Asimov, Isaac - Robot Mystery - Chimera.pdf - Isaac Asimov - Planetar81

ISAAC ASIMOV’S

THREE LAWS OF

ROBOTICS

A robot may not inure a human being, or through inaction, allow a

human being to come to harm.

A robot must obey the orders given it by human beings except where

such orders would conflict with the First Law.

A robot must protect its own existence, as long as such protection

does not conflict with the First or Second Laws.

ISAAC ASIMOV’S

ROBOT MYSTERY

CHIMERA

MARK W. TIEDEMANN

Mark W. Tiedemann’s love for science fiction and writing started at

an early age, although it was momentarily sidetracked--for over

twenty years--by his career as a professional photographer. After

attending a Clarion Science Fiction Et Fantasy Writers Workshop

held at Michigan State University in 1988, he rediscovered his lost

love and focused his talents once more on attaining his dream of

becoming a professional writer. With the publication of “Targets” in

the December 1990 issue of Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, he

began selling short stories to various markets; his work has since

appeared in Magazine of Fantasy a Science Fiction, Science Fiction

Age, Tomorrow SF, and a number of anthologies. His bestselling

novel Mirage, the first entry in the Isaac Asimov’s Robot Mysteries

series, was released in April 2000. Currently, Tiedemann is working

on the third book in the series, to be published in 2002; his next

completed novel (working title: Felony of Conscience) is scheduled

for release by ibooks in October 2001. Tiedemann lives in St. Louis,

Missouri, with his companion, Donna, and their resident alien life

form--a dog named Kory.

ISAAC ASIMOV

Isaac Asimov was the author of over 400 books--including three Hugo

Award-winners--and numerous bestsellers, as well as countless

stories and scientific essays. He was awarded the Grand Master of

Science Fiction by the Science Fiction Writers of America in 1985, and

he was the man who coined the words robotics, positronic, and

psychohistory. He died in 1992.

ISAAC ASIMOV’S

ROBOT MYSTERY

CHIMERA

MARK W. TIEDEMANN

For Donna and Henry Tiedemann

Mom and Dad

with love, respect, and thanks

PROLOGUE

...brief touch, contact with the data port, numbers names dates

prognoses, all flow from the brief touch, a tiny surge that feels the way

nerves should feel, the stimulation of a hair drawn lightly along a

fingertip, but inside, along a conduit less than a hundredth a hair’s

width, to a smaller place where it grows and explicates and becomes

meaningful in translation, revealing location disposition architecture

security, an excess of data that gives access, all from a brief touch...

irector Ortalf stopped complaining about the lateness of the hour the

instant he saw the hole cut in the wall of the cafeteria at the Seth

Canobil Hospice Center, where he worked. His irritation turned

quickly to confusion, then embarrassment, and finally fear. He

walked up to the opening and reached out to touch the edge, but

withdrew his fingers centimeters from brushing the too-smooth cut.

In the flat light it shone mirror bright.

“Ah...” he said, looking around. The police officers who had

brought him here stood impassively, their faces professionally

expressionless. Director Ortalf looked around at the people milling

about the area. They moved in groups of threes and fours, some in

uniform, most in civilian clothes. Ortalf started at the sight of a drone

moving slowly across the floor, its sensors inspecting every

centimeter of the tiles.

“Forensic,” explained a deep, male voice nearby.

Ortalf looked around. A tall man in somber gray was watching

him, his face as ambivalent as everyone else’s--except for his eyes,

which glistened expectantly.

“Ah,” Ortalf said again. “Are you...?”

“Mr. Ortalf, “ the man said, ignoring the question. “Director

Ortalf.”

“Yes?”

“You run this facility?”

Ortalf nodded sharply. “What is going on? Who--?”

“A routine maintenance monitor detected a power outage here,”

the man explained. “According to its logs, this was listed as a class-B

primary site. It attempted to restore the lines, but found

irregularities. It then alerted the local authorities. “

“Power outage...but we have a back-up.”

“Had.”

“Redundant system...had?”

“How many people work here, Director Ortalf?” The man--who

must be some sort of inspector, Ortalf surmised--walked away,

forcing Ortalf to catch up and walk with him.

“Um...six permanent staff,” he said.

The man paused briefly, then continued walking. “I understand

you have nearly three thousand wards here. “

Ortalf tried to think. “Your people got me out of bed not even

half an hour ago, Inspector. I haven’t had time to shower, to get

breakfast, to--three thousand? Yes, that sounds about right.”

“And only six staff.”

“Six permanent staff, I said. We have several interns and part-

time volunteers, but even so, almost everything is automated.”

They left the cafeteria and started down a long corridor.

Emergency lights glowed dimly along the floor and ceiling, even

though the regular lights were on.

“Who was on call tonight?” the inspector asked.

“I don’t--please, Inspector, what is going on?”

At the end of the corridor a short set of stairs led down into a

nurse’s station. Banks of screens showed a bright orange STAND BY

flashing on them. Ortalf’s gnawing apprehension worsened. He

moved toward the main console, but the inspector gripped his upper

arm tightly.

“Please don’t touch anything. Who was on call tonight?”

“I don’t remember. Joquil, I think. Yes, Kilif Joquil.”

The inspector gestured toward a door that opened at the rear of

the station. Ortalf pushed it wide open. Sprawled over the cot that

hugged one wall of the cubicle lay a large body, face down.

Ortalf thought for a moment that the man was dead. But a

sudden, labored breath heaved through the torso. Dread gave way to

impatience.

“What is going on?” the director demanded.

The inspector nodded toward the sleeping male nurse. “Did you

know Kilif Joquil used Brethe?”

“What? Now look--”

The inspector aimed a long finger at the nightstand at the head

of the cot. Ortalf stared at its contents for a long time before he

recognized the inhaler and an unlabeled vial.

“We screen our people carefully,” he said weakly.

“I’m sure you do. “

Ortalf looked at the inspector. “Habits can start any time. We

scan every six months. “

The nurse shifted in the cot again, then lay still. Ortalf turned

and left. The inspector said nothing, just followed, as the director

headed for the door to the first ward.

Ortalf stopped at the entrance. The room stretched, nearly a

hundred meters on a side, dwarfing the half-dozen or so strangers

now wandering the aisles of matreches. Ortalf searched the field of

metal and plastic, looking for the telltale difference: a flaw, damage, a

sign of disruption. His pulse raced.

“Not this one,” the inspector said quietly, just behind him.

“Number Five.”

Ward Five was two levels down. Ortalf’s breathing came hard when he

reached it. Twice the size of the first-level wards, it contained the

same number of matreches. These, however, were larger, more

complex. More was demanded of them; the lives within required

special care.

Ortalf spotted the damaged units at once. He staggered toward

them, dodging down a jagged path between the intact incubators, till

he reached the first one.

Sticky fluid covered the floor around it. The shell had been

removed and the sac within punctured. Ortalf expected to see an

asphyxiated, dehydrated corpse in the bed, but the cradle was empty.

The tubes of the support system lay severed and useless on the

cushions, a couple of them still oozing liquids. Ortalf made to reach

in, but hesitated--touch would tell him the same as sight, that the

child was gone. He looked around, confused and close to panic.

Nearby he saw two more violated matreches.

“But...but...” He stopped when he found the inspector watching

him. “I don’t understand,” Ortalf said finally.

The inspector came to a conclusion. Concerning what, Ortalf

could not be sure, but he recognized the change in the inspector’s

face, from glassy hardness to near pity. The inspector nodded and

gestured for them to return to the administration level.

Ortalf let himself be escorted back, dazed. He barely noticed the

people and machines that roamed through his facility. Police, forensic

units, specialists--insurance adjustors, too, for all he knew, and

within hours the lawyers would be calling.

The inspector brought him to his own office and closed the

door.

“What’s happened?” Ortalf asked. He had wanted to make it a

demand, but it came out as a pale, exhausted gasp.

“I’d frankly hoped you might be able to tell me, Director Ortalf.

But...” He sat on the edge of Ortalf’s desk and gazed down at him.

Some of the hardness had returned, but mixed now with sympathy.

“From what we’ve been able to reconstruct so far, the entire

clinic was severed from outside communications. There was one

independent oversight program with a direct line to your

maintenance chief, but after ten minutes even that was cut. Most of it

went down with the power. You may well have a number of fatalities

to deal with. I’m not sure how critical these systems are to each unit--”

“Each matreche has its own power unit to protect from a

complete outage. “

“So I gathered from the manufacturer’s specs. Are they all up to

“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.”

par?”

Asimov, Isaac - Robot Mystery - Chimera.pdf

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