Perseus Spur

  Our computer wizard was pursuing an interesting trail, attempting to decipher the highly convoluted routing of a crucial subspace-patch call made on Lois Swann-Hepplewhite's phone. In it, Clive had presumably warned his Galapharma controller to tell the missing trio of execs to flee for their lives, all is discovered. More ominously, Leighton also could have notified the molemaster of my own presence on Seriphos—not dead as presumed but very much alive, kicking ass, and flinging Simon Frost's name around in an overfamiliar manner.

  A successful trace of this call was a very long shot, since it had caromed through the telecom systems of four planets like a manic pinball. The odds were slightly better that other Galapharma henchfolk working in Central had also used the distinctive secret routing some time within the past twenty-four weeks, reporting to their glorious leader. (After that time interval, interplanetary communications records were purged.) If this proved to be the case, portions of the peculiar pathway itself might be detected by a cybersleuth, even if the ultimate message recipient remained unidentifiable, and we might be able to finger other corporate traitors and put them under surveillance.

  Of course, if the molemaster knew his stuff, he'd change the com routing regularly and the net result of our sifting would be zero. But it was worth a shot.

  Another of our research operatives had ascertained that the untimely death of Rampart Chief Research Officer Yao-shuang Qiu had been attributed to a cerebral aneurysm with unseemly haste. Without Qiu's leadership, a vital division of the Starcorp had been floundering for months while Zared first named a successor who turned out to be disastrously inadequate, then procrastinated in searching for his replacement. The CRO's body had received a traditional Chinese burial on Seriphos. Our agent was arranging for a secret exhumation in an attempt to prove murder. He was also checking the background of the physician who had certified Qiu's cause of death.

  Weird thing: the University of Tokyo was balking for some reason at releasing their bioassay of the Haluk suicide's cadaver. Karl had decided to ask Simon to put the screws on personally, since Rampart was the scientific community's best source for more Perseid dissection subjects, and the Star-corp was under no obligation to sell to the highest bidder.

  Two other nuggets of information gleaned by Karl himself were particularly noteworthy.

  The six people allegedly kidnapped from the planet Nakon Sawan four years earlier turned out to be genetic engineers from a local terraforming installation. The only witness, an employee of the catering service returning to his quarters after a long night's carouse, claimed that he saw a single gracile Haluk prowling around the building where the ab-ductees had been working.

  Although the blood-alcohol content of the witness was 175 mg/dL (that is, drunk as a skunk), his statement was verified under psychotronic interrogation. No other signs of Haluk presence were detected by Rampart External Security, nor was there any record of a Haluk vessel entering or exiting the planetary atmosphere. However, Nakon Sawan had been newly settled in 2228, and its meager satellite sensor array was down for repairs on the date in question. Surprise, surprise.

  CHW had forwarded Rampart's official protest on the Nakon incident to the Haluk Cluster and asked for permission to scan their eleven Spur colonies for human life-signs. The request was rejected by the Haluk Council of Nine. Zone Patrol attempted the scans anyhow, at long range, with negative results. Since evidence of Haluk involvement in the Nakon abduction was so flimsy, the matter was shelved by the authorities. Rampart had paid death benefits to the engineers' families.

  Karl's second significant discovery concerned Emily Blake Konigsberg, deceased. She had been a physician and distinguished professor of xenobiology at Stanford University on Earth before being hired away by Galapharma in 2226. Her particular area of expertise was DNA mapping of Insap races of the Perseus Spur. In 2228 she left Gala to go into what was described as "private research." Karl had found a mountain of data on her work at Stanford, but he ran into a blank wall trying to discover what her duties had been at Gala, and what her private research project might have involved.

  The mysterious presence of her body on a derelict Haluk lifeboat drifting in space near Cravat in 2229 remained unexplained. There was no evidence that Emily Konigsberg had been abducted, nor was it illegal for an unaffiliated citizen to consort with an alien race. The powerplant malfunction that cut off the lifeboat's environmental system and killed those on board had also wiped out navigation data that might have indicated the boat's point of departure or destination.

  When Haluk authorities were informed of this incident, they professed no knowledge of Konigsberg and would not speculate upon why she had been traveling on a Haluk ship. The Haluk remains were returned to their people. Konigs-berg's body, as requested by her surviving brother, was transported to Earth and interred in the family plot.

  Karl also sent along voluminous information on Vector PD32:C2, including the interesting fact that it had been in extensive use at the terraforming establishment on Nakon Sawan. Sales figures for PD32:C2 showed purchasers of record over the past ten years: the Commonwealth itself was the largest customer, with the fifty or sixty Concerns who maintained their own colonies making up the balance. Galapharma was one of these. Its purchases of PD32:C2 weren't excessive, given the vast scope of its operations in the Orion Arm and Sagittarius Whorl.

  PD32:C2 was only one vector out of thousands of useful megacarriers on the market. The virus's particular value lay in its ability to transfer very large amounts of DNA into both the ordinary body cells and the germinal cells of higher animals. Following the procedure, the engineered individual would not only be physically altered, but would also reliably produce offspring like itself.

  Karl had also researched the "human germ-line manipulation" project utilizing PD32:C2 that had mystified us. It turned out to be a controversial joint operation sponsored by Galapharma, Carnelian, and Sheltok Concerns that had never actually gotten off the ground. In 2226 they had sponsored preliminary research on the creation of a new Homo subspecies capable of surviving on certain heavily irradiated, notoriously inhospitable R-class planets deep within the galactic hub.

  Some of these awful places were chock-full of unhex-octon, unhexseptine, and other ultraheavy elements coveted by Sheltok's energy division and Carnelian's atomic chemists. Robot refineries, controlled by human workers from orbit, had proved prohibitively expensive; but highly modified humanoids living on the planetary surface could have produced the rare elements economically.

  Minor genetic modifications of humans to enhance adaptation to T-3 or S-class colonies was already a fact of life; but earlier proposals to redesign people for R-worlds had always been defeated in the Assembly on ethical considerations. The necessary genetic engineering would be so drastic that the new species could not survive on earthlike planets. Instead, they'd be condemned to permanent exile in places that made Dante's Inferno look like the beach at Waikiki.

  Sheltok, Carnelian, and Galapharma had been very displeased when their project was condemned by the Commonwealth Assembly. Sheltok's CEO even professed surprise at all the fuss. After all, the banished humanoids would have been very well paid...

  I set Karl's report aside, shucked off my pajamas, and put on a pair of jeans and my OK Corral sweatshirt, thinking about what I'd read. If my team and I could follow this improbable data trail and make a connection between Gala and the Haluk, then so could Eve. It had been imprudent of her to undertake a clandestine investigation on her own, rather than alerting officials of the Interstellar Commerce Secretariat or the Department of Xenoaffairs, but it was understandable.

  She had no proof.

  Eve lacked my own firsthand evidence of the link between Galapharma Concern and the aliens. If she had gone to ICS with her suspicions after Rampart External Security failed to investigate the testudinal Haluk corpse found on Cravat, the Secretariat would certainly have declined jurisdiction and passed the buck to SXA. SXA would bump the inquiry to Zone Patrol, an outfit that
probably included even more paid Concern informants within its ranks than SXA. The patrol would come galumphing into Cravat on its big flat feet with sirens wailing, and any ne'er-do-wells on the scene—alien or human—would vamoose faster than a raped ape, covering their tracks behind them.

  Eve would have known that. Like me, she could also have had doubts about the loyalty of Ollie Schneider and his Rampart ExSec force. Since the issue had such explosive potential, she might not even have trusted her own Fleet Security people (or her pal, Bob Bascombe) to keep a lid on it—especially if evidence might link Galapharma or the aliens to traitors inside Rampart.

  She could have decided to do a quiet preliminary check of the Pickle Pothole region herself, the one place where clues of Haluk chicanery might exist. Perhaps she'd planned to report her findings directly to Simon.

  It had been a mistake. Maybe even a fatal one.

  * * *

  Mimo and Matt were already seated at the round mess table, waiting for me to join them for lunch.

  "High time you showed up," said Captain Bermudez. He wore a natty pearl-pink corduroy zipsuit with a blue turtleneck. Matt had on athletic track gear and her dark curls were damp. I presumed she'd been working out in the ship's gym.

  "Everything going well?" I inquired. "No villains in hot pursuit?"

  "Not a one," Mimo said. "I put us on an aleatory course for the first few hundred light-years and did repeated scans as we zigged and zagged. Nobody chased us. By now we're so far out in the Spur tip that the chances of a bandit picking up our energy signature are minimal."

  It was the one disadvantage of using Plomazo for transport: there were only a handful of Y660 cutters in the Spur, and all but Mimo's belonged to the Commonwealth Zone Patrol. Our hyperspatial trace was thus nearly unique, and readily identifiable to anyone who cared to search for it—not that the search would be easy. The concealing dissimulator field Mimo had used so successfully while hiding inside comet Z1 only worked in a orbital situation, in which the ship used minimal sublight drive.

  "By now, Galapharma certainly knows I'm alive and aboard this ship," I said. "There's a possibility that they might deduce we're headed for Cravat. Especially if Eve is being held there."

  "Our medium-heavy shields are up," Mimo soothed me. "Even if a hostile does spot us and mine the hyperspace trajectory, we'll get by unscathed. And they haven't a hope in hell of catching us when we drop to subluminal velocity in the Cravat system. Now sit down and stop fretting."

  Plomazo's messroom, like the rest of the new starship, combined efficiency with touches of outright opulence— justifying its designation by Mimo as a "dining salon." The furniture was polished garnetwood, a handsome Mexican wrought-iron chandelier hung over the table, and the viewport that opened onto fire-streaked starry space was flanked by handwoven draperies and colorful jars of ornamental cacti.

  There were four place settings of casual Lenox china and sterling flatware. I said, "Where's Ivor?"

  On cue, he pushed open a swinging door and entered the salon, beaming. He wore a striped apron and carried a tray laden with food. "I'm right here—the designated chef de cui-sinel" He put down a big platter of pasta in redolent tomato sauce, a bowl of bean salad, and four coldcups containing some frivolous dessert, then took off his apron and joined us.

  I helped myself and sampled the pasta. "This is great! A real improvement over the meals-ready-to-eat stocked on poor old Chispa."

  "I made the lunch from scratch," Ivor Jenkins said. "That's spaghetti™ alia carrettiera with fresh basil and lots of garlic."

  "He's insisted on doing the cooking during the voyage," Mimo said. "Matt and I have dined like royalty while you slept your life away."

  The giant youth ducked his head shyly. "I wanted to earn my keep."

  "You'll earn it when we get to Cravat," I said. "Even with environmental gear, it'll be rough duty." Ivor wasn't wearing the myostimulator collar, and I made a mental note to be sure that he put it on before we tackled the playful wildlife of Pickle Pothole.

  Matt said, "I'm still opposed to working the back-country of a hazardous world like Cravat with so few people. Bob Bascombe can surely furnish us with dependable guides and a security team—"

  "No," I said. "We're sneaking into Cravat unannounced in Plomazo's gig. The starship stays in orbit with its dissimulator up and Mimo keeping an eye on things. Bascombe himself is going to take us to the Pickle Pothole area, where we'll begin the search. I don't want anybody else on the planet to know we're there."

  Matt scowled but made no further comment.

  I scarfed down a big plate of pasta and advanced to the cold piscoid and kidney bean salad with crunchy red onion. Ivor had done some creative shopping back on Seriphos. The fish analogue was very tasty and the citrumquat sorbet dessert turned out to be sweet-sour and refreshing, topped with a dollop of clotted cream and a sprinkle of raspberries. As we finished up with embargoed Upper-Orinoco-blend coffee, I offered my ultimate compliment to the cook: "Nice going, Ivor. I couldn't have done a better job on the grub myself."

  "It's something I learned to do at an early age," Ivor said. "My father and I had to fend for ourselves after Mother left, and he's always been too preoccupied with business to care about cooking."

  Matt gave a sympathetic glance. "What does your father do for a living?"

  The young man looked away, suddenly nonplussed, and I remembered how Mimo had described him as "the son of an associate."

  Captain Guillermo Bermudez said, deliberately, "Ivor's father is in the import-export trade, as I am, Chief Gregoire."

  "I see." Matt sipped her contraband coffee with equanimity. "Most Rampart employees who live in the Spur owe a debt of gratitude to people such as you and Ivor's father. Life would be drearier—and a great deal more expensive—if we were forced to buy all our little luxuries in Starcorp-approved outlets .. . Don't worry, Ivor. My official duties as Fleet Security Chief have been shelved for the duration. And God knows I've bought as much ex-tariff goods as the average citizen."

  "So you are corruptible!" I joshed her.

  "Only where French perfume and Belgian chocolates are concerned," she retorted. "Not insofar as neglecting to protect the lives of witnesses in my custody or falsifying evidence."

  Mimo opened his mouth to defend me. I said, "Never mind. Matt's entitled to her opinion of me, which she's made clear from the start of our association. I don't have the inclination or the energy to rehash ancient history now." I nodded at Karl Nazarian's report, which I'd left lying on the table. "Have all of you had a chance to look that over?"

  Ivor was clearly grateful for the change of subject. "I haven't seen it. But perhaps you don't wish me to be privy to such sensitive material."

  I gave a snort and tossed him the printout. "I didn't bring you along to be chief cook and bottlewasher, Ivor. You're a full member of the team. Give this a quick run-through. I'm going to need input from all of you, trying to make sense of it."

  "I'll do my best," he said.

  "The part of the report that bothers me most concerns the possibility of Haluk involvement—both in Eve's kidnapping and in the Galapharma conspiracy. I'd like your opinions On why these aliens seem suddenly willing to put aside their longstanding xenophobia, get chummy with Gala, and perpetrate a series of crimes that could result in massive retaliation by the Commonwealth. It's obviously got something to do with genetic engineering. But what?"

  "The most obvious answer," Matt said, "is that the Haluk may want desperately to do some radical life-form-modification of their own. Perhaps on T-3 planets in their own cluster that they hope to colonize. I presume you know that they have a rather severe population surplus."

  "Refresh my memory," I said. "I really don't know much about the race at all."

  "The Haluk evolved in a smallish satellite star cluster 17,200 light-years off the tip of the Spur. Their peculiar allo-morphic cycle was a response to the home planet's elongated orbit, which made the world excessively hot and dry and U
V-irradiated for about half their year. Haluk are carbon-based oxygen breathers who use nitrogen, sulfur, and phosphorus to make proteins just as we do, and their bodies derive energy from the Krebs cycle, just like humanity. Given a choice, they prefer to live on 1-2 worlds, which are warmer and more arid than the T-l's that Earthlings and Squeakers favor, but they can manage very well on terrestrial worlds."

  "Sounds like they'd adore Arizona," I muttered. "I bet they'd get along just dandy with the Gila monsters and sidewinder rattlesnakes. Compatible temperaments, too ... Sorry, Matt. Don't let me interrupt."

  "I'll try hard not to," she said wryly, then continued the lecture. "The Haluk have colonized all of the genome-compatible T-1 and T-2 worlds in their own bailiwick and desperately need Lebensraum, but expansion into the Milky Way Galaxy had to wait until their inefficient starships were up to the task. When they finally made the leap to Spur-tip about 120 Earth years ago, they established settlements on eleven worlds that were ideally suited and made big plans to colonize more. But they were stopped in their tracks."

  "By the Galapharma invasion of the Spur," I noted.

  "Exactly. Over a four-year period beginning in 2136, the Concern exploration fleet inventoried all the planets in Zone 23—excluding the Haluk and Qastt worlds that had been designated off-limits by CHW under Statute 44. Gala claimed all the remaining T-l's and T-2's. Since the Haluk Council of Nine adamantly refused to enter into trade agreements with humanity, CHW told them to forget about colonizing any more worlds in our galaxy. Galapharma ExSec and Zone Patrol backed up the ruling with force... for as long as the Spur seemed worth fighting for."

  The Haluk never dared all-out warfare with humanity over the colonization issue. They knew they didn't stand a chance of beating our superior technology. Under duress, they entered into a nonaggression agreement that was more honored in the breach than in the observance, and continued to harass human starships and colonies when they thought they could get away with it. Like the much less numerous Qastt race, with whom they formed a thorny alliance, the Haluk officially maintained that "uncontrollable outlaw elements" of their society were responsible for the piracy and the landside smash-and-grab raids.