“I’ll check with Karl right away and see what’s happening,” I said, and also reminded him about the starship Adam Stanislawski had sent to reconnoiter the presumed Haluk base at Amenti. “There’s a slim chance it might report in before the vote.”
“I almost hope the ship finds nothing,” he admitted gloomily. “The alternative is a really squirmy can of worms. A casus belli. I’m not ready for a war, Helly.”
Neither was the Commonwealth. Zone Patrol was spread much too thinly, especially in the Perseus Spur. If the Haluk launched an attack, humanity’s main line of defense would be the fleets of the Hundred Concerns …
I phoned Karl at Rampart Tower and requested a progress report, turning on the phone speaker so Ef could listen in. Karl said that Fake Sam was still zonked from the two stun-darts Joanna had shot him with; he would be fully consciousness in three more hours, whereupon his interrogation would begin.
I said, “There are some important questions I want you to ask him.” I enumerated them, then asked how things were progressing generally.
“The building’s in a state of lockdown. The executives and security personnel are being held under guard in four employee cafeterias, pending genetic profiling. Lesser personnel were allowed to leave after being cautioned not to talk to the media under pain of job-loss and disenfranchisement.”
“Ouch,” I said. “Whose idea was that?”
“Eve and Gunter Eckert gave the order. The genetic profiling is moving along as rapidly as possible, but it’ll probably take all night.”
“Caught any blue fish?”
“So far, five demiclones had been confirmed among intermediate level InSec personnel. The big news is an exec named Amadeo Guthrie, a Galapharma holdover. He’s Deputy Chief Fleet Dispatch, and he’s a Haluk. We just finished his preliminary grilling. I didn’t want to go to full interrogation before checking with you.”
“Good one, Karl!” I enthused. “This bird will need special handling. Who’s the CCID official in charge of the Rampart operation?”
“A Chief Super named Gleb Khabarov. Seems sensible and efficient.”
“Ask him to witness the next phase of Guthrie’s interrogation. You’ll have to squeeze this mutt hard, and I want official corroboration of the gravity of the situation in case the clone dies on you. We need the names of all other demiclones working in top Rampart fleet positions, especially in the Perseus Spur. This is absolutely vital, Karl. We can’t allow Haluk agents to have any control over our starships at this time. You’re free to tell Khabarov that we’re afraid of a sneak attack, particularly on Cravat or Seriphos. When you get the names, insist that Khabarov have the demis arrested by Spur CCID. If he gives you any back-talk, call Adam Stanislawski.”
“You really think the Haluk might move before the vote?”
“I don’t know what the bastards will do. Call me when you get something solid out of Guthrie. Is there any word on Alistair Drummond?”
“Nothing.”
“Okay. Talk to you in a while.” I broke the connection.
Ef said, “Scary stuff. But I think the Haluk will wait for the vote.”
“I hope you’re right.”
I dozed for a while, overcome by reaction to the stress. Then I was suddenly wide-awake again, remembering something I’d forgotten to ask Bea Mangan. Fortunately, she and Joanna were still in the VIP gallery, sticking it out to the bitter end.
I phoned her and asked the question, keeping the speakerphone activated for Ef’s sake.
She replied, “Yes, the six researchers did finish their experiments with the mutant telomeric exon. As far as they can determine, it’s a powerful inhibitor that staves off sequence degradation. In layman’s terms, it keeps one set of genes—let’s call them bad genes—from turning off another set of good genes. Of course, the researchers had no notion of the precise function of the good gene/bad gene sequences. That was our little secret. Given the limitations of the experiment, the researchers couldn’t provide me with precise timing of the turnoff. Or identify the sequence that would be affected.”
“But we know what it has to be, don’t we!”
“I can only presume that Emily Konigsberg didn’t permanently eradicate allomorphism in the Haluk after all. I’ve been studying her notes for months. By inserting human genes, she intended not only to eliminate the trait in the engineered Haluk individual, but also in the individual’s germ line, so that offspring of treated parents would be nonallomorphic, too. That’s a complicated piece of work.”
“Bea, I think Emily’s therapy is already failing.” I told her about the warehoused testudos I’d seen in Macpherson Tower.
“How interesting.” On the phone display, Bea looked both thoughtful and apprehensive. “I wonder if the testudos will morph into normal allomorphic graciles on schedule? They might not, you know. They might not morph at all.”
The implications of that hit me like a kick in the stomach. “Haluk technicians were watching the warehoused ones. Each testudo was being biomonitored. If they don’t hatch …”
She smiled sadly. “If I were a Haluk who had undergone therapy, I’d be very pissed off at humanity. Paradise Lost, and all that. Do you have any idea how many Haluk have received the treatment?”
“Jesus. I think it started in a small way nearly eight years ago. Since the trade treaties went into effect, millions of them must have been treated. But wouldn’t Haluk scientists have spotted the problem and called a halt to the therapy? I mean, my God—”
“Perhaps the reversion has only just begun,” Bea said. “On the individuals who were among the earliest treated.”
I was trying to remember something. “While I was eavesdropping on the Haluk in dystasis, the Council Locutor, Ru Kamik, made some derogatory remarks about Emily Konigsberg. The Haluk name for her was Milik. Ru Kamik said, ‘This one has recently heard that some of Milik’s work on the eradication of allomorphism has come under scrutiny.’ The Servant of Servants denied that anything was wrong. But he would, wouldn’t he?”
“You know, Helly, even if a renewed course of therapy reestablishes the nonallomorphic gracile state, the Haluk would still require periodic treatment all throughout their lives.”
I said, “Yeah. From a limited supply of PD32:C2, harvested from one small Perseus planet. The stuff won’t grow in the lab.”
“I’ve heard rumors that Rampart is working hard to synthesize the viral vector,” she said, “but so far without success. Haluk scientists are probably trying, too. Unfortunately, they aren’t very experienced in the field of designer-virus construction.”
Ef Sontag broke in. “But what does it mean, Bea, from a political standpoint?”
“Damned if I know,” she said. “But we’ll probably find out.”
“Will the human demiclones revert also?”
“Unfortunately, no. The genes for Haluk allomorphy are completely eliminated by demiclone therapy—not merely suppressed, as happens in the much less drastic eradication treatment.”
Ef said, “That could have ominous implications.”
“I thought so,” Bea agreed.
“What? What?” My brain was badly in need of rebooting. I didn’t have the faintest idea what they were talking about.
“It’s rather far-fetched,” Bea said. “But if the Haluk discover that allomorph-eradication therapy is invariably fatal, they may be tempted to go the demiclone route. All it would require is the synthesis of PD32:C2 … and an unlimited supply of human DNA.”
Finally, the interminable Assembly session adjourned. Ef’s final call for a citizen referendum was voted down, as we had expected. But the gesture had been made and the stage set for a potential citizen veto.
When it was all over, he escorted me to the large skyport at the top of Assembly House. Bea and Joanna had agreed to meet us there, and Ef had mentioned that he intended to fly Bea Mangan to her home in Fenelon Falls. I assumed he’d see Joanna home as well.
He called for his private hopper and I ask
ed dispatch to send the aircraft Adam Stanislawski had promised to provide for me. The skyport concourse wasn’t very crowded yet and no journalists harassed us. They were busy doing reaction coverage downstairs, where every pundit in the capital would have opinions to express and predictions to make. Many of the Delegates were still conferring with their staff members or frantically consulting web pollsters to find out what kind of impact the day’s sensational events would have on their constituents. No doubt the syndics of the Hundred Concerns—including John Ellington—were lobbying like mad to influence tomorrow’s vote.
It was a scene neither Ef Sontag nor I wanted any part of. We’d had enough limelight for one day.
The two women finally emerged from the transporter and found us waiting in the ready-room. Bea Mangan was pulling an AG tote with her equipment, and Ef hurried to take charge of it and have it loaded aboard his hopper.
“Did you get lots of hot poop for your new book, Professor?” I asked Joanna.
“Today’s action will provide at least two outstanding chapters,” she said. “But the plot is still thickening.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I said wearily. “It can thicken without me.”
A fast getaway was all I wanted right now, and after that the empty white silence of the Ontario north country, where I planned to hole up until I decided how to recreate my shattered life.
“Will we have time to stop and shop on the way?” Joanna asked me.
I looked at her without comprehending. “Shop?”
“Well, it probably wouldn’t be prudent to go back to my town house for clothes and things.”
When I persisted in stupidity mode, she smiled. “My dear, I’m coming with you to your hideout! There’s so much more I need to know. The deep background of your anti-Haluk crusade.”
“Your book’s going to be about me?” I couldn’t conceal my dismay.
“Of course! You’re a public figure, a freelance provocateur, a cage rattler. Did you think you could do your thing and then slip offstage without anyone taking notice? Gunslinger comes to town, raises righteous hell, rides off into the sunset?”
“No, but—”
“Your story will personalize the controversy, catch the interest of nonacademic readers. As we say in the trade, you will be my hook. By the way, my publisher is very interested. I called her during your testimony. She was watching, of course. Along with almost everyone else having PlaNet access.”
“A book sounds like a great idea,” Bea said. “I’d download a copy.”
I groaned. “Joanna, this affair isn’t over. Political-science-wise, it’s hardly begun.”
“But your direct participation in it is done, isn’t it?”
“God, I hope so. I’m so tired of tilting at blue windmills! Whichever way the vote goes tomorrow, I believe the Haluk are heading for a fall. Their demiclones will be exposed, along with the Sagittarian piracy and the other shit they’ve been pulling inside the Concerns. After the smoke clears, the Haluk treaties will be revised. There’s no real possibility of a cover-up or a reversion to the status quo. Too many genies have been let out of the bottle.”
Ef Sontag had returned from the baggage bot and was listening with approval. “A book that told the entire story would help ensure that,” he said. “Joanna’s right.”
“Of course I am,” Professor DeVet said serenely.
“What are your immediate plans?” Ef asked me.
“I’m going to kick back and take it easy. After the vote, who knows? Eventually I’ll have to go back into the tank for a month or so to be restored, but God knows when I’ll get around to doing it. If you need me, I’ll be available for a few weeks, anyhow. I promised my father to help pull Rampart back on track, but I won’t let that become a full-time job. During the Galapharma trial, I devoted nearly every waking minute to Rampart. That’ll never happen again.”
“Good,” said Joanna. “You don’t owe them that.”
“I don’t owe them anything,” I said grimly. “They owe me. And if Eve or anyone else starts putting stumbling blocks in my way, I’ll be out of there faster than a lobo with a knot in his tail, and Rampart can go straight to hell.”
Ef was watching the overhead dispatch display. “Here’s my hopper. Come along, Bea. Helly, Joanna, keep safe.” The two of them went off.
I threw my former wife a look that mingled panic and confusion.
She smiled and put a hand on my shoulder. “If you really don’t want me with you now, I’ll respect that. I can take a taxi home.”
“No! I mean—” What did I mean?
“The stress of the past days must be unbearable. I apologize for trying to intrude. If you need quiet time alone, we can talk about the book later.”
The dispatch display showed that the aircraft for Helmut Icicle was ready.
I took her hand, pulled her toward the door leading to the hopper pad. “Dammit! I do want you to come. We’ll watch the vote taken tomorrow, then see what comes down. You can tell me what it all means from a galactopolitical point of view.”
She laughed. “All right. But I mean it about stopping for the clothes.”
The ship was a big mean-looking Mitsubishi-Kondo that wore the white and gold Macrodur colors and the Big M corporate crest. It had full defensive shields, significant armament, a subspace communicator, an ultraencrypted phone link, and a well-appointed bedroom.
“How long did you say our trip would take?” Joanna inquired in a throaty purr.
I sighed. “Not long enough. Besides, I’m a useless wreck, babe.”
“Then a holiday is just what you need.”
“It won’t take long to get where we’re going, even if we stop and shop. This boat toddles along at three kay per. Adam lent us a lovely ride.”
We settled in on the flight deck. “He seems like a very nice man,” Joanna remarked. “He lives up to his reputation. No wonder the other Concerns hate Macrodur.”
“Yeah. Imagine a businessman who doesn’t put business first …”
We lofted into the air, moving slowly northward under the control of Toronto Conurb ATZ. The atmosphere was so thick with trapped mist that it was hard to distinguish one tower from another, but our hopper was not immediately vectored out from under the force-field. Instead, we came to a dead stop in midair, joining multiple stalled processions of other aircraft. A moment later the force-field’s golden umbrella winked out. The mist that had been held beneath it was torn to bits by sudden wind, and snowflakes swirled around us.
“What the hell?” I murmured, and began querying the navigator.
“Helly, look!” Joanna exclaimed, pointing outside.
A train of starship gigs was descending out of the storm toward the city center. There must have been thirty or forty of them, large and beetle-shaped and decorated with cobalt-blue lights.
They began to touch down at the Macpherson Tower skyport.
“I’ll be damned,” I said. “The Haluk are leaving!”
I used the hopper’s sensitive scanner to clarify the scene and was proved right. The aliens had somehow obtained permission to embark directly from their tower into Earth orbit, without using Oshawa Starport.
“But why?” Joanna asked in bewilderment. “Is this what the Servant meant by withdrawing the Haluk presence? Is it some formal expression of wounded dignity?”
“I hope that’s what it is,” I said. But a ghost-icicle had materialized at the back of my neck.
The aerial exodus lasted about forty minutes, while hopper traffic above Toronto remained totally paralyzed and the snowfall thickened, causing mild havoc on the streets below.
I surfed the news channels. The media were giving the amazing event a big play, even broadcasting satellite views of a monstrous alien starship waiting in low geosynchronous orbit for the return of its auxiliaries. It was the flagship of the Servant of Servants. I’d seen it myself twice before, under more ominous circumstances.
When the last gig vanished into the sky, the
force-field umbrella was turned on again. Air traffic resumed its normal pattern. The capital of the Commonwealth of Human Worlds went about its interrupted business and so did we, escaping the restricted airspace of the conurbation and rising to our cruising altitude in the ionosphere.
Had all of the Haluk gone away?
Absolutely not, the media reported breathlessly. Reporters’ phone calls to the official Haluk embassy codes were answered—curtly. No comments would be forthcoming from Haluk sources until after tomorrow’s Assembly vote. The Servant’s flagship was “on a meditative cruise.”
Macpherson Tower was shielded against scanners, as were most of the commercial and government buildings in the central city; however, persons of Halukoid physique had been observed moving in front of undraped windows. One enterprising media snoop even analyzed water usage in the upper half of the tower—and concluded that Haluk toilets were being flushed. Lots of the aliens were still in there!
Hoppers carrying tabloid websters that attempted unauthorized landings on the Macpherson skyport were shooed away, as always, by Haluk guards armed with riot-batons. Elevator access was blocked, as usual, by Haluk security personnel. Neither CCID nor the Enforcement Division of Xenoaffairs attempted to enter the tower by force. Technically, the top two-thirds of it was still alien soil, and no Commonwealth judge was empowered to issue a warrant to search it.
Yet.
Half dozing in the command seat as we soared through the sky under autopilot, I wondered whether my brother Dan was still inside Macpherson Tower. Was Alistair Drummond hiding there, too, along with other blown demiclone spies who had infiltrated other establishments in the capital? Minor genplas makeovers and iris implants would enable them to assume alternate identities. If they avoided sensitive occupations, demis might easily be able to fade away into the general population—especially on the freesoil worlds. All human beings had a genetic profile made at birth, but retesting everyone would be prohibitively expensive.