The Sagittarius Whorl

  Beatrice Mangan, who held the rank of Chief Superintendent in the ICS Forensic Division, was a respected expert in molecular biology and the criminal aspects of genetic engineering. She was also an old friend from my days in the enforcement arm of the Interstellar Commerce Secretariat, one of the few people who had not believed the trumped-up charges that led to my disgrace and dismissal.

  I had drawn her into the Galapharma conspiracy almost from the beginning of my own involvement. She helped me to nail Bronson Elgar, Galapharma assassin and master of dirty tricks—who unfortunately proved to be completely human. Later, she'd continued to lend her expertise to my quest for evidence that Haluk demiclones were wearing Earthling bodies with nefarious intent.

  Bea had shared my frustration when every likely lead dug up by Karl and his associates petered away into failure or uncertainty. The efficient robotic cleaners so ubiquitous in modern society made it almost impossible to find castoff bits of incriminating DNA in starships or buildings that we knew had harbored faux humans. The biosamples Karl's people did manage to glean had been too badly damaged by mechanical housekeepers to be conclusive.

  But now I had a whole demiclone corpse for Bea to analyze—if she'd just answer her goddamn phone!

  All she had to do to prove conclusively that Fleece was a Haluk in disguise was take cellular material from him, run it through a fine-spectrum genome analyzer, and compare its DNA profile to the genetic marker data that Lorne Buchanan had just turned over to Efrem Sontag. By consulting the population database, she could also ascertain the identity of the human template who had been used to engineer Fleece's transformation. Along with our other evidence, the demiclone corpse would tangibly demonstrate to the Commonwealth Assembly that Haluk were infiltrating humanity.

  What Fleece's body wouldn't necessarily prove was malicious intent, although we could show that the Haluk leader had lied when he claimed that all of the living demiclones had gone to the Haluk Cluster to serve as goodwill ambassadors. Getting more concrete evidence of alien evil-doing might take a long time, unless—

  The interminable buzzing stopped.

  "Bea? Thank God! I'd about given up."

  "Helly?" a nonrobotic voice said. "That is you, isn't it? Your code is security-blanked and the video pickup on your phone isn't working very well." Bea Mangan's gentle round face, framed with a loosely wound turban of white toweling, smiled at me. She'd been taking a bath.

  "It's probably melted snow blurring the sensor. I'm sitting on the side of the Ottawa Highroad in a blizzard, and I have a wonderful present for you. The only catch is, you have to come and collect it—and me, too. Do you have a hopper available? I'm not far from the Clarington interchange."

  "Charlie and I can be there in fifteen minutes."

  "No. It would be best if your husband knew nothing about this—at least for the time being. It's a matter that relates to our... alien extracurricular activities."

  She stared in silence for a moment. "Tell me your exact location."

  I gave it to her, trying to keep my voice from quavering. "Bea? Bring along a thermos of hot coffee and an electric blanket, will you? Maybe some painkillers and antibiotic goop, too."

  "Oh, my. What have you been up to?"

  "We'll also need a body bag." I punched out using a frigid finger, the color of which closely approximated Haluk blue.

  I made one last phone call, to the voice-mail option of Efrem Sontag's ultrasecure private code, and left a request for him to allow Bea Mangan unlimited access to the computer files obtained from Lorne Buchanan. I told him I had finally obtained a valid biosample from a Haluk demiclone for Bea to analyze, but gave no other details. I asked him not to call me; I would call him.

  Then, groaning with the effort, I grasped Brown Fleece by the wrists. It took nearly all my dwindling strength to drag him to the pylon platform and get him through the emergency exit door onto the upper landing of the open spiral staircase. There was no way I could carry him down, but I'm not squeamish and Fleece was beyond caring, so I folded him over the stairwell railing and let him fall thirty meters to the bottom of the shaft. Then I lugged him off into the snow.

  We hid together in a nearby thicket, me shivering convulsively and he taking it easy, until Bea Mangan's hopper arrived. She was flying very low, without navigation lights, to avoid being seen from the highroad. Snow was falling thickly. I staggered out to greet her, arms wide, using my last erg of energy, and fell flat on my face. By then I was so deeply hypothermic that I suspect my internal temperature nearly matched Fleece's. Her scanner found me anyhow.

  She used an antigrav tote to hoist me into the aircraft's passenger compartment, stripped off most of my icy clothes, wrapped me in the electric blanket, and clamped my chilled fingers around a cup of steaming coffee. I made pitiful noises as the thawing process began.

  "You belong in a hospital, Helly. I'll call Charlie and he can have an ambulance—"

  "N-N-N-Noo!" I groaned, through chattering teeth. Her husband, Charles White, was a family practitioner in the small resort community of Fenelon Falls. He was aware that Bea had given me unofficial help gathering evidence of the Galapharma conspiracy, but he knew nothing about the Haluk demiclones.

  "I'm going to have Charlie look at you, whether you like it or not," she insisted stubbornly. "You need a full-body scan."

  Which would turn up the needle puncture in my calf and suspicious drug residuals in my blood. Perhaps Dr. White would have to be let in on the secret after all.

  "Go get your present, Bea." I jerked my head in the direction of the thicket. "Over under the little trees. Sorry if he's a trifle stinky."

  "First, you get dosed with analgesic. It may make you drowsy."

  She held a device tipped with a glass knob to my jugular. Ooh. Fly me to the moon. Then she smeared my damaged face and hands with antibiotic and pressed prickly bruise-diffuse pads gently around my eyes. A not quite painful tingling ensued. I could feel the swelling begin to subside.

  "Feel better?"

  "Much. Got the body bag?"

  She nodded resignedly. "Who's the deceased?"

  "Don't know his name. But he's a genuine twenty-four karat totally authentic Haluk demiclone. I killed him... didn't mean to. Mighty convenient for a comprehensive DNA assay, though."

  "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" she said.

  "I don't think he's part of their congregation. Check with Great Almighty Luk."

  Bea was dressed in an orange snowmobiler's suit with a fur ruff around the hood. She slipped a pair of protective plastic mitts over her gloves and went to get the corpse.

  Pain free at last, I sipped caffeine-laden elixir and felt warmth and life seep back into my anatomy. In a few minutes Bea returned with the loaded tote floating behind her and stowed the sealed body bag in the hopper's cargo compartment. Then we lofted into the sky. She kept the running lights off and flew low until we were safely away from the highroad.

  I finished the coffee, drew the blanket close about me, and allowed myself a nasty smile, thinking about Black Leather. He'd have a hell of a lot of explaining to do once he reached Mount Julian. Not only had he lost me, but he'd also let his fellow demiclone fall into the hands of the one person in a position to do serious dirt to the alien cause.

  My eyes were drifting shut, but I resisted sleep. Something important about the town of Mount Julian ... What?

  Other thoughts swirled in my punchy mind: I'd have to leave Earth as soon as possible ... stay out of reach of Haluk kidnappers and consortium thugs ... at Phlegethon, go in without giving away my identity ... disguised ... mustn't let Barky know I'm the guy who paid off Ram Mahtani... need some gimmick to get me close to him... trade goods... meanwhile, Karl works with Bea and Ef Sontag ... coordinates the search for my brother.

  Poor old Dan! Once, I was the prodigal son, he was the golden boy with high hopes of someday heading up Rampart. Now the Haluk had taken him—

  Suddenly, I thought I knew where.

  "Bea?" I mu
mbled.

  "Yes, Helly."

  "Do something very important for me. My phone ... inside pocket. Find Karl Nazarian's personal code in the dex. Call him as soon as you get to your house. Tell him you have me and the dead demiclone safe. Tell him... urgent he takes an armed security team to Alistair Drummond's former country home in Mount Julian. Place might be a hive of Haluk ... maybe they're taking my kidnapped brother Dan there ... old bastard himself might still be alive ... crazy as a bedbug, working with the blueberries. Tell Karl."

  "I'll tell him everything you said," Bea Mangan said, "even though it doesn't make much sense. Rest now, Helly. It's the best thing for you."

  So I did.

  I woke up in a quaintsy-poo guest room, tucked in a four-poster bed beneath a flowery comforter. I was wearing an honest-to-God flannel nightshirt, and there were small adhesive medical sensors stuck to my forehead, sternum, and inner left wrist, which I peeled off and dropped into the wastebasket. The old-style bedside alarm clock with external bells read 7:13. The turquoise pin from my neck scarf, my pocket phone, wallet, and wrist chronometer were there on a bedstand. I ascertained from the latter that it was Saturday evening. I'd just about slept the clock around.

  Rolling off the bed, I lurched over to the chintz-curtained windows and opened the blinds. Gray twilight. A soft rain was falling and the snow had all melted away. The cottage garden had patches of pink daffodils, purple and white crocuses with their petals clenched, and yellow forsythia bushes. Green-painted wrought-iron furniture stood on a patch of winter-sere lawn faintly tinged with new growth. Beyond a screen of balsams and budding maple trees, Sturgeon Lake was a silver glimmer beneath a cloudy sky.

  The bedroom door opened behind me. I turned around and there was Dr. Charles White, looking benign and reassuring in an open-necked shirt, khaki pants, and a tattered brown cardigan. He was a tall man, skinny as a rail, with skin the color of polished teak and eyes that were a startling sea-green. His tightly curled dark hair was worn in a sculptured style, with long sideburns like the cheekpieces on a Roman helmet.

  "Ah, Helly. So you're finally up and about." He pronounced it a-boot in the good old Canadian way. "The med monitors showed you perking along in fine fettle before you eighty-sixed the poor little things. How do you feel?"

  The mirror above the dresser showed me a sandy-srubbled face, slightly purplish-green around the eyes, but unlikely to frighten timid toddlers.

  "Good enough. Thanks for the repair job, Charlie. I presume I'm pretty much okay?"

  "You're normal except for scabs on your knuckles and healing contusions. There'll be no lingering side effects from the paralyzing agent. The needle only grazed your calf, gave you a minimal dose."

  "Lucky me." I checked my bare shank. A faint red line was the only souvenir of my narrow escape.

  He tactfully didn't ask what kind of fine mess I'd gotten myself into this time. "Fresh clothes for you in the closet. Your business suit was ruined but the handmade cowboy boots survived with a little attention from the valet machine. The syringe puncture in the left boot is repaired. I've got supper downstairs, pizza and spinach-tomato salad. Karl and I have already eaten, but we'll keep you company with coffee and homemade German chocolate cake."

  "Pizza and salad would be marvelous, and you know I'm a sucker for Bea's cake. Is she here?"

  He shook his head. "She went to her lab in Commerce Tower to do some work. Don't worry about your deceased friend. I'm Deputy Coroner for Victoria County. The body is tucked away in our little hospital morgue with a John Doe tag on its toe, and none of the staff saw Bea and me bring it in. It'll be secure for as long as need be."

  I hesitated. "What did Bea tell you about the guy?"

  "That he drugged and kidnapped you. That he's important. That overzealous parties in the Secretariat for Xenoaffairs might try to take his body away, and we have to prevent that."

  "I didn't mean for you to get involved in this, Charlie. It could be a massive crock of shit."

  He shrugged and smiled and headed for the door. "Well, I'm involved. So don't worry about it."

  "Give me a few minutes to dress," I said. "I'll be right down."

  I shucked the nightshirt, emptied my bladder, slapped depilatory gel on my face, and had a quick shower. The clothes my host had provided were just my style: Levi's, a black roll-neck tee, and a red wool buffalo-plaid overshirt.

  Before I left the guest bedroom I entered Bea's personal code in my phone. She didn't answer. Then I called a guy named Cosmo Riendeau, the night supervisor at Rampart Fleet Maintenance at Oshawa Starport. For special consideration, he and his crew had been expediting the off-ticket refit of the good ship Makebate.

  "She's ready to rumble when you are, Helly," Riendeau told me cheerfully. "We tracked down an LRIR-1400J scanner for you in Chicago, scheduled to be installed in an Astrophysical Survey vessel. Bribery triumphed and it'll be here tomorrow. I tested the new dissimulator and weaponry systems myself. That buggy of yours is now one righteous bandit-killer."

  I resolved to send the perennially funds-strapped survey a replacement scanner, plus a corporate donation, as soon as possible. "The ship's gig all refitted, too?"

  "Absolutely. Extra shielding and new cannons. The provisions and the personal gear you ordered are stowed, and the fuel bunkers are topped. Makebate's new range is forty-kay lights at a conservative fifty ross cruising pseudo-vee— twenty-eight thou if you put the pedal to the metal and exceed eighty. Of course, from now on you'll have to eat and sleep on the flight deck. The only accommodations we didn't rip out for the jumbo fuel-cell installation were the captain's head and a little snack bar. It's gonna be pretty claustrophobic."

  Cosmo Riendeau and his team had no notion why I'd had the starship modified so radically. There had been no alternative when I conceived my aborted exploration of the Haluk Cluster, 17,200 light-years from the closest Rampart refueling depot in the Perseus Spur; but now the ship's extreme range gave me a tactical advantage in tracking Barky Tregarth to Zone 3. Normally, a Y-770 speedster like Make-bate would have been obliged to make three pit stops to cover the 9,600 lights to Phlegethon at top ross. Rampart owned no planets along the route to the inner galactic arm where I might have refueled with a reasonable expectation of confidentiality, and unfriendly folks would have been able to follow my progress easily if I'd used commercial facilities. But now I could approach Barky's world from a totally unexpected direction if I wanted to, with fuel to spare for the trip back to Earth.

  I said, "Nice going, Cosmo. There'll be a juicy bonus for you and the gang, subject to keeping zipped lips about the refit details per our original agreement."

  "Goes without saying," Riendeau said. "That's a joke."

  I gave an obligatory chuckle. "One final thing: Have you or your people noticed any outsiders poking around the shop during the past couple of days, maybe asking questions about when my ship would be ready?"

  "Nobody came during the night shift. I can check the day and swing crews. Call you back."

  "Do that. And get hold of Monte Gill at Fleet Security and tell him to post armed guards at Makebate's bay until I fly her out of there."

  "You got 'em."

  I thanked Riendeau and ended the call, then went downstairs to the cottage kitchen. Through the window, a Rampart hopper was visible on the pad beyond the rainswept garden: Karl Nazarian's ride. He was sitting at the table with Charlie White, drinking coffee. A delicious-looking cake, only minimally dissected, sat on a platter covered with a glass dome.

  "You look pretty decent, considering," Karl said.

  "There's nothing wrong with me that food won't fix."

  "Drink lots of water, too," Charlie ordered. He had already laid out the salad and a pitcher of icewater, and he now took a plate holding three huge wedges of steaming pepperoni pizza out of the microwave and gave it to me.

  "Yes, Doctor. Thank you, Doctor." I picked up a dripping slice, corraled the cheese strings, and started chomping. Even warmed over, it was ve
ry good. I was both famished and thirsty.

  Karl said, "A few things happened while you were sleeping."

  Charlie gave us a tactful look. "Why don't I let you two discuss your business in private."

  "Don't go," I said. "You're part of the Baker Street Irregulars now by virtue of the body-snatching. Accessory to a felony. You might as well know the rest of the story. Just let me get an update on current events from Karl first."

  The doctor nodded and sat down again. He uncovered the cake, cut three generous pieces, and passed them around.

  Karl said to me, "Your sister Beth is safe. She hasn't left her house. I personally told her that Dan had escaped with the help of unknown confederates, and she seemed genuinely surprised. Pleased, at first, but the fact that four of Dan's InSec guards were killed cooled her jets a little. She's promised not to go to the media or otherwise impede our investigation. I suspect she might be rethinking Big Brother's protestations of innocence."

  I doubted it. "We'll have to keep Beth well guarded or even get her offworld. The two Haluk thugs who bagged me last night had some sort of plans for her ... What about Dan himself? Did you check out Alistair Drummond's old place in Mount Julian?"

  Karl's expression turned grim. "I had a Rampart incident team hop over there as soon as Bea called me last night. They were there within an hour. By then the firefighters had pretty much gotten things under control."

  I yelped around a mouthful of pizza. "A fire—"

  "The big old wood-frame main house was totally destroyed, right down to the foundations. The battalion chief said the place went up like a bomb. It must have happened just about the time you first contacted me from the highroad. There were no human remains found. Or Haluk. A sophisticated accelerant that generated a very high-temperature burn was used to torch the house. All that's left is white ash and slag."

  "Damn! The demi who got away must have sounded the alarm. A fire would have ensured that there were no bits and pieces of incriminating DNA left behind."

  "I went out to the scene myself this morning and interviewed the arson investigation people. Talked to the neighbors—such as there are in an upscale area like that. The property has extensive grounds, a wooded perimeter with a security fence, beam-guarded frontage on Stony Lake. It's not easy for unauthorized persons to get close to it. The adjacent homes are owned by wealthy types or corporations that use them mostly in summer. No one saw anything unusual immediately preceding the fire. Of course, there was a minor blizzard raging at the time. A caretaker woman who lives in a place half a kilometer down the shore says the house was inhabited for at least the past two months. She thought she might have seen a hoppercraft landing on the property yesterday afternoon, when the weather was better."