by Julian May
Ivor said, "Do you suppose Alistair Drummond has knowingly cooperated in the demiclone substitution scheme?"
"Hardly. The asshole had no idea what kind of can of worms he was opening when he began his illegal trading with the Haluk. They're smart, dammit! They pulled the wool over Gala's eyes—not only with the demiclone thing, but also with the larger trading conspiracy. Gala and its Big Seven allies sold small numbers of advanced starships and other high technology to the Haluk at inflated prices. The Haluk took the stuff and studied it. Then they built more, only they improved on the originals."
"As the ancient Japanese did," Ivor remarked sagely, "when they first encountered Western technology after centuries of isolation."
"How else could that monster flagship out there have kept pace with us on our trip from the Perseus Spur?" I asked rhetorically. "Do you two remember the sophisticated Haluk gunship that attacked us when we were on the way to Cravat? It was head and shoulders above the usual heaps used by their pirates. They've kept their snazzy new starships under wraps. They probably don't have very many of them yet, just as they don't have many demiclones. The Haluk are biding their time, just as I was afraid they—"
"Look!" Ivor cried in disbelief. "Our orbiter is returning."
"Holyfrijole" I murmured.
We waited. I tried to hail the approaching gig but no one responded. Eventually the little spacecraft reentered our open iris gate and docked.
"Well," I said with a grimace, "let's see if they sent us a lovely present or an antimatter bomb."
I secured the gate and repressurized the bay. When the warning lights and Klaxons shut down, the gig's hatch opened. Karl Nazarian emerged, followed by Lotte Dietrich, Hector Motlaletsie, and Cassius Potter. Presumably, the Haluk had kept back their beamish boy, Garth Lee.
"They've let Karl and his people go!" Ivor exclaimed. "But why?"
I recalled what Skogstad had told me. "Maybe because the game plan has changed."
Then I thought about the unthinkable notion that my sister Eve had so glibly proposed as part of the venture-credit prospectus to Macrodur: Rampart already owned another rozkoz, a commodity with the potential for generating unlimited profits for the Starcorp and its trading partners. All we needed was a new treaty with the Haluk, so they would become a legitimate market for the genetic engineering vector PD32:C2.
"It's just possible," I said to my friends, "that the Haluk know something that we don't. Something that's caused a one-eighty switch in their strategy."
The newcomers had ascended the elevator. Karl Nazarian was pounding on the airlock door, so flushed with excitement I was afraid he'd have a stroke. I hurried to let him and the others in.
"Helly, I'm flabbergasted!" Karl roared. "Do you have any idea what the flaming hell is going on? The medical gig was intercepted by this unbelievably huge Haluk starship—"
"There were humans aboard her!" Hector Motlaletsie spluttered. "Collaborators! They took us prisoner."
"I know," I said. "Are any of you hurt?"
"No," Lotte Dietrich said coolly. "The bastards took my e-books, but I had backup data-dimes stashed in my bottle of whiffenpoppers."
Ivor giggled.
Cassius Potter caught sight of bloodied Mimo. "Nothing wrong with us. But it sure looks like somebody messed up Bermudez. Shouldn't we be giving him first aid? And who the hell is that dead man in the airlock?"
All four of them began nattering at the top of their lungs, while Mimo and I tried to explain. We were all a little crazy at that point.
In the midst of the hullabaloo, Ivor pointed at the external viewer and said in a loud voice, "The Haluk starship is breaking orbit."
Silence.
"Well," said Cassius, with sour satisfaction, "if they intend to blast us to bits, I reckon they'll do it now."
Lotte crossed herself.
The monster vessel came about with surprising agility. We watched its SLD power units brighten, sixteen of them paired along the "blade" of the daggerlike structure, and then it soared away. An instant later the dazzling flash of hyperspatial crossover marked the Haluk ship's transition to ultraluminal drive. It was irrevocably gone.
"How strange," Ivor marveled. "Not that I'm complaining . .."
"Folks," I addressed the gathering, "I think we'd better be on our way, too."
Anticlimactically, we scattered. I sent Karl and Hector to check on Ollie Schneider. Lotte and Ivor took Mimo to the sick bay. Cassius Potter and I went forward to rescue Matt and Ildy. In less than thirty minutes we had resumed our voyage to Earth.
When we were safely away from the Torngat system, I reported the abduction of the medical team "by Haluk pirates" to Macrodur security and to Sector Zone Patrol. Both were disinclined to believe my story until I submitted our edited audiovisual record of the immense flagship engulfing the two gigs, after which there was a furious exchange of subspace messages.
A certain Commander Newton at patrol HQ demanded that we return to Torngat at once for psychotronic examination. I said, regretfully, that that would not be convenient— citing obscure statutes relating to the rights of sovereign corporations operating in deep space—but promised to transmit formal depositions concerning the incident from all witnesses aboard Chispa just as soon as we could get ourselves organized.
The cops threatened to come after us. (As a mere Starcorp, Rampart had less political clout than Macrodur Concern, which was screaming bloody murder.) I suggested that patrol efforts might be better directed toward analyzing the fuel signature of the Haluk pirate vessel and tracking it down before it escaped the sector. I also pointed out to Commander Newton that our Y700 was faster—and better armed—than any patrol cruiser. We had done our civic duty by reporting the abduction, transmitting a holo of the perp flagrante delicto, and affirming that we'd submit statements. Now we were determined to go on about our legitimate corporate business without interference.
Newton bitched, blustered, and bluffed. I stood firm while dazzling him with fusillades of legal precedents and other official red tape. (Not for nothing had I earned the degree of Juris Doctor from Harvard Law School back in the days when Simon assumed I'd become a Rampart exec. My years in the ICS had also taught me a thing or two about bureaucratic arm-twisting.)
Zone Patrol finally backed off, just as I knew it would. In the Commonwealth of Human Worlds, sadly enough, civil authorities almost always deferred to Big Business.
The following days were a time of regrouping, of cleaning up loose ends, and of busy intercommunication between Chispa and Earth.
In a brief, informal ceremony, we consigned Joe Betan-court's body to the ship's matter converter, then voided his elements into hyperspace. I couldn't remember which of the Circles of Hell Dante set aside for his ancient group of traitors, but the uncanny emptiness between the spatial dimensions seemed a likely enough resting place for our modern-day Judas.
Matt and I concluded the interrogation of Oliver Schneider two days later and transmitted the data to Eve. She assured us that Rampart lawyers were putting the final touches to the civil suit against Galapharma. There was much moaning and gnashing of teeth on the part of Zed, Dan, and the other Gala partisans on the Board of Directors who counseled delay, but Simon would brook no ass-dragging. It was his contention that filing the suit against Gala immediately would enhance Rampart's image as a dynamic outfit in the eyes of Macrodur's Chairman, Adam Stanislawski. It didn't hurt that old Adam also hated Alistair Drummond's cojones.
Prompted by intimations of mortality, I made a new will, bequeathing my quarterstake and the rest of my worldly goods to Simon, instructing him to have Dan register it through Rampart's legal department so it would be a matter of public record. I figured—naively, as it turned out—that if the bad guys knew that Simon would own a clear majority of the shares upon my death, I myself and the other members of my family would be safe from intimidation or physical threat.
Matt took formal depositions from all of us concerning our encounter with the Haluk
flagship, then sent a transcript to Commander Newton at Zone Patrol. We couldn't conceal Joe Betancourt's role in the incident, nor that of Jim Matsukawa; but we did our best to keep their motivation murky. I stated truthfully that it was Betancourt who told me to send a broadband summons to Galapharma. The subsequent appearance of the alien ship was a shocking surprise to me. (Semi-truthful, but close enough.) My verbal description of the boarding encounter was brief and chock full of holes. Fortunately, neither Mimo nor Ivor had been in a position to contradict it.
In a sidebar statement, not under oath, I regretted that I'd failed to activate surveillance cameras in the transport bay while the pirates were aboard Chispa. In mitigation, I reminded Zone Patrol that I'd been under considerable stress at the time.
Karl and his people said nothing in their depositions about the presence of Garth Lee aboard the Torngat gig. None of the recorded material revealed it, either. My crew loyally declared that they "could not speculate" upon why the Haluk had kidnapped Jim Matsukawa and the medics.
Commander Newton told me that our depositions left a lot to be desired. I thanked him for his opinion and referred any subsequent official queries to the Rampart legal department.
It was a foregone conclusion that Macrodur would submit a formal complaint against the Haluk to Xenoaffairs. There was nothing we could do about that. It seemed likely, however, that SXA would bury the beef, as they had the Tokyo Haluk research, for unfathomable reasons of policy. Even if the secretariat did decide to take action, nothing was likely to happen for weeks—or even months.
I sent Eve a copy of the Zone Patrol transcript, along with an uncensored postscript filling in the blanks. The evidence, I told her rather snidely, could join the growing collection in her secret Haluk files, until she decided to reveal it.
Neither my sister nor I had the faintest notion how to turn the Tyler Baldwin blockbuster to Rampart's advantage. The demiclone Gala security chief was no doubt following an agenda of his own. Only time would tell whether it favored Galapharma and the ambitions of Alistair Drummond, or whether some convoluted sea-change had occurred among the aliens.
The rest of our voyage to Earth was relatively uneventful.
Mimo Bermudez healed rapidly and consumed the remainder of his Cohiba Robustos without sharing, citing therapeutic priorities. He used his convalescence to practice on the guitar and become better acquainted with his magnificent new starship. Meanwhile, he ordered Plomazo to be ferried back to Kedge-Lockaby after repairs were completed.
Karl Nazarian, Cassius Potter, and Hector Motlaletsie took over piloting duties, giving the rest of us welcome leisure. They seemed relieved that they would not be asked to undertake any serious clandestine operations while on Earth, and delighted to learn they would receive a generous combat allowance in addition to their other pay.
Matt Gregoire communicated with her office on Seriphos, smoothed out the final rough areas of the Dagasatt flap—at least so far as Zone Patrol was concerned—and dealt with other professional matters that had come up during her absence. Kindly and firmly, she refused to sleep with me. Not even a charity fuck. I told her I understood, then went and thought about how I might bury Alistair Drummond before he buried me. It was better than a cold shower.
Lotte Dietrich commandeered the galley and ousted Ivor Jenkins from his post as chef de cuisine. Waist-broadening schnitzel, sauerbraten, strudel, torten, pies, cookies, and other "comfort food" invaded our formerly health-conscious menu, to the delighted horror of one and all. As Karl said, we all needed a little Christmas out of season. Or Hanukkah or Kwanzaa, as the case may be.
No longer plagued by the Inquisition, Ollie Schneider studied e-books of notable vacation worlds, trying to decide where he'd live after he was set free—if he was set free—in the plea bargain arrangement. He proved to be a formidable poker player. Even Mimo got skinned.
All of the crew members speculated volubly about what they would do when we reached our journey's end and they were finally at leisure. Matt, Ivor, and Lotte had never visited Earth. The rest, terrestrial natives, had been away long enough to have developed raging cases of homesickness. There were good-humored arguments about the most scenic places to visit, the best museums, theaters, and other cultural attractions, the finest restaurants, the greatest shopping. The only thing everyone seemed to agree on was that Earth's capital, Toronto, would provide a highly satisfactory introduction to all manner of earthly delights—provided that Ollie Schneider didn't win all of their money before they got there.
The only person aboard Chispa not looking forward to arrival on Earth was me. Coping with the homicidal strategems of Alistair Drummond would be tough enough; keeping Simon from self-destructing might be even more of a challenge. But perhaps the worst dilemma I faced was how to deal with the family fink.
I'd pretty well nailed down his identity by now, but I didn't dare expose him until the time was ripe—if it ever was. The Frost family's reputation was at stake, and Rampart's integrity as well. The most satisfactory resolution would have been to tell him that I knew, quietly obtain his resignation from the Starcorp, and then let him stew forever in his own vile juice.
Before Katje's murder, that might have been a genuine option. It wasn't now. He'd have to pay a higher price for his unspeakable crime, but I was damned if I could decide what the price should be—or whether I had the right to exact it.
When we were only a day out from Earth, a welcome communique from Commander Newton at Zone Patrol informed me that Dr. Ben Harrison Crystal and his Torngat Emergency Space-Medical Response team had been released unharmed on the freesoil planet Linsang. And wonder of wonders, the medics confirmed what we had already told the patrol—that they had been abducted by a hitherto unknown coalition of lawless humans and Haluk, who plied interstellar space in a starship of astonishing proportions.
Newton refused my request for transcripts of the ab-ductees' statements, although he did grudgingly provide me with brief verbal summaries when I reminded him of Rampart's legal rights as co-victim in the crime.
To my relief, Dr. Crystal's team apparently said nothing at all about Garth Lee's presence aboard their gig. Maybe they'd never noticed him among Karl's gang of hitchhikers on the way up from Torngat. Later on Lee might have made himself scarce. Neither did the medics report my conversation with Erik Skogstad, although they did comment on Joe Betan-court's abrupt termination. Maybe they'd been too preoccupied with the patient to eavesdrop.
Jim Matsukawa, man of mystery, recovered fully from self-induced nicotine poisoning. His return to health had been the signal for the medical team's release. The junior medics speculated that Matsukawa must be a valued henchman of the pirates, who somehow engineered his rescue from captivity on Chispa by means of the cigar subterfuge. Dr. Crystal diagnosed Matsukawa as a cretinoid coprocephalic— helpfully translating the medical terminology into its Standard English equivalent of "stupid shithead"—who was lucky to be alive.
Before letting the gig go, the raiders removed all of its high-tech healing equipment, expressing breezy apologies. The Response Team and their denuded craft were currently on their way back home, hitchhiking on a Macrodur transport diverted from the Redmond-Alpha run.
Patrol Commander Newton told me that the authorities on Torngat were greatly relieved at the happy outcome to the abduction. (Pirates will be pirates, and these had proved more gentlemanly than most.) On the other hand, Rampart might expect to receive a bill for additional charges from Torngat Emergency Space-Medical Response to refit the stripped gig.
Newton wanted to know why we'd had Matsukawa in our brig. I told the truth: he was a material witness in an upcoming civil case, legitimately in our custody. ZP could check with the Port Manager of Cravat for verification, if necessary.
Newton said he would. And he'd be reporting the entire fishy incident to the Secretariat for Xenoaffairs.
I said I really didn't give a damn.
Eight standard days and fourteen hours after leaving the Perse
us Spur, Chispa Dos entered the Terrestrial Solar System.
I insisted on taking the helm when we touched down on Earth at the enormous Oshawa Platform Starport in Lake Ontario, fifty kilometers east of the Capital Conurbation. It was a perfect day in August, puffy white clouds in the sky, the cobalt-blue lake sparkling with sunlight. Over on the shore, the gorgeous skyway-connected towers of Toronto shone beneath the faint shimmer of the force umbrella like colored spears entwined with gleaming ribbons.
Earth. I decided I was glad to be back after all.
Mimo was in the right-hand seat on the flight bridge. I settled Chispa into the docking cradle and shut down the SLD engines. Our internal graviton field cut off. We sat quietly, waiting to be towed away to the underwater hangar facility.
"Earth gravity," I said. "Never thought I'd feel it again. Not nearly as strong as Dagasatt's. I'm almost ten kilos lighter. My sorry old muscles should have more oomph in them, too."
Mimo laughed. "That's the conventional wisdom. However, your activities in the next few days will likely be more cerebral than physical, amigo."
I stretched, flexed my pecs, made a fist of my right hand and slapped it solidly into my left palm. "That's right. Cerebral. A little necessary business to take care of in the capital, then maybe something completely different down in Arizona at the Rampart Board Meeting."
"Would you like me to accompany you?"
"Thanks, Mimo, but no. What happens next is between me and my family. A few days, and it'll all be resolved. You enjoy the capital for a while. I'll give you a call when the dust has settled and you can come down to the Sky Ranch. We'll relax together. I'll show you my old boyhood haunts."
"Certainly. That will be very pleasant."
"Don't worry. I've got my battle tactics all worked out. The good guys will triumph and the bastards will never know what hit 'em."
"I have every confidence in you, mi hijo."
We grinned at each other, neither believing a word the other was saying.
Chapter 15