spindle, tasting a faint metallic tang in the air.
The Dornier SCA-4545B hung in the middle of the yawning compartment, suspended between two docking cradles that had telescoped out from the walls. It was a fat cone shape with two curving heavily shielded ports protruding from the middle of the fuselage. Every centimetre had been coated in a layer of ash-grey carbon foam which was pocked and scored from innumerable dust impacts. An array of waldo arms clustered round its nose were fully extended; with their awkward joints and spindly segments they looked remarkably like a set of insect mandibles.