Michael Kube-McDowell - The Quiet Pools

The ambulance lifted and roared away toward the city, and Francis took a step forward. “I don’t think there’s anything we can do here,” he suggested.

With a wordless look of contempt, Dryke started down the platform toward the observation deck and the trio of city police still working the scene.

“Officer,” he said, accosting the nearest, “I’m Mikhail Dryke, Allied Transcon security.”

“You folks made the call on this?”

“Yes. If there’s something we can do—”

“You did it.”

“Did the medics give you any report on the injured?”

“Nobody’s dead, if that’s what you mean.” He checked the screen of his slate. “The Martinez woman is about the worst of them—ribs, spleen, facials, concussion.” The officer shook his head. “You’d think the word’d get around,” he said. “You’d think they’d learn.”

Dryke’s brow wrinkled. “This has happened before?”

“Third time I know of. First for that, though,” he added, gesturing at the plex and the sun-baked graffito FOR THE HOMEWORLD.

Dryke stared. “I didn’t know,” he said.

“Well, this should be the last. City manager’ll probably recommend we close this up,” the officer said. “We can’t have someone here all the time, after all.”

“ We can,” Dryke said firmly. “Would that step on anyone’s toes?”

“Not mine,” the officer said with a shrug. “You’ll want to check with Lieutenant Alvarez. Transit Division.”

“I’ll do that,” Dryke said. “Excuse me.”

Francis saw Dryke returning and brightened; he was eager to leave the platform. Then he saw how Dryke’s expression had hardened and began to quail.

“Your office,” Dryke said curtly as he stalked past.

But Francis’s office could not contain Dryke’s rage. It spilled over into the adjacent hallway and the Building 1 courtyard, into a cascade of whispers and gossip.

“Why didn’t our people respond?” Dryke demanded, backing Francis toward his desk. “They were right there—they could have stopped it.”

“The observation deck’s not Allied property,” Francis said defensively. “It’s not our responsibility.”

Dryke balled his fists as though he were about to strike Francis, then caught himself and turned away. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered.

“Besides,” Francis went on, emboldened, “it could easily have been a diversion aimed at getting through the north gate. In fact, we don’t know that it wasn’t. The standard gate complement is three. If two of them go racing up to the platform to play hero, that’s as good as throwing the gate wide open. And considering what happened this morning, prudence—”

Whirling, Dyke raged, “What about the last time? And the time before that? What excuse do you have for them? And why the hell didn’t I see something about this in your monthlies?”

“That’s not Allied property,” Francis began bravely. “None of our people were involved—”

“They should have been, goddammit, aren’t you listening?”

Francis tried to stand his ground, though it had turned to sand beneath him. “I don’t believe that these incidents are properly the concern of Corporate Security.”

” ‘For the Homeworld’ painted in blood and it’s not our concern? Christ, would I have even heard about this one if I hadn’t happened to be here?”

“These incidents are off-site, only outsiders are involved, and there’s been no threat to our people or our operations—”

“A moment ago you were trying to convince me that there is a threat,” Dryke said coldly. “You can’t have it both ways.”

Francis surrendered, the resilience leaving his body as he slipped down into his chair. “There were three incidents before today, not two,” he said. “The first time, a woman alone up there at night was raped. We didn’t know about it until it was over. The second time involved a couple, about thirty, who got roughed up a little. The third time, a couple of thugs scattered a pretty good crowd with pepperguns. I didn’t see where any of it touched us. If I was wrong, I was wrong.”

“You were wrong,” Dryke said curtly. He flexed his shoulders and sighed. “All right. We’ve got some making up to do. Find out who those people were. I want flowers in their rooms by visiting hours. Sympathy and our sincere regrets. And if any of them have exposure on the medical bills, I want them to know we’re going to cover it.”

Francis squinted questioningly at his superior. “Mr. Dryke, I understand the gesture, really I do. But isn’t that just going to make it seem like we’re admitting responsibility?”

“We are responsible,” Dryke said. “If you don’t see that yet, you’re even denser than I thought.”

“I was just concerned about liability—”

“Let them sue us. We should have done more. Will do more. I want two of your people stationed on the ob deck around the clock, starting immediately. In uniform. I want them to be a presence,” Dryke said. “But a friendly presence—find some people with personality. Those folks that come to watch our ships fly are our friends. And we’re damn well going to start taking better care of our friends.”

Sitting back in his bowllike operator’s chair, Christopher McCutcheon studied the center pair of the ten standard displays arrayed before him in the darkened archaeolibrarian’s booth. His gaze flicked from the upper screen to the slim green-bound volume resting on his lap, then back. Frowning, he pressed the black bar on the right armrest.

“Come on, Ben, you’ve got to have some cross-reference,” he said. “These guys didn’t come out of nowhere, write this book, and then vanish.”

“I’m sorry, Chris,” replied Benjamin, the most agreeable of the library’s AIP constructs. “I find nothing with the search keys ‘A. Privat Deschanel’ or ‘J. D. Everett.’ I do find entries for the Lycée Louis le Grand, the Academy of Paris, Queen’s College in Belfast, D. Appleton and Company of New York—”

“What’s the closest match on Deschanel?”

A third display sprang to life to display a double-column list of names. “A Paul Eugene Louis Deschanel was the tenth President of the Third French Republic in 1920,” Benjamin said as a monochrome photograph appeared on a fourth display.

“Birth date?”

“February 13, 1855.” The text of a biography took over a fifth screen.

“Too late,” Christopher said. “All right. New entry.” All five active displays blanked momentarily. “Key to title, author, coauthor, associations for both. Cross-link to physics, history of science, natural philosophy, mechanical engineering, technology. There’re a lot of cutaway drawings and diagrams in this one, so let’s make it an image upload with text call. Give me the null reference list on the big screen.”

“I understand,” Benjamin said, and a slotlike drawer opened in the sloping semicircular panel below the bank of screens.

Christopher leaned forward and laid the green volume in the drawer. “And be careful with that one,” he added. “It’s almost two hundred years old.”

“Always, Chris.”

It took bare seconds for the source upload to begin and the results to be reflected on the quiescent displays. Christopher sat back and watched the “picture window” display high above the center of the operator’s panel. As the library’s engine began analyzing the contents of Deschanel’s Natural Philosophy , thirteenth edition, 1898, the list of terms which had no reference anywhere in Ur’s library began to build: Atwood’s Machine, Vase of Tantalus, Morin’s Apparatus.