Mark Tiedemann: Chimera

"So I gathered from the manufacturer's specs. Are they all up to par?"

"So far as I know. You'd have to ask our maintenance supervisor, Kromis-"

"We'd love to, but we can't find her."

"She…have you been to her apartment?"

"Police are there now. I'd like to have her employment file when you get a moment. In fact, we'll want the employment files on all your people, even the consultants, interns, and part-timers."

"Do you really think it could have been one of my people?"

"Not alone, no. But it's clear that whoever it was had a thorough knowledge of your systems."

"Of course. Um…do you know how they broke in?"

"Once the power was down and the security net with it," the inspector explained, "a hole was cut through the point where there would least likely be a back-up alarm they could know nothing about-nobody alarms cafeterias-and from there they went through the clinic, cutting the rest of the power and finally deactivating even your passive monitoring systems."

Ortalf blinked. "It could take days to get everything back up." He stared off toward a wall, his thoughts an anxious jumble. "How many are missing?" he asked.

"Twenty-four, I think. All from Ward Five."

"All?"

The inspector nodded. "Who were they?"

"I don't…you mean, who do we maintain in Ward Five? A special group, I'm afraid. Very special."

"Isn't everyone in your facility special?"

Ortalf studied the inspector, unsure if he heard sarcasm in the man's voice. The face, though, remained impassive.

"Some more than others," Ortalf said. "Those-Ward Five-have the most severe situations."

"UPDs, aren't they?"

"Yes. Untreatable Physiological Dysfunctions."

"Lepers."

Ortalf started. "I'm sorry?"

"Nothing." Impatience flashed across the inspector's face. "Ancient reference. It's not important. Tell me, can you think of any reason someone would want to kidnap them?"

"No."

"Blackmail? Ransom?"

"I doubt any of them will live long enough outside their matreches to be of any use in that regard. "

"Why is that?"

"The matreches-each one is specifically modified to its occupant. They're unique, like the individuals they support. They change over time, with the condition of their charge. It would be nearly impossible to duplicate those specifications in another unit quickly enough to save a removed occupant. I have no doubt that a number of them are dead already."

"I see. That leaves revenge. Who were they?"

"Revenge?" Ortalf stood. "You're joking! What could any of these children have done-"

"Not them," the inspector said calmly. "Their parents."

"Their histories are completely confidential. Inaccessible. "

"Really? You do that as efficiently as your employee background checks?"

"I'm the only one who can access those records."

"And will you inform the parents when you've done so, to let them know that their children have been lost?"

Ortalf, uncomfortable, sat down and shook his head. "That's not the arrangement we have."

"They don't want to know, do they? That's why you have them in the first place. "

"You have to understand, a lot of them have no family to begin with. "

"Discards. Abandoned."

"Yes."

"I'd be willing to wager that many of those whose records are so carefully sealed are children with families."

The inspector stood, and for a moment Ortalf expected to be struck. He closed his eyes and waited, but the blow never came. When he looked up, the inspector stood in the doorway, his back to the director.

"The records will be required," the inspector said. "Please make yourself available for further questioning."

Ortalf watched the man walk away. Nearly a minute passed before he realized that he still did not know the inspector's name. At that moment, he was just as glad not to.

TWENTY-FIVE YEARS LATER…

Coren Lanra watched from behind a grime-encrusted refuse bin in the recess of an old, unused loading dock. A sneeze threatened, teased by sharp odors and the chill air. Across the wide alley, members of a third-shift crew emerged from an unmarked door. Even if they saw him they would pass him off as one of the ubiquitous warren ghosts, homeless and destitute, that haunted the districts surrounding Petrabor Spaceport. Coren wore a shabby, ankle-length gray-black coat over worn coveralls; four days' beard darkened his pale face beneath oily, unwashed hair. He itched.

Three hours still remained in the third shift. Coren counted fifteen people through the door-all but one of the full crew compliment of the largely automated warehouse. They were unlikely to get into trouble-Coren recognized their supervisor among them, marked by the thick silver rings around his upper arms. They strode noisily up the alley, boots crunching on scattered debris, laughter echoing off the walls, heading for a home kitchen or a bar. They rounded a corner. Coren listened till their voices came as whispers in the distance.

He dropped from the lip of the bay and hurried to their exit door, propped open by a thin sheet of plastic he'd stuck there earlier to jam the lock and disable the tracking sensor that kept a log of when the door was 'used. Just inside, he found an ID reader set in a heavy inner door. He slipped his forged card into the slot and waited to see if he had gotten what he had paid for.

The light on the reader winked green and he slipped through into a locker room. Forty-eight lockers, sixteen per shift. Coren wondered where the last worker was inside the mammoth complex.

From one of the oversized pockets in his coat he took out a small button and pressed it on the frame of the exit door. Should anyone follow him through, the button would warn him with a strong signal pulse tuned to a receiver on his wrist.

He went to the shower room.

Water dripped from some of the shower heads; the floor was damp. He turned on a jet of hot water and removed several blocky objects from various pockets. He placed them beneath the steaming spray and stepped back. Quickly, the scan-occluding resins melted off a number of devices. Coren shut off the water and gathered them up, shaking away the excess water.

He hurried down a short hallway that let into a large office area, then threaded a path through the maze of irregularly-spaced desks and chairs to the transparent wall that overlooked the main warehouse space.

Immense square blocks formed a grid below the enormous ceiling. Within each block, stacks or cubicles, nacelles, skids, crates-all manner of packaging-filled the volume. Turnover was constant. The space between each block extended down several levels and buzzed with transports, bringing loads up from below or, coming from the bays along the far wall, descending with newly arrived cargo to the proper location. The contents were monitored by a very sophisticated AI system-not alive, no, but as close to machine awareness as Terran prejudice and law allowed.

Walkways followed the grid pattern; staircases led down into the hive-like labyrinth. Coren wondered just how far he would fall if he lost his balance while walking along one of those narrow paths. He pressed close to the wall and looked straight down and could not make out the bottom.

He turned away, head swimming in a brief wash of vertigo. At least there was a roof above…

Coren took out a few of his vonoomans. The little machines clustered in the palm of his left hand. He turned slowly, surveying the office. Satisfied, he knelt down and set them on the floor. He lightly touched them, and each glowed briefly as it activated.

"If Rega knew I used you," he whispered to them, "he might…" He grunted, self-mocking, and touched each one again. The devices stirred for a few moments, then shot off in different directions, seeking out the specific energy signatures of communications, monitoring, and alarm systems. Once in place, Coren would be able to range wherever he wished within the warehouse, free of detection.