by Julian May
"You need me to give you a hand, Scotty?" Randy asks diffidently, when it's time to mount.
But he adjusts his own stirrups and lofts himself into the saddle. His hammerhead pinto, who is named Paco, stands solid as a rock.
"Guess not," Randy Herrero laughs.
Drummond says coldy, "I'd like some assistance, if you please. I'm more used to English-style tack. Please hold the horse's head."
"Sure thing, Al." The guide helps the second dude get settled on a big blue roan gelding.
"No whip?" Drummond says with a frown.
"Western horses don't take kindly to 'em," Herrero says. "Use the ends of the reins if you really feel you have to. But Bluebell, there, is a sweetie. You talk to him right, he'll do whatever you want." He mounts his own palomino. "I know you two gents want to have some private conversation, so I'll forgo the usual tourist spiel and give you plenty of room. Just don't fall too far behind me, and keep a sharp eye out for rattlesnakes. We got a plague of them sumbitches in these mountains and they do spook the horses. Ready? Let's ride!"
The clients stay well behind Herrero as the party crosses the flat, following his lead through catclaw, ocotillo, and dusty sagebrush. The path is neither clear nor well-beaten, and only an occasional hoofprint or heap of desiccated horse manure indicates that it has been used recently. Copper Mountain, a broad and hulking mass with formidable cliffs, rises ahead of them.
The flat ends in a tumble of rocks, and a more obvious trail becomes visible. Wide enough for two to ride abreast, it climbs steeply up a slope dotted with scraggly junipers, paloverdes, and a few stately century plants with six-meter stalks crowned by candelabras of yellow flowers. The sky is beginning to clear and a faint breeze blows. It is very quiet except for the clip-clopping of the horses, the clatter of dislodged stones, and creaking leather.
They ride without speaking for nearly an hour.
Finally, Alistair Drummond says in a low tone, "I swept the saddles for bugs. They're clean."
He controls his irritation. "I told you this guide outfit was completely reliable."
"Is Simon still determined to file the civil suit immediately?"
"There was nothing any of us could do to prevent it. It'll go to the prosecutors as soon as Asa and Matt Gregoire validate Schneider's deposition. But it's not the disaster it may seem on the surface. Surely you realize that."
Drummond nods. "If the takeover succeeds." He rides on without speaking for a few minutes. Then: "I saw Katje Van-derpost's obituary. My congratulations. Was her death ascribed to natural causes?"
A pang of red anger and guilt seizes him. But he thrusts it aside, as he has frequently since that night, because it would be fatal to acknowledge the full import of what he has done.
"Yes. My InSec people tidied the scene. The poison that was used leaves no residue in the body. The—the person who administered it threw herself off the penthouse balcony when she realized what she'd done. I'd told her the poison was a harmless coercive drug."
"Convenient. Who did the job for you?"
"She was a longtime housekeeper of Katje's. A simpleminded dupe. Her death was so clearly suicide that we didn't even have to interfere with the Phoenix Police investigation. The coroner's verdict cited despondency at the demise of her beloved employer."
"And Katje's will is being expedited in probate, with the share-voting rights affirmed?"
"Yes..."
"Excellent. When will the board meeting be held?"
"It hasn't been scheduled yet, Alistair." He steels himself. "Katje didn't bequeath her quarterstake to the Reversionist charities after all. She changed her will the very night before she died. No one knew what she was planning except her attorney, an insolent young prick who's always resisted the— um—lures and blandishments of the rest of the family."
"Who got the stake?" Drummond demands in a harsh whisper. " Who, damn you? Don't tell me she bequeathed it to Eve!"
"It's worse," he admits. "Katje executed a deed of gift, without any legal encumbrances. She gave her entire quarter-stake to Asa. And she did it while she was alive, so we can't even contest the will."
The CEO of Galapharma stiffens violently in his saddle, almost as though he has been electroshocked. The roan gelding shies at the unexpected spasm of the rider, and Drummond brings it back under control with swift ruthless-ness. For several minutes he only stares blindly ahead of him. Then he hauls back with a savage yank on the reins, and Bluebell squeals, turns, and comes to a dead halt, facing the other rider.
Drummond says, "I think our relationship must be terminated. As of now."
"If you wish." He manages to keep his own voice equable, and good old Paco stays calm. "However, I believe I can still contain the situation. Shall I tell you how?"
Ahead on the trail Randy Herrero calls out, "Everything okay back there, gents?"
"Just fine! We'll be right along," he replies.
"Your plan had better be a good one," Drummond hisses. "If my people have to intervene to ensure that the merger succeeds, the fallout will be disastrous for your family—and for you. I must have Rampart. I will have it! You know very well that the survival of Galapharma depends upon it."
"Yes. I know."
"Tell me what you intend to do." Drummond thumps the ribs of the gelding, which gives a long-suffering sigh. The two riders move forward again, side by side.
"I'll kill Asa myself, just before the board meeting. He'll be on his guard against attacks from your agents once he arrives on Earth, but he has no reason to suspect that I'm ... a Gala partisan." He adds pointedly: "What I have in mind can only be brought off by a member of the Frost family. Someone Asa trusts."
"Hmm," says Drummond. You can almost see the clockwork wheels revolving inside his head as he assesses the prospect of eliminating the middleman.
Let's stamp out that notion right away!
"And I'll need your wholehearted cooperation from now on, Alistair—not threats and insults—if I'm to bring it off successfully." He smiles thinly. "As a matter of fact, I'll need a bit more than that. I want a signed letter of intent from you, declaring that I'll be named Chief Operating Officer of the Rampart Division of Galapharma AC, to serve in that position for a period of no less than ten years, at an annual stipend equal to your own. I also require a thirty percent stake in the division—not twenty-five, as we discussed earlier—in recognition of my valued assistance as your personal agent during the Rampart acquisition."
Silence. Then, very quietly, Drummond says, "I see."
"I'm happy that you do. I've sensed our relationship deteriorating for some time now, even though I've done my utmost for you. I'll certainly continue to do everything in my power to assist you, if you'll just cut me some slack. I've thrown my lot in with Galapharma and I can't turn back."
"Especially not after Katje," says the Gala CEO. But his truculence seems to have melted away abruptly. He reaches out to pat the shoulder of the man riding beside him. "Lad, if you want the letter of intent, you shall have it. Holographic, if it'll help prove the wholeheartedness of my... cooperation."
"That would be eminently satisfactory."
Drummond's laugh is almost roguish. "I'll scribble it up at lunchtime. How's that? No hard feelings, eh? Damn it all, I apologize for bullying you, for my filthy mannerisms. Blame the stresses of my position. And the undeniable truth that I'm an arrogant bloody bastard!"
"You're a brilliant businessman with a transgalactic vision, Alistair."
And probably half mad with vainglorious ambition.. .
But he doesn't dare dwell on that thought. Calmness, cornpetence, and courage have sustained him through another mortal crisis. He's delivered bad news to the beast yet again and survived. Even more, Drummond has finally agreed to sign the letter of intent that he tapdanced away from back at the beginning of their clandestine association.
Alistair still can't pull off the takeover without him, much as he'd like to!
"Is it all right then?" Drummond dem
ands with arch chumminess.
"Of course. You want to know why Asa's death will immediately assure that the board votes for the acquisition?"
"Lad, I'm all ears."
The explanation is ludicrously simple. When he finishes, they ride on silently for a long time, single file now because of the narrowness of the precipitous mountain trail. The scenery is awesome—soaring pine trees, subtly colored outcroppings of ancient Precambrian rock, the occasional glimpse in the west of the Tonto Basin falling away over a thousand meters, green-black waves of forested hills and buttes rolling eastward. The abandoned gold mine, a sinister opening braced with rotting timbers, surrounded by rusting machinery and collapsed shacks, is passed by when the two dudes indicate they have no interest in stopping.
Copper Mountain has no distinct summit; the laboring horses halt at last on a north-facing shelf of bare rock girt with scrubby trees. Randy Herrero dismounts and comes to hold the heads of Paco and Bluebell so his clients can safely slip from their saddles.
"Here y'go, Scotty, Al. This is the place! You can see damn near the entire Sky Ranch from here, right down on that plateau. Big house right by the creek, not seven kilometers away. Ranch buildings, corral, hopper pad, and control tower to the east, other buildings scattered from hell to breakfast. There's an old mule trail leading up from the ranch to the gold mine. The mountain's not so steep on the north slope. Of course, no outsiders are allowed to use the trail nowadays. You brought power oculars?"
"I did," says the dude known as Al Smith. He produces them from his jacket and does a slow panoramic sweep. "Very impressive. I'm surprised the Frost family doesn't use a ground-based dissimulator to forestall spying. Or even a Class Three defensive shield."
Randy laughs dismissively. "Why fuzzy up their own billion-dollar view? They own seven sections of land north of here, and it's fenced with high-tech alarms and overhead scans. No hoppers are going to drop in unexpected-like, either—not with the airspace monitored by hidden blaster emplacements. The buildings are out of range of any portable arms, so the Frosts don't give a damn about tourists horseback riding or hiking around the perimeter. But if you came up any of the surrounding mountains in a vehicle, Rampart ExSec would be all over you like flies on shit."
"Seven sections of land?" The archaic measuring term is a puzzlement to Citizen Smith.
"A section was a square mile in the old system," says the man called Scotty Jones with calm certainty. "Quite impregnable."
"Imagine that," murmurs Smith. He resumes his observations through the powerscope. "Just imagine that!"
The Doc-in-the-Box prescribed oxygen for the patient, together with a medication to relieve the convulsions. It urged us to transfer Jim Matsukawa to the nearest hospital.
"We're only two hours out of Torngat," Joe Betancourt said. "I read up on the place during my last trick at the helm. The winter resort has a big medical facility. They must get a lot of broken bones, to say nothing of hypothermia and apres-ski hangovers."
I said, "Matt and Ivor, you stay with the patient. I'm going to call ahead and see what kind of arrangements we can make. Joe, go drive the boat. Send Mimo to me in the wardroom."
Back in my lair, I opened the SS com and made contact with Torngat Starport, declaring a medical emergency. The tower transferred me to an ER doctor at the local hospital and I transmitted data from our sick-bay computer to her.
"The symptoms are most consistent with some sort of poisoning," she decided, after studying the information. "Was there any complaint of burning or numbness in the mouth and throat? Or abdominal pain?"
"Absolutely not. Neither yesterday nor today."
"Restlessness or thrashing about? Tremors? Headache?"
"Negative."
"Hmm. And you departed from the planet Cravat?"
"Correct."
She diddled with her own computer and her eyebrows rose. "Goodness! What an appalling little world ... However, the patient's symptoms don't correlate with any native toxic materials or bioagents. A pity you couldn't obtain a blood sample. Well, all I can say is, get him to us immediately."
"Doctor, the man's a high-risk prisoner. It's imperative that we transport him to Earth without delay." I showed her my Rampart Red Card. "I'm empowered by my Starcorp to offer whatever compensation you deem necessary if you'll send medical personnel to treat the patient aboard our starship."
She scowled. "I doubt it could be arranged."
"Whatever compensation is required. To the hospital, officially, and privately to the staff members who agree to treat the patient."
"Stand by," she said.
Mimo came into the wardroom, one of his precious stogies clamped in his teeth. "So it's happened again."
"Yes. He seemed well on the way to recovery, then—pow! It's got to be poison." •
"But where would he have got it from?" Mimo said. "He could hardly have been carrying it around with him on Dagasatt, and he had no opportunity to obtain it on Cravat. He was constantly under guard."
"It had to've been given to him here on the ship by our mystery fink. But I'll be damned if I know where he or she could have found the stuff. No chemical we have on board fits the medic computer's list of possible poisons, and you can't purchase controlled substances over the counter in a tightly wrapped settlement like Cravat. The odds are astronomical against there being a Gala agent hanging around Cravat Dome, equipped with a handy-dandy murder kit for the turncoat to pick and choose from."
Mimo puffed fragrant smoke. "It's possible—but not plausible—that a disloyal crew member had poison in their possession from the very beginning of the operation, before we left Rampart Central on Seriphos. But this would make sense only if Oliver Schneider were the intended poisoning target. No one knew you would take Jim Matsukawa prisoner."
"Right! Why poison Matsukawa to prevent his interrogation, and not Ollie? Both men are potentially dangerous witnesses against Galapharma."
"But only Matsukawa is a possible demiclone," Mimo said.
I chewed that one over and got nowhere. "Ildy, Joe, and Ivor were unaware of the precise goal of Operation Q when they first came aboard Chispa on Seriphos. Even on Nogawa-Krupp they didn't know we were after Oliver Schneider, or that we suspected him of being a Gala agent. Our target individual was merely described as a felonious Rampart employee. The only crew member other than myself who knew that Schneider was the prize was you."
Mimo rolled his eyes.
"God knows, I don't doubt your loyalty!" I hastened to add. "It has to be one of the others—or no one. Maybe the goddamn Haluk demiclones have hollow teeth full of assorted pharmaceuticals. Maybe Matsukawa's just highly allergic to Ivor's cooking!"
"Citizen Frost?" The doctor was back on the com display. "If your corporation is prepared to pay through the nose, we can place a fully equipped medical gig, plus personnel, at your disposal. The gig is a rather sizable mobile hospital." She gave me its specs.
"No problem!" I exclaimed. "Our starship's a big one. There's plenty of room for it in our auxiliary transport bay. If necessary, we'll leave our own gig behind on Torngat."
"Very well. We'll be ready to lift when you arrive in parking orbit." She told me what the outrageous cost was going to be. I promised to arrange a prompt transfer of funds from Earth and thanked her profusely. We said goodbye.
I turned to Mimo. "I was going to ask you to ready our or-biter to shuttle the patient if my little proposal was nixed. Now all you have to do is figure out if we can shoehorn the ambulance into Chispa's belly."
"And of course there's Karl to pick up. Do you wish me to collect him and the others from Torngat?"
I thought for a moment. "Let me give him a shout. It'd be best if they could hitch a ride on the medical gig. Check out available space in the transport bay as quickly as you can ... And I don't want Joe at the helm when we make our approach to the planet. Just keep him with you on the flight deck when you take command."
He nodded and left me alone.
I ca
lled Eve and arranged for the medical payoff, catching her in her Toronto apartment.
She made the monetary transfer immediately, then said, "I've just had a bright idea: as soon as the Torngat medical team is aboard, I want you to have them do a DNA workup of both Matsukawa and Garth Lee. Transmit the data to me at once. Beatrice Mangan can analyze it. If they are modified Haluk, we'll know the genetic tag Emily Konigsberg incorporated into the demiclone procedure. If need be, we'll be able to test other suspicious individuals."
"Of course! I should have thought of that myself."
"You realize that the interrogation data from those two will be inadmissible as evidence until it's officially vetted by Xenoaffairs analysts. Until then, it's just intelligence. Furthermore, without a humanoid Haluk, dead or alive, the only substantive proof we have of an alien demiclone threat is my own little blue body—circumstantial evidence that could be interpreted variously—and your unsupported statement about nefarious activity on Dagasatt."
"I know, Evie."
"Take very good care of yourself, little brother. And of your prisoners." She signed off.
I promptly put in a call to Karl Nazarian, on Torngat.
The starbase's general astrogation office patched me through to the hotel where he and the three members of his crew and Garth Lee were staying. I greeted him and inquired how things were going.
"We're holed up in the smallest, most bare-bones establishment I could find," he told me. "A transient spacers'joint just outside the starport where I can keep our prisoner secure and the crew out of mischief."
The thought of finicky Lotte Dietrich, the dour old manhunter Cassius Potter, and laid-back Hector Motlaletsie carousing among the frozen fleshpots of Torngat made me smile. "Of course. Gotta protect your Over-the-Hill Gang from the temptations of snow bunnies and ski bums. How's Garth Lee?"