Mark Tiedemann: Chimera

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.