The Sagittarius Whorl: Book Three of the Rampart Worlds Trilogy

by Julian May

  When I described the pirate attack on Captain Schmidt’s vessel, and mentioned that the demiclone Dolores da Gama had let slip the name of the Haluk base in Sagittarius, both Sontag and Stanislawski went into action.

  The Delegate told his staff to subpoena the Sheltok Chief Operations Officer as a hostile witness during today’s Assembly presentation. Ef planned to use the report on the incident that I’d sent to Karl; but even though that report was certified, it remained hearsay unless an independent source corroborated it. If the Sheltok COO did that, we’d have admissible evidence of Haluk hostility.

  The Macrodur chairman ordered a fast, heavily armed cruiser belonging to his fleet to set off immediately from Katahdin in Zone 3. Its mission was to perform a secret scan of the supposedly abandoned asteroid way station called Amenti. It was unlikely that the recon of the alleged Haluk pirate base would be completed before the Assembly vote took place, but Stanislawski wanted the evidence anyhow—and he didn’t trust Zone Patrol to obtain it.

  I concluded my recital by describing my trip through the Dark Path of Toronto, together with an expurgated version of my reunion with Joanna, who smiled enigmatically. The others seated at the table burst into ironic applause at the end.

  Adam Stanislawski said, “I never heard such a crazy yarn in my life. I believe every word of it.”

  I said, “Thank you, sir.”

  He said, “Call me Adam. What do you say we adjourn now, and let Helly get on with raising a shitstorm in the Rampart boardroom?”

  “I’m coming with you,” Joanna said to me. “To the tower and to the Assembly. And don’t you give me that old-fashioned look, Citizen Stanislawski.”

  “Adam,” he repeated, grinning.

  “But Joanna—” I protested.

  “Any political scientist would sell her soul to be present at these two events,” she said. “Don’t you understand that there’s another book in this? Besides, I’ll make a splendid character witness for Helly.” She thought for a moment. “Perhaps I’d better change into something more media-appropriate.”

  “Beat you to it,” said Bea Mangan, rising from the table and showing off her handsome black suit. “And I’m going to Rampart Tower, too.”

  Joanna left us, and Bea began tinkering with her genetic assay equipment.

  “Speaking of clothes,” Karl Nazarian said, picking up the garment bag he’d brought and handing it to me, “here’s the body armor and the Anonyme and the footgear you asked for. The new phone, too. But what in the world are you planning to do with the Joru costume?”

  “Wear it into Assembly House later for the media conference,” I said. “They wouldn’t let me inside, wearing an Anonyme privacy screen. So I’ll step into the galactic spotlight dressed as a shy, friendly alien, all muffled up. Whet the crowd’s curiosity: Who he? Wasn’t this conference supposed to be about Haluk? Then Ef gives the signal, I whip off the Joru cloak and hood—”

  “Eek,” said Bea.

  “And take your place in show-biz history,” Sontag said wryly. “I have to get back to my office. There are things that need doing, especially if we’re to include that Sheltok piracy evidence in the presentation. The media conference is scheduled for 1315 hours in the rotunda, during the lunch recess. We’ll be expected in the Assembly chamber exactly forty-five minutes later when the session resumes. Helly, you and Bea better not let me down—or I won’t just have egg on my face, I’ll have dinosaur doo.”

  “I’ll get him to the church on time,” Karl promised. “I have the catering van to drive him and Joanna and Bea from here to Rampart Tower. After the board meeting, one of my associates will be waiting in a hopper at the tower skyport for the trip to the Assembly.”

  “Cassius in his Tupo?” I asked Karl.

  “He’s rounding up the Over-the-Hill Gang even as we speak. They’ll be ready if you need them.”

  “You seem very well organized, Citizen Nazarian,” Adam said.

  Karl shrugged. “I was VP for Spooky Projects at Rampart until Alistair Drummond fired my ass. Helly says I may be rehired fairly soon.”

  “I hope your van has room for one more passenger. I intend to go along to Rampart myself to keep an eye on the proceedings.” The genial glint in Adam Stanislawski’s eyes turned into something ice-cold. “And perhaps encourage a suitable outcome to the meeting.” He passed out cards. “Here’s my personal code, if any of you need to get in touch with me at any time.”

  I said, “You’d all better make a note of my new code, too. If you call the old one, you’ll be talking to Alistair Drummond!”

  Assorted humorous exclamations ensued. They really weren’t all that funny to me.

  Ef Sontag looked at his wrist chronometer. “I better call me a cab, then.”

  Adam offered a car key. “Take my little red Honda. It’s parked out front. When you finish with it, just tell it to go home. Don’t be deceived by its modest appearance. It’s fully shielded and equipped with enough gadgetry to tempt the ghost of James Bond.”

  “Can it make a vente triple-shot no-foam latte?”

  “In a New York minute.”

  Ef took the key, kissed it, and headed for the front door.

  Karl Nazarian cocked his head in sudden bright-idea mode. “Chairman, I wonder if I could ask a favor. After today’s Assembly session ends, Helly will need to get out of town quickly to avoid the media and … certain other people. Our friend Cassius Potter has offered his own private aircraft, but it’s rather slow. And unarmed.”

  I saw what Karl was driving at. “My safe house is some distance away. Using a Rampart hopper isn’t an option because of security considerations. If you have one I could borrow—”

  Stanislawski poked a code into one of his cards with a cheap plastic stylus and handed it to me. “Go to the Assembly House skyport when you’re ready to leave and give this to the dispatcher.”

  “Thanks very much.”

  “Would you like to tell me where you’ll be staying?”

  “Let’s wait till I get there. I may have to change my plans.”

  Karl said, “Go get dressed, Helly. It’s time to put this show on the road.”

  Adam smiled at Bea Mangan. “Why don’t I help carry your equipment to the van, Chief Superintendent?”

  “Not until I’ve done a DNA test of you and Karl.” Both men stared at her, nonplussed. “We can’t afford to take chances with anyone, can we?” she inquired reasonably.

  I went upstairs to find Joanna, hoping there might be time for one last little inducement before the battle.

  Chapter 9

  Adam phoned John Ellington again as we drove south to the waterfront and the newly rechristened Rampart Tower, ordering his long-suffering minion to notify the Internal Security officers at the VIP skyway portal of our imminent arrival. In an unlikely vehicle.

  I had to hand it to the Rampart guards. They didn’t blink an eye as a catering van badly in need of a wash-job stopped inside the elegant portico on the 300th floor, where only executive limos and other prestigious rolling stock usually dared venture. One man opened the passenger door for me, while the other helped Joanna, Bea, and Adam alight from the rear. The guards courteously took charge of Bea’s equipment, which was to be sent directly to the boardroom.

  By then John Ellington himself had arrived to escort us to our rendezvous with corporate destiny. The vice chairman was a stocky black man dressed in a gorgeous three-piece Italian silk suit the color of aged bourbon, a green-striped scarf, and a golden brooch shaped like an African mask. The mask had tiny emerald eyes.

  Stanislawski introduced Joanna and Bea by their formal titles, but pointedly left me incognito.

  I said, “Vice Chairman, do you have the skyport access authorization code for Citizen Nazarian and the group that will arrive later by air?” Ellington shot me a nervous look. The privacy visor of the Anonyme hood has that effect on some people. Then he nodded.

  “Give it to me, please.”

  I passed the card to Karl
through the van’s window and whispered, “Catch you soon, I hope!” We had already discussed contingency plans as we made our way through surface traffic to the tower. Karl gave me a little sardonic salute, then drove away into the down-ramp.

  “Perhaps you’d like to leave your things in the visitors’ cloakroom and freshen up before the meeting,” Ellington said. He led us into a spacious lobby that contained enough potted tropical greenery to qualify as an annex of the Allan Gardens Palm House. A woman wearing the uniform of an InSec captain approached our group, looking grave, and addressed the vice chairman.

  “I’m sorry, sir. But this … entity is armed.” She nodded at me. “He will not be permitted to go further unless he relinquishes his weapon.”

  I carefully removed the small Ivanov Squire from the pocket of my dark gray anorak and held it out in harmless display. My Halukoid hands were concealed by dark gray matching mittens. “I prefer to keep the weapon.”

  “And he is wearing body armor,” the captain pointed out. We’d all been scanned as we came in the door.

  “Thank you,” Adam Stanislawski said. “The gentleman will keep his gun and armor. That will be all.”

  The captain started to object, but Ellington made a curt gesture and she retreated to her desk. Adam and the two women went to doff their outerwear. The vice chairman was left standing with me.

  “Looks like we’re in for a change in the weather,” I said.

  “Are you speaking literally,” John Ellington inquired in a snide voice, “or figuratively?”

  A smartass. I wished I had managed to overhear more of Adam’s conversation with him when they spoke on the phone earlier. How much did he already know?

  “Are the Rampart directors present and accounted for?” I asked.

  “Eight of us are here, including Chairman Eckert. As I told Adam, we have a quorum.” He had moderated his tone to almost courteous. After all, I was here under the auspices of the gorilla.

  I said, “I understand that Asahel Frost will not be joining us. Was he notified of the meeting?” A little double-checking never hurts.

  “Following Adam’s explicit instructions, I didn’t invite him.”

  “Good. Tell the security captain, there, to alert all InSec posts in the tower. If Asahel Frost shows up, you are to be informed instantly. Then you’ll inform me even faster.”

  He stared in frustration at my privacy visor, lips tightly compressed, before speaking very softly. “What the hell’s going on here? Some kind of a palace coup?”

  “Talk to the captain, John, and don’t get uppity.”

  His dark eyes widened in outraged dignity. “Who are you?”

  When I remained silent, he shook his head, went to the security desk, and did as I’d told him. A few minutes later the others joined us and we entered a very large, very elegant lift that had its very own potted palm. After Ellington plugged his card, we were whisked up another hundred stories to the top of what had once been Galapharma Tower, the most distinctive edifice on the capital skyline and the only one that had earned an obscene nickname.

  Alistair Drummond’s little joke. The same nickname had been applied to him.

  I was gratified to see that the redoubtable Mevanery Morgan, executive assistant extraordinary, was still guardian of the corporate inner sanctum. She had relocated from the Seriphos office when Rampart attained Concern status. Morgan was not wearing her Gorgon Medusa pin today, but the dour, suspicious expression on her face made up for it.

  Her new computer desk was even more awesomely equipped than the old one, situated at the center of the anteroom like the tuffet of a controlling spider. Crimson carpeting with dramatic ocher spokes surrounded the desk. The room’s wall panels were satin-finish golden metal alternating with dark rosewood. There were no potted palms. The sleek Braque sculpture, Simon’s pride, that had graced the former Rampart executive reception area hadn’t made the transition to the new digs; it had been supplanted by a tortured assemblage of ruby glass tubing that looked like the large intestine of some unfortunate marine mammal, internally illuminated by glowing ordure. I wondered if Rampart’s new president had chosen it years ago to adorn Galapharma Tower …

  Mevanery Morgan greeted us solemnly and led us to the boardroom door, one of four that opened into the anteroom. None of the doors had anything so plebeian as an identifying sign. We trooped inside, ladies first. John Ellington went to his place near the head of the long table, at the right hand of Chairman Gunter Eckert. Adam Stanislawski sat down at the table’s foot without asking anyone’s permission. Morgan showed us lesser mortals to chairs on either side of Adam and then went out, closing the door.

  I noticed that Bea Mangan’s genetic assay device and the small Hogan truth machine had arrived ahead of us. They rested on a stand beside the door.

  The wall behind Gunter Eckert’s chair had tall narrow windows that overlooked the leaden, island-scattered waters of Lake Ontario. Beyond the southern edge of the force-field umbrella was a fuzzy blur that might have been either mist or falling snow.

  Eve and Simon stood near a refreshment bar at the far side of the room, talking quietly together, their backs to the rest of us. Caleb Millstone, the prissy CFO, Crista Wenzel, the Chief Technical Officer, and Thora Scranton, who had represented Rampart’s small stakeholders for over two decades, sat at the boardroom table just below John Ellington, staring at me. Three chairs on Gunter’s left were empty. The fourth was occupied by Sam Yamamoto, my friend and colleague in Rampart’s legal department, who had been my principal associate during the Galapharma trial. I was glad Sam had been promoted into the Chief Legal Officer slot, wondered what he was studying so intently on the recessed computer display in front of him.

  Gunter Eckert said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to call this meeting to order.”

  Eve and Simon came to the table and sat down in the chairs at Gunter’s left, leaving an empty seat between them—presumably in case President Asahel Frost showed up after all. My sister did not condescend to notice those of us at the foot of the table. She had always been a clotheshorse, but today she was so perfectly groomed—striking in an ivory sheath and large sapphire earrings, every hair in her coiffure lacquered firmly in place—that she might have been an android mannequin. A rather short one, with an attitude.

  Simon was a shocking contrast. Seven months had worked a terrible change on my father. He had become skeletally thin, his signature denim ranchman’s outfit appeared many sizes too large for him, and his tooled leather belt had been ratcheted to the last hole. Sunken rheumy eyes darted restlessly from one person to another until they found my incongruous figure and turned slitty with apprehension.

  I thought: What in God’s name have they done to you, Pop?

  But I knew the answer. No doubt Simon had refused to retire, and couldn’t be forced off the Board of Directors, so Drummond and his crew had dealt with him as they had Karl Nazarian. Unless I intervened, the malignant virus was going to live in my father until he died.

  Gunter Eckert called the group to order, dispensed with the reading of the minutes, and invited John Ellington to present the first order of business.

  “Before I do that, let me introduce our guests,” Ellington said. “You all know Adam Stanislawski, Chairman and CEO of Macrodur Concern. He requested this extraordinary meeting today. On Adam’s left are Joanna DeVet, a distinguished author and professor of political science at Commonwealth University, and Chief Superintendent Beatrice Mangan of the Interstellar Commerce Secretariat’s Forensic Division. The man seated at Adam’s right has not been presented to me. Perhaps Chairman Stanislawski will do the honors.”

  Adam said, “The Chief Superintendent, Professor DeVet, and I are agreed on his identity. Those gadgets over there on the cart will verify it as well.” He took me by the arm and rose to his feet, drawing me with him. “This man is the real Asahel Frost.”

  Murmurs of astonishment and indignant disbelief.

  “No,” Eve said. Her face had
turned the color of ash.

  Adam plowed on. “The person who has used Helly’s name for the past six months is an impostor. A genetically engineered demiclone of the type described by Delegate Efrem Sontag in his committee hearings. This afternoon Delegate Sontag will present evidence of Helly’s identity to the news media and to the Commonwealth Assembly.”

  “No!” Eve said again in a more emphatic tone. “That’s impossible!”

  Several of the others loudly voiced their agreement with her opinion. But Sam Yamamoto was smiling at me, and one of his eyes slowly closed in an unmistakable wink.

  Gunter Eckert bellowed, “Adam, have you lost your bloody mind?”

  Stanislawski turned to Joanna and Bea with an ironic smile. “Ladies? Have I?”

  Bea said, “I tested this individual’s DNA. He has been subjected to a genen procedure and his appearance has been altered. But he’s Asahel Frost, beyond a doubt.”

  Joanna rose from her chair and stood beside me, one hand resting on my shoulder. “I know him better than any person here. Better than Eve, better than Simon. This man is my husband.”

  I felt my chest constrict in sudden breathless joy, wanted to leap and shout and stomp and tell the Rampart board that I didn’t give a hoot in hell what they thought—what the whole goddamned galaxy thought!—so long as she accepted me.

  All the same, I didn’t say a word, didn’t move a muscle.

  Eve regarded the lot of us with cool contempt. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, Adam, how you’ve managed to dupe these two women and Delegate Sontag, or brainwash them—”

  “Let him prove himself,” Thora Scranton demanded. “Use the truth machine.”

  “Machines can be rigged,” said Gunter Eckert.

  Bea Mangan said, “Then bring in your own psychotronic device and your own interrogator. Call the ICS and request another DNA examiner with another assay machine. This man will pass any identity test you can give him. He is the real Asahel Frost.”