1. Are you a Haluk demiclone? Can you identify any demiclones now working in Galapharma AC?
2. Are you willing to obtain and hand over to Delegate Efrem Sontag all information pertaining to the allomorph trait eradication and demiclone procedures developed by Galapharma for the Haluk, including details and locations of all clandestine demiclone labs that were or are now in operation, plus the total number of human-Haluk demiclones produced there?
3. Are you willing to obtain and hand over to Delegate Sontag the secret genetic marker identifying a Haluk-human demiclone?
4. Are you willing to obtain and hand over to Delegate Sontag all information available on the supervision of Haluk demiclone labs by Galapharma Security personnel?
5. Are you willing to ensure that Delegate Sontag alone, and no other person, government agency, corporation, or media data retrieval system gains access to this information—preferably by destroying all traces of it personally?
Lorne Buchanan declared emphatically that he was not a Haluk ringer, nor did he know anyone else who was. As I had suspected, the “sealed” data concerning the Haluk still resided in Galapharma’s computers under heavy encryption. He was certain he could obtain everything I requested, send it to Sontag, and obliterate all traces of it from the Gala database.
In return I agreed to give him a document carrying my personal iridographic seal, stating that Rampart would not cooperate in any criminal prosecution against him or designated close associates. Furthermore, we would hire him as Assistant Chief Operating Officer in the consolidated Concern, and continue his employment for a minimum period of ten years or until he chose to vacate the position.
Jane Nelligan brought the document to the conference room. Buchanan and I eyeballed it. The Gala CEO zapped a copy to his personal attorney and I sent others to the offices of Simon, Eve, and Efrem Sontag. Then I handed Jane the questions for Karl Nazarian and she courteously escorted the visitor away to the torture chamber.
Lorne Buchanan would fulfill his promises scrupulously. Sadly, he would not live long enough enjoy the perks of the trade-off. There was another question I should have added to that list of his:
6. To the best of your knowledge, is Alistair Drummond dead?
“Helly! Felicitations on winning the Galapharma verdict!”
“Thanks, Ef.”
“I presume you want me to forego wisecracks about your loony-tune interview in the Wall Street Journal.”
“I spoke from my heart of hearts,” I retorted, “and shot from the hip. As the king said, Honi soit qui merde y pense.”
“That’s mal y pense.”
“It’s all shit to me, pal … For your information, I have declined the Rampart chairmanship. Neither will I seek a seat in the Assembly. Gerry Gonzalez will hoist high the banner of Reversionism among you and your colleagues. Be kind to him.”
I had reached my friend Sontag in his hopper. He was flying home alone to his home on Lake Simcoe following the early Friday adjournment of the Assembly. After he had secured our call with Phase XII encryption, I filled him in on details of the deal I had struck with Lorne Buchanan.
Ef was cautiously enthusiastic. “If Buchanan comes through with everything he promised, we’ll end up with enough solid data to finally make a presentation to my committee. Then the matter can be opened to debate on the Assembly floor. Perhaps I can even force a special review of the no-inspection clause of the nonaggression pact. The existence of sizable human-Haluk demiclone factories alone is prima facie evidence of some sort of questionable intent by the aliens. During the treaty talks, the Haluk Servant of Servants maintained that only a handful of human transforms had been created. As I recall, his explanation was ingenious but not very plausible from a human point of view.
“The fakes were supposedly going to serve as some sort of goodwill envoys on Haluk planets in their star-cluster, where we humans are viewed as big bad boogymen. The Haluk fed that ridiculous story to Galapharma to get the demiclone project going in the first place. I’m sure Alistair Drummond didn’t believe a word of it. But it was expedient for him to accept it, just as it was expedient for Concern-connected bureaucrats in Xenoaffairs and Interstellar Commerce to do the same when they drew up the treaties.”
We briefly discussed legal aspects of Buchanan’s material—mostly ways our political enemies might attempt to discredit it. Then I told Ef my plan for pumping Barky Tregarth about life in the Haluk Cluster—provided I could locate the old Throwaway. I said nothing about going extragalactic myself, but Mama Sontag didn’t raise any dummies.
“I like the idea of checking out Haluk demographics through an informant,” he said. “Even if he’s disenfranchised, his deposition sub duritia would be admissible if it pertains to the security of the Commonwealth. Ask Tregarth about the Haluk military-industrial capability. Ask him for details of their production of transactinides. But don’t even think about buzzing off to the Haluk Cluster yourself to verify Barky’s story.”
I started to deny I had any such notion, but he cut me off.
“Don’t try to bullshit me, Helly. A snoop job like that would violate the nonaggression pact. I wouldn’t be able to use any evidence you gathered.”
“Not in a formal Assembly inquiry, perhaps. But it could still be useful poop for you to leak to the media, sway public opinion, pressure the other Delegates—”
“I can’t be seen to condone your breaking Commonwealth law.”
“Not even the asinine ones? I can tell the difference, you know. I’m a Juris Doctor from Harvard, just like you.”
He shook his head wearily. I was testing his patience with my lame humor. “And I’m a politician with a certain reputation for probity, working in a government almost entirely under the control of galactic Big Business. The public respects my integrity, and so do the media. My square-shooter image is the source of my power and I can’t do anything to endanger it. Why do you think I’ve been so cautious about waiting for the appropriate time to present the evidence you’ve already gathered? Two years ago you weren’t a credible source. Today, by some miracle, you very nearly are … unless you fuck yourself, pulling some idiotic stunt.”
Ouch. “Can we at least agree that you’ll hold off asking your big question on the Assembly floor until I question Barky Tregarth?”
“You don’t know how long it will take to find him. And what if the man’s a washout?”
I just had to give it one last try. “Look. A quick survey of selected Haluk Cluster worlds would take me ten weeks maximum. I’ve got the ship and the equipment, and I can do the job. Ten weeks, Ef! I could release the information to the media anonymously. Sure, the Haluk and the consortium will suspect that I’m the secret source—but so what? They won’t be able to prove anything.”
“Helly, the Assembly is on the verge of approving the sale of fifty more Rampart Mandate T-2 worlds to the Haluk. It’ll happen in June, just before summer recess. Less than eight weeks from now.”
I voiced a heart-felt “Fuck!” No one at Rampart Tower had said a word to me about this.
“It gets worse. A new bill that would let the aliens buy three hundred more Rampart worlds will come out of committee and be put to a vote shortly after the new session begins in late August. All of the Conservatives and many of the incoming new Liberals will vote for it. There’s been a tremendous push from Sheltok and Bodascon and the other consortium members to give these additional Haluk colonies the green light. The only chance I have of preventing the bill’s passage is by preventing its introduction: killing it in committee. To do that we’ve got to ignite a firestorm of public opinion on the PlaNet that even the most venal Delegates can’t ignore.”
“Can you kill the fifty-planet giveaway?”
“Impossible. It would be terrible strategy to open the Haluk inquiry just before the summer recess. We have to concentrate all our efforts on scuppering the second bill. Ideally, the evidence should be placed before my Xeno Oversight Committee when the Assembly reconvenes. A
nd you should be prepared to testify personally. We won’t use psychotronic interrogation on witnesses before the committee—but it may be necessary when the inquiry moves to the Assembly floor.”
“I understand.”
Efrem Sontag and I stared at each other in silence. We were the same age but he looked ten years older. The image on my office communicator showed a slightly built unhandsome man with lank dark hair, oversized ears, and the scorching eyes of an indomitable fighter. In spite of his membership in the principal minority party, he was one of the most powerful Assembly Delegates, a true untouchable, the scourge of fellow legislators who dwelt cozily in the pockets of the Hundred Concerns.
The inquiry he was about to orchestrate would touch off one of the biggest political rows in the history of the Commonwealth. While the Concerns screamed bloody murder at the prospect of Haluk trade disruption, the tabloid media would joyfully fan the flames of controversy. We hoped that the Commonwealth citizenry would be sufficiently alarmed at the notion of Haluk doppelgänger spies that they would pressure their Delegates interactively over the PlaNet, overriding the influence of the Concerns and forcing a review of the dubious treaties.
And what would the Haluk do then, poor things? Cave in, confess all, permit full inspection of their worlds, and promise to behave in the future if we let them continue to colonize the Milky Way?
Maybe. If the heat was turned high enough.
I said, “It’s in your hands now, Ef. I have a few reliable people who’ve worked with me that I’d like you to consider taking on board. People with reputations above reproach like Karl Nazarian, and Beatrice Mangan of the ICS Forensic Division.”
“I’d welcome their help.”
“I’ll do my best to get Barky Tregarth’s deposition for you quickly. Meanwhile, take very good care of yourself, old buddy.”
Sontag uttered a brief laugh that had no humor in it. “The Concerns wouldn’t dare send their thugs after me.”
“I’m not worried about the Concerns. The problem could be Haluk demiclones operating right here in Toronto. Fake humans.”
He gazed at me for a moment in shocked silence. “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious. I’ve met a few who were masquerading as Galapharma Security personnel. They were extremely convincing. The Haluk are at least as intelligent as we are. And they have a really steep learning curve.”
His expression remained neutral, but I knew he was finding it hard to believe that a disguised alien entity could successfully pose as a human being over a significant period of time.
I said, “One of the most important pieces of data we’re supposed to obtain from Lorne Buchanan is the gene market that identifies demiclones. Pass that information on to Bea Mangan as soon as possible. Then get her to secretly test all of your close associates for creeping Halukitis.” I hesitated, hating to say what had to come next. “And test Liliane, too.”
Sontag exclaimed, “Are you out of your mind, Helly?”
“All you need for a proper DNA assay is a snotty Kleenex or a hair with a live follicle. Neither your wife nor your staff people have to know they’re being checked out. Dammit, Ef, the demiclone moles are out there! I’m sure of it. The Haluk ringers who penetrated Gala Security are probably long gone, but there have to be others holed up for the long haul.”
“I’ll get on it,” he said grimly. “God—you really know how to spoil a man’s day.”
“Think how useful it would be to our case,” I said, “if you found Haluk spies in sensitive government positions.”
“Useful!” He made a face.
“I’ll talk to you again as soon as I know anything useful.”
“Have a safe Barky Hunt,” he said.
“You keep safe, too, Ef. No joke.”
“I know.” He ended the call.
I sat quietly at my desk for some time after that, alone in my familiar messy office with suitcoat, vest, and neck scarf discarded. Running over the events of the afternoon. Feeling both drained and exhilarated at what I’d accomplished in a few brief hours.
It was almost as good as lying on a tropical beach on far Kedge-Lockaby.
My desk clock said 16:42. In less than an hour I’d be meeting Jake Silver. Should I put off my younger sister, Beth, or do my family duty?
Maybe she hadn’t shown up.
I touched the intercom. “Jane, did Lorne Buchanan finish his psychotronic session with Karl Nazarian?”
“It went very well. All responses were positive and there was very little discomfort because of the cooperative mindset of the subject. Citizen Buchanan left the tower about ten minutes ago with his entourage. He asked me to tell you that the requisite data will be transferred to Delegate Sontag’s office immediately under conditions of strictest security.”
“Outstanding. Um … do I have anyone waiting in reception?”
“Your sister Bethany has been here for over two hours,” Jane said, with a hint of reproach. “I informed her that a meeting today might not be possible, but you would do your best to see her.”
Rats.
“Send her in, please.”
Rising from the desk, I opened the door to my seldom-used clothes closet to expose the full-length mirror and began reknotting my scarf.
Beth wafted in. “Good afternoon, Asa.” Her voice was almost inaudible, a bad sign. The quieter she spoke, the more pissed off she was likely to be.
“Please sit down,” I said. “Forgive me spiffying myself up. I have to rush out of here in a few minutes for an urgent appointment.”
“It’s quite all right.” She refused my offer of coffee and sat silently for several minutes while I finished dressing.
Bethany Frost was wearing a smart walking suit of teal silk tweed with shimmering greenish highlights. Dark blue ankleboots, a matching handbag, and a choker of heavy gold links inset with a myriad of tiny diamonds completed the ensemble. As always, in spite of her high-fashion clothes, she managed to look ephemeral, like some delicate butterfly that the slightest breath of wind would crumple. Beth is not as petite as Eve, but like her, has the fine bone structure and fair coloring of our late mother, Katje Vanderpost.
I call Beth my little sister because she was born seven years after Eve and has always looked more youthful than her years. She is actually two years older than I. Her intellect is sharp as a scalpel, with a mathematical bent, but her emotional temperament is unstable. For nearly ten years she served Rampart as its Assistant Chief Financial Officer under Gunter Eckert, until our brother Daniel’s fall from grace drove her to a nervous breakdown and she retired from the business world. She and her husband, a cybernetic researcher named Carter Berg, had two teenage children.
Beth and I were never particularly affectionate toward one another. When we were small children, she and I were rivals for the quasimaternal attentions of Big Sister Eve, who for some reason enjoyed the company of a brash baby buckaroo rather than Beth’s tiresome coy brilliance. Beth retaliated by bestowing her sibling loyalty on Daniel, two years Eve’s senior. In adulthood the brother and sister remained very close.
When I refused to join Rampart after finishing law school, Beth concluded that I was a traitor to the family. She had always believed me guilty of the trumped-up charges that destroyed my career in the Interstellar Commerce Secretariat. During Galapharma’s rough wooing of Rampart, she had sided with those who favored a sellout.
Beth remained stubbornly convinced of Dan’s innocence, in spite of all Eve and I had done to prove that our brother was a secret collaborator in Alistair Drummond’s conspiracy and directly responsible for our mother’s death.
I went back to my desk and we stared at each other without speaking. It was an old ploy of Beth’s to put one on the defensive. Her huge blue eyes were full of unshed tears, but with the tyranny of the meek, she waited me out until I was forced to break the silence.
“What can I do for you, sis?”
She whispered, “Let Dan go.”
“That’s not
possible.”
“It’s killing him, Asa—penned up like a dog in that damned wilderness lodge up in the Kenora! Snow on the ground six months of the year, nothing but moose and mosquitoes and loons the rest of the time. And that filthy medication the InSec people use to keep him docile … Dan can’t hurt anyone. Let him go home to Norma and Jamie.”
“Norma sees Dan every weekend. Jamie could visit his father if he chose to.” But he didn’t. My nephew, a busy young microsurgeon, was convinced of his father’s guilt and made only rare trips to isolated Kingfisher Lodge in the far northern reaches of Ontario.
Norma Palmer, Dan’s wife, a long-time Conservative party Delegate in the Assembly, was a more enigmatic figure. She had always kept aloof from the rest of the family, and now used her political influence to keep the media away from her luckless husband. It was plain that Norma still loved Dan, doubtful that she would have approved her sister-in-law’s desire to set him free.
“The trial’s over,” Beth persisted. “The tabloid hacks will back off once consolidation of Rampart and Galapharma begins and find other fish to fry. Let Dan come back to Toronto and have a normal human existence. He promises to live very quietly, without rocking your precious Rampart boat.”
“It’s impossible.”
“Why?” she whispered ominously. “Because you and Eve say so?”
“Because of what Dan did. The way he colluded with Alistair Drummond’s criminal tactics during the takeover fight. Our brother is a crook, Beth. He could sabotage the consolidation. By rights, he should be facing criminal prosecution.”
“Alistair Drummond lied to Dan! The merger tactics were never supposed to involve illegal activity. It was to be strictly business, with only a little computer snooping to smooth the way. Dan knew nothing about the sabotage, Qiu’s death, Eve’s kidnapping, any of that. And he swears that he never did anything to harm our poor mother. I believe him.”
“Then let him tell his story to the machines,” I said coldly, “and see if they do.”