Orion Arm

by Julian May

  "I guess so. He said there were no other high-end Haluk fighters close enough to call in. He seemed certain you'd grab Ollie Schneider, send out a shout for Zone Patrol and the Rampart cavalry, and head for Cravat with the prisoner. When we got to Cravat, I was supposed to contact Tyler Baldwin, Gala's security chief in Toronto, via SS com. Tell him the situation and get further orders." He paused and his tone darkened. "I think Skogstad might have tried to double cross me. A big Haluk cruiser attacked Chispa in the Dagasatt system before we could pick up you and Ildy. Mimo took over the guns and clobbered it, but I got to thinking." "About time! You're an idiot if you trust Galapharma." "I've been paid in advance," he assured me cockily. "And just in case Gala has a second double cross in mind, I have a little surprise planned when it comes time to hand over the prisoners."

  "Does it have anything to do with cigars?" I inquired. He gave an unsteady laugh. "So you know about the Cohibas! Rotten way to treat a good smoke, hey? But the gimmick worked just fine and dandy. Funny thing, though. Baldwin really came down hard on me about wanting Mat-sukawa kept alive but not interrogated. I practically offered to snuff Jimbo for him, but he wouldn't have it. He didn't seem to care whether or not you grilled Ollie."

  Something didn't quite compute in the proctological scenario, but I couldn't figure out what it was. I would have tried to get more details about Matsukawa's importance to Galapharma, but at that point we reached sick bay and found it empty. Joe knew we'd planned to take Matsukawa to the transport anteroom, so we continued on in that direction. Mimo was quiet, walking steadily enough even though he left a bloody trail. Joe had made a few shallow cuts at the back of his neck to keep his attention.

  I wondered morosely whether Galapharma fighting ships were already sharing our orbit, hiding behind dissimulator fields until it was time to close in. They'd nab a real prize package, thanks to treacherous Joe Betancourt. Not only Ollie, Jim, and Garth Lee—but also the Great White Hope of Rampart Starcorp: me. Without even knowing it, little Joe was about to write the finish to our corporate comedy. When the Gala goons killed me offhandedly, Rampart would go belly-up.

  Because I had no will.

  The last one I'd made, leaving everything to my former wife, Joanna DeVet, was automatically invalidated when I first lost my citizenship. According to CHW law, with me newly enfranchised and enriched, if I should die intestate, my quarterstake would be divided equally among my closest surviving relatives—Simon, Dan, Eve, and Bethany. Only Eve would vote with Simon against the merger. The others— including, I was sure, my vacillating Aunt Emma—would vote in favor, producing the fifty-fifty stalemate that would give Drummond his victory.

  You say it's my own fault? That I was a sentimental moron to take Joe and Ildy along on the voyage when I suspected one of them might betray us?

  Well, you'd be absolutely correct. But I couldn't have done anything else.

  Chapter 14

  Ivor Jenkins was shocked at the sight of us—me enmeshed in sticky silvery strips, poor bloodied Mimo, and gore-smeared, manic Joe Betancourt, who sang out with false cheeriness:

  "Step away from the patient, big fella! I've got a knife ready to puncture Mimo's lizard-brain if you make one false move."

  "He's right, Ivor," I warned. "Do as he says."

  "Back against the bulkhead and put your wrists together," Joe commanded. "That's good. Helly, you strap him up."

  The young giant stood in appalled silence while I fumbled with the duct-tape dispenser. It didn't matter that the strips weren't applied especially tight. Joe made me wind at least ten meters of the super-tough tape around Ivor's hands. When I finished, he looked like his paws were embedded in a silver basketball.

  After Ivor sat down, I taped his mouth and lashed his ankles closely together, leaving him immobilized.

  "Excellent," said Joe. He cast his eyes around the transport bay anteroom. The entire right side comprised a docking control console with communicators and monitoring equipment. To the left was a rack holding three space excursion suits and some other technical gear. The room had a big observation window, and beside it was the hatch giving access to the airlock and the passenger lift to the transport bay.

  Chispa's orbiter gig, golden in color to match its elegant mothership, was parked well out of the way of the huge exterior iris gate so that the ambulance craft would have plenty of room to dock. A few maintenance bots stood at the ready to secure the visitor, and the bay was brightly floodlit with xenon lamps.

  "Now power up this com unit," Joe told me, "and let's see if the quacks are coming down the pike on schedule."

  The console had a movable swivel chair. I said, "For God's sake, let Mimo sit down. He's wrecked."

  "Okay. You stand aside."

  When I did so, Joe dragged the old man up off his knees and allowed him to collapse into the seat. Mimo's eyes were crusty black slits. His head with its crown of frowsy hair periodically lolled onto his breast, and both skinny arms hung impotently at his sides. His skin was the color of wood ashes. Crimson streaks defiled his sweater and pants.

  Keeping the knife in place, Joe rolled Mimo to a position as far away from me and Ivor as he could manage. "You know better than to say anything smart," he told me. "Get the medical gig on the viewer, but keep our video pickup turned off. Hail them and explain that we've had a com malfunction, but everything else is peachy-keen. Except the patient, of course."

  The tape manacles didn't really hamper my use of the equipment. An impressive red-and-white gig emblazoned with the legend torngat emergency space-medical response appeared on the scan monitor. It was nearly on top ofus.

  The ship-to-ship interior display showed a distinguished-looking man with a silver Afro and one of the meanest purple snarls I've ever seen. He was wearing a coverall that looked more military than medical and a nameplate I couldn't quite make out.

  "It's about time you came back to us, Chispa Dosl" he said furiously. "We've been trying to raise you for fifteen minutes. What's wrong with your video feed?"

  "A small malfunction. I apologize. I'm Asahel Frost, Vice President of Rampart Starcorp. Who are you, sir?"

  "Dr. Ben Harrison Crystal, medical team commander. What's the status of your patient?"

  "He's still in critical condition. We've positively determined that he's suffering from nicotine poisoning." I described the mode of administration, and the doctor rolled his eyes heavenward. "We've brought the patient to the transport bay so you can take him into your vessel for treatment just as soon as you dock."

  "Satisfactory. We're matching orbits. Open up."

  I clumsily hit the proper control pads. Flashing lights and alarm Klaxons activated in the transport bay. Air vented, the exterior sounds cut off abruptly, and the great gate into space opened like a monster's mouth, revealing the orbiter hanging expectantly in a star-spangled night.

  It wafted inside, gave a little skip when it hit our graviton field, and landed right on the bull's-eye. The bots converged to clamp it down and zap it with decon radiation, the gate closed, and I hit the control calling for rapid recompression. Alarm lights flashed again. After a moment we could hear the ooh-gahs and the hissing roar of air rilling the bay.

  Dr. Crystal was still on the monitor. His aspect was one of stony anger, and a few beads of perspiration dotted his caramel forehead. Maybe he'd been dragooned into accepting the unorthodox assignment and was piqued at missing time on the ski slopes.

  I checked the safety displays. The bay environment was atmospheric and temperate. I said, "Would you prefer to supervise the transfer of the patient from our control room, Doctor?"

  He looked questioningly at someone beyond scan range. Then: "No. Bring him down to us."

  "May I ask whether you have the Karl Nazarian party aboard?"

  "No, you may not ask," said Ben Harrison Crystal. Then he cut me off.

  "Well, you have yourself a nice day!" I muttered, and turned to Betancourt for further orders.

  Joe said, "Open the broadband hail
frequency."

  "So you can call in Galapharma?"

  "I'll let you do the honors, shitheel. They've gotta be around here somewhere. Give 'em a shout."

  I spoke to the communicator. "Starship Chispa Dos is calling any Galapharma AC vessel in the Torngat solar-system. Come back, Galapharma."

  The ship-to-ship monitor went to white in an audio-only reply. They were playing the same game we'd played with the medical gig.

  "Galapharma responding. Go to Secure Channel 6892Z."

  I did the switch, and the Invisible Man said, "Stand by for instructions."

  "Chispa acknowledges."

  A long silence ensued.

  "Yo, Gala?" I caroled. "You want to tell us what to do next?"

  After an interval the Invisible Man came back. "Uh—load the patient James Matsukawa onto the medical gig and wait for instructions. Be aware that your vessel is under our guns."

  "We will comply." I silenced the transmitter and said to Betancourt, "Looks like you might have a bunch of confused clowns out there."

  "Or they're planning to get cute," he growled. "But I'm ahead of 'em! You're going to haul Jim down into the transport bay. I'm staying right here." He grinned at me. "My ace in the hole is Schneider, in case you haven't already guessed. Gala can snatch Jim and that guy Garth Lee off the medical gig any time they feel like it. But they don't get their hands on Ollie until the loose ends are tidied up and I'm able to zorch on out of here with my skin in one piece."

  He pushed Mimo's chair closer to the bay airlock hatch, which was now wide-open. The boning knife glittered in the old man's hair and a fresh welling of blood oozed from the rear of his turtleneck. His head was nearly in his lap, and I decided he must have lost consciousness.

  I took hold of the rear tiller of the antigrav gurney and pushed it through to the open platform elevator that would carry us down into the bay. Matsukawa was neatly covered with blankets. His nostrils were stoppered with little tubes

  feeding him oxygen, and a tiny vital-signs monitor was stuck to his forehead. I could see his chest rising and falling. His face looked peaceful. Maybe expelling the cigars had saved his life.

  Who are you, Jimbo? I wondered. Why does Galapharma want to keep you quiet? The Dagasatt facility's no secret anymore, and Gala certainly has no idea you're a demiclone—if you are one. So why didn't Ty Baldwin just tell Joe to kill you if your silence is so important?

  I hit the elevator descent pad and started down. Joe Betan-court remained standing in the airlock doorway behind Mimo's chair, watching me.

  Below, the medical gig was still buttoned up tight. Vague shapes were visible on its bridge. I made the short trip across the deck and halted with my burden half a dozen meters from the main egress hatch of the ambulance.

  For a long moment nothing happened. Then the hatch cracked and lowered on its pistons. Dr. Ben Harrison Crystal came down the ramp, accompanied by two technicians carrying complicated-looking medical equipment.

  Following after them were four soldiers in full fighting armor and helmets. They held Claus-Gewitter photon beamers, the marksman's weapon of choice for precision zapping.

  The tallest of the troopers asked me, "Are you Betancourt?"

  "No. I'm Asahel Frost. Betancourt's standing up there in the airlock door, behind the guy in the swivel chair."

  Cheeow!

  What in hell?

  I instinctively dived to the deck as the trooper fired right over my head. Lying there in shock, I waited for a second laser beam to fry me dead.

  "Get up, Frost."

  The big shooter stood there impassively, his weapon at port. The other soldiers were hanging back as the doctor and his associates bent over Matsukawa and performed some kind of medical procedure, ignoring the fireworks. I got onto my knees, then shambled upright and risked a quick peek at the anteroom doorway above. Mimo was still there, sitting up. There was no sign of Joe Betancourt.

  So much for the turncoat pilot's insurance! I wondered if Ollie Schneider's policy would still work when the Gala troops got their hands on him.

  "Frost!" the shooter said to me. "Is that orbiter gig of yours over there locked?"

  "It's wide-open. We don't have thieves aboard—only Galapharma scumbags."

  "Is your gig fueled and ready?"

  "Yes." I figured he'd disable it before leaving so we couldn't use it to escape. When the ambulance was clear of Chispa, the shooter's buddies in the Gala fighting ships would energetically disassemble us with their cannons. Karl Nazarian and his crew were probably already dead.

  I decided to try a last bluff. "You listen to me! My other friends up in the control anteroom will kill Oliver Schneider unless you back off. That happens, you'll be in the soup, buster."

  The big guy laughed.

  "This is no joke! Haven't you been told that Schneider has hidden evidence that could ruin Galapharma? He dies, the incriminating poop gets released. You better check with your high command."

  He lifted his helmet visor, revealing a beefy face adorned with pale eyebrows, a white-blond walrus mustache, and a sardonic smile. "That's not necessary. You can keep Citizen Schneider—with the compliments of Tyler Baldwin. The game plan has changed."

  "Erik Skogstad, I presume. How'd you get here so fast? Steal yourself a new Y700?"

  The smile faded. "This time, you get a pass. But God help the lot of you if Baldwin's brother dies from that shit you gave him."

  "Brother?" I repeated stupidly.

  But the puzzle pieces were about to fall into place.

  He turned away and shouted an order in an alien language,

  one I'd last heard spoken in a secret laboratory below the noxious jungles of Cravat. Belatedly, I noticed that the three other troopers were wearing armor that was conspicuously wasp-waisted. They escorted the medical party and the patient into the gig.

  Skogstad prodded my chest with his blaster. "Go back to the control room now, Asahel Frost. When we have both gigs secured for liftoff, open the bay gate. Don't attempt to interfere with us."

  He strode off in the direction of Chispa's orbiter, and I went galumphing to the elevator, my head awhirl with wild speculation. At the top I found an empty swivel chair and the body of Joe Betancourt. He had a great big smoldering third nostril right above the other two.

  Mimo was bending over Ivor, sawing away feebly with the Henckels boning knife at the ball of tape imprisoning the giant's hands. "Something very peculiar is going on," he observed in a quavering voice.

  "Damn right," I agreed. "But I think I'm starting to get a handle on it. Give me that knife and sit down before you fall down."

  He subsided onto the deck, leaning against the excursion suit rack. "Que gacho—I'm getting too old for this sort of thing."

  I ripped the tape from Ivor's mouth, finished cutting his hands loose, and freed my own. I gave Ivor the knife, telling him to cut the tape from his own ankles and then from mine.

  Outside in the bay, both gigs had their navigation lights shining, ready to go. Sealing our airlock hatches—Joe's body and the chair were still inside—I slapped the emergency de-pressurization switch. The transport bay filled with fog for a split second and then held only clear vacuum.

  Ivor was working on my fetters, but I was too busy to notice. The iris gate opened and both of the orbiters zipped away into space. I acquired them on the exterior scanner...

  And saw on the viewer what I'd halfway expected to see.

  A titanic starship was waiting out there, its eleven-kilometer length blotting out the stars behind it. It looked like a warty acorn with a fancy dagger poked through it. The acorn was surmounted by a glowing blue dome, and the hilt of the dagger was studded with gemlike azure ports.

  Mimo was studying the viewer with awe. " Vaya por dios— ese es el Meromero de los Haluk!"

  He was right. It was the same immense alien vessel that had come to the Kedge-Lockaby system to rescue Bronson Elgar and maroon me on Helly's Comet, the flagship of the Haluk top dog, the Serva
nt of the Servants of Luk.

  The big ship's transport bay opened and both gigs disappeared inside.

  "Will they destroy us now?" Ivor asked quietly.

  "I'm not sure," I replied. "As Mimo said, something peculiar is going on."

  "Where are Matt and Ildy?" Mimo asked me.

  "Safe enough. Joe made me lock them in the midships excursion bay but he didn't evacuate the air."

  "But all this makes no sense," the old smuggler grumbled.

  "I misjudged the situation," I said, "and so did Joe Betancourt. It wasn't Galapharma who turned Joe and came chasing after us. It was the Haluk. 1 suspect that the aliens set up Karl's ambush as well, maybe using Gala fighting ships."

  "Oh, my goodness," said Ivor. "Haluk demiclones in the Galapharma forces?"

  "You got it, kid. Joe told me he was recruited by a Gala agent named Erik Skogstad. Erik drove the Haluk ship I sent Joe to destroy—only Erik won that dogfight, and gave Joe the choice of betraying us or dying. Guess who was in charge of the bandit boarding party just now, and gave Little Joe his final kiss-off."

  "Erik Skogstad?" Ivor hazarded.

  "Go to the head of the class," I said. "He probably came in on the Haluk flagship and intercepted the medical gig. When I talked to him, he implied that his specific mission was to rescue Jim Matsukawa—Ty Baldwin's brother."

  "But I've seen images of this Baldwin in certain databases pertinent to my former profession," Mimo protested. "He is surely a Caucasoid, while Matsukawa seemed to be wholly of Oriental ancestry. Unless the brothers were adopted, or were—" He pulled up short in sudden comprehension, spitting a Mexican expletive.

  "Brothers under the skin," I said. "Or rather, under the human DNA."

  And now I knew the fourth person Matsukawa had called from Dagasatt during my assault.

  "Both of them Haluk!" said Mimo wildly. "Skogstad, perhaps Garth Lee and Bronson Elgar as well! Dios—are any of Gala's Perseus Spur personnel still human?"

  I said, "What I'd like to know is, how many ringers besides Tyler Baldwin have infiltrated critical Big Seven Concern positions within the Orion Arm?"