Perseus Spur

by Julian May

  "Wasting away in Margaritaville, you two? Yes! I'll join you—and then accept a very special reward in honor of my great victory."

  Matt sat up straight, her expression instantly shuttered. I cursed my old friend silently for trashing the tete-a-tete just as it started to get interesting.

  He took a small drink and began to rummage in an elaborate humidor cabinet, gabbing away happily.

  "I have one last Hoyo de Monterey Particular left that I've been hoarding for nearly a year, and I intend to smoke it right now... Ah! Here it is."

  "Did you look around for other bandits before engaging ULD?"I asked.

  "We're safe for a while. The high-resolution scan showed no other ships of any sort within thirty light-years. This sector is rather empty of inhabited systems. I think it's very likely that the Haluk we destroyed was too busy chasing us to get off a subspace squawk."

  I wasn't as confident as Mimo that our enemies would be more leery of attacking us now that we'd shown our fangs, but I figured the odds of a successful reconnaissance were still on our side—provided that we acted quickly.

  "I wonder how many of those new ships the Haluk have?" Matt said.

  I shrugged gloomily. "God knows. Sixty-three ross! Jeez Louise. .."

  Mimo clipped his cigar and ignited it with an antique Zippo lighter, taking his time getting it burning just right. The scent of the precious weed was robust, almost like roasted coffee. He drew deeply and exhaled a smoke plume in the direction of the main viewscreen. Beyond the dwindling numbers of Spur-tip stars shone a scraggly swarm of tiny lights that was the Haluk Cluster, 17,200 light-years away. Once upon a time, it had taken those aliens seven Earth months or more to travel to the Milky Way. Their new clippers could do it in less than twelve days.

  When Mimo spoke again, some of his good humor had diminished. "In all my travels throughout the galaxy, I have never heard even a hint of any alien vessel capable of such speed."

  Matt said, "Developing and manufacturing ships like that would be especially difficult for an allomorphic race because of their inherent physical inefficiency. Perhaps that's what the genetic engineering scheme is all about—making it possible for them to work harder and longer in the techno sweatshop."

  "Hard to believe they invented those speedboats," I commented. "It's as though nineteenth-century Apaches suddenly produced Jeeps to chase the U.S. Cavalry."

  "Don't insult the Indians," Matt said tartly. "They wouldn't have needed genetic engineering to do the job. Just automotive engineering."

  "Seriously," I said, "do either of you know of any evidence that Haluk colonies in the Spur have undergone drastic mobilization?"

  Matt said, "The planets have large populations, but they're really only subsistence worlds, without significant heavy industry. If unprecedented high-tech activity is going on, it's happening back in the Haluk home cluster, not around here."

  Mimo contemplated the glowing end of his cigar, then dropped a bombshell. "My friends, I would wager you a box of these Particulares—which I would have to return to Earth to obtain—that the new Haluk engines are human-designed. Maybe even human-made."

  "Impossible!" Matt exclaimed.

  "Both ships' exhaust traces contained typical Haluk fuel-element signatures," I pointed out.

  "Nevertheless! That race of vergas could never have made such a vast technical breakthrough on their own. They needed help. A great deal of it—and over a period of some years."

  Matt was aghast. "Do you realize what that would imply?"

  "There's another thing I am certain of," Mimo said. "The sophisticated Haluk starship we just destroyed and the gigantic one Helly and I encountered in the Kedge-Lockaby system could not have been built with the connivance of Galapharma alone, nor by using human outlaw vendors of as-tronautical components. There would have to be multiple Concern collusion at the highest levels. What if the engines came from Bodascon? They already have prototypes undergoing tests, and their interests are closely affiliated with those of Galapharma."

  It made a horrible kind of sense. The astroindustrial Concerns had to wade through morasses of CHW safety and performance regulations before introducing new starships on the human market. Selling a few spiffy prototypes to eager aliens away off in the boondocks was illegal as all hell. It might also have been immensely profitable.

  "Perhaps the shipframe was contributed by Homerun," I said. "Fuel innovation might have been assisted by Shel-tok. Metallurgy and ceramics by Carnelian ... If you're right, Galapharma's alliance with the Haluk is only the tip of the iceberg."

  "The imbeciles!" Matt cried. "How could they ever justify sharing the most advanced human technology with potentially hostile aliens? What the hell do the Concerns think they're playing at?"

  "A dangerous game," said Captain Guillermo Bermudez Obregon.

  It was more dangerous than we could ever guess. But we weren't going to find that out until we reached Cravat.

  Chapter 14

  From space, the planet was an uninviting sight. It was slightly larger than Earth. Scores of dark miniature continents blotched the pallid sea like eczema lesions. The cloud cover, colored khaki by smoke from sulfurous volcanic fields, was dotted with tight spirals marking the location of intense storms. Green and red auroras shone above the poles. The world had no natural moons and only four multipurpose satellites. We futzed the lone space observer with a precise EM burst before corning within range.

  Mimo erected the dissimulator shields and settled Plo-mazo into a high orbit. To ground stations, cruising bandits, or other starships, our camouflaged vessel would seem to be space debris. The gig that would shuttle Matt, Ivor, and me to the surface was more vulnerable to conventional surface electromagnetic sensors when powered by inertialess drive; but Mimo was confident that a certain smuggler's trick he had up his sleeve would get us down undetected.

  While he and Ivor did a final check of the gig and the expedition's equipment, Matt and I contacted Bob Bascombe.

  The time was just after 0300 at Cravat Dome, a sealed enclave inhabited by some eight thousand souls that was the world's only permanent human settlement. The Port Traffic Manager was almost certainly asleep in bed. I tinkered with another of the satellites and patched into the planetary comsys, then Matt simply called the man on his home vidphone.

  Bascombe picked up immediately. All he would have been able to see on his nightstand viewer was Matt, while she and I both watched his face in extreme close-up on the bridge's main screen. He was about forty years old, with a pug nose and rounded cheeks that made him look younger. His eyes were puffy with sleep and his hair stuck up every whichaway. He spoke in a crabby mumble. "Bascombe. What?"

  "Bob, it's Matilde Gregoire. Fleet Security. Turn on the phone encrypt. Do it right now."

  "Mattie?... What's happening?" He fumbled with his handset and the reassuring triple bleep sounded.

  "Are you alone, Bob? This is very important. I need your help."

  "Help?" Pause while he blinked, rubbed his little nose, got his muzzy brain back on line, and tried to muster a welcoming smile and civil tone of voice for the inconvenient VIP caller. "Yes, I'm by myself. Delphine . .. she's gone away to Nogawa-Krupp on holiday. Hey, she'll hate to miss you. What's up, kiddo? You just arrive? Where you staying? Why'n hell didn't you let me know you were coming so we—"

  She cut off the fusillade of staccato queries. "Listen. It's vital that you follow my instructions precisely. Do you have a data disk in your phone to record?"

  "Uh? Yes... okay, it's active. Say on!"

  "First, don't tell anyone that I'm on Cravat."

  "Checko."

  "Second, you're leaving immediately on an impromptu hunting trip. Make plausible excuses to your staff. You'll be gone at least two days, maybe longer. Nobody is to contact you during that time."

  "Mattie, I think—"

  "Don't interrupt. File a fictitious flight plan. Your actual destination will be on Microcontinent Grant at 43-33-02-1 South, 172-40-16-3 East.
Approach by a devious route. Make sure you're not followed. After you land, contact me on Channel 677 and I'll give you further instructions. I want you to fly a fully equipped Vorlon ESC-10 hopper, the model designed to serve as a self-contained base camp."

  That's a pretty big ship. If I tell Dome Aircraft Pool I'm just going out alone—"

  "Are you Cravat's head honcho or aren't you? Get the damned hopper!"

  "Understood." He sounded wide-awake now, and sadly miffed. "No call to get p.o.'d, Mattie."

  "I'm sorry. Please forgive me for being so abrupt, but the situation is critical. Be at the rendezvous site in four hours, 0700 Planet Mean Time. Don't be late. Lives may be at stake."

  "Depend on me, kiddo."

  She held up the scarlet Open Sesame card that Simon had provided, transmitting a close-up view. "I'm not just asking for your help out of friendship. My request is authorized at Rampart's alpha level. I have to caution you again, Bob. Don't tell anyone about the operation, or you and a lot of others may suffer some very unpleasant consequences."

  His gaze flickered. He moistened his lips. "Is it... does this have anything to do with Eve Frost?"

  She tensed. "Why do you ask?"

  "I'll explain when we get together." Without warning, he suddenly punched out.

  He caught us both by surprise. I said, "Shit! Bring him back, Matt!"

  She reentered the code, but all we got was the voice-mail menu. Bob Bascombe was not answering his phone.

  "Well?" Her expression was grim. "What do you think?"

  There had been a flash of strong emotion in the Port Traffic Manager's eyes, but I was almost certain that it had nothing to do with guilt or treachery. I'd seen that look on men's faces before, as they first realized that their worst suspicions were starting to come true.

  "He doesn't know where Eve is," I decided. "But he knows something?'

  "If he's part of the conspiracy..."

  I thought about it. "I can't believe that he is. Why would he have mentioned the half-eaten Haluk corpse to Eve in the first place if he knew that illegal alien activity was taking place on his planet?"

  "It wouldn't make much sense. If he wanted to lure her to Cravat, he would certainly have used a less ambiguous approach."

  Mimo's voice came over the intercom. "The gig is ready whenever you two are."

  "I'm willing to keep our options open," I told Matt. "We'll take extreme precautions. After we find out what Bascombe knows about Eve, we'll decide how to proceed. We can always leave him confined in the gig while we search the area in his hopper. If worse comes to worst, we can signal Mimo and he can call in Zone Patrol. What do you say?"

  "Let's just get on with it." She turned away abruptly and headed aft.

  * * *

  We descended steeply over the frozen South Polar Ocean. The presence of a bright aurora had told crafty old Captain Bermudez that Cravat was being bombarded by a fairly solid blast of solar-wind particles. The resulting hullabaloo around the magnetic pole effectively hid us from any ground-based electronic surveillance. Flying barely above wave-top level, we continued on for 5,200 kilometers to Microcontinent Grant, which lay on the opposite side of the world from Cravat Dome. We arrived in late afternoon, local time, during a brief break in a thundering gale that was walloping the remote landmass. Skimming the trees and dodging among ridges of red and yellow limestone, we came over Pickle Pothole's deep western end and splashed down. The gig immediately sank to the bottom of the long, narrow lake.

  During the low altitude approach, our sensors had indicated that the surrounding countryside, a confusion of "egg box" jungle valleys, was alive with a myriad of large animals. There was no trace of human or Haluk life. If villains were in residence, they were lying low—at least for the moment.

  And so were we.

  I sat at the gig's control console with Matt and Ivor behind me and surveyed the underwater scene outside with HRMP sonar. The cloud of mud and organic detritus that we'd pushed up was dissipating rapidly. We had landed slightly kitty-corner in the midst of a tumble of rock slabs. Ribbon waterweeds several meters in length swayed in the churning currents generated by our submergence. After I determined that our position was reasonably secure, I deployed leveling gear to put us on an even keel. Then I launched one of our most versatile pieces of equipment, a tiny multifunction utility buoy no bigger than an apple, which popped up to the surface, sprouted antennas, and flashed a modulated laser pulse to Plomazo, informing Mimo that we had arrived safely.

  When I switched the floating device to terrain-scan mode, the large monitor screen in the cockpit showed a computer-enhanced and steadied view of Pickle Pothole's turbulent surface. And something else.

  Ivor Jenkins said, "Oh, my goodness!"

  I couldn't help wincing myself as I experienced a flashback to the voracious sea toad of Kedge-Lockaby.

  This thing was approximately plesiosauresque. On the screen it looked enormous, nearly as long as our twelve-meter gig, with gleaming saucer eyes and a wide-open mouth rimmed with fangs. It appeared to be steaming straight at us like some exotic Loch Ness monster, with obvious intent to maim and mangle.

  But of course we were safe on the floor of the lake, and the pesky water beast that had mistaken the utility buoy for its next meal was actually only about eighty centimeters long. I set the instrument's defensive blaster to the lowest sting setting and let zap. Poor little Nessie reared up against the lightning-stitched black clouds and disappeared in a welter of spray.

  "We come in peace," Matt said apologetically, "but don't get cheeky."

  I adjusted the buoy's scan range and surveyed the northern lakeshore, about two kilometers away. Our designated rendezvous with Bascombe was a small surf-pounded cove guarded by rock stacks eroded into peculiar perforated shapes. On either side of the beach loomed limestone headlands as sharp and bare as axes. To the east and west stretched broken cliffs at least three hundred meters high, riddled with caves. Waterfalls poured from some of the lowest openings.

  The rendezvous was scheduled for just after sunset, local time. We were two hours early for the sake of discretion and common sense, well-concealed in the water instead of attempting to camouflage the gig on land, as Bascombe might have expected. If he set the Haluk on to us, or if he brought Galapharma partisans along in the hopper, we'd have fair warning.

  But I didn't seriously think Eve's pal Bob would stiff us. What did mystify me was why he'd kept information about my sister's whereabouts to himself for so long. Even though Ollie Schneider had minimized news of Eve's disappearance on orders from Cousin Zed, I was certain that the Port Traffic Manager of Cravat would have been informed. After all, he was the top executive of a Rampart World, even though his bailiwick had more robot workers than people. Bascombe had deduced quickly enough that we were looking for Eve when Matt spoke to him. So why hadn't he notified Rampart Central when the alarm first went out?

  There was one possible answer: Eve had told him not to.

  * * *

  In the submerged gig, we waited and maintained surveillance together. Ivor's presence in the cockpit ensured that Matt and I would share no more sweet confidences, so we passed some of the time watching the archival holovids that had been part of Karl's report. Matt had already studied both of them, but the information was new to Ivor and me.

  The first show was a sort of Appalled Armchair Tourist's Guide to Cravat that set out to scare the shit out of you by describing abominations of the planet's geography, flora, and fauna. Summed up, just about everything was out to get you. Ivor and I kept up a running commentary of blackly humorous wisecracks to distract ourselves from the shriveling feeling in our balls, while Matt shared reminiscences of her own earlier visits to the Green Hell, which were even more bloodcurdling than the damned video. The second holovid was something completely different, a Rampart employee orientation flick describing the production of Vector PD32:C2 in over five hundred Nutmeg processing sites scattered throughout Cravat. Like most of its kind, the
video was pedantic, self-congratulatory, and dull. Its implications, however, were anything but boring.

  I was surprised (and disturbed) to learn that the mothballed factories weren't completely shut down during the offseason, as I had assumed. Their environmental maintenance systems continued to function, as did caretaking equipment that kept the idle processing machinery in good order. Furthermore, the robot harvester units used during regular operation made periodic excursions into the jungle to gather samples of Pseudomyristica fruit and bring them back to the plants for analysis. On the great day that adequate numbers of rinds were once again adjudged sufficiently diseased, the news would flash to Nutmeg-1 back in Cravat Dome, an engineer would touch a pad, and production of the viral vector would resume in the reinvigorated locale.

  The holovid had nothing to say on the topic of inspection procedures for mothballed facilities. Perhaps it was all done by automation—as most of the processing was—with remote data feeds assuring the absent technicians that all was well in the hinterlands. On-site inspection by live human beings might occur only at long intervals unless the computer reported a malfunction or an emergency.

  When the video ended, I asked my companions the burning question.

  "Do you think the Haluk could be operating one of the Grant factories, cooking up PD32:C2 on the sly?"

  "I believe it's quite possible," Ivor said. "Especially if they had assistance from suborned humans. Tampering with the remote data feed from the factory to Cravat Dome would be child's play for a competent computer programmer. However, it would be considerably more difficult for the Haluk to shut down the clandestine operation and go into hiding whenever human inspection teams showed up—given the hostility of the local environment."

  "Logistics and life-support would be ticklish," Matt agreed. "The Haluk are a bit tougher than humanity, even in the gracile phase. However, an S-2 world would represent a severe challenge. They couldn't just camp out in the jungle. But it wouldn't be practical for them to build self-contained surface bases or retire to an orbital habitat, either. Even on this thinly settled planet, they'd surely be discovered."