The Sagittarius Whorl: Book Three of the Rampart Worlds Trilogy
Page 3
So, what are you going to do about it, you sorry Halukoid piece of shit?
The back of my neck tingled as a wave of fury washed over me, and I jumped as if I’d been goosed. Whatever I did, I knew I’d better do it mighty damned fast.
Fake Helly looked so peaceful, lying there. For an instant I wondered what kind of sweet alien dream they’d programmed for him while he was in dystasis. Then I twitched the pillow out from under his head, pressed it over his face, and held it down while he writhed feebly under me and uttered muffled cries.
The medical monitor standing beside the bed let out a shriek of alarm. Simultaneously, the gizmo implanted in my neck began to administer a series of increasingly severe shocks at intervals of about five seconds. If they were intended to deter me from homicidal rage and other adrenaline-driven misdeeds, someone had badly miscalculated the human pain threshold.
I flung myself on top of my double, using my weight to pin his flailing arms. Neither of us was up to snuff physically, but I still had my superior human musculature and knew how to use it. The regular shocks from my neck implant were now so strong that I was moaning in agony.
I kept on doing what I had to do.
His struggles weakened and finally stopped. I held the pillow down hard for another minute or so, then pulled it away. His lips were cyanotic, smeared with blood from his bitten tongue. The wide-open eyes had tiny points of red dotting the whites, and the pupils were wide and black. I felt for a pulse in his throat and found nothing. The monitor continued its shrill distress signal.
He was clinically dead, but they’d be able to revive him. Unless …
The pain from the neck shocks was becoming unbearable, and I knew I’d pass out unless I could do something about it. I staggered across the room toward the small kitchen, scratching impotently at my nape with Halukoid fingers lacking nails. Tore open drawer after drawer, finally found one with small cooking utensils. What to use? I couldn’t find any knives, which figured.
That! If only it’s sharp enough …
I grabbed it, thrust it awkwardly against the tiny lump, and gouged with all my strength.
One last bellow emptied my lungs. Then pain—but of a new sort, related to torn flesh. I dropped the melon baller with its malignant contents on the floor, grabbed up a dish towel and pressed it against the streaming wound. My blood was very red, very human.
As his would be, no longer circulating. But the Haluk medics would be able to do something about that unless I made it impossible.
I dived back into the drawer of kitchen utensils and rummaged frantically, cursing the absence of sharply pointed implements until I realized that any damage I might inflict with them would be easily repairable. I had to destroy Fake Helly, and do it within minutes.
A thought.
The wet bar. Did it have what I needed?
Yes! My blue hand closed over the drink-mixing wand. I stumbled back to the motionless body. Eyes wide open in death, he didn’t feel a thing as I positioned the implement and bore down with gruesome effect. To my surprise, the eyeball didn’t rupture but simply slid aside. The thin wall of bone behind it crunched and I was through to the brain.
And activated the mixer’s control to the highest setting: STIFF WHIP. Inadvertent morbid humor there. The efficient little machine didn’t even make a mess.
Try to repair that in your dystasis tank, huckleberry balls!
I made the mistake of withdrawing the wand, only to drop the thing on the floor as my stomach gave a terrific heave and thin bile flooded my throat. Fortunately, my guts were almost empty because of the dystasis, but it still took me a few minutes to recover. After all, I’d just done a cerebral puree job on myself …
Enough. Think escape.
I was surprised that no Haluk had responded yet to the medical alarm or to the signal that had set off my neckshocker. It was time for me to get moving. Steal a set of clothes, flee into the alien landscape of Artiuk, or whatever planet I was on.
Better check the weather outside. I’d been on Artiuk only once. The climate was torrid and subject to heavy rains.
I ran to the wall of draperies, hoping they covered windows, pulled aside the hanging fabric and uttered a disbelieving expletive.
Outside the glass was an immense city, viewed from a height. It was night. Soaring towers rose on either hand as far as I could see, their shining colored forms enmeshed in webs of skyways and high roads with streams of cars zipping along them. Aircraft moved in traffic-controlled pathways like regimented fireflies through a sky tinted bright gold. It had to be snowing hard outside the force-field umbrella.
That wasn’t Artiuk out there, or any other Haluk colony. It was Earth. And the city was one I knew intimately: Toronto, capital of the Commonwealth of Human Worlds.
Still holding the blood-soaked towel to my neck, I began to laugh like a maniac. I only stopped when the outer door of the room crashed open and the two medical technicians rushed inside, followed by a pair of uniformed Haluk guards armed with Ivanov stun-pistols.
Chapter 2
Last April, when I still wore the outward appearance of a human being, I said goodbye to my legal staffers and got the hell out of town. While the judges considered their verdict, I intended to rest up at my family’s Sky Ranch in Arizona and consider my future—especially in regards to the Barky Hunt.
For the first couple of days I did nothing but sleep. Then I worked out in the ranch’s well-equipped gym, swam laps in the indoor pool—it still being a trifle brisk outdoors in the high country—read some vintage Louis L’Amour and John D. MacDonald, and finished off each evening riding out to watch the sun go down in a different part of the sprawling Frost family spread.
My favorite mount was a horse named Billy, a huge sweet-natured gelding of the type southwesterners call a flea-bitten gray. That’s not to mean he’s infested or broken down; the odd term describes a variety of pale horse speckled all over with tiny spots of blue and red hair. Billy was strong and smart, he obeyed orders, and he didn’t spook when an unexpected quail or jackrabbit exploded out of the chaparral right under his nose. In Arizona you can’t hardly ask more of a horse than that.
On the tenth day of my holiday, Billy and I plodded easily uphill in the lengthening shadows while thin clouds turned from white to pink beyond the Tonto Basin. Spring in the Sierra Ancha is unobtrusively lovely. Golden yuccas, buckbrush, and manzanitas were blooming, tiny little hummingbirds with amethyst throats poked busily around the flowers for a final snack before nightfall, and the ethereal song of the hermit thrush echoed among the mesas and canyons.
It was a great place for unwinding, as different from the capital of the Commonwealth of Human Worlds as it could possibly be.
I’d left Toronto in a seriously fatigued state. Only my close-mouthed executive assistant, Jane Nelligan, knew where I was going, and she was under orders to reveal my whereabouts to no one. I told the ranch staff to ignore my presence, and they did—except for the horse wrangler who cared for Billy, and Rosalia the cook, who supplied me with three gourmet squares a day and kept the chitchat to a minimum.
I’d earned some incommunicado time. After more than two years of cosmic-class courtroom warfare, Rampart Concern’s civil suit against Galapharma was finally ready for adjudication. Now it was up to three justices of the Commonwealth Tribunal to produce a verdict in what the media had deemed the corporate trial of the century, David vs. Goliath.
Little Rampart, youngest and smallest of the Hundred Concerns, was suing the pants off Galapharma, one of the oldest and largest. We alleged conspiracy to devalue for the purpose of hostile acquisition, sabotage, industrial espionage, theft and subsequent malicious use of data, subornation of Rampart employees, and a lengthy laundry list of other major torts. Pursuant to Statute 129 of the Interstellar Commerce Code, Rampart demanded as redress the maximum damages set by law—namely, all assets tangible and intangible of Galapharma Amalgamated Concern, including their 5,345 booming planetary colonies.
If Gala won, its lawyers would waste no time slapping Rampart with a colossal civil countersuit, stunting the growth and profitability of its small rival for years to come—if not destroying it outright.
As Rampart’s interim Chief Legal Officer, I had been in total charge of orchestrating our case, always working behind the scenes. Not that I’d asked for the job! I’d fought like a wildcat to avoid it. But my father, Simon Frost, and my big sister Eve—Rampart’s Chairman of the Board and CEO, respectively—had leaned on me, inviting my scrutiny of certain inescapable facts.
My older brother, Daniel, the former Rampart corporate counsel and secretary, could hardly head up the litigation. An unindicted Galapharma coconspirator, Dan was kept doped to the eyeballs and under heavy guard in a fishing lodge up in the Ontario North Woods, where he stubbornly professed his complete innocence.
None of the subordinate officers in Rampart’s legal department were deemed capable of directing a complex, unprecedented civil action such as this one. To bring in an outside team of litigators was not an option, either. There were aspects of the case that didn’t bear close scrutiny: for instance, the strong probability that Dan had engineered our mother’s death, acting under orders from Galapharma.
And there was also the secret Haluk connection, political dynamite now that the blue buggers were legitimate trading partners of the Commonwealth …
Simon and Eve maintained that only one candidate for Rampart legal battlemaster had it all—being a major stakeholder in the Concern, a trusted member of the family, and a highly trained lawyer (although nonpracticing) familiar with every aspect of the case.
Yours truly, Asahel Frost.
Trying to wriggle out of the fast-closing trap, I reminded them that I was not a member of the Commonwealth bar and could not be quickly qualified by any string-pulling finagle of theirs. Even though my citizenship had been restored through a technicality, the felonies I’d been framed for were still on my record. In the eyes of the law I was still a convict on probation. In the eyes of the media I was a misfit—a charismatic one, though!—the black sheep of a distinguished family, a notorious loudmouth with eccentric political leanings. There was no way I could represent Rampart before the Judicial Tribunal in person.
No problem, said Simon and Eve. What they needed was not Rumpole of the Bailey or Perry Mason, but rather my expertise in rousting corporate outlaws, gained during my aborted career as an enforcement officer with the Interstellar Commerce Secretariat. A staff of talented associates would handle the actual pleading before the court. If necessary, the underlings could be coached by me every step of the way through cerebral chips.
I shifted into whine mode. Hadn’t I already risked my life half a dozen times to obtain crucial evidence supporting Rampart’s case against Galapharma? Hadn’t I rescued Eve from kidnappers that would have demicloned her and seized control of Rampart? Hadn’t I saved Simon himself from a fate worse than death in the infamous prison known as Coventry Blue? Wasn’t that fucking good enough? I didn’t want to spend years on a convoluted legal case. I had other plans for my life.
“Like what?” my father had bellowed. “Stirring up a fresh hornet’s nest with the damned Reversionist Party? Or maybe reverting to beach bum status on that boondock South Seas planet back in the Perseus Spur?”
I invited him to go to hell. He suggested that I perform a sexual act on myself. The discussion trended downhill from there.
Simon and I have a long history of horn-locking, beginning from the time fifteen years ago when I refused on principle to join the family starcorp. Now he castigated my selfishness and lack of filial loyalty. He dredged up my fancy-pants doctorate from Harvard Law School that I’d more or less tricked him into paying for.
Finally, in a fit of bogus cowhand vituperation, the old coot allowed as how if’n I let Rampart—i.e., him—down, I was nothing but a chicken-livered pecker-ass bastard with a yellow streak so wide it lapped plumb around to my brisket bone.
I was about to tell Simon to stuff his John Wayne act where the sun doesn’t shine when my sister Eve ordered us both to shut up. Then she made a single point that stabbed me to the heart and put an abrupt end to my weaseling.
“Asa, have you forgotten that our mother’s murder was instigated by Galapharma’s chairman? Dan only acted as Alistair Drummond’s cat’s-paw. We probably couldn’t prove Drummond’s complicity in the crime even if we found he was still alive, but his Concern is still a legitimate target. Do you want some kind of justice for Mom, or don’t you?”
Aw, shit … Damned right I did.
So I caved in.
And worked my tail off for two solid years. When the case went to the judges at long last, I figured we had an excellent chance of winning.
I guided my horse Billy along Bear Head Canyon trail, approaching the undistinguished peak we call Copper Mountain. At 2,071 meters, it’s the tallest of a scrub-covered range near the southern boundary of the Sky Ranch.
When we were kids, my brother and sisters and I were forbidden to go up Copper because of a dangerous abandoned gold mine on its eastern slope. So of course we made that our favorite secret spot. It was our hideout when we played outlaw, and the den of xeno monsters when we pretended to be Zone Patrol troopers. Just inside the mine entrance, I’d once killed a blacktail rattlesnake that had menaced my little sister, Bethany. Another time, my brother, Dan, risked his neck exploring a tumbledown side tunnel and found a glittering chunk of mineral that he declared was real gold. Dan was always the lucky one—until he grew up and succumbed to the temptations of a lunatic Scotsman.
Who might or might not be buried deep inside that very gold mine.
Three years ago, in a last ditch effort to salvage his faltering conspiracy, Alistair Drummond had narrowly missed killing my family and the rest of the Rampart Board of Directors by blowing up the main house of the Sky Ranch. He tried to escape by driving up Copper Mountain in a Range Rover, and when I came after him, he almost managed to nail me before taking refuge in the abandoned mine. I used a Harvey blaster to bring down a landslide on top of him.
Trouble was, we’d never found Drummond’s body in the rubble-filled mine shaft.
The horse carried me toward the gap that separates Copper Mountain from Bear Head Peak to the west. I reined in before the going got too rough, pulled a set of power oculars out of my saddlebag, and swept them over the brush-covered flanks of Copper. Of course I found nothing unusual; even the site of the great slide and the subsequent excavation were on the opposite side of the mountain.
“What do you think, Billy? Did the damned mine have another way out? Us kids never found one, and we explored the hell out of that old hole in the ground.”
The horse kept his opinion to himself.
I sighed and put the ocs away. To hell with Alistair Drummond. To hell with everything connected to Galapharma and the trial. This was my time to kick back and drift. I turned the mount around so I could concentrate my attention on the sunset beyond Bear Head. The western sky was slashed with crimson and purple streaks of cirrus cloud. The color faded slowly as I sat in my saddle, deliberately emptying my mind. Billy did a different sort of emptying, then nipped at some fresh greenery. A bat chased a flying bug through the chaparral. The high country was very quiet.
After a while the horse left off browsing, nickered softly, and cocked his ears. He was listening to something upslope. I heard it, too—an irregular metallic tink-tink tinkety-tink that sounded almost l
ike a spoon handle rattling faintly in a thick coffee mug: completely unnatural. A minute later a spherical black thing about the size of a golf ball came creeping down the steep rocky trail on thin jointed legs. Its two rateyes glowed in the dusk and its sensors swiveled busily.
A SPYder. It tippy-toed to within four meters of my fascinated horse and came to a halt.
“Good evening, Citizen Asahel Frost,” it said. “I am not here to threaten or harm you. Please confirm this by drawing your own weapon.”
The robot’s voice was a human transmission. The controller had probably been tracking me by satellite from the moment I left the house. The Sky Ranch doesn’t bother with ground-based optical dissimulator technology, although it has a full arsenal of intruder deterrents and multiphase alarm sensors.
“You’re trespassing,” I said, obediently pulling a Finnilä Bodyguard photon carbine from its gun boot on the saddle. The weapon switched itself on automatically and scanned the thing that confronted me.
Device is unarmed, my gun reported. I activated the targeter anyhow.
“I repeat!” said the SPYder. “I am not here to threaten or harm you.”
“Goody. But you weren’t invited, either. Give me one reason why I shouldn’t fry your tiny Tootsie Roll.”
“That would be illegal,” the machine said smugly, “since you’ve passed nineteen meters beyond the boundary of the Sky Ranch into public lands.”
“Maybe I have,” I conceded, lowering the gun. The perimeter in this remote and rugged area was unfenced and unmarked, the scanner units that guarded it were hard to spot, and I’d deactivated the saddle alarm days ago so it wouldn’t bug me when I strayed off the spread. “Who are you and why are you stalking me?”
“Jordan Sensenbrenner of the Wall Street Journal here! Would you care to comment on today’s Rampart-Galapharma verdict by the Commonwealth Judiciary Tribunal?”
My jaw dropped. “A decision already? My God—it’s only been ten days! How did the judges rule?”