by Julian May
I hated my Rampart Tower apartment. But I’d resisted Simon’s urgings that I get myself a more suitable dwelling in The Beaches or one of the other upscale parts of town. No use bothering, I told him. I wasn’t planning to stay.
He’d never believed me.
The sky was leaden and a combination of cold rain and sleet was falling when my aircraft arrived at the southern outskirts of Toronto Conurbation ATZ. I gave Traffic Control my destination, Macrodur Tower’s upper landing shelf, and was promptly shunted into a holding formation over the dull green lake while computers sequenced my hopper—and about four dozen others—to touch down in the identical place.
It was already quarter to twelve. I’d been delayed by a traffic-vector glitch in Chicago airspace. I got on the phone to warn Stanislawski’s secretary that I might not be able to make the appointment unless I jumped the line.
“I’ll arrange priority routing,” she told me. “You’ll be landing in a restricted area. Please wait in your aircraft until a transport capsule arrives.”
Beneath the force-field, Toronto’s central district was sheltered from the icy rain. But occasionally, vagaries of cold air-flow and high humidity conspired to produce weird artificial clouds under the protective roof. It was happening today. Although it was high noon, the fielded part of the city was sunk in heavy twilight. Swags of mist hung spookily around the illuminated towers and hid the tips of the loftier ones.
The engineers at Macrodur’s skyport dealt efficiently with the nuisance, clearing the air with infrared beacons. My hopper settled onto a sequestered pad, alphanumerics and transponder ID discreetly masked by security electronics from the moment I exited controlled airspace. Not a living soul was in sight, in spite of the fact that scores of aircraft were taking off and landing.
A VIP transport capsule with one-way windows came gliding out to meet me and extruded a boarding tunnel that docked with the door of my hopper. A robot voice requested an iris scan to confirm my identity. I showed it my eyeball, then climbed in as instructed.
The skyport, like the rest of the building’s gold and white exterior, was exquisitely designed. But once inside the tower walls, the visitor was conveyed through corridors and antigrav transit tubes that were uniformly mushroom-colored, blank, and claustrophobic, lacking any directional signs. All I saw as I sped toward Stanislawski’s offices were anonymous carts and capsules traveling on unfathomable errands. The doors leading off the access platforms were unmarked, giving no hint of what lay beyond them.
I had visited Macrodur Tower—but not the chairman’s lair—numbers of times over the past couple of years. Worrywart financial mavens concerned about Macrodur’s investment in Rampart periodically commanded me to explain my more bizarre tactics during the Galapharma trial. Sometimes Adam Stanislawski attended the interrogations; more often he didn’t. But he had always expressed complete confidence in me, and on one occasion had gone out of his way to reaffirm his personal decision to grant Rampart the venture credit it had so desperately needed. His action had paved the way for Rampart’s upgrade to Concern status and finally forced the hand of Galapharma’s lunatic CEO, Alistair Drummond, contributing to his downfall.
The Macrodur chairman’s access platform was as featureless as all the others. There were no obvious security features guarding the great man, who admitted me to his private office himself. Three walls of the large room were covered with alternating strips of dark wood paneling and buff grass-cloth. The fourth wall, behind a vast Victorian partners desk, was an enormous window. Heavy drapes of dark green monk’s cloth framed the eerie scene outside. The pictures on the walls were nonholographic, romantic terrestrial landscapes with the exception of a woman’s portrait in oils above the green marble fireplace. No modern data-processing or communication equipment was in evidence, but I suspected that most of the antique cabinets, presses, and escritoires furnishing the room had been gutted and stuffed with cyberware.
“Filthy day,” said Adam Stanislawski. “Let’s sit by the fire and have some coffee.”
He was in his mid-sixties, of stocky build, and had abundant white hair and a grandfatherly mustache, in defiance of alpha male corporate chic. His hyacinth-blue eyes were small, alive with intelligence, humor, and fuck-not-with-me authority.
“Thank you for seeing me, sir,” I said, taking a designated chair. Adam is one of the few persons I know who naturally rates an honorific.
“My pleasure, Helly. I believe you take your coffee black these days.” He handed me a plain stoneware cup of steaming brew.
For the sake of politeness I took a sip. “I won’t waste your time with preliminaries. You’re aware that my father has proposed me to succeed him as Rampart’s chairman. I’d like to know what you think of the idea.”
Adam Stanislawski snapped the ball back to me without hesitation. “It sucks. Like the Great Sagittarian Mother of All Black Holes.”
I burst out laughing. “Would you care to elaborate?”
“The chairman of an Amalgamated Concern is responsible for the long-term direction of the firm. He or she must have a coherent vision of the firm’s future. But having a vision isn’t enough. A successful chairman needs the force of character to make that vision a reality.”
Zing! A perfect gut-shot. I started to speak, but he held up a hand and forged on.
“You’d like to steer Rampart in a completely new direction, beginning immediately. That won’t work. I’m not saying your dream of Insap small-stakeholdership is foolish or impossible. Only that it’s premature and currently inappropriate. Marrying Rampart and Galapharma is going to be godawfully difficult. The new Concern will not merely be the sum of the parts of the previous two. The transition requires a generalissimo who can identify and encourage those executives who’ll be the most effective leaders for the future. He’ll have to scrutinize every major project and decide whether it should be retained, modified, or discarded. Rampart’s new chairman will have to be a hard-nosed evaluator. Even a hatchetman. This is not a job for”—he smiled good-humoredly—“a spontaneous paladin.”
“Or a rogue cowboy,” I said, drinking more coffee.
“You’re both of those things, Helly Frost. Someday in the far distant future you might make a good Rampart Chairman of the Board. But not now.”
“Not ever,” I said.
“Have you ever thought of becoming Rampart’s syndic? I should think that job would suit your talents rather well.”
The Corporate Syndic was a glorified lobbyist, the principal liaison between a Concern or Starcorp and the Commonwealth Assembly. At present, my cousin Zared Frost held the position, in addition to that of Chief Operating Officer. The latter job took most of his attention, and also required his residency on the planet Seriphos in the Perseus Spur. He was a competent syndic, but an unspectacular one.
“The idea’s interesting,” I told Stanislawski. “The position certainly has more appeal to me than the chairmanship. But perhaps Simon would be a better choice, given his long years of experience.”
The Macrodur chairman shook his head. “Your father’s day is done. When Rampart consolidates with Galapharma, your corporate syndic will have to be a vigorous person, able to stand up to the pressures of capital politics. Think about it seriously, Helly.”
I smiled noncommitally. “I will. But right now I’d like to know who you think would make the best chairman for Rampart.”
Without hesitation Adam Stanislawski said, “Gunter Eckert, your Chief Financial Officer. He’s a founding stakeholder and one of the best intellects on the Rampart team. I know he doesn’t want the job. But he’ll take it and do it well. I’d like our director, John Ellington, to be vice chairman, a close adviser to Gunter without additional voting authority. The two of them, working with your older sister, will keep the reorganized Concern on track. If you like, I’ll pass on my considered opinion to Simon and Eve.”
The “opinion” of the 400-kilo gorilla.
“I’d appreciate it if you would, sir.”
Adam Stanislawski rose from his chair. Taking the cue, I did, too, figuring that our short meeting was over. I felt relieved and vindicated. Better get one thing straight, however.
“I don’t plan to give up my Rampart directorship,” I said. “Or my notion to apply Reversionist principles to the Concern’s relations with nonstargoing Insaps. Even if I don’t become Corporate Syndic, I intend to exert continuous pressure on the other directors. Rampart is going to initiate experimental programs on suitable worlds where fuller Insap economic participation is most feasible.”
“Good! I’ll be watching with interest.” He shot me an oblique look. We hadn’t started for the door yet. “And I’ll keep an eye on your other activities, too.”
“My financial support of the Reversionist party will continue, but I’m no longer interested in becoming an Assembly Delegate.”
“That’s not the kind of activity I was referring to.”
Uh-oh …
Adam Stanislawski went to the window. The view was stupendous, a forest of jewel-bright spires glittering with countless points of light, the arching high roads and their streaming traffic, controlled swarms of aircraft—the whole wrapped in glowing bands of mist.
“I have the reputation of being a straight-arrow,” the Macrodur chairman said. “Galapharma’s vicious raid on Rampart bugged the hell out of me. So when your sister Eve proposed her venture-credit arrangement, I was receptive. Helping a feisty little outfit poke a sharp stick in Alistair Drummond’s greedy eye sounded like a great idea. But I’m a practical businessman, too. Macrodur never would have taken a stake in Rampart unless I’d been convinced that the investment was a good one. The deciding factor was the potentially huge Haluk market for your genen vector, PD32:C2.”
“I realize that.”
“I’ve heard that you have a private vendetta against the Haluk. That you’re looking for a way to discredit them and abrogate the new treaties. Is it true?”
“I believe that the Haluk can’t be trusted, and that our treaties with them are severely flawed—especially since there’s no provision for close human inspection of their planets. The Haluk almost certainly have a severe overpopulation problem in their star-cluster that’s being made worse by eradication of their allomorphism. The severity of the problem deserves investigation.”
“Ah.” A restrained nod.
“The only recourse the aliens have is to move into the Milky Way,” I went on. “To do that without destroying their economy, they need our advanced starship technology, as well as human expertise in other scientific areas. If the Haluk were content to migrate to our galaxy in a peaceful and civilized manner, there’d be no problem. My personal experience with them suggests they’d prefer a more drastic solution to their predicament.”
“But you have no concrete proof of hostile intent.”
“I have presumptive evidence. It’s kept under conditions of the most stringent security by Assembly Delegate Efrem Sontag, an old friend of mine from Harvard Law School. I hope to obtain more proof, working very discreetly as a private citizen. I have a certain talent for clandestine operations. Since no one else seems interested in analyzing Haluk ways and means, I’m taking on the job by default.”
“I see. Let me be frank, then. Macrodur and its affiliates will never do anything to impede your investigations—provided you keep me personally informed of verifiable dangers to the Commonwealth.”
Well, who’da thunk it!
“You surprise me,” I said evenly.
“If you knew me better, Helly, perhaps you wouldn’t be surprised. But don’t assume that other Concerns share my point of view. If you are seen to openly endanger the new trade treaty, you risk lethal retaliation. Most specifically, from agents of Carnelian and Sheltok, the Concerns that have the most to lose.”
“I understand.”
“I wonder if you do, entirely.” Stanislawski was staring out the window with his hands clasped behind his back. “The ultraheavy transactinide elements vital to antimatter fuels and other high-energy applications are devilishly difficult to obtain. For the most part, they’re found on R-class Sagittarian worlds—appalling planets in recurrent-nova systems where humans can’t survive, even in full armor. Mining these elements robotically from orbit is becoming increasingly expensive, as the more accessible lodes are worked out. And now, suddenly, a new source of these crucial energy products has unexpectedly opened up. By some astrophysical fluke, the Haluk Cluster is also rich in the ultraheavies, perhaps because it’s a tiny captive galaxy rather than a true satellite of the Milky Way. So, in a certain sense, the Haluk have us over a barrel.”
“A nice metaphor,” I remarked cynically, “that most people take care not to examine too closely.”
“I won’t belabor the point.” Stanislawski took me gently by the elbow and steered me toward the door. “The Haluk trade treaty with humanity is mutually beneficial. Antimatter energy is vital to the continuing growth of interstellar commerce. Remember that.”
“I’m not a loose cannon, Adam,” I said softly. “Just an ex-cop who can’t resist analyzing evidence when it’s shoved into my face.”
“I appreciate that. Which is why I won’t stop you from gathering more of that evidence.” His blue eyes twinkled benignly. “You do realize that if I wanted to stop you, I would. Decisively.”
“Oh, yeah.”
He opened the door for me. A transport capsule waited. “You know, Helly, thus far in our exploitation of the stars, we’ve been very lucky. We’ve never come up against an alien race with the inclination and the capability to successfully wage war on us. That good luck has made us complacent. Complacency is bad policy—for a business, and for a government.” He shook my hand. “It was good to talk to you … Let me know what Barky Tregarth has to say, if you find him.”
He stepped back and the featureless door slid shut, leaving me alone on the platform with my wild surmise.
Geraldo Gonzalez met with me in my office at Rampart Tower and went away doubly relieved when I told him I would continue my lavish funding of the Reversionist party and promotion of its ideals, while not demanding the Assembly seat in return. I wasn’t surprised when he admitted that the Nominating Committee preferred him for the new post.
I strongly advised Gerry against squandering our lone vote in futile causes. He said I was a fine one to talk. We parted amiably, after agreeing that I deserved a long holiday, untroubled by political hassles.
When he was gone I opened my office’s wall safe and took out the slim StelEx package from Mimo Bermudez that I had not yet had time to examine. I tipped out the encrypted slate and the two plain gold wedding bands on their chain. The larger ring fit exactly over the small one. The fact that I’d kept them had convinced both my big sister, Eve, and Matilde Gregoire, a woman I’d once asked to live with me, that I was still in love with my former wife.
I’d denied it. But it was I who had divorced Joanna DeVet following my frame-up and criminal conviction, even though she had been willing to share my exile in the Perseus Spur. Crushing humiliation and despair made it impossible for me to accept her sacrifice.
Joanna had never remarried. She was still a professor of political science, teaching at the central campus of Commonwealth University only a few blocks north of Rampart Tower. It might as well have been 14,000 light-years.
Eve, wed only to her job but a soppy sentimentalist all the same, had urged me again and again to call Joanna. But I could not bring myself to do it, any more than I could analyze the reason why.
Setting the rings aside, I opened Mimo’s slate. The letter on the small screen was what I half expected. My friend had sent me a copy of his last will and testament. Since I was due to go to the meeting with Lorne Buchanan in just a few minutes, I only scanned the document briefly. The principal legatees were the schools and hospital of Kedge-Lockaby’s Big Beach continent, which would receive his substantial fortune in semi-ill-gotten gains.
But Mimo had left his beautif
ul bungalow on Eyebrow Cay to me, along with the rest of the island.
Lorne Buchanan and I, our bodies certified to harbor no nano-eavesdropping devices, met alone in the equally bugfree premises of the spacious Rampart conference room. We quickly came to an agreement that was mutually gratifying.
He was a young man, only in his mid-forties. His build was athletic, his brow clear and wide, his jaw forthright and spade-shaped, and his manner confident. Only the smallest whiff of fear lurking in his deeply shadowed eyes acknowledged the fatal quagmire that now threatened to pull him under. He had been Gala’s Chief Operating Officer before becoming CEO upon the death of Alistair Drummond. He was a doer, not a schemer, whose Concern responsibilities had principally involved overseeing commodity production on the thousands of Gala worlds in the Orion Arm.
Lorne Buchanan swore to me—offering to confirm the fact by submitting to the truth machines—that he had had no direct involvement either in Gala’s illegal Haluk adventure or in the dirty tricks of the Rampart takeover conspiracy. He claimed to have advised Drummond against a Haluk alliance from the time the scheme was first broached. Buchanan stopped short of calling his former boss a stone nutcase, but the inference was there. Other members of the Galapharma board, he said, were furious and frightened at the mess Drummond had gotten them into. After Drummond’s violent demise, the board had elected Buchanan in a vain hope of salvaging the situation.
When I dangled my deal, Lorne Buchanan swallowed it hook, line, and sinker. He readily agreed to affirm the agreement by undergoing psychotronic interrogation by my trusted associate, Karl Nazarian, before leaving Rampart Tower.
I wanted truthful answers from him to the following questions: