by Julian May
“You know those horrible devices can cause brain damage! When you were on trial for malfeasance, your lawyer wouldn’t let you submit to them. Why should Dan?”
“We’ve been over this before. The reason Dan won’t undergo psychoprobing is because he’s guilty. For the love of God, Beth—he confessed to Simon and me while he was flying us to Coventry Blue at gunpoint! He extorted our voting proxies from us by threatening to have us transmuted into alien sex slaves!”
“That’s absurd,” she said. “That story is so ridiculous not even a child would believe it. Dan convinced you two that there was nothing further to be gained by opposing the Galapharma merger. You and Simon gave him your proxies willingly, then you reneged and came storming down to the Sky Ranch because—”
“That’s not true. Dan’s lying, manipulating you.”
“Asa, he’s our brother. A good husband and father. A man who worked faithfully for Rampart for over twenty years, making it strong.”
“Who sold out when Pop wouldn’t appoint him CEO.” I rose from my seat. “I’m sorry, Beth. I know you love Dan, but he’s a dangerous man—perhaps as crazy as Drummond himself. The proof that he had our mother killed is overwhelming. But Dan shows absolutely no remorse, only denial. We’ve done the best we can for him, under the circumstances.”
“Is that your final decision?”
“Mine, Simon’s, and Eve’s. Now I’m afraid I have to leave. And so do you.”
I crossed to the closet and got my Anonyme anorak, a garment esteemed by shy skulkers such as minor celebs, unfaithful spouses, and urban misanthropes. The thing is available in a several fashion colors. Its privacy-field visor is guaranteed to be proof against any scanner. My anorak even boasted a special feature, a comfy light armor lining—not that I needed that kind of protection anymore. With Alistair Drummond presumably gone where the goblins go, and the Haluk still unaware of my plan to cramp their style, no one had a motive to whack me. My greatest enemies nowadays were media busybodies.
I slipped the anorak on, drew up the open hood, and flicked the switch. Presto! No face. The tiny force-field is unnoticeable to the wearer. You can even eat and drink through it—although I didn’t intend to insult Carman’s mouth-watering menu by doing so.
Beth remained in her chair, posed as rigidly as a statue. Her voice was still low-pitched and calm, but tears coursed down her cheeks, ruining her flawless makeup.
“All Dan wanted was the best for Rampart. He was deceived. He would have made a wonderful CEO, but our father chose Eve instead. His precious pet! Simon is an arrogant, misguided fool. And you, Asa … you’re—”
I opened the office door. Jane Nelligan was at her desk.
“Please see that my sister Beth gets safely home,” I said. “It would be best if you can contact Dr. Berg and advise him that his wife is feeling upset and needs him. Failing that, have one of the InSec officers take her home in a hopper.” I lowered my voice. “Make a note. Her visitation rights and phone access to Daniel Frost are suspended until Eve or I say otherwise. And now I’m outta here.”
“Bastard!” Beth screamed. “You fucking heartless bastard!”
My sister’s furious shouts continued as I hurried to the bank of ordinary inertialess elevators that serve Rampart Tower and descended to the underground thoroughfare called the Path.
Chapter 4
The force-umbrella sheltering the capital is proof against high wind and precipitation, but it doesn’t modify the ambient air temperature or humidity. So millions of office workers, junior execs, bureaucrats, and other downtowners seeking to avoid chilly or overly hot weather walk from place to place along an extensive system of subterranean concourses that has been a Toronto fixture for over 250 years.
The Path connects rapid transit subway stations with every commercial and government tower in the central core. Its multiple levels comprise a virtual underground city of bright tunnels having sections of moving walkway, shopping malls, and jogging lanes. The Path’s busier corridors are lined with fast-food eateries, amusement arcades, and service establishments. There are even miniature parks where flowers and trees grow under artificial light, fountains contribute beneficial neg-ions, and the city’s famous black squirrels cadge handouts from people having lunch on patches of grass. Nothing with wheels or antigrav lifts—except city cops on bicycles and the personal powerscooters of the disabled—is allowed in the Path’s pedestrian-friendly network. It invites those interested in a casual stroll as well as bustling, single-minded commuters.
The Path has its own folklore, too. Certain little-traveled parts of the system to the north are alleged to be haunted by the ghosts of Thrown Away panhandlers and unlicensed vendors, cleared out in a pitiless sweep thirty years ago. A mazelike area near the university subway station is fraught with urban legends of suicidal lovers, a berserk sweeper bot that attempts to suck up the unwary, and the Headless Professor—behind whose privacy visor lies nothing. The lowest levels, shut off behind locked access hatches, are a labyrinth of disused shopping corridors dating from the previous century, old service tunnels, ancient sewers, and modern storm drains. They supposedly form a Dark Path frequented by the lawless, the desperately poor, and uncountable hordes of giant rats.
During my recent term of legal servitude, I would sometimes take a break and hike long distances in Underground Toronto. I enjoyed the infectious vitality of the Path and the human diversity of its denizens. Some of them walked shrouded in anonymity, as I always did; but the majority went about their business with the boisterous self-confidence of a youthful elite fortunate to have good jobs in the most exciting city on Earth.
Fair numbers of aliens mingled with humanity on the Path. The city center had embassies for four of the five stargoing Insap races. (The grotesque Kalleyni, who found Earth gravity oppressive, kept a legation at Luna Landing—a fortunate thing for human dignity, since they were such appalling practical jokers.) A stroller on the Path might expect to encounter towering Joru in elegant black-and-white habits, irascible little Qastt, pale Y’tata under strict orders from their protocol people to take their charcoal pills and antiflatulence medication, and—most numerous of all—the Haluk. They had flocked to the human capital in droves after the signing of the treaties. Their blue-skinned trade attachés lobbied relentlessly in the halls of government, and their commercial reps infested the executive suites of half the Hundred Concerns, wheeling and dealing.
The Haluk were the only aliens who adopted human clothing during their Earth sojourn. I had never been able to get used to the sight of them, striding boldly through the underground thoroughfares, always in groups of three or more, dressed in expensive high-style outfits. Members of the Joru, Y’tata, and Qastt races lived in apartments scattered throughout the central city; but all of the Haluk resided in their embassy, which comprised the top two-thirds of the enormous Macpherson Tower on Edward Street, just across from the headquarters of Sheltok, the Big Seven energy Concern.
Like the restricted Haluk planets, their embassy was strictly off limits to humanity.
Thanks to my sister Beth, I was late for my meeting with Chief Superintendent Jake Silver.
I took the McCaul Street leg of the Path north to the edge of the university campus, then turned east beneath the teeming government area until I reached CCID Tower on College Street. An escalator brought me into the historic lobby, which is part of the original Toronto police headquarters. I found Jake fidgeting and glaring at his wrist chronometer. He was wearing a natty camel-colored overcoat and a black beret.
I sidled up to him and deactivated my visor. “Yikes! The fuzz!”
He gave me a dirty look. “It’s about time. You know what happens to people who come late for a reservation at Carman’s? Come on. We’ll save time walking outside.”
He strode through the front doors, with me trailing apologetically after. I turned my privacy visor back on. “Don’t get all in a snit, Jake. They won’t throw you out of the place if you’re with me. I�
�m a star! Rich, too.”
“Wiseass. When was the last time you had dinner at Carman’s?”
“Recently,” I prevaricated. But I actually hadn’t been there for over two years, back when I was still a political wannabe, wining and dining Liberal party Delegates sympathetic to Reverse notions, hoping they would allow me to address their open committee sessions and badmouth the Haluk.
“Did you get a line on Barky Tregarth?” I inquired.
“I’ll answer that,” Jake said, “when I have a tumbler of Clynelish scotch in my fist and my steak is smiling up at me. You better pray that the maître d’ is in one of his good moods.”
“Is Albert still there?”
“He is. And merciless to the tardy.”
The restaurant was only a couple of blocks away, on Alexander Street. Damp cold struck through my anorak, making me wish the garment had environmental controls instead of armor. April can really be the cruelest month in middle North America. Down on the Path, daffodils and tulips were in exuberant bloom. Aboveground, it still felt like winter.
Jake and I charged along the crowded sidewalk without speaking until the traffic signal at Yonge Street caught us. VIP cars and taxis were in a state of gridlock, as usual, waiting to get onto the computerized high-road ramps. The City Council’s latest proposal to ban private ground vehicles from central-core streets had once again been shot down by the Hundred Concerns.
“Have a hard day, Chief Superintendent?” I asked Jake neutrally.
“The usual. Squabbling with a Zone Patrol liaison, chewing out the idiot droids in Data Processing, accepting shit with a smile from the powers that be.” He paused. “And renewing an old and very unsavory acquaintance, thanks to you. I got what you wanted, but you’re probably not going to like it.”
He didn’t say another word until we reached the 275-year-old steak house. We were twenty minutes late, but Albert’s austere face lost its scowl as I hove into view, shucking my anorak. An attendant took it and Jake’s overcoat.
“Helly!” The maître d’ beamed at me. According to Rampart’s standard operating procedure, Jane Nelligan had booked the table in the Concern’s name, not my own. “Welcome back! I was afraid you’d forgotten us.”
“Never. I’ve just been working my butt to the bone, forced to live on junk food.”
Albert nodded. “The trial of the century! Your name is on everyone’s lips.”
Everyone who reads the Wall Street Journal, anyhow. I gave a wry smile as I slipped him a fat gratuity. “How about a spot in a very, very quiet corner?”
“Certainly.” He’d make certain that no newshounds or table hoppers annoyed us during dinner. It was all part of Carman’s service.
More than one head turned as we were conducted through the crowded main room, where copper and pewter pans and utensils hung thickly from the ceiling like metallic bats. The air was filled with the smell of pricey broiled meat and garlic toast.
Our table was secluded, in one of the cellarlike annex rooms. We perused leather-bound menus while sipping aperitifs. I had a dry sherry while Jake knocked back a double of the fiery Highland single malt that was his favorite.
“Seems a pity to anesthetize your taste buds with that kiltie coffin varnish in a restaurant like this,” I murmured. “What the hell proof is it, anyhow?”
“A hundred twenty-two cask strength, sonny-boy, and only an ignorant Arizona shitkicker would insult this nectar of the gods. All my years exiled on K-L, I only managed to get two bottles of Clynelish from the local bootleggers. Now I’m back on the Blue Marble, I’ll make up for lost opportunities—especially since you’re paying.”
“I apologize. Have another wee dram.”
“Damn right I will. And I expect a decent wine with the meal, too.”
So I got us a noble Haut-Brion ’21. Jake ordered a grilled T-bone, potatoes Lyonnaise, and sautéed morels garnished with Aeolian krill—which he insisted were kosher. I decided on a flash-seared Wagyu filet, a side of asparagus with mustard miso, and a salad of nittany ears. He had an appetizer of artichoke-stuffed ravioli. I chose tiny last-of-the-season Quilcene oysters, definitely not kosher.
“You want to tell me what you found out about Barky Tregarth?” I asked him after his second double scotch arrived.
“Give you a little back-story first. Long time ago, when I was young like you and full of the same sort of sappy ideals, I got the goods on a superior of mine named Ram Mahtani. A tipoff and a data-trail seemed to show that Ram had taken juice—probably from the Carnelian Concern—to quash an investigation into violations of the Y’tata high-tech weaponry embargo. Mahtani had always been a decent boss to me. And he was a devoted family man with a daughter who had lots of medical problems. So before I filed a report with Internal Affairs, I asked him if he had an explanation for the suspicious behavior.”
I said, “Oops.”
“Exactly. I used to be a hopeless softy. Anyhow, overnight the incriminating data disappeared in a convenient computer crash, and my tipster changed his story. Poof went the case against Mahtani. Three weeks later I was bounced from Criminal Investigation, transferred to Public Safety, and outward bound to a jerkwater world in the Perseus Spur. Ram Mahtani took early retirement from CCID the following year and became a highly paid security consultant for Carnelian.”
“Sad.” I nibbled on a garlicky breadstick.
“I remembered Ram when you asked me about Barky Tregarth. It’s an open secret that Carnelian wholesalers in remote Sectors wink at contraband transactions. Their security people are alleged to keep a secret roster of trustworthy smugglers. I contacted Mahtani—anonymously, of course. He told me that Tregarth is very much alive. I said that my client had a business proposition for him and wasn’t out to nail him. Mahtani might or might not have believed that. His price for Barky’s current alias and address is two million in untraceable funds.”
“Holy shit!”
“I told you you wouldn’t like it.”
“Like it? I haven’t got it.”
“Come on. You own a quarterstake in Rampart, for chrissake. Two mil isn’t chump change, but it wouldn’t even fuel that muscle starship of yours for a round-trip to the Spur.”
“Rampart pays my fuel bills. I do get a sizable draw—a salary—as a corporate officer, but I’ve been treating it like Monopoly money, funneling almost all of it off to needy Reversionist causes as soon as it hits my account. I’ve done the same with the income from my Rampart quarterstake.”
“Tell the party to give some of it back.”
“It’s probably spent. You know pols.”
The succulent little oysters arrived. I gave them my full attention for the few minutes it took to wolf them down.
Jake said, “So you really can’t hack the bribe? I thought all you Frosts were richer than God.”
“I have some money of my own, but I was planning to use it to grease Tregarth.” And for other upcoming expenses. “You think this Mahtani might haggle?”
“The man’s no street-corner fink, Helly. Two megabux was his price. And you might want to think very seriously about why he set it so high.”
I gave a gloomy nod. “To see how badly some anonymous party wants old Barky.”
“Here.” Jake took a tiny notepad from his inner breast pocket, tore out a page and handed it to me. “Mahtani’s contact number.”
The piece of paper had a phone code scrawled on it. “An ultrasecure routing server, I presume.”
“Of course … And there’s something else you should consider before you deal with this joker. He’s a top-notch professional investigator and he has Carnelian resources to back him up. If you pay him, even with a blind EFT, he might be able to track you down and screw up your operation.”
“Yeah. Gran dinero leaves big footprints.”
All I needed was a Carnelian bloodsucker snatching Barky before I could milk him. Or interrogating him after the fact, which would be even worse—provided the guy did have crucial information about the
Haluk. Adam Stanislawski’s warning about lethal retaliation from threatened Haluk Consortium Concerns was still vivid in my memory. The question was, did Ram Mahtani know enough about Barky’s past to make the Haluk connection?
Rats. Maybe I’d have to forget about the old gunrunner. Unless I could spike Mahtani’s guns, get what I wanted while simultaneously warning him off …
The waiter appeared with our main course. We waited until he had finished arraying the planks with their sizzling chunks of meat and the various side dishes.
I said to Jake, “I just had a brilliant idea. I’m going to try a loanshark for that two mil. A very large shark that Mahtani might not want to mess with.”
Jake shrugged. He tucked in with gusto while I entered a code into my pocket phone. It was one that I had never had occasion to use before, and I held my breath wondering whether the call would go through.
But a familiar face finally appeared on the small screen. We stared at each other for a moment and then I lifted the instrument to my ear, cutting off the video.
“What is it, Helly?”
“Sorry to disturb you at home, sir. I have an urgent need for a large sum of untraceable credit. Naturally I will personally repay the loan at a future date, along with whatever interest you deem appropriate.”
“I see,” Adam Stanislawski said. “How much?”
“Two million, right now.”
“Very well.”
“Can you load a blind EFT card so that the hidden source of the funds will be Macrodur, not A. E. Frost, Esquire?”
“Yes. Is this payment going directly to the person I mentioned at the end of our visit this afternoon?”
Crafty old Adam. “Unfortunately not. It’s a bribe to a go-between, a highly placed informant in Carnelian who knows the whereabouts of this person. The informant might be able to do me damage—but probably wouldn’t dare go up against you.”
“The name.”
“Ram Mahtani.”
“I understand completely.”