Orion Arm Page 3

  "Put your mind at rest. There won't be any Cravat inquiry, and no action will be taken on the Tokyo University findings, either. My source inside SXA spoke to me on Thursday. There's insufficient evidence to justify involving the Special Counsel at this time. The genetically modified Haluk cadaver can't be linked to illegal human activity, and the secret xeno establishments on Cravat were completely demolished. That left only the verbal testimony, and it was finally disallowed."

  "Did the evidentiary hearing reject Eve Frost's deposition, then?"

  "It was never officially submitted to SXA, nor was the corroborating material provided by Matilde Gregoire, the new Rampart Security VP. Simon himself convinced them not to affirm the previously recorded testimony, for fear of prejudicing our status-upgrade petition and the pending civil action against Galapharma. You can understand how there might have been a jurisdictional dispute between Xenoaffairs and the Interstellar Commerce Secretariat if Rampart dragged in an allegation of a Haluk-Galapharma conspiracy."

  "I can't believe Simon would simply sweep the Cravat affair under the rug."

  "He intends for it to be a significant part of Rampart's civil suit later on. But Simon doesn't give a damn that you and some of the other Big Seven Concerns are violating trade interdictions with an unsanctioned alien race. Nor is he particularly worried about Haluk skulduggery, so long as it doesn't menace any other Rampart Worlds. All he cares about right now is averting the clear and present danger—saving his Starcorp from a Gala takeover."

  Drummond considers the matter for a few moments before saying, "And Eve Frost went along with Simon's decision not to depose the Cravat incident to Xenoaffairs?"

  "She gave in very reluctantly," he admits. "She's become almost paranoid about the Haluk since her kidnapping. Eve is convinced that the aliens have sinister designs on the Human Commonwealth itself and intend to use their Spur colonies as staging areas for expansion into the Orion Arm."

  "That's completely absurd!"

  "Asa may have influenced her thinking on that matter. Unfortunately, he saw the Servant of Servants' big new flagship with his own eyes. And you may recall that he also has personal knowledge of the Haluk prototype speedsters. His smuggler crony Bermudez blasted one to bits en route to Cravat."

  Alistair Drummond's glass is empty, and he hisses a peremptory command to his unobtrusive security chief, who is seated on the couch in a shadowy corner of the box. "Baldwin, get me another double."

  The man silently complies. Drummond sips and scowls. "What about Asahel Frost's evidence? And that of Bermudez?"

  "They insisted on filing their depositions. Simon couldn't stop them. But their material was thrown out on grounds of testimonium non probum. My source inside the Secretariat tells me that any SXA investigation of a Haluk-Galapharma conspiracy should be considered quashed—at least for now."

  “Non probum, eh?" A cold smile. "I like that. Untrustworthy witnesses!" Drummond's moment of good humor fades. "But Eve and the Gregoire woman can resubmit their testimony without prejudice at any time, can't they?"

  "Once Galapharma has absorbed Rampart, they can only file as private citizens, without the stature and legal resources of a Starcorp to bolster their case. We can handle that."

  Drummond stares thoughtfully into his drink, finally asking, "What's Simon's strategy, as of now?"

  "All efforts are to be concentrated on the last-ditch push for Concern status, since an upgrade would eliminate any possibility of a hostile takeover of Rampart once and for all. This will take priority over everything else—including the civil action against Galapharma. You know that our legal department has sent nothing to the ICS Prosecutor's office yet, even though we've given first notice of intent to file. Nazarian's people are still gathering data to verify Gala's felonious infiltration and its role in the sabotage incidents. Thus far, the corroborating evidence is none too conclusive— unless they find out where we've stashed Ollie Schneider. And there isn't a hope in hell of that."

  "We've got nothing to worry about, then," Drummond decides. "It's no secret that Simon himself is the principal stumbling block to a status upgrade. The Commerce Secretariat will never make Rampart a Concern so long as that vacillating old fart stays at the helm."

  "We had a frank discussion about that at the board meeting. Simon knows ICS has no confidence in his leadership, but he won't step down unless the board nominates a new CEO who meets his approval-—one he's absolutely certain won't turn around and immediately sell out to Galapharma. The only candidate acceptable to the old man is his daughter Eve, the First Vice President and Chief of Transport and Distribution. Fortunately for us, she's chosen to make herself unavailable."

  "That's news to me. How?"

  "To be effective, the new CEO belongs in the Perseus Spur, at Rampart Central on Seriphos. But Eve doesn't dare leave the Sky Ranch. She can't let anyone see her in a demiclone state, except the members of the board and a few loyal ranch employees."

  Drummond is incredulous. "Are you saying that Eve Frost still hasn't submitted to restorative dystasis treatment? It's been six months since her rescue from Cravat!"

  "She has high principles. She insists on preserving incontrovertible evidence of the Haluk demiclone scheme—even if her evidence is held in abeyance for the time being. It's imperative that she remain in seclusion. If the media found out about her condition, Xenoaffairs would be compelled to open an official inquiry into the Cravat can of worms."

  "There's no chance that Simon will persuade her to change her mind and go into the tank?"

  "Not even to save Rampart. Eve is willing to postpone a public revelation in order to give Simon his precious six weeks' leeway. But after the status decision comes down, she says she's going straight to SXA and instigate a probe of what she calls Haluk aggressive expansionism." He hastens to add, "That won't happen, of course. We'll find a way to force dystasis on her."

  "You'd better," says Alistair Drummond, with ominous kindliness. "This is very bad news, lad. Very bad." He ponders the implications for some time. "Meanwhile, Simon will certainly have to choose another new CEO if there's to be any hope of upgrade. Either you, or—"

  He cannot help the bitterness that colors his reply. "Yes. We two are the obvious candidates. But unlike the goddamned Golden Girl, both of us have problematical executive track records. The Commerce Secretariat might have been willing to grant Rampart immediate Concern status with Eve as CEO. She's proved her abilities. But with either of us in the top slot, ICS would probably postpone a decision."

  Drummond bursts out laughing. "Then Simon's up shit creek without a paddle. He's got to appoint one of you. There are no other suitable candidates. And whomever he chooses, Galapharma wins."

  "There's ... something else you should know, Alistair." Calm! Competence! Courage! "Eve made an alternative proposal. It was her contention—preposterous on the face of it, but perhaps understandable in the light of the Cravat affair—that her brother Asa has the potential to solve the problems facing Rampart."

  Alistair Drummond frowns and turns to his security chief. "Baldwin, didn't you tell me that Asahel Frost had a blazing row with the old man and his sister last week and resigned his rump vice-presidency?"

  "Yes, sir. Our agents report that he left Rampart Central on Seriphos and went back to that little freesoil planet, Kedge-Lockaby. He and Simon had been estranged for years. Asa joined Rampart only because he loves his older sister Eve and decided that he needed the Starcorp's resources to rescue her. Once she was safe, Asa's commitment to Rampart became less than solid. He was frustrated by his inability to locate the fugitive Rampart Security personnel who were in our employ, and apparently enraged by certain actions of Simon's. Asa finally quit in a huff. Our informant on K-L reports that he has publicly stated his indifference to the fate of Rampart."

  "What was his quarrel with Simon about?" Drummond asks his guest.

  "Asa took violent exception to what he called his father's cop-out strategy on Haluk involvement in th
e Cravat affair. He even castigated Eve for siding with Simon."

  "By resigning from the Starcorp," Drummond points out, "Asahel Frost reverts to his former disenfranchised state and becomes a legal nonentity."

  "Unfortunately," he explains, "Eve's alternative proposal took all that into account. She said she would accept the top slot-—become CEO—provided that the board agreed she could make Asa Chief Operations Officer, effectively restoring his citizenship. He'd work directly under her and be accountable only to her. She'd remain in seclusion on Earth, overseeing corporate strategy through subspace com from the ranch, while Asa takes personal charge of the Spur operations."

  Drummond seems stunned. His handsome, supercilious face changes into something momentarily more human and vulnerable. "Good God. How did the board react?"

  "Oh, they were violently opposed," he says. "Of course, no one dared to say a word against Eve personally. Her proposal was finally tabled on consideration of how the Commerce Secretariat might react to Asa's appointment. They'd never in a million years upgrade a Starcorp with a convicted felon in top management."

  "A framed felon," Ty Baldwin interposes, smiling thinly.

  "Oh, for Christ's sake! Asa's out of it! Thrown Away! Eve never consulted with him before nominating him as her right-hand man. If she had, he would have turned her down flat. It's not in his nature to be a corporate team player."

  "You're probably right," Drummond says. He seems to have recovered his Olympian aplomb. "On the other hand, we can't afford to have this—this bloody beach bum interfere with our plans again. Our man on Kedge-Lockaby will have to take Asahel Frost out."

  "It shouldn't be difficult to arrange," Baldwin says.

  "Your late assassin, Quillan McGrath, underestimated Asa," the visitor says.

  Drummond's tone is glacial. "He paid the ultimate price, and so did several hundred of our Haluk allies. The bastard is an ex-ICS agent and he's proved he can be mortally dangerous."

  "Rely on me to see to the matter, sir." Baldwin pauses, then: "Perhaps we should also consider a permanent solution to the other grave threat hanging over Galapharma Concern and the Haluk. I refer to Eve Frost. In my opinion it would be a mistake to think she can be neutralized through forced dystasis."

  The visitor says, "Well, your corporate hit men will never get to Eve so long as she stays at the Sky Ranch. The place is impregnable."

  "Not to you," the security chief retorts.

  "You don't give me orders, Baldwin! There's no way I could... deal with Eve without compromising myself."

  Drummond hastens to soothe his guest. "And we wouldn't want that to happen, lad. By no means. Eve Frost can wait. And you are absolutely correct. Ty doesn't give you orders. I do."

  The Galapharma CEO falls silent, apparently intent upon the culmination of the sadomasochistic drama out on the stage. When the final blackout comes, he rises from his chair and returns to the refreshment bar, where he begins scrutinizing flasks of exotic liqueurs. "You have six weeks, lad. At the end of that time I expect Rampart's petition for Concern status to be denied. I also expect you to turn Katje Vanderpost around. One way or another her vote must affirm the Galapharma merger. This is absolutely crucial."

  "I understand."

  "I hope you do. I needn't remind you that Katje lives in a Phoenix, Arizona, penthouse apartment, not at the Sky Ranch. If she rebuffs your persuasive wiles—if exceptional measures become necessary to ensure an appropriate outcome—you will be the one to remedy the situation."

  He feels the blood rush to his face. Not trusting himself to speak, he stands rigid, fists clenched at his sides. The Galapharma security chief takes a step toward him. But almost at once the abrupt surge of rage and panic dissipates.

  "You'll have her vote."

  Drummond nods. He lifts an oddly shaped bottle containing a milky mauve concoction, uncorks it and sniffs the contents. "Ever tried this stuff? Gemmulan absinthe. Females of the Y'tata race use it to enhance labial dexterity. It's supposed to do interesting things to the male human anatomy, too."

  He manages to say, "Is there anything else we should discuss? If not, I should be going."

  "You'll be contacted when it's time for us to meet again."

  "Not here," he declares adamantly.

  "Killjoy." Alistair Drummond laughs, turning his back dis-missively upon his guest. "Baldwin, did you see any Y'tata analogues on deck when you were waiting in the green room?"

  The guest doesn't wait to hear the security chief's reply. Slipping out of the box, he closes the door and almost races up the aisle to the exit.

  The three lubricious usherettes sneer as they retrieve his outerwear and weapons from the cloakroom, but he takes petty revenge by slapping down a measly fiver for a tip before lurching outside into the rowdy commotion of the Strip. The rain has stopped and dawn is breaking. The rose and gold radiance of the summer morning sky overwhelms the tawdry artificial lighting of the clip-joints. They seem dingy, shrunken, and unutterably sad.

  But his ordeal is over.

  Except for the matter of Katje.

  Realizing what he might yet have to do, he staggers through the mob of diehard revelers and vomits into the gutter. No one notices. After a few minutes he recovers and heads back to his hopper, while the carnival music plays on and the human Gwaliorite screams in its silver-draped show window.

  Chapter 1

  I'd been home for three days, and it still didn't feel like home.

  Trouble was, I was depressed. Not just about bailing out of the Rampart mess, but about the resolute way that Matilde Gregoire had spoken to me after I'd quit, saying we were through. There was no place in her life for a Throwaway charterboat skipper . .. and evidently no place in mine for a dedicated Starcorp loyalist.

  Half dressed and barefoot, I stared into the open refrigerator, wondering what I was going to eat for breakfast. I'd had my heart set on a monster Tabasco scramble, but all the eggs were gone. There were no green peppers, either. I still hadn't done a real grocery buy since my return, and the garden had been destroyed in the sea toad attack.

  Just as an interesting alternative popped into my mind, the phone buzzed. I went out of the kitchen onto the field-screened front porch of my beach shack, which serves as the office and scuba equipment sales area.

  "Cap'n Belly's Dive Charters."

  The caller was female and apologetic. "This is Jenny Chung, Captain. My husband and I were supposed to go out with you today, but I'm afraid we'll have to cancel. The weather is just awful here at the Big Beach. We checked the report for the Out Islands and—"

  "The tropical depression isn't due to arrive in this area until late tonight," I said pleasantly. "We're expecting a sunny, calm day in the place I'd picked for our dive."

  "We really don't want to risk it. And we're returning home to Plusia-Prime tonight, so we won't be able to reschedule the trip. I'm very sorry. Of course, you may keep our deposit—"

  "No," I said, with polite fatalism (and a craven desire to keep on the good side of the irascible booking agent at the Manukura Nikko Luxor). "The concierge at your hotel will credit you with a refund. Maybe we can go out together the next time you visit Kedge-Lockaby. Have a nice day, Citizen Chung." I poked the disconnect pad and said, "Rats."

  The Chung couple would have been my first clients since my return from the planet Seriphos, and I'd been looking forward to the trip as an affirmation of my reacquired independence: I was free of Rampart responsibilities, free of my father's convoluted intrigues, free—alas!—of my emotional relationship with a lovely woman who disapproved of my undisciplined and feckless ways.

  Well, the choices had been my own.

  I picked up a mesh catch bag and went down the porch steps onto the beach in search of marine edibles. The morning sun was still behind the island so the sand was cool, shaded by the grove of mint palms that crowd close to my house on three sides. Eyebrow Cay's lagoon was mirror-smooth, reflecting a blue sky adorned with a few puffy cumulus clouds and cou
ntless silvery paintbrush strokes of the comets that infest Kedge-Lockaby's solar system. Glasha Romanov's classic fishing smack trolled the calm waters out near the reef. A nifty motor-sailer based at Manukura came slowly around Cheddar Head, outward bound with a party of tourists after spending the night moored at Gumercindo Huckle-bury's marina. (I know: impossible name. But almost everybody on Eyebrow uses an alias. Mine is Helmut Icicle.) The big sailboat would probably ride out the upcoming storm in the shelter of Alibi Island, our larger neighbor to the west, after sending its clients back to the Big Beach on the hop-shuttle.

  Eyebrow Cay is a crescent, as its name indicates, about twenty-five kilometers from end to end. The jagged reef, with only two safe passages, extends from each tip of the island, completing a lopsided circle and enclosing our lagoon. Almost all of Eyebrow's population, under fifty souls, live on the inner shore where there are attractive sand beaches. The island's largest natural harbor holds the marina and Sal Faustino's boatyard, a few guest houses, a kite shop, and our little general store.

  Many of the folks on Eyebrow Cay are Throwaways, and quite a few others have personal histories that don't bear close scrutiny. I definitely fit into the latter category; and if Rampart's personnel office was on the ball in upgrading their database, I would already have rejoined the former group after a brief sojourn among the franchised citizenry of the Commonwealth.

  Two friends share the cove where I live. To the south, half visible through the palm grove, is the deceptively modest bungalow of Mimo Bermudez, who may be the wealthiest man on Kedge-Lockaby. He is certainly one of the most enigmatic. My neighbor on the other side is Kofi Rutherford, another dive charter skipper, whose tumbledown dump lies out of sight behind a small rocky rise.