by Julian May
“You mean you haven’t heard about it?”
“I’ve been totally incommunicado. Getting some muchneeded peace and quiet. You want to tell me what happened?”
The SPYder’s voice went cagey. “Perhaps you don’t know about Simon Frost’s sensational announcement, either. The Journal would definitely like to hear your reaction to that.”
“My saddle has a datalink and display. Why don’t you pass along what you’ve got. When did the verdict come down?”
“Mmm … Maybe we should talk quid pro quo. You give me a decent statement for attribution, I’ll have our comsat download the Journal articles we’ll be posting later tonight on our site. They contain full details of the court decision given an hour ago, along with your father’s announcement. Deal?”
Damn webcrawlers had more nerve than a sperm whale’s wisdom tooth. This one was starting to annoy me, so I lifted the Finnilä and blasted a rock just a mite to the left of it.
The SPYder skittered sideways and instantly deployed a miniature force-field. “You can’t do that! I claim media privilege! I’m just trying to do my job!”
“I can do whatever I please—provided I don’t give a damn about the consequences. You’re trying to pressure me, Jordan Sensenbrenner. There are people who’d tell you that’s not a very smart thing to do.”
“I assure you I didn’t mean—”
“That puny shield your bot is wearing can stop a laser bolt but not a gross physical assault. Suppose I kick your expensive little toy down a coyote hole and roll a rock on top? Or maybe stomp it till it’s crippled and smother it in some of the horse apples Billy just dropped? Would that make your editor happy?”
The SPYder dropped its defensive shield. It was groveling time. “Citizen Frost, perhaps this interview got off on the wrong foot—”
“It’s not an interview yet, only a close encounter of the Wild West kind … However, I admit I’m anxious to hear the big news before it hits the PlaNet. I suppose I could call the folks down at the ranch and ask them to patch me into Rampart Tower in Toronto, but it might take a few minutes to organize the relay. So I’d be much obliged if you’d just pass on the information out of the goodness of your heart, no strings attached. Don’t you think your boss at the Journal would consider that a wise move?”
“Oh, very well,” the SPYder grumped. It told me the satellite’s access code.
I uncovered the unit on the saddle pommel, activated the antenna and expanded the viewscreen, entered the data and tapped SAT DOWNLOAD. A moment later I was reading the Journal copy quoting the judges’ unanimous decision.
Galapharma AC was found guilty on all charges, with no appeal to be entertained by the Tribunal.
Compensatory and punitive damages owed by Gala to Rampart were still to be assessed, but the consensus among legal scholars was that the greatest pharmaceutical and genetic technology company in the galaxy was fucked to a finality. The Tribunal would probably order Galapharma to be turned over lock, stock, and barrel to Rampart, instantly lofting my family’s firm into the exalted company of the Big Seven.
Some observers attributed Rampart’s victory to the brilliant litigation strategy of its unofficial CLO, the dashing and unconventional Asahel Frost. He was also rumored to have personally apprehended the principal material witness for the prosecution, using highly unorthodox methods.
I finished reading and eyed the SPYder. “Very nice, Jordan. You may quote me as being personally gratified by the verdict, which affirms my faith in the CHW judiciary system. All corporate entities, most especially those of high status whose actions influence the very integrity of the Commonwealth, must conform scrupulously to the dictates of the law.”
“Have you yourself always done so, Citizen Frost?” Sensenbrenner inquired blandly. “There’s been speculation that the witness Oliver Schneider was—”
“Next question.”
“Perhaps you ought to read your father’s statement first.”
I skipped through the sidebar articles and trial commentary, scanning for Simon’s name. I found the piece, read the headline, and uttered a shocked expletive.
RAMPART CHAIRMAN, JUBILANT OVER GALAPHARMA VERDICT,
DECLARES HE WILL STEP DOWN IN FAVOR OF MAVERICK SON
by Jordan Sensenbrenner
Toronto, Earth, 19 April 2236—In the wake of today’s historic verdict favoring Rampart Concern, its Chairman of the Board, Simon Frost, 88, declared: “This is the happiest moment in my life.” After congratulating his legal team on its success, he made a sensational announcement.
“During the past few years,” Frost said, “Rampart has not only repulsed a criminal hostile takeover attempt but also managed to thrive and expand. We’ve risen from a closely held Interstellar Corporation to an Amalgamated Concern, thanks largely to the efforts of a brilliant group of top executives headed by my daughter Eve Frost, Rampart’s CEO. I’m proud to have played a role in this expansion, just as I’m proud to be a cofounder of Rampart.
“Back in 2183, when my brother Ethan and our partner Dirk Vanderpost and I went out to the Perseus Spur to seek our fortunes, we never dreamed that a day like this would come. It was enough that our little Starcorp could meet its payroll and keep the Haluk and Qastt pirates from stealing our cargoes.
“Well, times change. Today both of those races are CHW trading partners. The Spur boasts 219 prosperous Rampart Worlds, with more being opened to human colonization and economic development every month. I’m tickled pink that I lived to see that happen.
“Now that Rampart has weathered its greatest crisis and come out on top, I’ve decided that it’s time for me to step down from active corporate leadership and make way for younger blood. I intend to retire as Chairman of the Board. And I hereby nominate my son Asahel Frost to take my place. Without him, Rampart would have succumbed to Galapharma’s hostile takeover ploy. Without him, we would never have won our civil judgment against Gala.
“I haven’t consulted Asa yet, so this is going to be a bit of a surprise to him. But I’m confident that he’ll accept the chairmanship, just as I’m confident that Rampart Concern will continue to prosper in the years to come.”
Having delivered the antimatter warhead, the article continued with a summary of my roller-coaster career. Sensenbrenner glossed over my stint as a Divisional Chief Inspector in the ICS, where I had been one of the valiant, overworked band charged with ferreting out wrongdoing among the Big Businesses that effectively control the Commonwealth of Human Worlds. In contrast, the details of my conviction, my dismissal from the enforcement arm of the Commerce Secretariat, and my disenfranchisement were presented in lip-smacking detail. He had even interviewed a few of my more vengeful acquaintances on the planet Kedge-Lockaby, who painted a revolting and accurate picture of me in my days as a drunken Throwaway.
My rescue of Eve from her kidnappers and my alleged apprehension of Oliver Schneider in an illicit raid on the Qastt planet Dagasatt were described more cautiously to skirt the libel laws. (I was a citizen again by then.) The article was silent on my role in the presumed demise of Alistair Drummond.
Katje Vanderpost’s mind-boggling gift to me of her Rampart quarterstake had lifted me into the ranks of the political movers and shakers. The writer seemed to have no idea why I’d dedicated almost all of the obscenely large income from my mother’s stake to projects of the underdog Reversionist Party. (I’d made a promise to carry on her own sponsorship, since party principles coincided with youthful ideals I had mothballed while serving in the ICS.) Jordan did concede that I’d made a notable splash for ten entertaining months, attacking the Commonwealth Assembly’s craven symbiosis with Big Business, until the Galapharma trial forced me to put my political life on hold.
The article ended with speculation on what course I’d choose to follow next.
If they only knew …
“I can’t answer that question yet,” I told Sensenbrenner. “I’m going to have to think long and hard about it. But you can quote me
on this: I will do nothing that will contravene the Reversionist Guiding Principles, nor do I intend to completely abandon politics.” I couldn’t resist adding, “Perhaps it’s possible that under my leadership, Rampart Concern could modify its operations to reflect the philosophy of Reversionism.”
Wow—heresy! The reporter couldn’t keep the expectation of a major scoop out of his voice.
“But … most Reversionists favor drastically limiting the political influence of the Hundred Concerns—in effect, destroying the galactic economic structure!”
I laughed. “I admit that some party zealots might feel that way. My own views on the subject are not nearly so radical. Nevertheless, for nearly two centuries Big Business has exploited the stars with only minimal checks and balances by the Commonwealth. I want the Hundred Concerns made more accountable to the Assembly. To the elected representatives of humanity at large. I’d like to see laissez-faire interstellar economics reined in or even abolished, along with the laws that enable human business interests to do just about anything they please if it means increased profits for their stakeholders. I also favor just treatment of nonstargoing Indigenous Sapient races whose worlds are colonized and developed by humanity. And closer regulation of trade with interstellar alien civilizations that might not be fully committed to … interspecies goodwill.”
“Are you speaking about the Kalleyni, the Joru, the Y’tata, and the Qastt, Citizen Frost? Or about the Haluk?”
“No further comment at this time.”
“As chairman of Rampart, do you really believe you could implement your Reversionist ideals?”
“If I took the position, I could try. My late uncle, Ethan Frost, who headed Rampart in the beginning, was one of the first galactic entrepreneurs to give Insap workers human-equivalent wages and decent working conditions. I’m convinced his policy was the principal reason Rampart prospered in the Perseus Spur, while Galapharma and the other oppressive outfits who tried to make a go of it failed and had to withdraw.”
“But the majority of economists and financial authorities don’t believe that approach would be practical in the longer-settled Orion Arm worlds, much less in the Sagittarius Whorl—”
I flapped a dismissive hand at the SPYder. “Stop. I won’t argue the point with you now. I told you that I don’t know yet what I’m going to do with my life. Maybe I’ll accept the Rampart chairmanship. Maybe I’ll go back to being gadfly-in-chief for the Reversionists. Maybe I’ll do something completely different. Right about now I feel like flying away to some quiet little planet where nobody knows my name. The Galapharma trial left me worn down to a nubbin. Simon’s proposal couldn’t have come at a worse time. I need to retune my perspective before I commit myself.”
“How long before you—”
“That’s enough,” I said. “End of interview.” I turned Billy away and started back down the trail. The high clouds had lost their color and the first stars were popping out in the east.
The SPYder came scuttling after me. “Citizen Frost! Just a few more words! When do you expect to return to Toronto? Would you grant the Journal an in-depth interview concerning your political ambitions? Or discuss the direction Rampart Concern might take under your—”
Casually, I shifted in the saddle, raised the carbine and fired from the hip, drilling the little machine through one of its glowing eyes. It exploded in a brief puff of smoke and plasma. Billy didn’t even flinch.
Then I started back to the ranch house. I figured it wouldn’t be long before my father showed up.
I half expected Eve to accompany Simon, the better to coerce me. But when I arrived an hour or so later I found him alone in the big living room of the fully restored main house, staring into a blaze of piñon logs in the big fireplace and sipping his usual bourbon and branch water. A magslate, the logo of the Wall Street Journal shining on its viewer, lay on the polished petrified-wood coffee table behind him. The late edition had been posted. I presumed that my interview with Sensenbrenner was in it.
Looking glum, Simon nodded but didn’t speak as I came through the open French doors, still covered with trail dust.
I took off my stained old Stetson hat and Pendleton blanket jacket and went to the sideboard where the drinks were. Passing by the Maker’s Mark Limited Edition, Hirsch Pot Still, and other upmarket tarantula juice that my father fancied, I helped myself to my favorite blue-collar tipple: Jack Daniel’s, straight up. A single shot sufficed to demonstrate that I hadn’t reverted to the lush life. After tossing it down I drew a tall draft beer from the keg of Dortmunder tucked in a compartment of the sideboard, sat on one of the leather couches in front of the hearth, and began to haul my boots off.
Simon stood watching me out of hooded green eyes. His hair was light brown with a prominent widow’s peak, just like mine. I’d inherited his thin-bridged nose, too, and the wide mouth with downturned corners that was capable of blooming in a megawatt smile. He’d taken full advantage of modern medical science and genengineering to stave off time’s ravages, and usually gave an impression of indomitable physical vigor.
But not today.
He was dressed in one of his semiformal riverboat gambler suits rather than the tailored ranchman outfits he usually sported, perhaps signaling the special character of the occasion. He seemed tired and wary, and the black broadcloth of his suit emphasized his abnormally wan aspect. I recalled being taken aback when the Journal article gave his age. People—including me—tended to forget how old Simon Frost really was.
“They were having a victory bash at Rampart Tower when I left,” he said to me at last. His voice was just a bit too loud. “Everybody was toasting you—even the people who pissed and moaned the loudest when Evie and I appointed you acting legal chief and gave you free rein. The whole gang agreed we never would have won a nonappellate verdict without your leadership. I suppose congratulations are in order.”
I thought: Well, thanks all to hell, Pop! But I said nothing.
He continued. “You were the best one for the job and you did it. ‘Nuff said. And now there’s another job needs doing …”He let the words trail off, as if daring me to turn him down flat.
Oh, no you don’t, you old buzzard. This time we play by Helly’s rules.
I finally got rid of the boots, put my feet up on the low table, took a deep swallow of beer, and slid forward on the cushions so my rump was almost level with my shoulders. “I’m surprised Evie didn’t come with you.”
“The quick verdict caught her by surprise. She’s four days out, en route to the Spur, and didn’t want to backtrack. There’s some sort of conkbuster situation connected to the Cravat facility expansion. Zed couldn’t seem to get a handle on it so she decided to take care of the matter personally. She’ll return to Toronto as soon as the flap is resolved and help you and the other legal eagles work out the petitions for redress.”
“Sam Yamamoto and Marcie Kirov are perfectly capable of supervising that—along with all the other post-trial stuff,” I told him. “I got you your damned verdict. Don’t expect me to shovel up after the circus parade.”
A long silence, broken only by the faint cries of nighthawks. The doors were still open to the patio, and I could smell the perfume of the hundred-year-old wisteria growing on the cenador next to the barbecue pit. Miraculously, the explosion that destroyed the main house had spared the rustic dining shelter and the adjacent gardens, as well as most of the trees and ranch outbuildings.
I said, “How’d you know where I was?”
“A pushy Wall Street Journal reporter told me. He found you with a Big Eye satellite three days ago. Figured you might give him an interview on your trial strategy once the verdict was in. Seems you didn’t try very hard to keep undercover once you got out here. Right after I issued my statement at the media conference, this Journal joker was all over me wanting an exclusive follow-up. Said he intended to contact you here at the Sky Ranch, too. I told him lotsa luck getting through the security umbrella. But I reckon he did.”
“A SPYder robot tracked me down as I was riding outside the perimeter this evening. I gave a few quotable remarks before I zapped the bot to smithereens with my Finnilä. It was giving me attitude.”
“Goddammit, Asa! What’s the sense antagonizing the legitimate media? It’s not like the webster was from a tabloid.”
“The real question,” I said, pushing myself upright and looking him dead in the eye, “is why the hell you chose to offer me the Rampart chairmanship via a media release instead of putting it to me privately, in person. Do you really think it’s an offer I can’t refuse?”
“More like a trial balloon,” said the crafty old bastard, “to see how the Hundred Concerns might react to the idea. Especially Adam Stanislawski and his venture-credit hardheads at Macrodur. Rampart will need them more than ever after the Gala consolidation. I wanted to float the idea of you as my replacement while your reputation is still sky-high and shiny.”
“As opposed to it taking a dive into the cesspool if I get involved in politics again? … And what about my standing felony convictions? Ollie Schneider’s ready to make a deposition about the trumped-up charges, but it’ll take forever for a reversal to work through the courts.”
“That’s a dead issue, boy. Even if it can’t be proved that you were framed, anyone with half a brain figures Gala dry-gulched you so’s you wouldn’t be able to use your position in the ICS to stymie the takeover. As for your flaming lefty politics, if you just soft-pedal things a little—”
I uncoiled and climbed up from the couch, invading his private space until we were nearly nose-to-nose in front of the fireplace. “Let me tell you something, Simon,” I said quietly. “My Reverse principles are still very much alive. I won’t soft-pedal them, no matter what decision I make concerning Rampart. And I’m going to do something about the Haluk situation, too.”
“Send out more hothead media releases denouncing the trade agreement?” He gave a snort of derisive laughter. “Fat lot of good that’ll do. The deal’s done, and Rampart’s in the Haluk Consortium with both feet.”