Chimera, Isaac Asimov's Robot Mystery - Mark W Tiedemann

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ISAAC ASIMOV’S
THREE LAWS OF
ROBOTICS
1.
A robot may not inure a human being, or through inaction, allow a human being to come to
harm.
2.
A robot must obey the orders given it by human beings except where such orders would conflict
with the First Law.
3.
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...
D
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 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…
ONE
C
oren 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.
He took out a palm-sized pad and switched it on. Less than a minute later all the telltales
winked green.
He sat down at one of the desks, jacked his palm monitor into the computer keyboard
before him, and initiated an access sequence. The security code was not very sophisticated; his
decrypter gained entry in less than thirty seconds. Coren keyed quickly. The scheduling chart
came up on the screen, showing incoming and outgoing traffic for all the bays on the far side of
the warehouse. He studied the times.
Most of the bays were tightly scheduled. One showed a half-hour period with nothing
going out, nothing coming in. He tapped queries. A shipment had been canceled at the last
minute. Three shipments, in fact, all belonging to a company called Kysler, and all cancellations
routed out of the Baltimor ITE oversight offices. Baltimor...practically the other side of the globe.
Odd. There was an ITE oversight office in the Laus District and another up north in Arkanleg,
both of which should have had responsibility for supervising traffic in and out of Petrabor. Still,
there was no reason Baltimor would be necessarily barred from such duties...
He opened the manifests. Mostly raw synthetic materials, exotic molecular structures,
exported by an Auroran-owned wholesaler. One bin contained electronics manufactured by
Imbitek. Coren studied the ID tags for a few moments. Kysler Diversified was the distributor. All
the lots had destination codes which he could not read.
Coren closed down the station. He unjacked his monitor, checked the status on his little
interference runners once more, then headed out. He knew now which bay he needed.
Coren followed the transparent wall till he came to an exit. A short staircase took him
down to the walkway that bordered the labyrinth. He produced another handful of vonoomans,
smaller than the first group, from a different pocket. Activated, they scurried along the walkway
and disappeared. The first group gave him security, interfering with the warehouse systems; these
would find people for him.
Automated tractors following invisible guide signals sped through the canyons, a
constant loud humming and rush of cold air that whipped at his coat. The place smelled of oil
and ozone, metal and hot plastic, and, under all that, an organic odor: yeast or mold. Rot.
The walkway took him to a broad receiving area fronting a row of large bay doors. As he
neared, the sounds grew thunderous: doors opening and slamming shut, transports rumbling
through in both directions, the wind now almost constant. And beyond that, in the distance,
deeper, sepulchral, the heavy thunder of the port itself: shuttles lifting off and landing
irregularly, disrupting any possible rhythm to all the noise.
Between the edge of the storage hive and the bays lay six meters of ancient, stained
apron. Except for small piles of boxes and litter, Coren saw nowhere to hide. He set free another
handful of machines and retreated to the nearest staircase leading down into a canyon.
Fog lay heavily a few stories below. Coren descended half the height of the block, until
the cold bit at his face and filled his sinuses with warning hollowness. He sat down on a step and
pulled his palm monitor out once more.
It unfolded four times to give him a display showing the locations of all his little spies
against a map of the entire warehouse. The surveillance blocks still showed operative. Now he
saw blue dots where all his other machines had secreted themselves. He pressed the half-meter-
square screen against the wall beside him and waited.
Ten minutes.
One blue dot turned red. Coren looked up, surprised. The intruder had come from the
nearby loading bays. The sixteenth member of the crew, he thought. Coren looked down at the fog,
twenty or more meters below, and wondered if he should move--into even more bitter cold. But
numbers flashed beside the dot on his flatscreen, coordinates that told him the precise location of
the worker, who waited near one of the bay doors, showing no sign of coming any closer to
Coren. After a few seconds Coren felt confident that he would not be seen--not by this one, at
least.
Twelve more minutes passed.
Three blue dots turned red, far down the row, back near the offices. As he watched, his
machines focused on the new intruders, coordinates proliferated over the screen, and he counted
bodies: fifty-one.
The number surprised him. He had expected no more than a dozen, at most fifteen.
They came as a group down a walkway, heading this direction, obviously for a meeting
with the waiting dockworker, who now moved a few steps from the wall.
Coren folded the screen back down to palm-size and crept up the stairs to the lip of the
walkway.
The dockworker stood just inside the warehouse by an open bay door several meters
away, his back to Coren. Hands in pockets, the man shifted minutely from foot to foot as if
keeping time to a tune only he heard. Coren looked across the grid of walkways to the
approaching group. From this distance he recognized no one. All of them wore black, all of them
carried small packs.
Five or six children accompanied the adults.
Coren glanced at his palm-monitor. The communications and surveillance dampers still
showed green. He estimated that he had another twenty minutes before the AI figured out why
its internal security system was down.
Coren peeled off his overcoat.
As the fifty-one refugees gathered around the dockworker, Coren stepped silently from
the stairwell and moved smoothly up to the perimeter, then cautiously worked his way through
them. He looked at no one, aware only that a few people gave him quick, nervous looks. They
were frightened, tense, too careful perhaps in some ways, careless in others. None of them would
want to believe that they had been followed or infiltrated or caught, so unless it was made
obvious that he did not belong here, they would explain him away to themselves. At least, for the
time being.
Long enough to reach the front of the gathering. “--no changes,” a woman said tersely.
“Canister BJ-5156. Don’t tell me about some other canister--”
“It can’t be helped,” the dockworker said calmly. “I’m sorry. The one segregated for you
was found and impounded.”
“Why wasn’t I informed?”
“I’m informing you now. I’m informing you that we have back-up. We were prepared.
It’s the same as it was, only different. A new canister. I could point out that you were supposed to
be a party of fifty-two and you’re missing one. Bad security. But, hey, we understand--people get
scared and back out at the last minute.” He gave her a crooked smile. “We are professionals.”.
The woman was tall, almost gaunt, sharply featured. Her head sat forward, angry and
demanding, as she glared at the dockworker, who gazed back at her evenly. Coren admired his
nerve under that displeased inspection.
After several seconds, she nodded slowly. “All right. But if this turns out to be anything
but copasetic I’ll peel your skin off with pliers. Tell your people we’re ready.”
The worker nodded and walked through the bay.
Coren started forward.
Something closed on his right bicep. He tugged at it automatically, to no effect. He
turned around, left hand curled to give a palm blow, and froze, abruptly and utterly terrified.
A robot regarded him blankly through mesh-covered eye sockets.
“I apologize, sir,” it said quietly, “but I must ask that you come with me. “
The robot drew him back through the crowd, which now watched him with open fear
and shock. Some cringed back from the robot, but most stood fast, staring outrage at Coren
Lanra.
The robot walked him down the row of bay doors, to the fourth one from the group, and
waited, still holding him, firmly but harmlessly.
“Damn it, Coren. “
Coren glanced around at the voice. He looked at the woman he had come to talk to. He
waited as long as he could before speaking, taking advantage of the opportunity to simply look at
her. Finally, he said, “Good to see you, too, Nyom.”
She let her breath out through her teeth, slowly, and Coren felt himself smile.
“Don’t tell me you’re surprised to see me,” he said.
“I’m not. That’s what bothers me.”
Coren gestured toward the robot. “Umm..,”
“Coffee, go see to our arrangements.”
“Yes, Nyom.”
The robot released Coren ‘s arm. He congratulated himself that he did not immediately
step away from it. Instead, he watched it walk back toward the group of refugees.
“What are you doing?” he asked the young woman. “Running baleys?”
“You know I am. I have been. “
“I’d hoped I’d been misinformed. Are you insane?”
She shook her head impatiently. “That’s good, Coren, appeal to my vanity. You always
had a way of making me feel special. “
“I’m serious. Do you know what you ‘re doing?”
“Usually.”
Coren waited, but she said nothing more. Abruptly, he felt awkward and slightly foolish.
He glanced toward the baleys.
“Where’d you get the tinhead?” he asked. “Your father would love that.”
“To hell with my father and to hell with you. What, did he send you to find me? What
are you going to do, throw me over your shoulder and drag me back home?”
“The thought had occurred to me.”
She snorted, but took a step back. Then she gave him a narrow look. “What are you going
to do?”
He met her gaze evenly, trying to think of a suitable answer. Finding none, he shook his
head. “I didn’t know you had a robot.”
She laughed. “You don’t have a plan? Rega didn’t send you. You came on your own.”
“Not exactly. He did tell me to find out what you’re doing and--”
“And what? Sit on me till the election is over? That’s what this is about, then. Rega is
afraid his little girl’s activities might botch his election. Tell him not to worry. I think he can ruin
his chances all on his own; he doesn’t need my help. In fact, you can give him some good news:
He won’t have to worry about me anymore at all. I won’t give him any further cause for
concern.”
Coren waited. He recognized the tone of voice, the half smile, and a small point of fear
burned at the back of his throat. He slipped his hands into his pockets, the right one finding a
small plastic bag. He squeezed it till it burst in his palm.
“Nyom,” the robot interrupted. Coren started and Nyom laughed.
“Coffee won’t hurt you,” she said. “What is it, Coffee?”
“Time,” the robot said.
“I’ll be right there.”
Coffee retreated.
“What do you mean, Nyom?” Coren asked.
摘要：

ISAACASIMOV’STHREELAWSOFROBOTICS1.Arobotmaynotinureahumanbeing,orthroughinaction,allowahumanbeingtocometoharm.2.ArobotmustobeytheordersgivenitbyhumanbeingsexceptwheresuchorderswouldconflictwiththeFirstLaw.3.Arobotmustprotectitsownexistence,aslongassuchprotectiondoesnotconflictwiththeFirstorSecondLaw...

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