The Sagittarius Whorl

  I swabbed the gouge at the back of my neck with antiseptic, applied antibiotic goo, and rebandaged it as well as I could using one hand. Then I improvised a more efficient sling. To celebrate my repair, I had a belt of alien vodka from the steel flask. Then I started to walk. Correction: shuffle.

  I followed the storm drain for less than half a kilometer before finding a handmade ladder placed against a dry spillway. At the slope's top was a flimsy grate with light faintly shining through. Using my last bit of strength, I crept up the ladder, unhooked the grate, and emerged at last into the Dark Path.

  I saw a ghostly subterranean concourse, eerily reminiscent of the familiar Path I knew so well, except it was in a state of abject ruin. The light came from portable camping glolamps someone had set out every ten meters or so along one cracked wall. My hole opened beneath a derelict escalator that had once led up into a long-vanished office building. Now it dead-ended in a ceiling slab of rough plascrete, swagged with dusty spiderwebs. A titanic structural pier made of modern material punched through the slab. Around its base heaps of rubble cut off the corridor on the far side of the broken stairs. On the other side stretched a line of decayed shops, some with familiar names. Their windows were gone and their interiors had been looted long decades earlier. Oddly, the corridor floor in front of them was fairly clean and dry. A couple of overhead ducts purred, drawing out stale air.

  At first my fuddled brain didn't comprehend that the Dark Path was inhabited. Low walls of unmortared concrete block formed about a dozen open-fronted cubicles along the blank wall opposite the old shops. Each space held a few pieces of furniture and stacked small container pods. A dim night-light sat on one cinder-block wall.

  I drew my Ivanov and shambled out of my hiding place beneath the escalator like a zombie. Saw a community kitchen in front of a ruined Taco Bell fast-food joint, a "reading room" alcove with shelves of slates and e-books, a billiard table and a collection of video game machines, laundry pegged to a line outside an old public rest room. Heard snoring...

  Then a woman's quiet voice said, "You won't need the pistol, honey." She was sitting up in her simple bed inside the cubicle with the night-light, watching me, not yet recognizing what kind of a creature had invaded her secret world.

  Tottering, I let my gun hand fall and must have groaned, because she said, "I'm Mama Fanchon. It's all right, sweetie-babe. Have you just arrived?"

  Instinctively, I knew what she meant. "The—The police are after me. And the Haluk. I'm walking wounded, my collarbone and my neck. I can't—can't—"

  I stood there swaying, seeing colored flashes again and hearing the cataract work up to a roar.

  Mama Fanchon was putting on a robe and slippers. A moment later she turned up her glolamp and gave a sharp cry of dismay, seeing me clearly. "Santa! Mohammed! Leah! Sweet Lord, it's an alien!"

  Muffled curses and squeals from the cubicles. A big old white-bearded guy whom I later learned to call Santa Claus demonstrated how he'd got his name by bounding out of his space and covering me with a Claus-Gewitter photon blaster. "Hoist 'em high or die, blueberry!"

  Two adolescents advanced on me, armed with pry bars. The female shrilled, "You heard the man! Hands up, xeno!"

  "I'm not!" I cried, consumed by despair. "Not an alien. They did this to me. I'm human. Human, for God's sake!"

  "Bite me!" jeered the male adolescent.

  "Does anyone have a phone?" I asked politely.

  Then I crashed.

  Mama Fanchon believed me.

  She knew anatomy, being the tribal healer, and my thick neck alone was enough to show her that I was no true Haluk. She also regularly watched newscasts on her tiny portable TV and was aware of the accusations of illegal demiclonery being lodged against the Haluk by certain Delegates of the Commonwealth Assembly.

  Others of the Grange Place Tribe were less willing to accept her kindly assessment; but Mama overruled their objections, put me to bed in her "hospital," and tended me during the three days of my recovery.

  For part of that time I was delirious. I'm certain that I told her my name, also fairly sure that she recognized it and drew certain conclusions.

  At one point, when I was only partially lucid, I pleaded again for a telephone. "Please, Mama! Have to call my sister Eve, CEO of Rampart Concern. To warn her! He's not me. The syndic. She has to fire him. Denounce him. Tell the Assembly he lied. The impostor. Get me a phone! Call Eve, get her down here. Convince her. A phone. Oh, God, Mama, please get me a phone—"

  "No, honey-lamb. You're not calling anyone, the condition you're in. If that big-shot woman is really your sister, she won't talk to a poor sick Haluk. Or a well one, either. You better think of somebody else to call later on, when you feel better. Sleep now and think on it, Helly." I slipped back into unconsciousness.

  Later, when I was back on the road to rationality, she told me her own story. Nine years earlier, Fanchon had been a hospital nurse. She accidentally gave the wrong medication to the son of a Bodascon Concern executive, and the child nearly died. Thrown Away, her every asset confiscated to settle the massive civil judgment against her, she had no relatives or friends willing to support her or pay for a ticket to a remote planet where she might have made a new life.

  So she descended into the Dark and began another sort of career as a member of the Grange Place Tribe. There were twelve of them—eight disenfranchised adults, three runaway children who had fled abusive families, and one man wanted for the murder of his unfaithful wife. They lived together, defending themselves against human predators and the violent insane who stalked parts of the underworld. Their food and supplies were gleaned by "shopping"—the tribal euphemism for scavenging and clandestine requisition—in the Bright Path, which they visited during quiet hours. They'd left the rope on the manhole cover that I'd found. They'd also disconnected the door alarm and broken the light in the utility room, which was only one of many exits into the other world.

  Fanchon's nursing skills came to be valued by other Dark Path dwellers because she was willing to help others without asking for payment. Many patients gave her gifts anyway. She always shared them with her tribe.

  When I woke up at last with a mind that was fully clear, Mama Fanchon was the first person I saw, a woman in a red turtleneck sweater and padded goosedown vest, sitting in a folding chair just outside the hospital cubicle, smoking a briar pipe, knitting, and watching a soundless Maple Leafs hockey game on her small television.

  Behind her, in the communal kitchen, Santa Claus was grilling some sort of spicy meat and toasting buns. The aroma was inviting. He was dressed in a wool shirt and dirty Carhartt insulated overalls, with a striped canvas apron tied over them. Next to the two-burner Gaz stove stood a table spread with clean newsprint. It was set with mismatched plates and cups and also held a restaurant-sized jar of kosher pickles, a bunch of spotty bananas, and a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts.

  "How are you feeling, Helly?" Mama Fanchon inquired. She put her knitting away and came to stand over me, hands on her ample hips. "Is the bone-brace treatment working? The medicine was a bit past its expiration date, but no one's been shopping in a clinic for nearly a month. Not since Johnny Guitar fell into the cistern under Spadina Chinatown and broke both legs."

  "I feel much better, Mama Fanchon," I said. Unzipping the sleeping bag, I sat up. I was naked as a jaybird. Same color, too. "Need to use the facilities. I can walk. May I have my clothes?"

  "I think someone had better go along with you, in case you need help." She called out: "Mohammed!"

  A skinny teenage boy with sunken eyes and four missing front teeth came into the cubicle. Like the others, he wore winter clothing. The Dark Path was cold. My Ivanov stun-pistol was stuck in his belt.

  The kid glowered at me. "So the Haluk's awake. About time." I recalled that he'd helped with my care while I was flat on my back, passing in and out of consciousness. He was a lot stronger than he looked. Young Mohammed adored Mama Fanchon and didn't trust me one micron's wort
h.

  She was rummaging in one of the storage pods and said to the boy, "Supper will be ready soon, angel. Please get Helly a nice warm jacket from the hope chest, and take him to the rest room after I check him out. Eeyore finally found a new power cell for my diagnosticon. Isn't that wonderful?"

  She waved the device expertly around my bod while Mohammed went off. "Very, very good! Your collarbone is just fine now. It'll be tender for a week or so, but it's stronger than ever. Put your clothes on, honey-bunch. You can eat at the table with us tonight." She left the cubicle.

  "Polish sausages almost ready!" Santa Claus called out. My mouth began to water. Three or four other members of the tribe drifted toward the kitchen.

  Mohammed stood by while I pulled on my track suit and stuffed my feet into sneakers without bothering with socks. He handed me an Eddie Bauer car-coat with the price code still attached. The "hope chest" had nice merchandise.

  Trailed by the armed boy, I trudged off to what had once been a public lavatory. Now most of the white tiles were cracked and stained black with mildew, and the mirrors were so cloudy that they were almost opaque; but someone had reconnected the water with jury-rigged plastic piping, and the old-timey tank toilets and sinks worked.

  Mohammed scowled as I relieved myself. "You can't be human. Not with those"

  I shrugged. "I told you, it's what happens when Haluk genetic engineers build a demiclone from your DNA. First they inoculate you with some Haluk genes. You end up looking like an alien on the outside."

  "I'd kill myself!" the boy declared.

  "When I get my life sorted out, I'll go back into the vat and get fixed. Look just like my old self again." I finished my business, had a fast wash, and slipped off the coat. "How's the wound on my neck looking?"

  "Got a dry scab. The scab's purple. You're healthy, man ... I mean, Mr. Haluk! Time for you to hit the road." He touched the pistol and his face was like polished golden marble.

  "You're not hanging out here anymore. No matter what Mama Fanchon says."

  "No," I agreed. "I'm very grateful for your help, Mohammed. And for Mama's, and all the rest of the tribe's. But I won't try to stay with you. There's something I have to do, a place I have to go. I'll need help to find it, though, traveling the Dark Path."

  "Where?" he asked suspiciously.

  I gave him an address in ultrafashionable Cabbagetown, just east of the city's central core, where once upon a time poor Irish immigrants grew their favorite veggies right in their front gardens.

  "It's a long way," he said, looking dubious. "Can't get there direct. The DP's broken at Yonge. You'd have to detour south to the Inner Harbor, come back north through the Parliament Street drains."

  "Will you take me?"

  He laughed.

  "I'll make it worth your while. When I'm a man again."

  "Horseshit," Mohammed scoffed.

  "My name is Asahel Frost. Once I was a convicted criminal and a Throwaway, just like Mama and the others. Then I became the Chief Legal Officer of Rampart Concern. I was rich and important. That's why the Haluk stole my identity. Do you watch the news on Mama's TV? Did you ever see the man who uses my name? Saying what terrific people the Haluk really are?"

  "Never watch those talking-head dudes. Boring." But the boy's gaze had momentarily shifted. He'd seen Alistair Drummond, all right.

  "The fake Asahel Frost is a traitor," I said. "Crazy as an outhouse rat, and just as vicious. He wouldn't give a damn if Earth and all the human planets became alien property. I'm going to cut his nuts off and stuff them down his lying throat."

  A spark flickered in his bruised-looking young eyes. "Who lives in Cabbagetown?" he asked me abruptly.

  I told him.

  His mouth dropped open, showing the pathetic gaps in his teeth. Replacing them had been beyond Mama's skill. I wondered what else had been done to Mohammed in the world Upstairs. Who'd been responsible. Wondered whether I might do something about it someday, just as I intended to do something for Mama and the others if I ever became a man again.

  "You're shinin' me on." His skepticism was weakening.

  "Nope. God's own truth. I've got nowhere else to turn, Mohammed."

  He was silent, then: "The Haluk really did... that to you?"

  "They had help from some stupid and evil human beings. But, yeah. Haluk did it as part of their Grand Design to take over the damn galaxy. Some nerve, huh?"

  "Motherfuckers," he said, shaking his head. "It's for real? This alien plot?"

  "It's a nightmare, and it's for real."

  "Jeez."

  "I gave Mama Fanchon the opal ring," I said. "When we get to the place in Cabbagetown, I'll see that you get some money."

  "Okay," he said softly. "I'll take you where you want to go. You ruin those blueberry fools, hear me?"

  "That's my plan," I told him. "Now let's eat."

  Together, we went back to the dim corridor where the others were already sitting at the kitchen table.

  The next day, after Mama Fanchon checked me out again with the diagnosticon and gave her reluctant approval, we were ready to leave. Santa Claus had supplied us with a pack of food and bottles of water. He'd even refilled my flask with some of his own brandy. I wore my dark track suit over heavy polypro underwear from the hope chest, the new car-coat, the Blue Jays baseball cap, and gloves. Mohammed was all in black. He still had my Ivanov and the magazine pouch of stun-bolts. I was armed with the exotic switchblade and the sedative injector. (Mama didn't want that for her hospital. She preferred to use minidosers, which were much more common and easier to steal than high-pressure drug cartridges.)

  The whole Grange Place Tribe decided to accompany Mohammed and me as far as the old Spadina Street utility tunnel, which was to be our principal route south. Santa Claus led the way with his blaster. The girl runaway named Leah was at his side, lighting the way with a brilliant argon lantern. Most of the others had glolamps. Mama placidly smoked her pipe, walking with the Thrown Away Omnivore executive called Johnny Guitar, who strummed his instrument in solemn march tempo: brrrump, brrrump, brump-brump-brump. Before long we were all whistling "Colonel Bogey."

  Weirdly, other troglodytic figures carrying lights of their own emerged from shadowy side tunnels to join us as we moved through the debris-strewn Dundas West concourse. When we reached the utility tunnel, a crowd of almost fifty people gathered around me, smiling and shyly wishing me good luck. I was astonished and deeply touched.

  "The word got around," Santa Claus explained. "Mohammed never could keep his mouth shut. These other folks ... they heard you were a Throwaway, heard what the Haluk did to you. Most of them know how it feels to have a good life, then wake up one day to find the universe turned upside down."

  So I made a little speech of my own, thanking them, making some wild promises that were greeted with disbelieving hoots and spatters of applause. Then the Dark Path people began to wander away.

  Mama Fanchon kissed me on the cheek and slipped something into my hand. "Here's what you wanted, Helly. My pocket phone. Take it with you. Not too many of these down here. Most of us haven't much need of them, but sometimes other tribes call me when a person's really sick or hurt bad."

  "I can't take this," I protested. "Let me make my call now, right here."

  "I don't think that would be wise. Wait till you're in Cab-bagetown, after you've checked the place for a stakeout. You'll want to be sure your friend is at home—and I'd also suggest that you give fair warning about your big surprise." She turned to Mohammed and spoke sternly. "And you won't take any money from Helly! Not a single dollar."

  He shrugged. "I'll bring back your phone."

  The journey was long, tedious, dirty, cold, and frequently dangerous. Our convoluted route covered over eight kilometers and took seventeen hours. I was strongly reminded of my trek through the caves of Cravat, several years earlier. But there had been no human crazies in that little planet's underworld; Branson Elgar and his homicidal crew had been extremely sane, and the
Haluk hiding in the Cravat caverns were unexpectedly lacking in malice.

  On Toronto's Dark Path, there were malicious denizens galore. I never would have gotten to Cabbagetown without Mohammed.

  He knew exactly how to calm nervous tribes ready to kill any stranger—especially one that looked like an alien—who entered their territory. Mention of Mama Fanchon's name turned them from enemies to cautious allies. The roving gangs of well-armed robbers and sex criminals infesting undefended no-man's-land regions would have been more of a challenge; luckily, we didn't encounter large groups of outlaws during the southbound leg of our trip.

  Small groups and loners, yes.

  A pair of knife-wielding muggers sprang at us out of the dark when we were halfway down the Spadina tunnel, just above King Street. Mohammed stunned them neatly, and after fettering them with the plastic wrist restraints I'd taken from the Haluk guards, he called the nearest tribe on Mama Fanchon's phone and coolly asked for "garbage disposal."

  I didn't ask what that meant.

  We continued on. A few minutes later a third robber dropped on me from a ceiling beam in the ruined King Street subway station. We grappled while my young companion danced around waving the pistol, afraid to shoot for fear of hitting me. The thug was a raving crankhead, the drug giving him almost superhuman strength. I finally thumbed his eyes and he turned me loose, giving Mohammed his chance. He plugged my frenzied attacker with three darts.

  "That's usually fatal, you know," I told him when I managed to catch my breath. "Not that I'm complaining."

  "Then I guess we don't have to bother the disposal folks. The rats'11 take care of him." Mohammed helped himself to the late bandido's money and wristwatch before resuming his interrupted guide duties.

  Our narrowest escape happened hours later, down near the Inner Harbor, almost directly beneath what had once been Galapharma Tower. I presumed the structure now contained Rampart's Toronto headquarters, or would very shortly. In either case, the place offered me no refuge. Au contraire ...