Fuck. Where?
The north end of the Lincoln lake.
Doesn't mean anything. Send a driver to pick me up, I'll be there as soon as I can.
Driver's on her way, sir.
Good man. Wafer off.
•••
It was Shannon Kershaw who drove the jeep which picked me up, one of the station staff I'd met the previous afternoon on my lightning familiarization tour, a programming expert. A twenty-eight-year-old with flaming red hair pleated in elaborate spirals; grinning challengingly as Zimmels introduced us. Someone who knew her speciality made her invaluable, giving her a degree of immunity from the usual sharpshooting of office politics. This morning she was subdued, uniform tunic undone, hair wound into a simple tight bun.
The axial light-tube was a silver strand glimpsed through frail cloud braids high above, slightly brighter than a full Earth moon. Its light was sufficient for her to steer the jeep down a track through a small forest without using the headlights. Not good, she muttered. This is really going to stir people up. We all sort of regarded Eden as ... I don't know. Pure.
I was studying the display my PNC wafer was running, a program correlating previous crime incident files with Penny Maowkavitz, looking for any connection. So far a complete blank. There's never been a murder up here before, has there?
No. There couldn't be, really; not with the habitat personality watching us the whole time. You know, it's pretty shaken up by this.
The personality is upset? I enquired sceptically.
She shot me a glance. Of course it is. It's sentient, and Penny Maowkavitz was about the closest thing to a parent it could ever have.
Feelings, I said wonderingly. That must be one very sophisticated Turing AI program.
The habitat isn't an AI. It's alive, it's conscious. A living entity. You'll understand once you receive your neuron symbiont implant.
Great, now I was driving round inside a piece of neurotic coral. I'm sure I will.
The trees gave way to a swath of meadowland surrounding a small lake. A rank of jeeps were drawn up near the shoreline; several had red and blue strobes flashing on top, casting transient stipples across the black water. Shannon parked next to an ambulance, and we walked over to the group of people clustered round the body.
Penny Maowkavitz was sprawled on the grey shingle four metres from the water. She was wearing a long dark-beige suede jacket over a sky-blue blouse, heavy black cotton trousers, and sturdy ankle boots. Her limbs were askew, the skin of her hands very pale. I couldn't tell how old she was, principally because half of her head was missing. What was left of the skull sprouted a few wisps of fine silver hair. A wig of short-cropped dark-blonde hair lay a couple of metres away, stained almost completely crimson. A wide ribbon of gore and blood was splashed over the shingle between it and the corpse. In the jejune light it looked virtually black.
Shannon grunted, and turned away fast.
I'd seen worse in my time, a lot worse. But Shannon was right about one thing, it didn't belong here, not amongst the habitat's tranquillity.
When did it happen? I asked.
Just over half an hour ago, Rolf Kmmel said. I got out here with a couple of officers as soon as Eden told us.
The personality saw it happen?
Yes, sir.
Who did it?
Rolf grimaced, and pointed at a servitor chimp standing passively a little way off. A couple of uniformed officers stood on either side of it. That did, sir.
Christ. Are you sure?
We've all accessed the personality's local visual memory to confirm it, sir, he said in a slightly aggrieved tone. But the chimp was still holding the pistol when we arrived. Eden locked its muscles as soon as the shot was fired.
So who ordered it to fire the pistol?
We don't know.
You mean the chimp doesn't remember?
No.
So who gave it the pistol?
It was in a flight bag, which was left on a polystone outcrop just along the shore from here.
And what about Eden, does it remember who left the bag there?
Rolf and some of the others were beginning to look resentful. Lumbered with a dunderhead primitive for a boss, blundering about asking the obvious and not understanding a word spoken. I was beginning to feel isolated, wondering what they were saying to each other via affinity. One or two of them had facial expressions which were changing minutely, visible signs of silent conversation. Did they know they were giving themselves away like that?
My PNC wafer bleeped, and I pulled it out of my jacket pocket. Chief Parfitt, this is Eden. I'm sorry, but I have no recollection of who placed the bag on the stone. It has been there for three days, which exceeds the extent of my short-term memory.
OK, thanks. I glanced round the expectant faces. First thing, do we know for sure this is Penny Maowkavitz?
Absolutely, a woman said. She was in her late forties, half a head shorter than everyone else, with dark cinnamon skin. I got the impression she was more weary than alarmed by the murder. That's Penny, all right.
And you are?
Corrine Arburry, I'm Penny's doctor. She nudged the corpse with her toe. But if you want proof, turn her over.
I looked at Rolf. Have you taken the in situ videos?
Yes, sir.
OK, turn her over.
After a moment of silence, my police officers gallantly shuffled to one side and let the two ambulance paramedics ease the corpse onto its back. I realized the light was changing, the mock-silver moonlight deepening to a flaming tangerine. Dr Arburry knelt down as the artificial dawn blossomed all around. She tugged the blue blouse out of the waistband. Penny Maowkavitz was wearing a broad green nylon strap around her abdomen, it held a couple of white plastic boxes tight against her belly.
These are the vector regulators I supplied, Corrine Arburry said. I was treating Penny for cancer. It's her all right.
Video her like this, then take her to the morgue, please, I said. I don't suppose we'll need an autopsy for cause of death.
Hardly, Corrine Arburry said flatly as she rose up.
Fine, but I would like some tests run to establish she was alive up until the moment she was shot. I would also like the bullet itself. Eden, do you know where that is?
No, I'm sorry, it must be buried in the soil. But I can give you a rough estimate based on the trajectory and velocity.
Rolf, seal off the area, we need to do that anyway, but I want it searched thoroughly. Have you taken the pistol from the chimp?
Yes, sir.
Do we have a Ballistics Division?
Not really. But some of the company engineering labs should be able to run the appropriate tests for us.
OK, get it organized. I glanced at the chimp. It hadn't moved, big black eyes staring mournfully. And I want that thing locked up in the station's jail.
Rolf turned a snort into a cough. Yes, sir.
Presumably we do have an expert on servitor neurology and psychology in Eden? I asked patiently.
Yes.
Good. Then I'd like him to examine the chimp, and maybe try and recover the memory of who gave it the order to shoot Maowkavitz. Until then, the chimp is to be isolated, understood?
He nodded grimly.
Corrine Arburry was smiling at Rolf's discomfort. A sly expression which I thought contained a hint of approval, too.
You ought to consider how the gun was brought inside the habitat in the first place, she said. And where it's been stored since. If it had ever been taken out of that flight bag the personality should have perceived it and alerted the police straight away. It ought to know who the bag belonged to, as well. But it doesn't.