Orion Arm

by Julian May

Surely he can't have found out about the presentation of Rampart's venture credit prospectus...

  No. Not even Galapharma's spy network extends into the executive offices of Macrodur Concern, the computer software colossus, and most powerful of the Big Seven. The audacious scheme hatched by Eve is still confidential and will remain so. Unless, against all odds, it succeeds—perhaps because Macrodur's chairman, that zany, self-righteous prick, equates a Rampart bailout with flipping Gala the finger.

  If only there had been some way to subvert Eve's plan! He'd done his utmost to shoot it down before it ever reached the prospectus stage, but to no avail. In the end she and Simon backed him into a corner, ordering him to make the presentation this afternoon along with them and Gunter Eckert, or give a damned good reason for refusing.

  He did as he was told.

  Calmly. Competently. Courageously.

  The mantra loops in his brain as he leaves the taxi and enters the magnificent lobby of the historic resort, which reflects the architectural influence of Frank Lloyd Wright. The Arizona Biltmore is sparsely inhabited now in the height of the desert summer. Squaw Peak is framed in one of the outlooks. Late afternoon sunshine, partially muted by the climate-moderating Phoenix Conurbation force-field, illuminates stained-glass skylights, pilasters of fanciful wrought iron, and the famous patterned concrete blocks that form the walls. Southwestern pottery and arrangements of tropical flowers are everywhere.

  He crosses to the lounge, where a few drinkers in expensive casual attire sip colorful potations and converse in low, well-bred tones.

  He has arrived precisely on time and is gratified to discover that Alistair Drummond is not yet here. He sits down at a small table as far away from the other people as possible, beckons the waiter, and orders a Long Island iced tea. It quenches his thirst nicely and he impulsively signals for another, feeling his tension easing. And no wonder, since the innocuous-tasting tall drink contains full shots of vodka, rum, gin, and tequila.

  Just as the refill arrives, the Galapharma CEO strides into the lounge and plumps down at the table without a word of greeting.

  "May I bring you something, also, sir?" the server inquires.

  "Whatever my friend is having," says Alistair Drummond. He is wearing a white Izod tennis shirt and shorts with a cotton sweater knotted loosely around his neck. The leonine hair is disarranged, the hard, handsome face is flushed and gleaming, and he exudes a powerful odor of sweat, apparently not giving a damn whether his companion might be offended.

  "Katje Vanderpost," Drummond says in a mild, baleful voice. "Have you brought her around to our way of thinking, lad?"

  "I've done some forceful persuading," he temporizes, "painting you as a remorseless hard-charger who'll have his way by fair means or foul. On the surface, she seems as stubborn as ever. But she's got to be a very frightened and demoralized old woman by now, ready to accede to my demands."

  Drummond's voice is almost inaudible. "You're lying. You've been afraid to tackle Katje, hoping she'd die before the next board meeting and solve your problem for you. I warned you about lying to me ..."

  "Your spies have it wrong this time, Alistair." He forces a smile, plucks the straw from his second cocktail, discards it, and swallows a long, fortifying belt. "Why, I called her just the day before yesterday to offer my condolences on Asa's death. She was in a pitiful state, barely coherent—"

  "Asahel Frost is alive. I wouldn't be surprised if his mother knows it."

  Stunned to the depths of his being, he can say nothing.

  "Furthermore, he mounted a massive attack on the secret facility in the Perseus Spur where Oliver Schneider was confined. This happened less than ten hours ago. Schneider was either killed or taken into custody by the attackers. If he's dead, we have approximately one week before damning evidence against Galapharma is made public by his solicitors, according to a prearranged scheme. If Schneider's alive, I think we may assume that Asahel Frost will bring him to Earth in the fastest starship at his disposal—one stolen from Galapharma. Even with refueling stops, the ship will arrive in eight days. They'll need another day or two to prepare the formal depositions for the civil suit and present them to the Commerce Secretariat and the Commonwealth Judiciary Tribunal. But after that..."

  "Oh, Jesus," he whispers.

  Alistair Drummond leans across the table, so close that every pore and drop of perspiration on his face is visible. "Our previous timetable is nullified. Both of us will have to act immediately if we're to salvage the situation. You will arrange for an emergency meeting of the Rampart Board of Directors within one week."

  "But that will require Simon's approval, unless—"

  "Do it!" Drummond says. "Before the week is up, you will coerce Katje Vanderpost into giving you her voting proxy. Or else bring her will to the board meeting, along with the proxies of those charity groups who inherit her quarterstake. Get on with it, you gutless sack of pigshit! You've vacillated long enough."

  He sits frozen. It's come, the eventuality he has feared ever since the earlier meeting with Drummond. Katje will never hand over her proxy to him. He knows this, and he has already laid the groundwork for the alternative course of action. She is well-guarded, but the action will succeed because of its utter simplicity. There is not the remotest chance that he will be implicated.

  It will be a merciful release for the sick old woman. A good thing, in so many ways.

  "Her will," the Galapharma CEO repeats with implacable gentleness. "Ready for expedited probate. The Rampart board must vote to accept my tender before Schneider's evidence is officially submitted to ICS and the prosecutors or I'll be destroyed. And you'll go to Coventry Blue."

  His reply is spoken judiciously, without emotion. "There's no reason for either of us to be concerned. I've made very careful arrangements. All I have to do is give the word ... It'll be done."

  The trusted housekeeper and confidant of the old lady has a ne'er-do-well grandson, a young unmarried priest in Albuquerque with divergent sexual appetites. To save him from exposure and disgrace, the housekeeper has agreed to substitute a particular tea bag—when given the order—for the innocuous chamomile infusion Katje always uses as a sleep aid. The simpleminded housekeeper believes that the bogus beverage will merely make stubborn Katje "more amenable" to certain crucial matters of business.

  Tonight, he will give the order. Katje will take her final cup of chamomile.

  He and Alistair Drummond sit together in silence until the server arrives with Drummond's drink. The Galapharma CEO accepts with gracious thanks and takes a long pull.

  "That's delicious," he tells the waiter. "What d'you call it?"

  "Long Island iced tea, sir. But there's no tea in it at all."

  "No tea? Amazing! You could have fooled me."

  "The flavor's deceptive. So's the alcoholic content."

  Drummond laughs. "Deceptive, eh? Then I'll have to watch my step, won't I?" He nods at the man across the table. "So will my friend. His glass is nearly empty. Please bring him another."

  "Whatever you say, sir," says the server.

  "Damn right," murmurs Alistair Drummond.

  Cravat is a medium-sized, borderline S-2 world. Humans can survive there without full life support, providing that they endure nineteen inoculations, aren't persnickety about being munched upon by small carnivorous life-forms, and are agile enough to avoid the large ones. Smart visitors wear Class Two envirogear while strolling, and carry high-powered weapons.

  Cravat is Rampart's most remote colony, and it harbors no Indigenous Sapients. Poisonously lush vegetation clothes most of its small continents, which yield enough valuable minerals and biological agents to make the place economically attractive to entrepreneurs. The planet is also the sole source of the obscure genen vector PD32:C2, a broad-spectrum transferase agent that finds a modest market among human terraformers. In recent years increasing quantities of PD32:C2 have been purchased from Rampart by Galapharma AC, mystifying the Rampart sales force.


  The only permanent settlement on Cravat, forthrightly called Dome, is tucked under a full DF-1500 hemispherical force-field like a model village protected by a bell jar. Rampart personnel stationed there do not consider it a hardship posting. The Starcorp, following my late Uncle Ethan's dictum—"The lousier the workplace, the spiffier the employee accommodations and perks"—has made Dome a beautiful and lavishly appointed oasis in the midst of what its human denizens fondly call the Green Hell.

  I can testify to its diabolical charms through personal experience.

  Cravat's hospital is small but well-equipped. Its medics took about an hour to heal my broken leg with bonebrace, leaving it as good as new structurally and assuring me that the pain would go away in a couple of weeks. My mental discom-bobulations received pharmaceutical therapy, since I needed to remain compos mentis for a few hours more. I was warned to take it easy now, and catch up on my considerable sleep debt during the voyage to Earth unless I wanted to risk going bonkers.

  While I was being pasted back together, Matt Gregoire supervised the care of the two star witnesses. Jim Matsukawa had a smashed nose and other minor contusions suffered as a result of being bottom layer in the antigrav tote sandwich during the final exciting minutes on Dagasatt. He was otherwise unhurt. Oliver Schneider's injuries required more extensive treatment, but he was going to be reasonably fit in short order. Matt placed the prisoners under heavy guard, then went to the Fleet Security office to file some slightly fictitious reports to Zone Patrol concerning recent activities on and around Dagasatt.

  Ildiko, Ivor, Joe, and the gaggle of Qastt who had been escorted to Cravat ahead of us, not being in need of hospi-talization, retired to Dome's luxurious spa to refresh themselves. (I was informed that the Squeakers demanded, and got, bubble baths.) By the time I joined them in the spa's restaurant, everyone was groomed, garbed, and gobbling quantities of expensive food and drink—the Qastt at one table and the humans at another—all hardship and danger apparently forgotten.

  During a lull in the carousing, I dealt each of my three human companions a niobium EFT card primed with the agreed-upon stipend, plus a sizable bonus.

  Joe Betancourt cleared his throat, looking slightly abashed. "What will happen to O'Toole's share? Since he had no family, maybe you might consider—"

  Before Joe could continue, Ildy broke in. "I'd like to suggest that his pay be donated to the Zone Patrol Benevolent Association in Zorik's name. It's a charity for the survivors of personnel killed on duty."

  "Great idea," I said. "I'll see to it myself." Then I asked if anyone was interested in signing on for a second tour in Cap'n Kelly's Irregulars, accompanying me and Mimo and Matt and the prisoners to Earth in Chispa Dos.

  "You know you can count me in," said Ildy.

  "I'd go just for the fun of it!" Ivor declared blithely.

  "It might not be so amusing if the Haluk try to ambush us," I said. "And by now, Galapharma must know that the Dagasatt raiders—namely us—have their stolen Y700. They'll be watching for its signature. Our trip might be rocky, even if we're riding the fastest boat in the galaxy. Or we might have a pleasure cruise. It's a toss-up."

  Joe said, "I'd like to reenlist, Helly, but... what kind of fee are we talking about?"

  "The same as Dagasatt. For everyone."

  "That's very generous. I'm on."

  I rose from the table. "You guys finish your meal. I have some business to take care of. Remember, we meet in the Port Traffic Manager's office in two hours. You want to buy any more new clothes or other stuff for the trip, better get a move on."

  The nine Qastt, who were all wearing translators, had been seated at a table in the quietest corner. In lieu of Squeak food, they were supping on the least putrid human groceries available: dandelion salad with Angostura bitters, grilled black pudding, squid fritters, kim chee, Icelandic hrokkbraud and Marmite, Bananas Foster, and a big pitcher of scorpion cocktails made with Demerara rum.

  I told the aliens they could remain in the spa for three more days at Rampart expense and run a tab up to five grand apiece at the Cravat Mall. This news provoked whispers of wild enthusiasm among all but one of the little people.

  "Where my bribe?" Ba-Karkar demanded baldly.

  I produced a card and handed it over. "Here you go, skipper. I'll trust you to give a suitable share to Tisqatt and Tu-Prak. And I strongly suggest that you go into another line of work."

  "I think about it," he muttered.

  Ogu neatly nipped the money card out of her husband's hand and tucked it into her draperies. "He think about it with significant intensity!" Tisqatt and Tu-Prak choked back giggles.

  The five abducted Qastt agents of mercy received a generous compensation for their unjust incarceration, together with paid passage on the privateer to Ba-Karkar's home planet, where they would be able to catch a transport back to Dagasatt. I advised them to exaggerate the horrors of their ordeal and say nothing about the under-the-table payoff. They agreed that the idea made significant sense, then toasted my good health with scorpions, human-style, and shook hands with themselves in the traditional Qastt fashion of indicating goodwill to all.

  Leaving the restaurant, I went to the spa's atrium in search of peace and quiet. I found an open area where the Cravat sun shone through the protective force-field onto planters brimming with petunias, roses, and geraniums, potted palm trees, a pretty little fountain, and a small manicured expanse of terrestrial grass with padded shiatsu lounges parked on it. Sinking gratefully into one and turning on the massage, I took out my phone and called Mimo. He had decided to pass up the spa to take care of the servicing and supplying of Chispa Dos for the first leg of the long Orion run.

  "Everything's going fine," he told me. "The starport maintenance crew are just putting the finishing touches on our new brig. It's comfortable and secure. All the special supplies have arrived and are being stowed. The servicing should be finished soon. I'm checking out the weaponry systems personally."

  I said, "Don't forget our little ceremony at the office of the Port Traffic Manager, Terence Hoy. You have two hours."

  He chuckled. "I wouldn't miss it for the world. Are you feeling better?"

  "All mended and ready to boogie," I prevaricated. Actually, I felt like the Black Death revisited. "I'm going to take a nap now so I'll be fresh for the festivities. Catch you later, mi capitan."

  I settled back, thinking idly of my first trip to Cravat, when the Port Traffic Manager had been a man named Robert Bas-combe. Poor Bob had died accidentally after I coerced him into helping me investigate Eve's kidnapping. Now, lying there in the sunshine, staring at the swaying palm fronds above my head, I suddenly remembered something Bob had said. A small slip of the tongue, perhaps quite meaningless. But it was worth checking out.

  I got Terence Hoy on the phone. "Asahel Frost here. Just a brief question about your late predecessor, Robert Bas-combe. He had a wife named Delphine. Does she still live in Dome?"

  "Why, yes. Del LaMotte. She's an analytical chemist at our Flutterbug One facility."

  I asked for, and got, her phone code. When I reached LaMotte at work and identified myself, her voice grew instantly cooler. I apologized for her loss and then asked my question.

  She said, "I don't really remember, Citizen Frost. Bob was always inviting people from Central for the big game hunting, but none of the VIPs stayed with us in our home."

  "I understand. But perhaps your husband mentioned a visit by either man to you in passing. They would have wanted their presence on Cravat kept very confidential. Please think carefully. This is no idle query, Citizen LaMotte. It might even be crucial to Rampart's survival."

  There was a silence. Then she said, "Only one of them ever came here that I know of. It happened about seven months before your sister's disappearance. I found out only by accident when I overheard Bob speaking on the SS com. He became very upset with me. I was told to forget all about the matter, and I tried my best to do so."

  "Who was the confidential visit
or?"

  She told me.

  I thanked her, turned off the phone, and lay there thinking. Was it a damning clue or just a useless bit of trivia? He might have come to Cravat for any number of reasons—not necessarily to meet Elgar/McGrath and inspect the secret Haluk facility.

  Not necessarily to plot my death and Eve's destruction.

  The atrium smelled of new-mown grass and roses. A soft artificial breeze was blowing. The fountain splashed, palms rattled, and recorded birdsong trilled gently. In spite of the thoughts tumbling about in my fatigued brain, I felt my eyes closing. I slept—and dreamed of him, worse luck.

  After a delay that seems interminable, the call to Earth goes through and a man with a long freckled face and auburn hair appears on the com display.

  "Who the devil are you," he barks, "and how did you get this number?"

  "Your Artiuk associate gave it to me and told me to report. Are you Tyler Baldwin, Galapharma's head of security?"

  "Ah... Yes, of course. I'm Baldwin. Sorry to be so abrupt. We're in the midst of a major shitstorm here. Is Oliver Schneider still alive?"

  "Yes. But no thanks to your stupid Squeaker allies. Their gunships almost nailed him during the big blowup on Dag. He was badly injured."

  "It was a mistake. The Qastt were ordered only to destroy the facility, not fire on persons outside. I presume Schneider will recover?"

  "He's in the Cravat hospital. They say he'll be okay. Speaking of mistakes, what the fuck was that big Haluk cruiser doing, lying in wait among the Dag asteroids? It nearly creamed us!"

  "A failure of communication," Baldwin says dismissively. "These things happen. When will Asahel Frost leave Cravat?"

  "Soon. Maybe three or four hours. He had to be patched up, along with Schneider and the Galapharma officer who was taken prisoner."

  Consternation floods Tyler Baldwin's face. "What officer?"

  "Oh. I forgot to mention that Frost brought out the D.O. at the Haluk facility. A man named Jim Matsukawa."

  "Matsukawa! What does Frost plan to do with him?"

  "Take him to Earth along with Schneider. As a material witness to the illegal activity on Dagasatt, I suppose. They'll both be interrogated psychotronically. Matilde Gregoire showed up on Cravat with portable probe machines. She's making the trip, too."