The Sagittarius Whorl

  But Haluk who had undergone allomorph eradication therapy with PD32:C2 didn't hibernate. And it was common knowledge that the Haluk did not send allomorphic members of their race to Earth. It wasn't cost-efficient for their embassy staff and trade attaches to sleep for half a year, and the Haluk were ordinarily very cost-efficient.

  So what were the testudos doing here?

  I went back to the door, doused the light, and did a lowboy scan of the corridor. Empty. I opened the door opposite and found more ranks of testudos. Racing to another chamber several doors down, I found still more. This time I shut myself in the room and rapidly began to change into Dan's athletic gear.

  My mind was spinning and my overloaded stomach felt queasy. There seemed only one explanation: treated Haluk were somehow reverting to their original allomorphic state.

  Had Emily Konigsberg done it deliberately with her mutant exon? Or was the odd bit of DNA some sort of necessary genetic stopgap that actually staved off a reversion process that was inevitable?

  When these testudos completed their dormant cycle and hatched into graciles, could they be treated again? If so, what did the Haluk think about being obligated to humanity—and especially Rampart Concern—indefinitely?

  Rampart... the pieces of the puzzle were coming together.

  I fastened my shoes, put on the baseball cap, and pulled it low over my eyes. Took all of the hardware out of the gym bag except the spare Ivanov and sedative injector and stowed the stuff in the ample kangaroo pocket below my jacket's half-mast zipper. Put the key-cards in my pants pocket. Considered leaving the guard's uniform and boots behind, along with the bag, injector, and extra gun, then remembered it was damn near winter outside of Macherson Tower. So I stuffed the uniform into the gym bag in case I needed it for warmth, and kept the other things, too. I was still wearing the fire-opal ring.

  When I opened the door I discovered I was not alone in the corridor. Fortunately, the Haluk lepidodermoid pushing the gurney that held a gold chrysalis was going the other way. In their asexual intermediate phase, the aliens are thick-skinned, ponderous, slow-witted, fit only for simple tasks. The lepido pushing the gurney stopped at a door beyond the lift alcove, used a key-card, and rolled its burden inside.

  I dashed for the elevator and caught one going down almost immediately. It was only moderately crowded. But when we reached the bottom Haluk floor, the doors failed to open and the chime sounded its alarm. I felt my overloaded stomach contract with fear and almost disgraced myself.

  One of the passengers said, "Blah blah fexpletive! forgot to blah the gold key?"

  The red light beside the card-slot was blinking. A sensor inside the car had counted us and counted the card insertions. One short.

  There were disgusted mutters from the others, who glared at each other trying to spot the careless twit causing the delay.

  I mumbled, "Sorry!" forced out a strangled-puppy Haluk laugh, and plugged my card. The light went green, the doors opened and we all emerged into a crowded lobby.

  There were eight lines at the outbound checkpoint gates. Everyone held a blue key-card at the ready and quickly passed through. I fumbled in my pants pocket and sorted out my own. When I inserted it, would my heart explode? Would that hurt? How long would it take me to die?

  Guards stood beside a second group of elevator banks, those leading down to freedom. Were they watching for a bold impostor? If I got through the gate without popping my pump, would they seize me and escort me back upstairs to the tank?

  Inhaling and squaring my shoulders, I pushed in the card.

  The gate's indicator light glowed green.

  My heart kept on beating and I went through. Keeping my head low, I shoehorned myself into a crowded elevator car. A few moments later the doors opened into the Path.

  My first need was to get as far away from the vicinity of Macpherson Tower as possible. My second was to find a reasonably secluded public phone. Using it would be dangerous. Without money, and unable to eyeball my way into the iridoscopic ID system with my exotic irises, I would have to recite either my personal code or the Rampart general code, plus their authorization tags, to make a credit call. I didn't doubt that the Haluk had access to both codes. If they'd penetrated the telecom databank as well, they'd not only know where I'd called from, but also whom I'd called.

  It required some serious thinking. If I attempted to contact my relatives, friends, or close associates, I might immediately endanger their lives.

  And even if I did reach someone, would the person believe the Halukoid geek with the rumbly voice was me? Not bloody likely. All public vidphones transmitted the image of the caller unless you physically blocked the video pickup, a move justly regarded as suspicious by those answering the phone. People in the upper echelons of society—and that included Eve, Simon, Karl, Ef Sontag, and Bea Mangan— screened their electronic communications carefully. They probably wouldn't even accept a public phone call from someone who refused to show his face.

  But I thought I knew someone who would.

  Almost instinctively, I took the Path westward beneath Dundas Street, in the direction of the old Rampart Tower. (I'd only realize later that Rampart would have transferred its Toronto headquarters to the ithyphallic monolith on the waterfront that had once housed Galapharma.) At University Avenue, I rode the escalator to the upper level and found a suitable phone in a com bank at the St. Patrick subway station.

  Using the Rampart code and ID tag, I called CCID Headquarters: Cop Central. I covered the vid pickup with my hand. When the duty officer responded, I asked for Chief Superintendent Jacob Silver. He wouldn't be working the night shift, but I was pretty sure they'd patch me through to his home if I stated a family emergency and gave my name and personal code. And the police link would be secure from Haluk snoops.

  "I'm sorry," said the deskman. "Chief Superintendent Silver is deceased. May I route your call elsewhere?"

  "No—"

  Stunned, I cut him off. Stood there paralyzed.

  Jake. Jake was dead. Because of me? Because Alistair Drummond had slipped up imperceptibly during his public playacting, and only Jake, the wise old cop, had spotted it? And not-so-wisely confronted my demiclone?

  Jake.

  Rats...

  I don't know how long I stood there. My precariously stoked vitality was swiftly draining away. Several trains entered the station, discharged and took on passengers, glided off quietly, defying gravity. The crowds were moderate. A clock said it was 2002 hours.

  I knew I had to get away from the public phones, so I moved to the nearest newsstand and pretended to watch the big-screen PNN posting of News on the Hour. Top Story: a tsunami on Hokusai causes heavy damage to a big Homerun Concern manufacturing facility. Oh, yeah—and five thousand people died.

  I felt lightheaded and stupid. My belly was beginning to cramp. I could feel a hot throbbing beneath the improvised bandage at the back of my neck. Maybe the wound was infected with alien germs.

  One thing was certain: my weakened body had been flogged enough. It now demanded to be horizontal. If I didn't go down soon of my own free will, I was going to collapse.

  Where the hell could a Haluk in a track suit catch some z's?

  I couldn't rest on one of the inviting Path benches. The searchers would find me. I had no money to patronize a spa or theater.

  The subway station sign caught my eye. st. patrick station. A church? ... Many of them were open in the evening. Humans dozed in them all the time, but a sleeping alien would alert a suspicious sexton. A public database? ... Lots of people rested their eyes in the library, but the nearest one was over a mile away, on Yonge Street. There was another in the university campus, closer but still at least twelve blocks away. I'd never—

  Oh, shit. They were here! The first Haluk hunters.

  I spotted them from the corner of my eye—I now had great peripheral vision—exiting from a northbound train. Two uniformed blue alien males and a female in casual attire. They found a vantag
e point near the escalator and stood slightly apart, carefully scanning the throng. One spoke into a handheld com device, no doubt reporting that I was no longer near the public phones. I pulled my cap even lower and hunched my shoulders, trying to look less conspicuous.

  Right, Helly, you moron. Why not just hunker down on the floor and put your fat blue head between your knees and kiss your ass goodbye?

  I straightened up and readjusted the hat. Tried to look confident and ordinary. Began to drift toward the subway turnstile, figuring to hop over it when the next train was about to pull away, slip aboard through the closing door and take my chances. Wondered if I had enough energy left to make the leap.

  Stopped wondering when the female Haluk searcher spotted me and pointed me out to her companions.

  The trio walked purposefully in my direction.

  I panicked.

  There was only one way open to me where they didn't dare follow. I dropped my gym bag, flung myself bodily over the turnstile barrier, and landed with a bone-jarring crash. A few people yipped and shouted. The three Haluk broke into a canter. I rolled to the platform edge and went over. This time the impact with the ceramalloy antigravity reflector grid did more than shake me up. Something in my left shoulder snapped and a white bolt of agony lanced through my brain. Broken collarbone. I'd suffered one before on Kedge-Lockaby when I fell off my sub's flybridge, drunk as a skunk.

  Don't pass out! One last push, Helly. Come on, you gutsy blue fucker. Get up up up!

  I struggled back onto my feet and scrambled into the subway tunnel. It was straight as a die, dimly lit with small yellow bulbs mounted along the ceiling every dozen meters or so. No sign of an approaching train.

  Unzipping my jacket halfway, I thrust my injured left arm into it in an improvised sling. Better. I jogged clumsily along the grid side, where there was very little clearance between the reflector area and the wall. An uproar of voices echoed behind me. I dared a look over my shoulder. The three Haluk weren't following.

  Pain pain pain. My shoulder. My laboring lungs. My heart thudding like a punching bag going full tilt: whop-a whop-a whop-a. Another goddamned chase scene, starring me. Monotonous.

  My head ached like a sonuvabitch and I was starting to see double. My brain was losing contact with my legs and I tripped'over a structural member and nearly took a header. Caught at the wall with my good hand and kept going.

  There had to be an emergency escape hatch along here somewhere. I'd seen them myself, looking through the windows of speeding trains, inconspicuous niches with doors in them.

  A soft breeze had begun to blow in my face and I heard a peculiar rushing sound, not very loud. Far, far away I could see twin starry pinpricks: train headlights. Shit. Not that ancient cliche! I tried to move along faster and failed. Picked up my heavy feet and laid them down. Felt giddy, sick, hopeless.

  The dancing headlights were brighter, closing in. Soon the sensors in the lead car would take note of an unauthorized object on the grid ahead. They would bring the train to a halt, leaving me jacklighted in front of it like a trapped deer, waiting for the arrival of the Transit Authority Police.

  I was staggering with pain and vertigo, ready to pack it in, when I finally came to the niche. Almost passed it by, not recognizing my salvation. Managed to pull open the narrow metal hatch, fell through onto my broken shoulder, screaming, and kicked the hatch shut.

  A surreal interlude followed. The place inside was spinning, or I was, engulfing me in a cataract of deafening sound and colored kaleidoscopic shapes. After what seemed like a long time—but was probably only minutes—the chaotic noise diminished into a nearly subsonic drone and the psychedelic light show coalesced into solid retinal images, blurry but bona fide.

  I sat up, hurting like hell, no longer suffering from incapacitating dizziness. My refuge was a lighted utility room less than ten feet square and about as high. The deep humming sound, which I presumed came from hidden antigravity generators, had just enough volume to set my teeth on edge.

  The walls of the place were crowded with pipes, conduits, and impressive junction boxes with high-voltage warnings on them. Through bleary eyes I saw a prehistoric nonvideo telephone on the wall beside the exit to the tunnel, along with a cabinet labeled emergency equipment. An iron ladder was mounted on the opposite wall. It went up to a dark shaft in the ceiling and down through an equally dark hole in the floor.

  I opened the cabinet and saw a large canister of foam spark-suppressant, a pair of heavy insulated gloves, two ceram pry bars of differing lengths, a cutting torch, several oddly shaped wrenches, and a small first-aid kit. I took that, tucking it into my ever-handy kangaroo pocket, and turned my attention to the ladder.

  I decided to go down, no contest. I lacked the strength to climb.

  Slip, trip, get a grip. Here's Supercop, descending into a spooky abyss with one useless arm, wincing in agony every time he jolts his busted bone, pursued by Haluk fiends!

  I found that I was grinning—even energized, in some weird way.

  Go figure.

  I must have slithered twenty meters down the narrow shaft before I came to a less constricted space, and then a solid floor. I pulled out the guard's flashlight and turned it on, discovering that I was in another small chamber almost identical to the utility room above. It had a similar equipment cabinet but fewer conduits and pipes lining the walls. The light had burned out and the place had a disused look to it. The exit door featured a substantial latch, a key-card slot, and a sign that said:

  NO UNAUTHORIZED EXIT

  IF DOOR IS OPENED WITHOUT KEY, ALARM WILL SOUND

  I figured it had to open out into the University Avenue segment of the Path—useless as an escape route, even if I had been willing to risk setting off the alarm. The hunt was on, and soon there'd be Haluk strolling everywhere in the underground concourses. I knew what they'd tell the cops: "Officer, have you seen our poor deranged kinsman who wandered away from his sickroom? No, he's not dangerous at all. Only extremely ill, suffering from delusions. We appreciate your assistance in our urgent search."

  Thus far I'd heard no signs of pursuit from above. It would come, though.

  Andale! Going down, one more time ...

  The ladder didn't end at this level. Its uprights passed through two slots in a solid semicircular manhole cover set into the floor against the back wall. The cover looked old. There was a central inset ring to lift the thing, and I gave it a puny tug. The cover didn't budge. I didn't have the moxie to move the heavy thing.

  Emergency equipment cabinet. The longer of the two pry bars, used as a lever. Squat. Heave very slowly, using my good right arm and my flabby leg muscles. With a rusty screech the manhole cover tilted up a few precious centimeters and promptly fell back into place. It probably weighed about twenty-five kilos.

  Okay. Rest, then repeat the maneuver. This time, when the lid lifted, I kicked the tip of the smaller pry bar into the aperture. Then I collapsed. A smell compounded of mold and dampness wafted up through the crack.

  In a few minutes, when I'd recovered a bit, I used both pry bars to move the metal cover aside. It had another inset ring underneath. A long piece of rope was knotted through it.

  I felt a prickling along my spine. The rope was new.

  Below, it was absolute blackness and a continuation of the ladder. I switched on the flashlight. The lower shaft was twice as wide as the one I'd previously negotiated and gleamed with moisture. Some sort of revolting crud was growing around the ladder brackets. The powerful little beam reflected from water that might have been another dozen meters below. The ladder continued into it.

  Above the level of the water were two sizable circular openings. One was beside the ladder on the west wall of the shaft, and the other was directly opposite.

  I didn't hesitate. I replaced the short pry bar in the cabinet and closed it. Then I positioned myself on the ladder a few rungs down and painfully maneuvered the cover back into position, alternately levering with the long bar a
nd pulling on the rope. Finally, I twisted the rope around the bar and used my body weight to help seat the cover, millimeter by millimeter. It was very dark. I'd been afraid to prop the flashlight on one of the ladder treads for fear my exertions would dislodge it, and it was too thick to hold in my mouth; so it had stayed safely in my kangaroo pouch.

  Finally, the lid dropped. So did I, nearly, as my foot slipped. But I clung to the rope and bar with my single hand, swung back to the ladder and wrapped my ankle around one of the uprights, sobbing with relief and renewed pain.

  When I recovered a little, I jammed the bar through the manhole cover's ring so its ends extended evenly on either side of the semicircular opening and bound it in place with the rope. Now it was impossible for anyone to lift the cover from above. Then I crept slowly downward, dazed and exultant. The lit flashlight poking out of my pocket gave adequate illumination. A half meter or so above the water level, I stepped into the round opening beside the ladder. It was a huge pipe, completely dry, made of old-fashioned cast concrete. Perhaps one of the old storm drains.

  A short distance in from the shaft lay an empty Marlboro cigarette pack, a Starbucks coffee cup, and the bag from a McDonald's Happy Meal. They weren't dusty and old. They might have been dropped there yesterday.

  Oh, Christ...

  No. I wasn't ready to think about the implication of my new find. Not until I rested and did something about the pain.

  I sat down and opened the first-aid kit. It had bandages, antibiotic ointment, and—best of all—some powerful analgesic self-dosers. I positioned one of the tiny pillow-shaped things on my left carotid artery—where I hoped it was, anyhow—and jabbed sharply with my thumb. The drug injected explosively. In a few seconds the pain from my broken collarbone vanished. So did my other miseries.